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Full text of "Woman's record; or, Sketches of all distinguished women, from "the beginning" till A.D. 1850. Arranged in four eras. With selections from female writers of every age"

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THE   BEGINNING"   TILL   A.  D.  1850. 


ARRANGED 


IN   FOUR    ERAS. 

wnn 

SELECTIOHS  FROM  FEMALE  WRITERS  OF  EVERY  AGK 
SARAH  JOSEPHA   HALE, 

KIJITOR    OF    "the    lady's    BOOK;"    AUTHOR    OF    "  TKAITS    OF    AMERICAN    LlVr," 

•' NORTH n-00r>,"    "the    VIGIL   OF    LOVE,"    "THE    JUDGE," 

ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


iMye  her  of  the  fruit  of  her  hands,  and  let  her  own  works  praise 

her  in  the  gates.  —  Solomon. 
Vor  the  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man.  —  St.  Paitl. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  TWO  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY  PORTRAITS^, 

ENGRAVED    OX    IVOOD 

33t|  Inssiiig  nnii  i'nrritt. 

NEAV   YORK: 

HA  II  PER    k    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

;J  2  9    cSc    3  3  1    PEARL    S  T  R  E  E  I" , 
r  It  A  N  K  L  I  N    S  Q  U  A  U  K. 

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Etitcreil.  iii^cordiiig  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  your  l.S5'2.  by 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS, 

in  the.  Clerk's  f)fli(-e  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United   States,  in  ;iii(l  for  ihc 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


I  X  S  (7  R  I B  E  D 

TO    THE 

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WHO  SHOW,   IN  THEIR  LAWS  AND  CUSTOMS,  EESPECTINlJ 

¥01  Elf, 

IDEAS    MORE    JUST    AND    FEELINGS   MORE    NOBLE    THAN   W  K  K  U    KYU  11 
EVINOED    P.A'    5IEN    OF    ANY    OTHER    NATION: 

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"WOMAN'S    RECORD" 

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GREAT    REPUBLIC; 
THE    WORLD    WILL    THEN    KNOW    THE 


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iv 


INTRODUCTORY  REMARKS. 


Each  century  has  its  peculiar  tide  of  thought ;  the  highest  wave  bearing 
onwards,  as  ocean  tides  bear  the  tossed  bark  to  land,  the  human  race  into  the 
promised  harbour  of  millennial  peace. 

The  ninth  wave  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  the  Destiny  of  Woman, 

Within  the  last  fifty  years  more  books  have  been  written  by  women  and  about 
women  than  all  that  had  been  issued  during  the  preceding  five  thousand  and  eight 
hundred  years.  Far  the  greater  portion  of  works  concerning  the  female  sex  has 
been  published  within  the  last  twenty  years.  Since  the  idea  of  this  "  Woman's 
Record"  occurred  to  me — just  three  years  ago  to-day  —  a  dozen  or  more  of  these 
books  have  appeared.  Among  them  are  "Noble  Deeds  of  Women,"  "  Mothers  of 
the  Wise  and  Good,"  "  Heroines  of  the  Missionai'y  Enterprise,"  "  Woman  in  Ame- 
rica," "Woman  in  France,"  and  "Woman  in  all  Ages  and  Nations."  Three  of 
these  works  are  by  men ;  thus  showing  that  a  deep  interest  in  this  subject  pervades 
society.  Each  work  has  its  peculiar  merits,  but  no  one  is  satisfactory,  because 
none  contains  the  true  idea  of  woman's  nature  and  mission ;  therefore  each  work 
has  only  made  my  own  seem  to  me  more  necessary. 

Does  this  frank  confession  appear  like  vain  boasting  ?  Pray  examine  my  book 
before  deciding  against  me.  At  any  rate,  it  has  cost  me  three  years  of  hard  study 
and  labour  to  make  it. 

The  Publishers,  all  must  own,  have  done  their  part  nobly.  The  series  of 
Engravings  furnish  a  gallery  of  Portraits  that,  besides  their  usefulness  in  stamping 
on  the  mind  of  the  reader  a  more  permanent  impression  of  each  individual  cha- 
racter thus  illustrated,  furnish  an  interesting  study  to  the  curious  in  costume  and 
the  adept  in  taste. 

Then,  the  Selections  afford  an  opportunity  of  judging  the  merits  of  female  lite- 
rature; the  choicest  gems  of  thought,  fancy,  and  feeling  are  here  treasured,  sought 
out  from  works  in  different  languages,  and  brought  together  in  the  uniform  design 
of  a  perfect  Cyclopaedia  of  reference  and  comparison  as  regards  woman  and  her 

( '^•ii ) 


vin  INTRODUCTORY   REMARKS. 

productions.     No  work  extant  is  similar  to  mine ;  for  this  reason,  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  welcomed.     The  world  wants  it. 

''There  are  so  many  women  of  richly  cultivated  minds,"  says  a  British  critic, 
"  who  have  distinguished  themselves  in  letters  or  in  society,  and  made  it  highly 
feminine  to  be  intelligent,  as  well  as  good,  anc!  to  have  elevated  as  well  as  amiable 
feelings,  that  by-and-by  the  whole  sex  must  adopt  a  new  standard  of  education."* 

Now,  my  work  is  prepared  to  be  both  an  aid  and  incentive  to  such  progress.  In 
order  for  this,  three  things  are  indispensable :  to  understand  what  God  intended 
woman  should  do ;  what  she  has  done ;  and  what  farther  advantages  are  needed  to 
fit  her  to  perform  well  her  part. 

"The  General  Preface"  is  designed  to  answer  the  first  query;  also  the  "Re- 
marks "  at  the  beginning  of  each  Era,  and  hints  scattered  through  the  book,  will, 
I  trust,  be  of  service  in  the  elucidation. 

To  show  what  she  has  done,  I  have  gathered  from  the  records  of  the  world  the 
names  and  histories  of  all  distinguished  women,  so  that  an  exact  estimate  of  the 
capabilities  of  the  sex  might  be  formed  by  noting  what  individuals  have  accom- 
plished through  obstacles  and  discouragements  of  every  kind. 

The  third  proposition,  growing  naturally  out  of  the  two  preceding,  is  answered 
by  considering  their  import. 

If  God  designed  woman  as  the  preserver  of  infancy,  the  teacher  of  childhood, 
the  inspirer  or  helper  of  man's  moral  nature  in  its  efforts  to  reach  after  spiritual 
things  ;  if  examples  of  women  are  to  be  found  in  every  age  and  nation,  who,  without 
any  special  preparation,  have  won  their  way  to  eminence  in  all  pursuits  tending 
to  advance  moral  goodness  and  religious  faith,  then  the  policy,  as  well  as  justice 
of  providing  liberally  for  female  education,  must  be  apparent  to  Christian  men. 
"  The  excellent  woman  is  she  who,  if  her  husband  dies,  can  be  a  father  to  their 
children,"  says  Goethe.  If  read  aright,  this  would  give  the  female  sex  every 
required  advantage. 

Like  all  moral  and  social  changes,  the  one  now  going  on  in  the  public  mind  con- 
cerning woman  has  its  absurdities  and  its  errors.  When  mists  are  rising,  they 
often  take  fantastic  shapes  and  reveal  ugly  features  in  the  landscape  ;  but  truth, 
like  the  sun,  will  at  last  make  all  clear  and  beautiful  of  its  kind. 

It  has  been  my  earnest  endeavour  to  throw  this  true  light  over  the  important 
themes  discussed. 

The  Bible  is  the  only  guarantee  of  woman's  rights,  and  the  only  expositor  of  her 
duties.    Under  its  teachings,  men  learn  to  honour  her.   Wherever  its  doctrines  are 


*  See  article  on  Mrs.  Hemans,  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  1849. 


INTRODUCTORY   REMARKS.  IX 

observed,  her  influence  gains  in  power.  All  human  good  is  founded  in  goodness. 
If  the  Gospel  is  the  supreme  good  revealed  to  the  world,  and  if  this  Gospel  har- 
monizes best  with  the  feminine  nature,  and  is  best  exemplified  in  its  purity  by  the 
feminine  life,  giving  to  the  mother's  instinctive  love  a  scope,  a  hope,  a  support 
which  no  religion  of  human  device  ever  conferred  or  conceived,  then  surely  God 
has,  in  applying  this  Gospel  so  directly  to  her  nature,  offices,  and  condition,  a 
great  work  for  the  sex  to  do.  "  Christ  was  made  of  a  woman  ;"  woman  must  train 
her  children  for  Christ.     Is  this  an  inferior  office  ?  ^ 

Wherever  the  Bible  is  read,  female  talents  are  cultivated  and  esteemed.  In 
this  "  Record  "  are  about  two  thousand  five  hundred  names,  including  those  of  the 
Female  Missionaries :  out  of  this  number  less  than  tivo  hundred  are  from  heathen 
nations,  yet  these  constitute  at  this  moment  nearly  three-fourths  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  globe,  and  for  the  first  four  thousand  years,  with  the  single  exception 
of  the  Jewish  people,  were  the  world. 

Is  not  this  conclusive  evidence  that  God's  Word  is  woman's  shield.  His  power 
her  protection,  and  His  gifts  her  sanction  for  their  full  development,  cultivation, 

and  exercise  ? 

In  preparing  "Woman's  Record"  I  have  been  aided  by  several  friends  in 
Europe,  who  have  procured  for  me  books  and  portraits  not  to  be  found  in  our 
country.  Mrs.  Mary  Howitt  has  been  very  kind  in  her  assistance,  and  I  am  happy 
to  thank  her  thus  publicly.  Professor  Charles  E.  Blumenthal  rendered  acceptable 
service  by  furnishing  translations  of  a  number  of  the  Sketches  of  distinguished 
women  of  Germany.  My  American  friends  have  also  been  ready  to  assist :  W. 
Gilmore  Simms,  Esq.  wrote  the  Sketch  of  Miss  Lee,  and  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stevens  and 
Rev.  Dr.  Kip  furnished  each  a  Sketch.  Those  to  whom  I  have  applied  for  infor- 
mation, have,  in  almost  every  instance,  given  all  in  their  power,  and  cheered  me 
kindly  with  their  encouragement.  I  hope  they  will  find  the  finished  work  worthy 
of  approval. 

The  volume  is  larger  than  was  at  first  contemplated,  but  materials  increased, 
new  ideas  were  to  be  set  forth  and  clearly  illustrated ;  I  have  not  exhausted  the 
theme. 

One  object  is,  however,  accomplished :  the  picture  of  Woman's  Life,  as  it  has 
been  developed  to  the  world  from  the  Creation  to  the  present  date,  is  here  truly 
and  completely  displayed. 

I  am  far  from  considering  this  outward  semblance  her  best  or  loveliest  praise. 
Millions  of  the  sex  whose  names  were  never  known  beyond  the  circles  of  their  own 
home  influences,  have  been  as  worthy  of  commendation  as  those  here  commemo- 
rated. Stars  are  never  seen  either  through  the  dense  cloud  or  bright  sunshine  ; 
but  when  daylight  is  withdrawn  from  a  clear  sky  they  tremble  forth  :  so  female 


X  INTRODUCTORY   REMARKS. 

Genius  is  made  visible  only  where  God's  Word  has  cleared  from  the  mental  horizon 
the  gross  clouds  of  heathen  error,  while  His  Providence  has  withdrawn  from  the 
individual  woman  that  support  and  protection  from  man  which  is  her  sunshine  over 
the  rough  ways  of  the  world.  Hitherto  she  has  usually  won  fame  through  suf- 
fering :  let  those  who  envy  the  bright  ones  remember  this. 

But,  as  the  stars  of  heaven  guide  the  mariner  safely  over  the  night-enveloped 
waters,  so  these  stars  of  humanity  are  required  to  show  the  true  progress  of  moral 
virtue  through  the  waves  of  temptation  and  sin  that  roll  over  the  earth.  The 
greater  the  number,  and  the  more  light  they  diffuse,  the  greater  will  be  the  safety 
of  society. 

When  men  fully  comprehend  this,  they  will  bless  female  genius,  and  fashion  their 
own  literature  to  a  higher  standard  of  moral  taste  and  a  nobler  view  of  human 
destiny.  Says  the  gifted  author  of  Pendennis,  "  Women  are  pure,  but  not  men. 
Women  are  unselfish,  but  not  men." 

In  truth,  the  moral  sense  of  men,  though  as  yet  imperfect,  has  rarely  erred  so 
widely  as  to  show,  in  works  of  imagination  even,  any  ideal  of  masculine  nature 
so  perfect  in  moral  virtues  as  the  feminine.  In  the  conflicts  of  contending  duties, 
in  the  trials  of  love  and  temptations  of  passion,  the  masters  of  dramatic  art,  great 
poets  and  novelists,  never  fall  into  the  sin  against  nature  of  making  their  men 
letter  than  their  women. 

The  ideal  of  the  angelic  in  humanity  is,  in  Christian  literature,  always  feminine. 
When  this  instinctive  perception  of  woman's  mission  becomes  an  acknowledged 
■tind  sustained  mode  of  moral  progress,  it  will  be  easy  for  the  sex  to  make  advances 
in  every  branch  of  literature  and  science  connected  with  human  improvement ; 
and  the  horizon  will  be  studded  with  stars. 

Now,  some  readers  may  think  I  have  found  too  many  celebrities ;  others  will 
search  for  omissions.  There  was  never  a  perfect  work,  so  mine  must  bear  the 
general  lot  of  criticism.  All  I  ask  is,  that  the  contents  be  well  understood  before 
judgment  is  rendered. 

Philadelphia,  Juli/  4th,  1851. 


LIST  OF  PORTRAITS. 


The  larger  portion  of  our  Portraits  have  been  obtained  directly  from  Europe  for  this  work ; 
Kome,  Florence,  Paris  and  London,  contributing  to  form  our  Gallery.  The  originals  were 
executed  b}'  the  most  celebrated  artists.  We  have  not  room  for  particulars  respecting  these 
gems  of  art,  excepting  a  few  of  the  most  rare.  Portraits  of  the  living  American  ladies  are 
chiefly  from  pictures  or  Daguerreotypes,  taken  expressly  for  this  "  Record." 

FIRST  ERA. 

Page 

1.  AGRIPPINA,  JULIA,  DAUGHTER  OF  GERMANICUS... 21 

2.  ANDROMACHE,  copied  and  enlarged  from  a  picture  on  an  ancient  gem,  representing  Andromache, 

her  husband  Hector,  and  her  son  Astyanax 24 

3.  ASPASIA 26 

4.  CARMENTA  29 

5.  CLEOPATRA,  copied  from  an  ancient  Egyptian  coin 31 

6.  OLYMPIAS,  MOTHER  OF  ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT,  enlarged  from  an  ancient  gem 60 

7.  PORTIA 52 

8.  SAPPHO 56 

9.  SEMIRAMIS,  copied  from  an  ancient  gem 58 

10.  TAMYRIS,  copied  and  enlarged  from  an  ancient  gem 60 

SECOND  ERA. 

11.  AGNES  SOREL 68 

12.  ANNE  BOLEYN 72 

13.  ARC,  JOAN  OF 76 

U.  BEATRICE  PORTINARI 82 

15.  BLANCHE  OF  CASTILE 84 

16.  BORGIA,  LUCREZIA 86 

17.  BRUNORO,  BONA  LOMBARDI 88 

18.  CATHARINE  SFORZA 91 

19.  CATHARINE,  ST 92 

20.  COLONNA,  VITTORIA 93 

21.  CORNANO,  CATERINA 94 

22.  D'ANDOLO,  or  BRANCALEONE  GALEANA 95 

23.  ERMENGARDE 99 

24.  FAUSTINA,  ANNIA  GALERIA 102 

25.  GAMBARA  VERONICA 105 

26.  GOZZADINI,  BETISIA : 107 

27.  HELENA,    MOTHER    OF    CONSTANTINE,    copied   from  a  picture  upon  a  Greek  manuscript, 

written  in  the  Ninth  Century 108 

28.  HELOISE 109 

29.  ISABELLA  OP  ARRAGON 113 

30.  ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE 114 

31.  ISAURE,  CLEMENCE 115 

32.  .JOANNA,  COUNTESS  OF  HAINAULT  AND  FLANDERS 117 

33.  JOANNA  OF  NAPLES 118 

34.  JOANNA  IL  OF  NAPLES 119 

35.  JULIA  DOMNA,  copied  from  a  bust  in  the  collection  of  Montfaucon 119 

36.  LAURA,  MADONNA  121 

37.  LEIVA,  MARIA  VIRGINIA 121 

38.  LOUISA  OF  SAVOY 122 

39.  MARGARET,  COUNTESS  OF  TYROL 125 

40.  MARGARET  OF  DENMARK 126 

41.  MARGARETTA  OF  SAXONY  128 

42.  MATILDA,  COUNTESS  OF  TUSCANY  132 

43.  MATTUGLIANA,  MEA 132 

44.  NOGAROLA,  ISOTTA 133 


Xii  LIST   OF   PORTRAITS. 

Pagf 

45.  PACHECO,  DONNA  MARIA 134 

46.  PHILIPPA  OF  HAINAULT 136 

47.  POMPEIA  PLOTINA 137 

48.  ROSSI,  PROPERZIA  DE  , 140 

49.  SABINA  JULIA 140 

50.  SFORZA,  BIANCA  MARIA  VISCONTI 143 

51.  TENDA,  BEATRICE 145 

62.  THEODELINDA 14C 

63.  ZENOBIA  SEPTIMIA,  copied  and  enlarged  from  a  gem  with  a  Palmyrenian  inscription 149 

THIRD  ERA. 

64.  ACCORAMBONI,  VITTORIA 153 

65.  ADAMS,  MRS.  ABIGAIL 154 

56.  ADAMS,  MISS  HANNAH 159 

67.  AGOSTINA,  MAID  OF  SARAGOSSA 161 

68.  ALBRIZZI,  TEOTOCHI  ISABELLA 166 

59.  ANNE  OF  AUSTRIA  168 

60.  ANNE,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 169 

6L  ARBLAY,  MADAME  D' 171 

62.  ARRAGON,  JOAN  OF 180 

63.  BACCIOCHI,  MADAME  MARIE  ANNE  ELISE 195 

64.  BARBAULD,  MRS.  ANNE  LETITIA 196 

65.  BASSL  LAURA  MARIA  CATHARINE 204 

66.  BELLINI,  GUISEPA,  COUNTESS  OF 208 

67.  BERTANA,  LUCIA 209 

68.  BLESSINGTON,  COUNTESS  OF 212 

69.  BONAPARTE,  MADAME  RAMOLINA  MARIA  LETITIA 216 

70.  BORGHESE,  MARIE  PAULINE,  PRINCESS  DE 217 

7L  BRINVILLIERS,  MARIE  MARGUERITE,  MARCHIONESS  DE 222 

72.  CAMPAN,  MADAME 236 

73.  CAPELLO,  BIANCA 239 

74.  CAROLINE  AMELIA  ELIZABETH 242 

75.  CATHARINE  DE  MEDICIS 248 

76.  CATHARINE  L,  ALEXIEONA 250 

77.  CATHARINE  II.,  ALEXIEONA 251 

78.  CENCI,  BEATRICE 253 

79.  CHRISTINA,  QUEEN  OF  SWEDEN 259 

80.  CLIFFORD,  ANNE  263 

81.  CORD  AY,  CHARLOTTE 266 

82.  COTTIN,  MADAME  SOPHIE 272 

83.  DARLING,  GRACE 280 

84.  DESHOULIERES,  MADAME  288 

85.  DEVONSHIRE,  DUCHESS  OF 289 

86.  DWIGIIT,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  BAKER 292 

87.  EDGEWORTH,  MISS  MARIA 293 

88.  ELIZABETH,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 299 

89.  ERAUSO,  CATALINA  DE 305 

90.  ESTE,  ELEONORA  D'  .307 

91.  FANSHAWE,  LADY  .309 

92.  FEDOROAVNA,  MARIA  312 

93.  FERNANDEZ,  MARIA  MADDELENA  MORELLI 312 

34.  FOUGERET,  MADAME 316 

95.  FRY,  ELIZABETH 318 

96.  GENLIS,  MADAME  DE 322 

97.  GEOFFRIN,  MADAME  DE 325 

98.  GONZAGA,  COLONNA  JULIA 329 

99.  GONZAGA,  COLONNA  IPPOLITA 330 

100.  GREY,  LADY  JANE 333 

101.  GUIZOT,  MADAME  CHARLOTTE  PAULINE 336 

102.  GWYNNE,  ELEANOR 338 

103.  HEMANS,  MRS.  FELICIA  DOROTHEA 344 

104.  HERSCHEL,  MISS  CAROLINE  LUCRETIA 353' 

105.  INCHBALD,  MRS 360 

106.  JOSEPHINE,  EMPRESS 366 


LIST    OF    PORTRAITS.  xiii 

Page 

107.  JUDSON,  MRS.  ANNE  HASSELTINE 367 

108.  JUNOT,  LAURA,  DUCHESS  D'ABRANTES 370 

109.  KAMAMALU 371 

110.  KAUFFMAN,  MARIA  ANGELICA 373 

111.  LANDON,  MISS,  or  MRS.  M'LEAN  383 

112.  LAVALLETTE,  COUNTESS  DE  388 

113.  L'ENCLOS,  NINON  DE  .390 

114.  MADISON,  MRS 396 

115.  MAINTENON,  MADAME  DE 398 

116.  MARIA  THERESA,  EMPRESS  OF  AUSTRIA 404 

117.  MARIE  ANTOINETTE,  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE 406 

118.  MARLBOROUGH,  DUCHESS  OF 408 

119.  MARS,  MADEMOISELLE 409 

120.  MARY  I.,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 415 

121.  MARY  II.,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 417 

122.  MARY  DE  MEDICIS 418 

123.  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 419 

124.  MERCER,  MISS  MARGARET  424 

125.  MICHIEL,  RENIER  GIUSTINA  428 

126.  MNISZECH,  MARINA,  CZARINA  OF  MUSCOVY 429 

127.  MOHALBI,  GARAFILIA 431 

128.  MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY  AVORTLEY 434 

129.  MONTESPAN,  MADAME  DE  440 

130.  MONTPENSIER,  DUCHESS  DE 441 

131.  MORE,  MRS.  HANNAH 442 

132.  MOTHER  ANNA  447 

133.  MOTTE,  MRS.  REBECCA 448 

134.  NECKER,  MADAME 450 

135.  NEWCASTLE,  DUCHESS  OF 452 

136.  NEWELL,  MRS.  HARRIET 453 

137.  OSGOOD,  MRS.  FRANCES  SARGENT 458 

138.  PICHLER,  MADAME  CAROLINE 468 

139.  POCAHONTAS 474 

140.  POMPADOUR,  MARCHIONESS  DE 477 

141.  PORTER,  MISS  JANE 478 

142.  ROLAND,  MADAME 490 

143.  RUSSEL,  LADY  RACHEL 494 

144.  SEVIGNE,  MARCHIONESS  DE  501 

145.  SFORZA,  BONA 504 

146.  SHREWSBURY,  COUNTESS  OF 505 

147.  SIRANI,  ELIZABETTA 507 

148.  SMITH,  MISS  CHARLOTTE 508 

149.  SMITH,  MRS.  SARAH  LANMAN 511 

150.  STAEL,  MADAME  DE 517 

151.  STEWART,  MRS.  HARRIET  BRADFORD 521 

152.  STUART,  ARABELLA 522 

153.  TALLIEN,  MADAME  THERESA  526 

154.  TAMBRONI,  CLOTILDE 526 

155.  TIGHE,  MRS.  MARY 532 

156.  TRIMMER,  MRS.  SARAH 5.39 

157.  VALLIERE,  DUCHESS  DE  LA 541 

158.  WARREN,  MRS.  MERCY 546 

159.  WASHINGTON,  MRS.  MARTHA 550 

160.  WHEATLEY,  PHILLIS 552 

161.  ZINGA,  ANNA 5fil 

FOURTH  ERA. 

162.  AMELIE  MARIE,  EX-QUEEN  OF  THE  FRENCH 566 

163.  ANCELOT,  MADAME 567 

164.  BAILLIE,  .JOANNA   .574 

165.  BEECHER,  MISS  ESTHER  CATHERINE  578 

166.  BELLOC,  MADAME  LOUISA  SWANTON 583 

167.  BREMER,  MISS  FREDERIKA .^85 

168.  BRIDGMAN,  MISS  LAURA 592 


\ 


xiv  LIST   OF    PORTRAITS. 

Page 

169.  CAREY,  MISS  ALICE  615 

170.  CLARKE,  MISS  SARA  JANE 624 

171.  COOK,  MISS  ELIZA 629 

172.  COUTTS,  MISS  ANGELA  BURDETT  634 

173.  CUSHMAN,  MISS  CHARLOTTE 638 

174.  DUDEVANT,  MADAME 641 

175.  ELLET,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  F 645 

176.  ELLIS,  MRS.  SARAH  STICKNEY 649 

177.  EMBURY,  MRS.  EMMA  CATHARINE 653 

178.  FARLEY,  MISS  HARRIET 657 

179.  FULLER,  SARAH  MARGARET,  or  MARCHIONESS  D'OSSOLI 666 

180.  GILMAN,  MRS.  CAROLINE 670 

181.  GIRARDIN,  MADAME  DELPHINE 674 

182.  GORE,  MRS.  CHARLES,  copied  for  this  work  by  Miss  Makgaret  Gillies,  of  London 676 

183.  HALL,  MRS.  ANNA  MARIA 691 

184.  HENTZ,  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE,  from  a  miniature  by  her  husband.  Prof.  Hentz  697 

185.  HOWITT,  MRS.  MARY,  from  a  picture  by  Miss  Margaret  Gillies 699 

186.  ISABELLA  II.,  QUEEN  OF  SPAIN 703 

187.  JAGIELLO,  MISS  APOLLONIA 705 

188.  JUDSON,  MRS.  EMILY  C 710 

189.  KEMBLE,  MRS.  FRANCES  ANNE 712 

190.  LESLIE,  MISS  ELIZA 721 

191.  LEWIS,  MRS.  ESTELLE  ANNA  727 

192.  LIND,  MADEMOISELLE  JENNY 728 

193.  LYNCH,  MISS  ANNE  C 731 

194.  MARIA  IL,  DA  GLORIA 733 

195.  MARSH,  MRS.,  from  a  picture  drawn  and  painted  for  this  worli  by  Miss  M.  Gillies,  of  London....  735 

196.  MARTINEAU,  MISS  HARRIET  739 

197.  MORGAN,  SYDNEY,  LADY  747 

198.  MOWATT,  MRS.  ANNA  CORA  754 

199.  NEAL,  MRS.  ALICE  BRADLEY 755 

200.  NICHOLS,  MRS.  GOVE- 757 

20L  NORTON,  HON.  MRS 761 

202.  PARDOE,  MISS  JULIA 765 

203.  PHELPS,  MRS.  ALMIRA  HART  LINCOLN  770 

204.  RACHEL,  MADEMOISELLE 773 

205.  SEDGWICK,  MISS  CATHARINE  MARIA  777 

206.  SIGOURNEY,  MRS.  LYDIA  HUNTLEY 782 

207.  SMITH,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  OAKES 786 

208.  SOMERVILLE,  MRS.  MARY  789 

209.  SONTAG,  MADAME  HENRIETTA 792 

210.  SOUTHWORTH,  MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  NEVITTE 794 

21L  STEPHENS,  MRS.  ANN  S 796 

212.  TROLLOPE,  MRS 801 

213.  VICTORIA,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 806 

214.  WEBER,  MISS  HELENE  MARIE  809 

215.  WELBY,  MRS.  AMELIA  B 811 

216.  WILLARD,  MRS.  EMMA 816 

217.  HAIGHT,  MRS.  SARAH  ROGERS  828 

218.  HEWITT,  MRS.  MARY  E 829 

BENEFACTRESSES. 

219.  CHASE,  MRS.  ANN 859 

220.  COLQUHOUN,  LADY 861 

221.  FELLER,  MADAME , 864 

222.  HILL,  MRS.  FRANCES  M 868 

22.3.  PETER,  MRS.  SARAH  870 

224.  WHITTLESEY,  MRS.  ABIGAIL  GOODRICH 872 

SUPPLEMENT. 

225.  DONNE,  MARIA  DALLE 876 

226.  HALL,  MRS.  SARAH 877 

227.  LEE,  MISS  MARY  E 879 

228.  MATILDA,  QUEEN  OF  HENRY  1 882 

229.  ELIZABETH  OF  FRANCE 884 


INDEX. 


Page 

ABARCA,  MARIA  DE 153 

ABASSA 67 

ABDY,  MRS 839 

Thy  Maiden  Name 839 

Where  shall  I  die? 839 

ABELLA 67 

ABIGAIL 19 

ABINGTON,  FRANCES 153 

ABISHAG 19 

ACCA-LAURENTIA 20 

ACCIAIOLA,  MAGDALENE 153 

ACCORAMBONI,  VITTORIA 153 

ACKLAND,  LADY  HARRIET 154 

ACME 20 

ADA 20 

ADAMS,  ABIGAIL 154 

Extracts  from  her  Letters 154 

ADAMS,  HANNAH 159 

ADAMS,  SARAH  FLOWER 874 

Funeral  H3'mn 874 

ADELAIDE 67 

ADELAIDE 67 

ADELAIDE 67 

ADELAIDE 67 

ADELICIA 67 

ADORNI,  CATHARINE  FIESCHI 160 

ADRICHOMIA,  CORNELIA 160 

AFRA 67 

AGATHA 67 

AGESISTRATA 20 

AGNES,  ST 68 

AGNES  OF  HUNGARY 68 

AGNES   DE  MERANIA 68 

AGNES  OF  FRANCE 68 

AGNES  SOREL 68 

AGNESI,  MARIA  GAETANA 160 

AGNODICE 20 

AGNOULT,  COUNTESS  D' 565 

AGOSTINA,  THE  MAID  OF  SARAGOSSA...  160 

AGREDA,  MARIE  D' 160 

AGRIPPINA,  WIFE  OF  GERMANICUS 20 

AGRIPPINA,  JULIA 21 

AGUILAR,  GRACE 162 

Poem  from  the  Magic  Wreath 162 

AIGUILLON,  DUCHESS  D* 162 

AIKEN,  LUCY 163 

AIROLA,  ANGELICA  VERONICA 163 


Page 

AiSSE,  DEMOIS 163 

AISHA 69 

ALACOQUE,  MARIA 164 

ALBANY,  LOUISA,  COUNTESS   OF 164 

ALBEDYHL,  BARONESS  D' 164 

ALBEMARLE,  ANNE  CLARGES,  DUCHESS 

OF 164 

ALBERETTI,  VERDONI  THERESE 566 

ALBRET,    CHARLOTTE    D',    DUCHESS    DE 

VALENTINOIS 164 

ALBRET,  JEANNE  D',  OF  NAVARRE 164 

"Impromptu"  Poem 165 

ALBRIZZI,  TEOTOCHI  ISABELLA 166 

ALCESTE  22 

ALCINOE 22 

ALDRUDE 69 

ALEXANDRA,  QUEEN  OF  JUDEA 23 

ALEXANDRA,  MOTHER  OF  MARIAMNE...     23 

ALICE,  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE 69 

ALICE  OF  FRANCE 70 

ALLIN,  ABBY 823 

ALOARA  70 

ALOYSIA,  SIGEA 166 

ALPAIDE 70 

ALPHAISULI 70 

ALTOVITI,  MARSEILLE  D' 166 

AMALASONTHA 70 

AMALTHCEA 23 

AMBOISE,  FRANCES  D' 71 

AMELIA,  ANNA 166 

AMELIA,  MARIA  FREDERICA  AUGUSTA..  565 
AMELIA    MARIA,   EX-QUEEN    OF    THE 

FRENCH 566 

AMERICAN  MISSIONARY  WOMEN 889 

AMHERST,  LADY 873 

AMMANATI,  LAURA  BATTIFERI 167 

ANACOANA 71 

ANASTASIA  71 

ANASTASIA,  ST 71 

ANCELOT,  VIRGINIE 567 

An  Old  Peeress 567 

ANCHITA 23 

ANDREINI,  ISABELLA 167 

ANDROCLEA 23 

ANDROMACHE 24 

ANDROMEDA 24 

ANGELBERGA,  or  INGELBERGA 71 

(XV) 


INDEX. 


ANGITIA 24 

ANGOUL^ME,    MAKIE    THERESE    CHAR- 
LOTTE, DUCHESS  D' 568 

ANGUSCIOLA,  SOPHONISBA 167 

ANGUSCIOLA,  LUCIA  168 

ANNA,  OF  TYRE 24 

ANNA,  THE   PROPHETESS 71 

ANNE  OF  BOHEMIA 72 

ANNE  BOLEYN 72 

ANNE  OF  BEAUJEU 74 

ANNE  OF  BRITTANY 74 

ANNE  OF  CLEVES 75 

ANNE  OF  CYPRUS 75 

ANNE  OF  HUNGARY 75 

ANNE  OF  RUSSIA  75 

ANNE,  DUCHESS  OF  THE  VIENNOIS 75 

ANNE  OF  AVARWICK 75 

ANNA  IWANOWNA,  EMPRESS  OF  RUSSIA  168 
ANN  AMELIA,  PRINCESS  OF  PRUSSIA....  168 

ANNE  OF  AUSTRIA 168 

ANNE,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 169 

ANNE  OF  FERRARA 171 

ANNE  DE  GONZAGUE 171 

ANTIGONE 24 

ANTONIA  MAJOR  24 

ANTONIA  MINOR  24 

ANTONINA 75 

APOLLONIA,  ST 76 

ARBLAY,  MADAME  D' 171 

From  "  Evelina." 

A  Pretended  Highway  Robbery 173 

From  "  The  Diary." 

A  Day  of  Happiness  in  a  Palace 175 

A  Royal   Reading  Party 176 

Poetry  in  a  Palace 177 

Letter  to  a  Friend  in  Affliction 177 

The  King's  Birth-day 177 

ARBOUVILLE,  COUNTESS  D' 874 

ARC,  JOAN   OF 76 

ARCHIDAMIA  79 

ARCHINTA,  MARGHERITA 179 

ARETAPHILA 25 

ARETE 25 

ARGYLL,  DUCHESS  OF 859 

ARIADNE 79 

ARIOSTA  LIPPA 79 

ARLOTTA 80 

ARMYNE,  LADY  MARY 179 

.  ARNAUDE  DE  ROCAS 180 

ARNAULD,  ANGELIQUE 180 

ARNAULD,  MARIE  ANGELIQUE 180 

ARNAULD,  CATHARINE  AGNES 180 

ARNIM,  BETTINA  VON  569 

Letters  570 

ARNOULT,  SOPHIE 180 

ARRAGON,  JOAN  OF 180 

ARRAGON,  TULLIA  D' 181 

ARRIA 80 

ARSINOE,  OF  EGYPT 25 

ARSINOE,  OF  THRACE 25 

ARSINOE,  OF  EGYPT 26 

ARTEMISIA  1 26 

ARTEMISIA  II 26 


Page 

ARUNDEL,  LADY  BLANCHE 181 

ARUNDEL,  MARY 181 

ASCIIAM,  MARGARET 181 

ASENATH 26 

ASKEW,  ANNE 182 

ASPASIA 26 

ASPASIA,  OR  MILTO 27 

ASTELL,  MARY  182 

ASTORGAS,  MARCHIONESS   OF 183 

ATHALIAH 28 

ATTENDULI,  MARGARET  DE 80 

AUBESPINE,  MAGDALEN  DE  L' 183 

AUNOY,  COUNTESS  D' 183 

AUSTEN,  JANE 184 

From  "  NortJianger  Abbry." 

The  Heroine's  Childhood 185 

The  Heroine  at  a  Ball 186 

A  Walk  and  Conversation 188 

The  Romance  of  Mystery 191 

AUSTIN,  MRS 840 

AVOGADRO,  LUCIA 183 

AXIOTHEA 28 

AYCARD,  MARIA 851 

AYESHA  80 

AYSA  194 

AZZI  DE  FORTI,  FAUSTINA 191 

BAEOIS,  MADAME  VICTOIRE 194 

BACCIOCHI,  MARIE  ANNE  ELISE 195 

BACHE,  SARAH 195 

BACON,  ANNE 196 

BAILEY,  MARGARET  L 823 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA 574,  888 

From   "  De  Montfort." 

Description  of  Jane  De  Montfort 575 

True  Love 576 

Picture  of  a  Country  Life 576 

The  Wife 576 

The  Widow  and  her  Children 576 

The  Tomb  of  Columbus 576 

Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie 577 

Jealousy  577 

BANDELLINI,  TERESA  CORELLA  854 

BANDETTINI,  THERESA 106 

BARBARA 81 

BARBAULD,  ANNA   LETITIA 196 

On  Education 198 

On  Inconsistency  in  our  Expectations 201 

Washing  Day 202 

Painted  Flowers 202 

BARBE  DE  VERRUE 81 

BARRIER,  MARY  ANN 203 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANNE 203 

Auld  Robin  Gray 203 

BARNES,  SUSAN  REBECCA 823 

BARONI,  ADRIANNE  BASILE 203 

BARRY,  COUNTESS  DU 203 

BARTON,  ELIZABETH 204 

BASINE,  ou  BASIN 81 

BASSEPORTE,  MADELEINE  FRANCES 204 

BASSI,  LAURA  MARIA  CATHARINE 204 

BASTIDE,  JENNY 851 

BATHSHEBA,  or  BATHCHUAH 28 

BATTISTATI,  LOUISA 578 


INDEX. 


BAUCIS 28 

BAYARD,  ELISE  JUSTINE 823 

BAYNARD,  ANNE 205 

BAWR,  MADAME 851 

BEALE,  MARY 206 

BEATRICE  OF  BURGUNDY 81 

BEATRICE  OF  PROVENCE 81 

BEATRICE  PORTINARI 81 

BEAUFORT,  JOAN  82 

BEAUFORT,    MARGARET,    COUNTESS    OF 

RICHMOND  AND  DERBY 82 

BEAUHARNAIS,  FANNY,  COUNTESS  DE...  206 

Epitre  aux  Femmes 206 

BEAUMONT,  MADAME  LE  PRINCE  DE 206 

BECTOR,  CLAUDE  DE  206 

BEECHER,  ESTHER  CATHARINE 578 

The  Evening  Cloud '. 580 

To  the  Monotropa 580 

Obedience  to  the  Divine  Law 580 

BEHN,  APHRA 207 

BEKKER,  ELIZABETH 207 

BELGIOSO,  PRINCESS  DE 854 

BELLAMY,  GEORGIANA 207 

BELLEVILLE,  JANE  DE 82 

BELLINI,  GUISEPA,  COUNTESS 208 

BELLOC,  LOUISE  SWANTON 583 

BENDISH,  BRIDGET 208 

BENGER,  ELIZABETH  OGILVY 208 

BENTON,  MARY 888 

BENWELL,  MARY 208 

BERENGARIA  OF  NAVARRE 82 

BERENICE 28 

BERENICE 28 

BERENICE 28 

BERENICE 28 

BERENICE 28 

BERENICE 29 

BERENICE 29 

BERENICE 83 

BERGER,  MADAME 858 

BERNARD,  CATHARINE 208 

BERNERS,  JULIANA 83 

BERSALA,  ANN 83 

BERTANA,  LUCIA 209 

Sonnet 209 

BERTHA 83 

BERTHA,  OR  BERTRADE 84 

BERTHA 84 

BERTRADE 84 

BETHMAN,  FREDERICA 208 

BIBI,  JAND 215 

BIGNE,  GRACE  DE  LA 84 

BILDERJIK,    KATHARINE    WILIIELMINA  215 

BILLINGTON,  ELIZABETH 215 

BILLIONI,  N.  BUSSA 215 

BLACK,  MRS 210 

BLACK,  MISS 210 

BLACKWELL,  ELIZABETH 210 

BLACKWELL,  ELIZABETH 584 

BLAKE,  KATHARINE 209 

BLAMIRE,  SUSANNA 210 

The  Nabob 210 

2 


The  "Waefu'  Heart 211 

Auld  Robin  Forbes 211 

BLANCA,  N.  LE 211 

BLANCHARD,  MADAME 211 

BLANCHE  OF  CASTILE 84 

BLANCHE  OF  PADUA 85 

BLANCHE  DE  BOURBON 85 

BLAND,  ELIZABETH 211 

BLEECKER,  ANNE  ELIZA 211 

Return  to  Tomaniek 212 

BLESSINGTON,  COUNTESS  OF 212 

Lord  Byron  in  1823 21.'; 

Lord  Byron's  Ill-temper 211'. 

Lord  Byron's  Regard  for  his  AVife 214 

A  Birth-day 214 

A  New  Year  214 

Of  Dancing  and  Dress  in  France 214 

BLOMBERG,  BARBARA 215 

BOADICEA S5 

BOCCAGE,  MARIE  ANNE  DU 215 

A  M.  Bailey 210 

BOGART,  ELIZABETH 824 

He  came  too  late 824 

An  Autumn  View 824 

BOIS  DE  LA  PIERRE,  LOUISE  MARIE 216 

BOLTON,  SARAH  T 824 

BONAPARTE,  MADAME  LETITIA 216 

BONTEMS,  MADAME 217 

BORA,  OR  BORE,  CATHARINE  VON 86 

BORGHESE,  MARIE  PAULINE,  PRINCESS 

DE 217 

BORGIA,  LUCREZIA 86 

BOUGNET,  MADAME 218 

BOULLOUGNE,  MAGDELAINE  DE 218 

BOURETTE,  CHARLOTTE 21s 

To  M.  De  Fontenelle 218 

BOURGAIN,  THERESE 218 

BOURGET,  CLEMENCE  DE 218 

BOURIGNON,  ANTOINETTE  219 

BOVETTE  DE  BLEMUR,  JACQUELINE 219 

BOVEY,  CATHARINE 219 

BOVIN,  MADAME 87" 

BRACHMAN,  LOUISE 219 

BRADSTREET,  ANNE 219 

Lines  addressed  to  her  Husband 22(i 

Contemplations 22(i 

Elegy 221 

BRAGELONGE,  AGNES  DE 86 

BRAMBATI,  EMILIA 221 

BRAMBATI,  ISOTTA 221 

BRATTON,  MARTHA 221 

BRAY,  MRS 840 

BREESE,  MARY 221 

BREGY,  CHARLOTTE  SAUMAISE,  COUNT- 
ESS DE 221 

BREMER,  FREDERIKA 586 

Advice  to  a  Young  Wife 588 

Resolutions  of  a  Young  Wife 589 

Of  Children 590 

A  Christian 590 

Betrothment 590 

Marriage 59i' 

A  Happy  Family 591 

Wisdom 591 

Prayer 591 


INDEX. 


Philanthrophy 591 

Devotion 591 

Virtue 591 

Twin  Sisters 592 

BRENTANO,  SOPHIA  221 

BRIDGET,  ST 86 

BRIDGMAN,  LAURA 592 

The  Good-natured  Girl 596 

BRINVILLIERS,  MARIE  MARGUERITE, 

MARCHIONESS  DE  222 

BROCCHI,  GABARDI 855 

BRONTE,  CHARLOTTE 597 

Lowood  Scenery,  from  "Jane  Eyre" 598 

The  Meeting 599 

The  Parting 600 

Married  Life 602 

From  "Shirley" 602 

BROOKE,  CHARLOTTE 840 

BROOKE,  FRANCES 222 

BROOKS,  MARIA 223 

Ode  to  the  Departed 223 

Hymn 225 

The  Moon  of  Flowers 225 

To  Niagara 225 

Song 225 

Friendship 225 

Prayer 226 

Description  of  Egla 226 

Meles  and  Egla  contrasted 226 

Zophiel  listening  while  Egla  sings 226 

Morning 226 

Ambition 227 

Virtue 227 

BROOKS,  MARY  E 824 

Psalm   CXXXVII 824 

Oh,  never  believe.  Love 825 

BROSSIER,  MARTHA 227 

BROWN,  CATHARINE 228 

BROWN,  FRANCES..... 604 

The  Spanish  Conquests  in  America 605 

Dreams  of  the  Dead 605 

BROWNE,  MARY  ANNE 228 

The  Heart  and  Lyre 228 

Man's  Love 229 

Woman's  Love 229 

She  was  not  made  for  Happiness 229 

Memory 229 

Kindred  Spirits 230 

Jaques  Balmot 230 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 605 

Adam's  Prophecy  of  Woman 606 

The  Sleep 607 

Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest 607 

The  Mother's  Prayer 608 

The  Child  and  the  Watcher 60-8 

Work  and  Contemplation 608 

The  Lady's  Yes 608 

Discontent 609 

Patience  taught  by  Nature 609 

Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason 609 

Cowper's  Grave 609 

BRUN,  FREDERIKE  CHRISTIANE 230 

BRUN,  MADAME  L 2.30 

BRUNEHAUT 87 

BRUNORO,  BONA  LOMBARDI 88 

BRUNTON,  MARY 230 

From   "  Self -Control." 
Sketch  of  the  Heroine 231 


The  Lover  and  his  Declaration 231 

Laura  refuses  Colonel  Hargrave 232 

BUCHAN,  COUNTESS  OF 88 

BUCHAN,  ELSPETH 234 

BUCHARDEHT,  THERESE  VON 853 

BUFFET,  MARGARET  234 

BULWER,  LADY  840 

BUNINA,  ANNA 857 

BURE,  CATHARINE 234 

BURLEIGH,  LADY  MILDRED 234 

BURNET,  ELIZABETH 235 

BURY,  LADY  CHARLOTTE 841 

BURY,  ELIZABETH 235 

CALAGE,  DE  PECH  DE 235 

CALAVRESE,  MARIA 235 

CALDERON  DE  LA  BARCA,  FRANCES 841 

Of  the  Women  of  Mexico 841 

CALLCOTT,  LADY 874 

CALPHURNIA 89 

CALPURNIA 29 

CAMARGO,  MARIE  ANNE  CAPI  DE 236 

CAMILLA 29 

CAMPAN,  MADAME  DE 236 

Mesmer  and  his  Magnetism 236 

The  Emperor  Alexander 237 

To  Her  only  Son 237 

Woman's  Influence 238 

Cultivation  of  the  Arts 238 

CAMPBELL,  DOROTHEA  PRIMROSE 610 

Moonlight 610 

CAMPBELL,  JULIET  H 825 

A  Story  of  Sunrise 825 

CAMPIGLIA,  MADDELENA 238 

CANTARINI,  CHIARA 238 

CANTOFOLI,  GENEVRA 238 

CAPELLO,  BIANCA 239 

CAPILLANA 89 

CARACCIOLO,  MARIA  RAFFAELLA 855 

CAREW,  LADY  ELIZABETH  243 

Revenge  of  Injuries 243 

CAREY,  ALICE 615 

Lights  of  Genius 615 

Pictures  of  Memory 616 

The  two  Missionaries 616 

The  Charmed  Bird 616 

To  the  Evening  Zephyr 616 

The  Past  and  the  Present 616 

The  Handmaid 617 

Death's  Ferryman 617 

Watching 617 

Visions  of  Light 617 

CAREY,  PHEBE 618 

Song  of  the  Heart 618 

Resolves 618 

Our  Homestead 618 

Parting  and  Meeting 619 

CARLEMIGELLI,  ASPASIE 240 

CARLEN,  EMILIE 610 

Erika,  from  "The  Rose  of  Thistle  Island"  611 

Gabriella 612 

The  Divorce,  from  "The  M.agic  Goblet"....  614 

CARLISLE,  ANNE 241 

CARMENTA,  or  NICOSTRATA 29 


INDEX. 


Page   ! 

CAROLINE  WILHELMINE  DOROTHEA 241 

CAROLINE  MATILDA  241 

CAROLINE  MARIA 242 

CAROLINE  AMELIA  ELIZABETH 242 

CARTER,  ELIZABETH  243 

Letter  from  Miss  Carter 244 

Extracts  from  Epictetus 246 

From  "The  Enchiridion" 246 

CARTISMANDUA 89 

CASALINA,  LUCIA 247 

CASE,  LUELLA  J.  B 826 

Energy  in  Adversity 826 

CASSANA,  MARIA  VITTORIA 247 

CASSANDRA 29 

CASSIOPEIA 30 

CASTELNAU,  HENRIETTE  JULIE  DE 247 

CASTRO,  ANNE  DE 247 

CASTRO,  INEZ  DE 89 

CATALANI,  ANGELICA 247 

CATELLAN,  MARGUERITE  DE 248 

CATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON 89 

CATHARINE  SFORZA 90 

CATHARINE,  ST.,  OF  SIENNA 91 

CATHARINE,  ST.,  OF  ALEXANDRIA 91 

CATHARINE  OF  VALOIS 91 

CATHARINE,  ST.,  OF  BOLOGNA  92 

CATHARINE  DE  MEDICIS 248 

CATHARINE  PARR 249 

CATHARINE  OF  BRAGANZA 250 

CATHARINE  ALEXIEONA 250 

CATHARINE  II.,  ALEXIEONA 251 

CATHARINE  PAULOWNA 253 

CECONIA,  OR  CESENIA  30 

CENCI,  BEATRICE 253 

CENTLIVRE,  SUSANNAH 254 

CERETA 92 

CEZELLI,  CONSTANCE 254 

CHALLIE,  MADAME  DE 851 

CHAMBERS,  MARY 255 

CHAMPME.SLE,  MARIE  DESMARES  DE....  255 

CHANDLER,  CAROLINE  H 825 

CHANDLER,  MARY 255 

CHANDLER,  ELIZABETH  MARGARET 255 

The  Devoted  255 

CHAPMAN,  PRISCILLA 873 

CHAPONE,  HESTER 255 

Affectation 256 

Scandal 256 

A  Timely  Word 256 

The  Two  Commandments 256 

CHARIXENA 30 

CHARKE,  CHARLOTTE  257 

CHARLOTTE,  PRINCESS  OF  WALES 257 

CHASE,  ANN 859 

CHATEAUBRIAND,  FRANCES  DE 257 

CHATEAUROUX,  DUCHESS  DE 257 

CHATELET,  MARCHIONESS  DE 258 

CHELIDONIS 30 

CHELONIS 30 

CHEMIN,  CATHARINE  DU 258 

CHENY,  HARRIET  V 825 

CHERON,  ELIZABETH  SOPHIA 258 


CHEZY,  WILHELMINE  CHRISTINE  VON..  259 

CHILD,  LYDIA  MARIA 619 

The  Neighbour-in-Law  620 

Politeness  623 

Beauty  623 

CHIOMARA 30 

CHOIN,  MARIE  EMILIE  JOLY  DE 259 

CHRISTINA,  QUEEN  OF  SWEDEN 259 

CHRODIELDE 92 

CHUDLEIGH,  LADY  MARY 262 

CIBBER,  SUSANNA  MARIA  262 

CICCI,  MARIA  LOUISA 262 

CINCHON,  COUNTESS  OF 262 

CIRANI,  ELIZABETH 262 

CLAIRON,  CLARA  JOSEPHA  DE  LA  TUDE  263 

CLARA 92 

CLARKE,  MARY  COWDEN 624 

CLARKE,  SARA  JANE 024 

My  Lays  625 

Ariadne 625 

The  March  of  Mind 626 

There  was  a  Rose 626 

I  never  will  grow  old 626 

My  first  Fishing 627 

The  Intellectual  Woman 628 

Woman's  Heart 628 

Woman's  Gratitude 628 

The  Poet's  Mission 628 

CLAYPOLE,  ELIZABETH 263 

CLELIA 30 

CLELIA 92 

CLEMENTS,  MARGARET 263 

CLEOBULE,  OR  CLEOBULINE 31 

CLEOPATRA  31 

CLERMONT,  CLAUDE  CATHARINE  DE 263 

CLEVELAND,  BARBARA  VILLIERS,  DUCH- 
ESS OF 263 

CLIFFORD,  ANNE 263 

CLIVE,  CATHARINE 264 

CLOTILDE,  WIFE  OF  CLOVIS 92 

CLOTHILDE,  QUEEN  OF  THE   GOTHS. 93 

CLYTEMNESTRA 32 

COCHRANE,  GRIZEL 265 

COCKBURN,  CATHARINE 265 

COLERIDGE,  SARA  HENRY 629 

A  Mother  over  her  Child,  &c 629 

Love 629 

COLIGNI,  HENRIETTA,  COUNTESS  DE 265 

COLONNA,  VITTORIA 93 

COLQUHOUN,  LADY  861 

COMNENA,  ANNA 93 

COMSTOCK,  SARAH  D 875 

CONSTANCE 94 

CONTARINI,  GABRIELLA  CATERINA 94 

CONTAL,  LOUISE 266 

CONTI,  MARGARET  LOUISE,  PRINCESS  DE  266 

CONTI,  PRINCESS  DE  26C 

COOK,  ELIZA 629 

Silence  630 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 630 

A  Love-song 6:'.l 

I  miss  thee,  ray  Mother 631 

Oh!  never  breathe,  &c 631 

The  Tree 631 


INDEX. 


Page 

The  Clouds 632 

Hallowed  be  Thy  Name 632 

Through  the  Waters 632 

Stanzas  to  the  Young 633 

Washington 633 

The  last  Good-bye 633 

COOPER.  MISS 836 

COPLEY,  MRS 842 

COPPOLI,  ELENA 94 

CORDAUD,  ISABELLA  DE  94 

CORDAY,  CHARLOTTE 266 

CORINNA 32 

CORINNA,  OR  CRINNA 33 

CORNANO,  CATERINA,  QUEEN  OF  CYPRUS     94 

CORNARO,  HELENA  LUCRETIA 271 

CORNELIA,  MOTHER  OF  THE  GRACCHI..     33 

CORNELIA,  WIFE  OF  POMPEY 34 

CORNELIA,  DAUGHTER  OF  CINNA .34 

CORTESI,  GIOVANNI  MARMOCCHINI 271 

COSEL,  COUNTESS  OF 271 

COSSON     DE    LA    CRESSONIERE,    CHAR- 
LOTTE CATHARINE 272 

COSTA,  MARIA  MARGARITA 272 

COSTELLO,  LOUISA  STUART 842 

COSWAY,  MARY 272 

COTTIN,  SOPHIE 272 

Temptations 273 

Life 273 

The  Exiles  and  their  Home 273 

Winter  in  Siberia 274 

The  Mother  and  Daughter  274 

Crossing  the  Wolga 275 

The  Mite  given  in  Charity 275 

COUTTS,  ANGELA  GEORGINA  BURDETT..  634 

COUVREUR,  ADRIANNE  LE 276 

COWLEY,  HANNAH 276 

COXE,  MARGARET 826 

CRAON,  PRINCESS  DE 851 

CRATESIPOLIS 34 

CRAVEN,  ELIZABETH,  LADY 276 

CRAWFORD,  ANNE 277 

CREQUY,  MARCHIONESS  DE 277 

CRETA,  LAURA  277 

CREUSA .34 

CROMWELL,  ELIZABETH 277 

CROWE,  CATHARINE 635 

The  Future  that  awaits  us 636 

Dreams 636 

Presentiments 636 

Apparitions  637 

Troubled  Spirits 637 

CRUZ,  JUANA  INEZ  DE  LA  277 

CUBIERE,  MADAME  DE 851 

CULMAN,   ELIZABETH 278 

CUNEGONDE 95 

CUNITIA,  OR  CUNITZ,  MARIE 278 

CUSHMAN,  CHARLOTTE 637 

CYNISCA 34 

CZARTORYSKI,  ISABELLA,  PRINCESS 875 

DACIER,  ANNE 279 

DACRE,  LADY  640 

DAMER,  MRS.  DAWSON 841 

DAMER,  ANNE  SEYMOUR 280 


DAMO  34 

DAMOPHILA 34 

DANCY,  ELIZABETH 280 

D'ANDALO,  OR  BRANCALEONE  GALEANA     95 

DANGEVILLE,  MARY  ANNE  BOTOL 280 

DANTI,  THEODORA 95 

DARLING,  GRACE .'....  280 

DARRAH,  LYDIA  281 

DARUSMONT,  FRANCES 842 

DASCHKOFF,    CATHARINE    ROMANOWNA  281 

DASH,  COUNTESS 641 

DAVIDSON,  LUCRETIA  MARIA 282 

To  a  Friend 283 

The  Guardian  Angel 283 

To  a  Star 284 

Stanzas 284 

Lines 284 

Fragment 284 

DAVIDSON,  MARGARET  MILLER 284 

To  my  Mother 285 

DAVIES,  LADY  ELEANOR 285 

DEBORAH,  THE  JUDGESS 34 

Song  of  Triumph 35 

DEBORAH 285 

DEDICATION 5 

DEFFAND,  MADAME  DU 285 

Les  Deux  Ages  de  I'Homme 286 

DEKKEN,  AGATHE 286 

DELANY,  MARY 286 

DELILAH 36 

DELORME,  MARION  287 

DEROCHES,  MADELEINE  REVUO  287 

DERVORGILLE,  LADY 96 

DESCARTES,  CATHARINE 287 

DESHOULIERES,  ANTOINETTE 288 

Les  Moutons 288 

DESMOND,  COUNTESS  OF 95 

DESMOULINS,  LUCILLE 289 

DEVONSHIRE,  GEORGIANA    CAVENDISH, 

DUCHESS  OF 289 

The  Passage  of  the  Mountain  of  St.  Gothard  290 

DEYSTER,  ANNE , 290 

DIDO,  OR  ELISSA 36 

DIGBY,  LETTICE 290 

DINAH 37 

DINNIES,  ANNA  PEYRE 826 

Lines 826 

The  Wife 827 

DIOTIMA 37 

DIX,  DOROTHEA  L 862 

DODANE,  DUCHESS  OF  SEPTIMANIE 96 

DODD,  MARY  ANNE  HANMAR 827 

DCETE  DE  TROYES 96 

DOMIER,  ESTHER 290 

DONNE,  MARIA  DALLE 876 

DORCAS,  OR  TABITHA 96 

DOUVRE,  ISABELLA  DE 96 

DRUSILLA,  LIVIA 96 

DRUSILLA 96 

DRUZBACKA,  ELIZABETH 877 

DUBOIS,  DOROTHEA  290 

DUCLOS,  MARIE  ANNE 291 

DUDEVANT,  MARIE  AURORE C41 


INDEX, 


Extracts 642 

Letters  of  a  Traveller 643 

From  "Consuelo" 644 

DUERINGSFIELD,  IDA  VON 853 

DUFFERIN,  LADY 843 

DUFRESNOY,  MADEMOISELLE  291 

DUMEE,  JOAN 291 

DUMESNIL,  MARIE  FRANCES 291 

DUMONT,  MADAME  291 

DUPRE,  MARY 291 

DURAND,  CATHARINE 291 

DURAS,  DUCHESS  OF .' 291 

DUROFF,  MADEMOISELLE 857 

DUSTON,  HANNAH 291 

DUYN,  MARGUERITE  DE 96 

DWIGHT,  ELIZABETH  BAKER 292 

DYER,  MARY 292 

FAMES,  ELIZABETH  J 827 

FAMES,  JANE  A 827 

EANFLED  97 

EBBA 97 

EBOLI,  ANNE  DE  MENDOZA  LA  CERDA..  292 

EDESIA 97 

EDGEWORTH,  MARIA 293 

Only  Children 296 

The  Power  of  Sympathy 297 

Music  as  an  Accomplishment  297 

The  Best  Accomplishments 297 

Literary  Education 298 

On  Prudence 298 

Economy  298 

EDITHA 97 

EGEE 37 

EGERTON,  LADY  FRANCES 843 

EGLOFFSTEIN,  JULIA,  COUNTESS  VON...  853 

ELEANOR  OF  AQUITAINE 97 

ELEANOR,  ST 97 

ELECTRA 37 

ELEONORE  OF  TOLEDO 298 

ELGIVA 97 

ELISABETH 98 

ELIZABETH  OP  YORK 98 

ELIZABETH,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 299 

Verses  written  at  Woodstock  301 

Letter  to  her  Sister  Mary 302 

ELISABETH  OF  FRANCE 302 

ELIZABETH  OF  AUSTRIA  302 

ELIZABETH    CHARLOTTE,    DUCHESS    OF 

ORLEANS 303 

ELISABETH,  MADAME 303 

ELIZABETH  CHRISTINA 303 

ELIZABETH  PETROWNA...' 303 

ELLET,  ELIZABETH  F 644 

■  From  "  AVomen  of  the  American  Revolution"  645 

Sodus  Bay  648 

To  the  Lance-fly 648 

ELLIS,  SARAH  STICKNEY 649 

Man  and  Woman 650 

The  Lot  of  Woman 650 

Woman's  Disinterestedness 650 

The  Husband  and  Wife 651 

Secret  Sorrows 652 

Delicacy 652 


Page 

Flattery 652 

Single  Life 652 

ELPIS 98 

ELSTOB,  ELIZABETH 304 

EMBURY,  EMMA  CATHARINE 653 

The  One  Fault 653 

The  Widow's  Wooer 656 

Never  Forget 656 

Stanzas 657 

EMMA  OF  FRANCE 98 

EMMA  OF  NORMANDY 98 

ENGLISH,  HESTER 304 

ENNETIERES,  MARIE  D'  304 

EPINAY,  LOUISE  D' 304 

EPONINA 99 

ERAUSO,  CATALINA  DE 304 

ERDMUTHE,    SOPHIE,    MARGRAVINE 

OF  306 

ERINNA 37 

ERMENGARDE,  or  HERMENGARDE 99 

ERNECOURT,  BARBARA  OF 306 

ESCOBAR.  MARINE  D" 306 

ESLING,  CATHARINE  H.  W 827 

ESSARS,  CHARLOTTE  DES 306 

ESTAMPES,  ANNE  OF  PISSELIEU,  DUCH- 
ESS OF 307 

ESTE,  ELEONORA  D'  807 

ESTHER,  QUEEN  37 

ESTHER  OF  POLAND  100 

ESTRADA,  MARIA  D' 307 

ESTREES,  GABRIELLE  D' 308 

ETHELBURGA 100 

ETHELDREDA,  ST 100 

ETHELFLEDA,  or  ELFLEDA 100 

EUDOCIA  100 

EUDOCIA,  OR  EUDOXIA 101 

EUDOCIA  FEODOROWNA  308 

EUPHEMIA,  FLAVIA  iELIA  MARCIA 101 

EURYDICE,  AN  ILLYRIAN 38 

EURYDICE  OF  MACEDONIA 38 

EURYDICE,  WIFE  OF  ARID^US 38 

EUSEBIA,  AURELIA 101 

EUSEBIA,  ABBESS  OP  ST.  CYR 101 

EUSTACHIUM 102 

EVE 38 

FAINI,  DIMANTE .' 308 

FALCONBERG,  MARY,  COUNTESS  OF 102 

FALCONBERG,  MARY,  VISCOUNTESS  OF..  309 

FALCONIA,  PROBA 102 

FANE,  ELIZABETH 309 

FANNIA 102 

FANSHAWE,  ANN  HARRISON,  LADY 309 

FANTASTICI,  ROSELLINA  MASSIMINA....  657 

FARLEY,  HARRIET 657 

The  Window  Darkened 659 

Deal  Gently 660 

FARRAR,  MRS 827 

FARREN,  MISS 310 

FARNESE,  FRANCESCA 310 

FATIMEH 102 

FAUGERE,  MISS 311 


INDEX, 


FAUGERES,  MARGARETTA  V 311 

FAUSTINA,  ANNIA  GALERIA 102 

FAUSTINA,  ANNIA 102 

FAUSTINA,  FLAVIA  MAXIMIANA 103 

FAVART,  MARIE  JUSTINE  BENOITE 311 

FAWCETT,  HELEN  843 

FAYETTE,  LOUISE  DE  LA 311 

FAYETTE,   MARIE    MADELEINE,    COUNT- 
ESS DE 311 

Lettre  a  Madame  de  SevignS 311 

FEDELE,  CASSANDRA 312 

FEDOROWNA,  MARIA 312 

FELICITAS 103 

FELLER,  HENRIETTA,  MADAME 864 

FERGUSON,  ELIZABETH  GRAEME 312 

FERNANDEZ,    MARIA    MADDELENA    MO- 

RELLI  312 

FERRIER,  MISS 661 

A  Bustling  Wife 662 

Sunday 662 

Disappointed  Love 664 

Sudden  Poverty 664 

Second  Love 664 

FERRIOL,  MADAME  DE 313 

FICKER,  CHRISTIANE  D.  S 314 

FIDELIS,  CASSANDRA 103 

FIELDING,  SARAH  314 

FIORINA,  ELIZABETTA 855 

FISHER,  CATHARINE 314 

FISHER,  MARY 314 

FISKE,  CATHARINE 866 

FLAXMAN,  ANN 314 

FLORA 40 

FLORE  DE  ROSE  103 

FLORINE 103 

FOA,  EUGENIA 852 

FODOR,  MAINVILLE,  JOSEPHINE 315 

FOIX,  MARGARET  DE,  DUCHESS  D'EPER- 

NON  315 

FOLLEN,  ELIZA  LEE 664 

The  Exiled  Stranger 664 

Winter  Scenes  in  the  Country 665 

FONSECA,  ELEONORA,  MARCHIONESS  DE  316 

FONTAINES,  COUNTESS  DE 877 

FONTANA,  LAVINIA 316 

FONTANGES,  DUCHESS  DE 316 

FONTE-MODERATA 316 

FORCE,  CHARLOTTE  ROSE  DE  CAUMENT 

DE  LA 316 

FOUGERET,  ANNA  FRANCESCA  DONTRE- 

MONT 316 

FOUQUE,    CAROLINE    AUGUSTE    DE   LA 

MOTTE 317 

FRANCISCA,  OR  FRANCES 317 

FRANKLIN,  ELEANOR  ANN 317 

FRANZ,  AGNES 317 

FRATELLINI,  GIOVANNA 317 

FREDEGONDE 104 

FREILIGRATH,  IDA 853 

FREYBERG,  BARONESS  VON 853 

FRITIGILA  105 

FR0HBER6,  REGINA 318 

FRY,  ELIZABETH 318 


Page 

Questions  for  Myself 319 

The    Effect   of  the    Bible    on    Female    Pri- 
soners    319 

Capital  Punishment 319 

FULLER,  FRANCES  A 827 

FULLER,  MEETA  VICTORIA 827 

FULLER,  SARAH  MARGARET 665 

A  Night  in  Michigan 667 

The  Prairie 667 

American  Women 668 

True  Marriage 669 

Female  Progress 669 

On  leaving  the  West 670 

To  Allston's  Picture  of  the  Bride 670 

The  Sacred  Marriage 670 

FULLERTON,  LADY  GEORGIANA 843 

FULVIA : 40 

GABRIELLE  DE  BOURBON 105 

GABRIELLI,  CATHARINE 319 

GAgON  DUFOUR,  MARIE  A  JOHANNE 319 

GAETANS,  AURORA  319 

GAIL,  SOPHIE , 320 

GAILLARD,  JANE 320 

GALERIA 105 

GALIGAI,  ELEONORA 320 

GALLITZIN,  AMALIA,  PRINCESS 320 

GAMBARA,  VERONICA 105 

GARRICK,  EVA  MARIA  320 

GASKILL,  MRS 844 

Out  of  Employ 844 

GASTON,  MARGARET  321 

GAUSSEM,  JEANNE  CATHARINE 321 

GAY,  SOPHIE 670 

GENERAL  PREFACE 35 

GENEVIEVE,  ST 106 

GENEVIEVE,  DUCHESS  OF  BRABANT 106 

GENLIS,  STEPHANIE    FELICITE,  COUNT- 
ESS DE  322 

Laws 322 

Virtue 322 

Prejudice 323 

Music 323 

A  Scene  in  the  Two  Reputations 323 

GENTILESCHI,  ARTEMISIA 325 

GEOFFRIN,  MADAME 325 

GERBERGE 106 

GERMAINE,  SOPHIA 877 

GERSDORF,  WILHELMINA  VON 853 

GETIIIN,  LADY  GRACE  326 

GHIRARDELLI,  LAURA  FELICIA 326 

GILMAN,  CAROLINE 670 

Family  Education 671 

Young  Men 673 

The  Southern  Wife 673 

Mistakes  of  Strangers 674 

The  Mocking-Bird  in  the  City 674 

GINASSI,  CATERINA 326 

GIRARDIN,  DELPHINE  674 

From  "La  Canne  de  Balzac" 675 

GISELLE 106 

GLAPHYRA 40 

GLAUBER,  DIANA 326 

GLEIM,  BETTY 327 


INDEX. 


GLENORCHY,    WILHELMINA    MAXWELL, 

LADY 327 

GODEWYCK,  MARGARETTA 327 

GODIVA 106 

GODWIN,  MARY  WOLSTONECRAFT 327 

GOMEZ,    MAGDALENE    ANGELINA    PAIS- 

SON  DE  328 

GONZAGA,  BARBA  VON  106 

GONZAGA,  CECILIA  DE 107 

GONZAGA,  ELEONORA 107 

GONZAGA,  ISABELLA  DI  107 

GONZAGA,  COLONNA  JULIA,  DUCHESS  OF 

TRAIETTO 328 

GONZAGA,  LUCRETIA 329 

GONZAGA,  COLONNA  IPPOLITA 330 

GORE,  MRS.  CHARLES 676 

From  "Self,"  a  Novel 677 

How  to  Manage  the  World 678 

Society 678 

The  Female  Spendthrift 678 

GEORGE,  ANITA 857 

GOTTSCHED,  LOUISA   ADELGUNDA   VIC- 
TORIA    330 

GOUGES,  MARIE  OLYMPE  DE 330 

GOULD,  HANNAH  FLAG 680 

The  Moon  upon  the  Spire 680 

The  Snow-flake 681 

The  Scar  of  Lexington 681 

Forest  Music  681 

The  Ship  is  ready  681 

The  Ground-Laurel 682 

The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn 682 

Name  in  the  Sand 682 

GOURNEY,  MARY  DE  JARS,  LADY  OF 330 

GOZZADINI,  BETISIA 107 

GRACE,  MRS 331 

GRAFFIGNY,    FRAN^OISE    D'HAPPON- 

COURT 331 

GRAHAM,  ISABELLA 331 

Widowhood 332 

GRAHAM,  MARIA 844 

GRANT,  ANNE 332 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath 332 

GRAY,  MRS 814 

GREEN,  FRANCES  H 827 

GREVILLE,  MRS 333 

Prayer  for  Indifference 333 

GREY,  LADY  JANE  333 

Lines  written  in  Prison 334 

GREY,  MRS 683 

GRIERSON,  CONSTANTIA 334 

GRIFFITH,  ELIZABETH 335 

GRIFFITH,  MRS.  MAJOR 844 

GRIGNAN,  FRANCES,  COUNTESS  DE 335 

GROSS,  AMALIE  VON 683 

GROSVENOR,  COUNTESS  H 844 

GROTIUS,  MARY 335 

GROUCHY,  SOPHIE 335 

GUERCHEVILLE,  MARCHIONESS  DE 107 

GUEST,  LADY  CHARLOTTE 845 

GUILLAUME,  JAQUETTE  335 

GUILLELMA 107 

GUILLET,  PERNETTE  DU 108 

GUIZOT,  CHARLOTTE  PAULINE 336 


Page 

GUIZOT,  ELISE  MARGARETTA  336 

GUYARD,  ADELAIDE  SABILLE 337 

GUYON,  JEANNE  MARIE  BOUVIER  DE  LA 

MOTTE 337 

GWYNNE,  ELEANOR 338 

HABERT,  SUSAN  DE  338 

HACHETTE,  JEANNE 108 

HAGAR 40 

HAHN-HAHN,  IDA,  COUNTESS  OF 683 

From  "  Reisbriefe,"  a  Letter 684 

Restlessness  of  Spring 684 

Nice 684 

France  685 

Avignon 685 

Constantinople 685 

The  Pyramids 685 

HAIGHT,  MRS 828 

HALE,  SARAH  JOSEPHA 686 

The  Hand  and  its  Work 687 

Worship  in  the  Temple 688 

Worship  in  the  Forest 688 

A  Blind  Girl's  Idea  of  the  Ladies 688 

A  Thought 689 

The  Watcher 689 

The  Light  of  Home  689 

I  sing  to  Him 689 

Iron 689 

The  Power  of  Music  690 

It  snows.. 690 

The  Mother's  Mission 691 

IIALKET,  LADY  ANNE 338 

HALL,  ANNA  MARIA 691 

Marian's  Character 692 

Blue-Stockings 694 

Sentimental  Young  Ladies 694 

AVoman  for  Woman 694 

The  Public  Singer  694 

Prejudice 695 

Emulation 695 

HALL,  LOUISA  JANE 695 

The  Parting 696 

Dying  Fancies 696 

Miriam  to  Paulus,  &c 696 

Miriam  to  her  Betrothed  Lover  696 

HALL,  SARAH 877 

HAMILTON,  ELIZABETH 339 

The  Benefits  of  Society 340 

On  Imagination 340 

A  Peep  at  Scottish  Rural  Life,  Ac 340 

HAMILTON,  LADY 342 

HANKE,  HENRIETTA  WILHELMINA 696 

HANNAH 41 

HARCOURT,  AGNES  DE  878 

HARCOURT,  HARRIET  EUSEBIA 342 

BASER,  CHARLOTTE  HENRIETTA 342 

HASTINGS,  ELIZABETH 342 

HASTINGS,  LADY  FLORA 343 

Italy  343 

The  Swan-Song 343 

HASTINGS,  MARCHIONESS  OF 873 

HAUFFE,  FREDERICA 343 

HAYS,  MARY 878 

HECUBA 41 

HEDWIG,  AMELIA  VON 344 

HELEN 41 


INDEX. 


HELENA,  MOTHEK  OF  CONSTANTINE 108 

HELENA,  DAUGHTER    OP    CONSTANTINE  108 

HELENA,  MOTHER  OP  IRATES 108 

HELOISE 108 

HELVETIUS,  MADAME 344 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA 344 

The  Switzers  Wife 347 

Gertrude,  or  Fidelity,  &c 348 

The  Grave  of  a  Poetess 349 

The  Mother's  Love 349 

Woman    'nd  Fame 349 

Song 350 

Man  and  Woman 350 

The  Spells  of  Home 350 

Woman  on  the  Field  of  Battle 351 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 351 

Sabbath  Sonnet 351 

The  Poetry  of  the  Psalms 351 

HENDEL-SCHUTZ,  HENRIETTA  352 

HENRIETTA  OF  ENGLAND 351 

HENTZ,  CAROLINE  LEE 697 

The  Apostate  is  the  True  Believer  698 

De  Lara's  Love 698 

Zoraya's  Love 698 

The  Snow-Plake 698 

HERBERT,    MAUY,    COUNTESS    OF    PExM- 

BROKE 353 

HERITJER,  MARIE  JEANNE  L' 353 

Rondeau  353 

HERO 41 

HERON,  CECILIA 353 

HERODIAS 110 

HERSCHEL,  CAROLINE  LUCRETIA 353 

HERSILIA ; 41 

HEWITT,  MARY  E 829 

The  Spirit-Bond  829 

The  Bride's  Reverie  829 

The  Child  of  Fame  829 

HEYWOOD,  ELIZA 355 

HILDA,  ST 110 

HILDEGARDIS  110 

HILL,  FRANCES  M 868 

HILTRUDIS Ill 

HIPPARCHIA 41 

HIPPODAMIA  42 

HODSON,  MARGARET  845 

Margaret  of  Anjou 845 

Maternal  Love 845 

HOFLAND,  BARBARA 355 

HOHENHAUSER,  PHILIPPINE  AMALIA 

ELISE  VON 355 

HOHENHEIM,    FRANCISCA,    COUNTESS 

VON 355 

HOOPER,  LUCY 355 

To  Old  Days  we  remember 355 

Time,  Faith,  Energy 356 

HOPKINS,  LOUISA  PAYSON 830 

HOPTON,  SUSANNA 356 

HORSFORD,  MARY  GARDINER  830 

My  Native  Isle 830 

A  Dream,  &c 830 

HORTENSIA 42 

HORTENSE     DE     BEAUHARNAIS     BONA- 
PARTE   356 

HOUDETOT,  COUNTESS  D' 357 


Page 

Imitation  de  Marot 357 

HOUSTON,  MRS 845 

A  Steamboat  Company 845 

HOWARD,  CATHARINE 357 

HOWARD,  ANNE,  VISCOUNTESS  IRWIN...  357 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD  831 

A  Mother's  Love 831 

HOAVITT,  MARY 699 

Away  with  the  Pleasure  701 

Song  of  Edah 701 

Song  of  Margaret 701 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low 701 

The  Use  of  Flowers 702 

Father  is  Coming 702 

The  Children 702 

HROSWITHA,  HELENA  VON  ROSSEN Ill 

HUBER,  MARY  357 

HUBER,  THERESA 358 

HUGHS,  MARY 845 

HULDAH 42 

HUILLE,  HENRIETTE  853 

HULSHOFF,  ANETTE 853 

HUNGARIAN  WOMEN 858 

HUNTER,  ANNE 358 

Song 358 

The  Lot  of  Thousands 358 

HUNTINGDON,  SELINA,  COUNTESS  OF....  358 

HUTCHINSON,  ANNE 358 

HUTCHINSON,  LUCY 359 

HYDE,  ANNE,  DUCHESS  OF  YORK 360 

HYPASIA Ill 

ICASIA 112 

INCHBALD,  ELIZABETH 360 

INDEX ' 15 

INGEBORGE,  or  INGELBURGA 112 

INGLIS,  ESTHER 362 

INGONDE,  OR  INGUNDIS 112 

INGRIDA 113 

INTRODUCTORY  REMARKS 7 

IPHIGENIA 43 

IRENE 113 

IRETON,  BRIDGET  362 

IRGE 113 

ISABELLA  OP  ARRAGON 113 

ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE  114 

ISABELLA  OF  FRANCE  114 

ISABELLA,   WIFE    OF    EDWARD    IL    OP 

ENGLAND 114 

ISABELLA  OP  VALOIS 114 

ISABELLA  OF  LORRAINE 115 

ISABELLA,  QUEEN  OF  HUNGARY 362 

ISABELLA  IL,  QUEEN  OF  SPAIN 703 

ISAURE,  CLEMJINCE 115 

IVREA,  MANZOLI  DEL  MONTE 855 

JACOBS,  SARAH 831 

JAEL,  OR  JAHEL  43 

JAGIELLO,  APPOLONIA 704 

JAMES,  ANNA  P 879 

JAMES,  MARIA 831 

JAMESON,  ANNA 706 

Artists  707 


INDEX. 


Page 

Women  Artists,  Singers,  Actresses 707 

Female  Gamblers 708 

English  Pride 708 

The  Duty  of  Travellers 708 

Conversation 708 

From  "Loves  of  the  Poets" 708 

From  "Winter  Studies,"  Ac 708 

Education 708 

Authoresses 709 

Dr.  Johnson  and  Women 709 

JANE  OF  FLANDERS 116 

JARDENS,  MARIE  CATHARINE  DES 363 

JARZOFF,  MADEMOISELLE 857 

JEANNE  DE  BOURBON  116 

JEANNE  OF  FRANCE  AND  NAVARRE 116 

JEMIMA,  KEZIA,  AND  KERENHAPPUCK..     43 

JEWSBURY,  MARIA  JANE 363 

Picture  of  Mrs.  Ilemans 364 

The  Weeper  at  the  Sepulchre 364 

Birth-day  Ballads 365 

Song 365 

Passing  Away 365 

JEZEBEL 43 

JOAN,  THE  POPESS 879 

JOANNA,  OR  JANE  OF  NAVARRE 116 

JOANNA,  COUNTESS  OF  HAINAULT  AND 

FLANDERS 117 

JOANNA  OF  NAPLES,  1 118 

JOANNA  OF  NAPLES,  II 118 

JOCASTA 43 

JOCHEBED 43 

JOHNSON,  LADY  ARABELLA 365 

JOHNSON,  ESTHER 365 

JOHNSTONE,  MRS 709 

JORDAN,  DOROTHEA 366 

JOSEPHINE,  EMPRESS 366 

JUDITH  OF  BETHULIAH 44 

JUDITH  OF  BAVARIA 119 

JUDSON,  ANNE  HASSELTINE 367 

Letter  to  her  Brother-in-law 368 

JUDSON,  SARAH  BOARDMAN 369 

Poem  369 

JUDSON,  EMILY  C 709 

The  Farewell 710 

My  Bird 711 

The  Two  Mammas 711 

JULIA,  DAUGHTER  OF  JULIUS  C^SAR...     44 

JULIA,  DAUGHTER  OF  AUGUSTUS 45 

JULIA  DOMNA 119 

JULIA  MAMMEA  120 

JULIA  MCESA 120 

JULIA  SCEMIUS 120 

JULIA  OF  CARTHAGE 120 

JULIANA 370 

JULIANNA  120 

JUNOT,  LAURA,  DUCHESS  D'ABRANTES..  370 

KAMAMALU 371 

KAPIOLANI  372 

KARSCH,  ANNA  LOUISA 372 

KAUFFMAN,  MARIA  ANGELICA 373 

KAVANAGH,  JULIA 846 

KEAN,  ELLEN 712 

KELLEY,  FRANCES  MARIA 373 


Page 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE 712 

A  Night  of  Terror  713 

Arrival  at  Valence,  &c 714 

My  own  Spirit 714 

Rome 714 

A  Fair  and  Virtuous  Woman  714 

AVoman's  Heart 714 

An  Old  Home 714 

Song 715 

Sonnet 715 

A  Mother's  Memories 715 

Absence 715 

Lines  from  the  Italian 715 

KENT,  DUCHESS  OF 715 

KERALIO,  MADAME  DE 373 

KHAULA 120 

KILLIGREW,  ANNE 373 

KILLIGREW,  CATHARINE 374 

Lines  to  Mildred  Cecil 374 

KINGSTON,  DUCHESS  OF 374 

KINNEY,  E.  0 831 

Cultivation 831 

The  Quakeress  Bride 832 

KIRCH,  MARY  MARGARET 374 

KIRCHGESSNER,  MARIANNE 374 

KIRKLAND,  CAROLINE  M 716 

New  Settlers  in  the  West 717 

Improvement  and  Enjoyment 717 

A  Debating  Society  in  the  West 717 

The  Influence  of  Dress 718 

Dress  of  Servants 718 

Dress  of  Ladies 719 

KLOPSTOCK,  MARGARET 375 

Letters 375 

KNORRING,  BARONESS 858 

KOERTEN,  JOANNA 376 

KONIGSMARK,  COUNTESS  OF 376 

KRUDENER,  JULIANNA,  BARONESS  OF...  376 
KULMAN,  MADAME 857 

LABANA 121 

LABBE,  LOUISA 377 

LABROUSE,  CLOTILDE  SUZETTE 378 

LACOMBE,  ROSE 378 

LAFAYETTE,  MADAME  DE 378 

LA  FERTE  IMBAULT,  MARCHIONESS  DE  379 

LAFITE,  MARIE  ELIZABETH  DE 379 

LAIS 45 

LAMB,  LADY  CAROLINE  379 

LAMB,  MARY 379 

LAMBALLE,  PRINCESS  DE 380 

LAMBERT,    ANNE    THERESE,    MARCHIO- 
NESS DE 380 

Extrait  des  Avis  d'une  Mere  a  son  Fils....  380 

Extrait  des  Avis  d'une  Mere  a  sa  Fille 380 

Portrait  de  Fenelon 381 

LAMBERT,  MISS 846 

LAMBRUN,  MARGARET 381 

LAMIA „ 45 

LA  MOTTE  VALOIS,  COUNTESS  DK 382 

LANDA,  CATHARINE 382 

LANDON,  LETITIA  ELIZABETH 382 

Youth 384 

Enthusiasm 384 

Imagination 384 


INDEX. 


Page 

Aphorisms 384 

Woman's  Destiny  385 

The  Poet's  Power  385 

Musings 385 

Lines  of  Life 385 

Female  Faith 386 

Eve  of  St.  John  386 

Love 387 

Last  Verses  of  L.  E.  L 387 

LANE,  JANE 382 

LANNOY,  COUNTESS  OF 387 

LAODICE  OF  TROY 45 

LAODICE  OF  PONTUS  45 

LAODICE  OP  SYRIA 45 

LAPIERRE,  SOPHIE  388 

LARCOM,  LUCY  832 

LASHFORD,  JOAN 388 

LAST  WORDS 902 

LAURA 121 

LAVALLETTE,  EMILIE,  COUNTESS  DE....  388 

LAWSON,  MARY  LOCKHART 832 

LEAH 45 

LE^NA 46 

LEAPOR,  MARY 389 

LEE,  ANN 389 

LEE,  HANNAH  F 719 

Beginning  Life 720 

The  Reward 720 

Living  beyond  the  Means 720 

LEE,  ELEANOR  PERCY 832 

LEE,  MARY  E 879 

LEE,  SOPHIA 389 

LEELA  OF  GRANADA 121 

LEGGE,  ELIZABETH 389 

LEIVA,  MARIA  VIRGINIA  DE 121 

L'ENCLOS,  ANNE,  or  NINON  DE 389 

LENNGRENN,  ANNA  MARIA 389 

LENNOX,  CHARLOTTE  391 

LENORMAND,  MADEMOISELLE 391 

LEONTIUM 46 

LESCAILE,  CATHARINE 391 

LESLIE,  ELIZA 721 

Love  at  First  Sight 722 

The  English  Radical,  &c 723 

The  Fortune-Teller 724 

LESPINASSE,  MADEMOISELLE  DE 391 

LEVI,  JUSTINE  DE  121 

LEWALD,  FANNY 725 

Social  Intercourse  in  Italy 725 

Conversations  in  Rome 726 

Lottery  Tables 726 

Smorfia,  a  Dream-book,  &c 726 

LEWIS,  ESTELLE  ANNA 727 

Beauty 727 

Sorrow  727 

Woman's  Love 727 

My  Study 727 

The  Lovers 727 

The  Cruise  of  Aureana  728 

LICHTENAU,  WILHELMINA,  COUNTESS 

OF 392 

LINCOLN,  COUNTESS  OF 393 

LIND,  JENNY  728 

LIOBA 122 


Page 

LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES  904 

LIST  OF  FEMALE  MISSIONARIES 891 

American  Board  of  Missions 891 

Baptist 897 

Episcopalian 899 

Presbyterian,  (Old  School) 900 

LIST  OP  PORTRAITS 11 

LITTLE,  SOPHIA 832 

LIVIA 46 

LIZARDIERE,  MADEMOISELLE  881 

LLANGOLLEN,  LADIES  OF 879 

LLOYD,  MARY 393 

LOCKE,  JANE  E 832 

LOCUSTA 46 

LOGAN,  MARTHA 393 

LOGES,  MARIE  BRUNEAU 393 

LOHMAN,  JOHANNAH  FREDERICA 393 

LOHMAN,  EMELIE  F.  SOPHIA 393 

LOIS  AND  EUNICE „ 122 

LONDONDERRY,  MARCHIONESS  OF 846 

LONGEVITY 888 

LONGUEVILLE,  DUCHESS  DE 393 

LOQUEYSIE,  MADAME  DE 858 

LOSA,  ISABELLA  DE 122 

LOUDON,  MRS 846 

LOUIS,  MADAME 394 

LOUISA  OF  SAVOY 122 

LOUISA  AUGUSTA  WILHELMINA  AMALIA  394 

LOUVENCOURT,  MARIE  DE 394 

LOWE,  MISS 847 

LOWELL,  MARIA 832 

The  Morning-Glory  832 

LUCAR,  ELIZABETH 394 

LUCCHESINI,  GUIDICCEINI  LAURA 394 

LUCILLA 123 

LUCRETIA 46 

LUCY,  ST 123 

LUMLEY,  JOANNA,  LADY  394 

LUSSAN,  MARGARET  DE 394 

LYNCH,  ANNE  CHARLOTTE 730 

Love 731 

Jealousy 731 

Faith 731 

Aspiration 731 

The  Honey-Bee 731 

Bones  in  the  Desert 731 

A  Thought  by  the  Sea-Shore 732 

LYNN,  ELIZA 847 

Sunset  near  Thebes 847 

LYSER,  CAROLINE  LEONHARDT 732 

MACAULEY,  CATHARINE 394 

MACDONALD,  FLORA 395 

MACOMBER,  ELEANOR  881 

MADISON,  MRS 396 

MCEROE  47 

MAILLARD,  MADEMOISELLE 397 

MAINE,  DUCHESS  DE 397 

MAINTENON,  MADAME  DE 398 

Letters  399 

MAKEDA 47 

MALATESTI,  BATTISTA 123 

MALEGUZZI-VALERI,  VERONICA 400 

MALEPIERRA,  OLYMPIA 400 


INDEX. 


Page 

MALESCOTTI,  MARGHERITA  400 

MALIBRAN,  MARIE  FELICITE 400 

MANDANE 48 

MANLEY,  MRS 400 

MANSON,  MARIE  FRANfAISE  CLAIRISSE  401 

MANZONI,  GIUSTI  FRANCESCA 401 

MARA,  GERTRUDE  ELIZABETH 401 

MARATTI,  ZAPPI  FAUSTINA 402 

MARCET,  JANE  732 

MAREZOLL,  LOUISA 854 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU  124 

MARGARET,  COUNTESS  OF  TYROL  125 

MARGARET,  ST 125 

MARGARET  OF  ENGLAND 126 

MARGARET  OF  BURGUNDY 126 

MARGARET  OF  SCOTLAND 126 

MARGARET  OF  PROVENCE 126 

MARGARET  OF  DENMARK 126 

MARGARET  OF  VALOIS 127 

MARGARET  OF  YORK 127 

MARGARET  OF  GERMANY 127 

MARGARET,  DUCHESS  OF  PARMA 402 

MARGARET  OF  FRANCE 402 

MARGARET,  DUCHESS  OF  SAVOY 403 

MARGARET  LOUISA  OF  LORRAINE 403 

MARGARETTA  OF  SAXONY 127 

MARIA,  WIFE  OF  GENIS 48 

MARIA  THERESA 403 

MARIA  II.,  QUEEN  OF  PORTUGAL 733 

MARIA  CHRISTINA 734 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE  AMELIA 405 

MARIE  ANTOINETTE,  QUEEN  OF  FRANCE  405 

MARIE  LOUISE 405 

MARIAMNE 48 

MARINA,  DONA 407 

MARINELLA,  LUCRETIA 407 

MARINELLI,  LUCREZIA 407 

MARKHAM,  MRS 847 

MARLBOROUGH,  DUCHESS  OF 407 

MARLEY,  LOUISE  FRANgOISE,  MARCHIO- 
NESS DE  VIELBOURG 409 

MARON,  THERESA  DE 409 

MARQUETS,  ANNE  DE 403 

MARS,  HYPPOLITE  BOUTET  409 

MARSH,  ANNE 735 

Woman's  Influence 736 

A  Sad  Spectacle 737 

A  Narrow  Mind 737 

An  English  Garden 737 

The  Christian 737 

Seduction 738 

Illegitimacy 738 

MARTHA,  SISTER 409 

MARTIA 128 

MARTIN,  ELIZABETH  AND  GRACE 410 

MARTIN,  MRS.  BELL 882 

MARTIN,  SARAH 410 

MARTINEAU,  HARRIET 739 

Christianity  740 

On  Celibacy 741 

Marriage 741 

Children 741 

Love  and  Happiness 742 


A  Scene  on  the  Nile 742 

MARTINEZ,  MARIANNE 415 

MARTINOZZI,  LAURA 415 

MARY 128 

MARY,  WIFE  OF  CLEOPHAS 130 

MARY,  MOTHER  OF  MARK 130 

MARY  AND  MARTHA 130 

MARY  MAGDALENE 130 

MARY  OF  FRANCE 130 

MARY  OF  BRABANT 130 

MARY  OF  ANJOU 131 

MARY  OF  ENGLAND  131 

MARY  OF  BURGUNDY „ 131 

MARY  OF  ARRAGON 131 

MARY  THERESA,  WIFE  OF  LOUIS  XIV....  415 

MARY  OF  CLEVES 415 

MARY  I.,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 415 

MARY  II.,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND 417 

MARY  OF  HUNGARY 417 

MARY  LECZINSKA 418 

MARY  BEATRICE  D'ESTE 418 

MARY  DE  MEDICIS 418 

MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 419 

Sonnet 422 

MASHAM,  LADY  DAMARIS 422 

MASHAM,  ABIGAIL 422 

MASQUIERES,  FRANfOISE 422 

MATILDA,  WIFE    OF    HENRY  L  OF   ENG- 
LAND  „ 131 

MATILDA,  OR  MAUD,  EMPRESS    OF    GER- 
MANY   131 

MATILDA,  WIFE  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CON- 
QUEROR   132 

MATRAINI,  CLARA  CANTARINI 423 

MATTUGLIANI,  MEA 132 

MAUPIN,  N.  AUBIGNY 423 

MAURY,  MRS 882 

MAY,  CAROLINE 833 

Lilies 833 

Thoughts 833 

MAY,  EDITH  833 

Prayer  833 

Frost  Pictures 834 

MAYO,  ABIGAIL 882 

MAYO,  S.  C.  EDGARTON 423 

Types  of  Heaven 423 

The  Shadow-Child 423 

MAZARIN,    HORTENSE   MANCINI,  DUCH- 
ESS OF 424 

M'CARTEE,  JESSIE  G 834 

M'CREA,  JANE 882 

M'INTOSH,  MARIA  J 742 

Woman's  Work 743 

The  Mother's  Power 743 

The  Daughter's  Destiny 743 

MEDIA 48 

MEGALOSTRATA 48 

MEIGS,  MARY  NOEL 834 

MELLON,    HARRIET,    DUCHESS    OF    ST. 

ALBANS 424 

MERAB 48 

MERCER,  MARGARET 424 

Conversation 427 


INDEX. 


Page 

MEREDITH,  MRS 847 

The  Blue-bell 847 

MERIAN,  MARIA  SIBYLLA 427 

MESSALINA  VALERIA 132 

MESSALINA,  WIPE  OF  NERO 133 

METEYARD,  ELIZA 848 

METRANA,  ANNA 428 

MICHAL 48 

MICHIEL,  RENIER  GIUSTINA 428 

MILESI,  BIANCA  855 

MILLER,  LADY 428 

MILTON,  MARY 428 

MINGOTTI,  CATHARINE 429 

MINUTOLI,  LIVIA  429 

MIRBEL,  MADAME  DE  883 

MISSIONARY  SOCIETIES 896 

MIRIAM 49 

MITCHELL,  MARIA 743 

MITFORD,  MARY  RUSSELL 744 

AVhitsun-Eve  —  My  Garden 745 

Characters 746 

Mrs.  Lucas  and  her  Daughters 746 

Home  and  Love 747 

MNISZECH,  MARINA,  CZARINA   OF  MUS- 
COVY   429 

MOHALBI,  GARAFILIA 431 

MOLSA,  TARQUINIA 432 

MOMORO,  SOPHIE 431 

MONICA 133 

MONIMA 49 

MONK,  HON.  MRS 431 

MONTAGU,  ELIZABETH 432 

Letters  433 

MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY 434 

Extracts  from  her  Letters 435 

Lines  written  soon  after  her  Marriage 439 

Reply  to  Pope 440 

Experience  late 440 

MONTANCLOS,  MADAME  DE  440 

MONTEGUT,  MADAME  DE 440 

MONTENAY,  GEORGETTE  DE 440 

MONTESPAN,  MADAME  DE 440 

MONTI,  CONSTANZA 855 

MONTMORENCY,  CHARLOTTE  MARGARET  440 

MONTPENSIER,  DUCHESS  DE 441 

MONTPENSIER,    JACQUELINE    LONGVIC, 

DUCHESS  DE 441 

MORATA,  OLYMPIA  FULVIA 441 

MORE,  HANNAH 442 

Extracts  from  "Hints  for  Forming,"  &c. ...  446 

From  "Florio" 446 

From  "Sensibility" 446 

A  Mother's  Love 447 

A  good  Conscience 447 

Favour  is  Fleeting 4L47 

Faith 447 

Wisdom 447 

Trust  in  God 447 

MORELLA,  JULIANA 442 

MORGAN,  SYDNEY,  LADY 747 

My  first  Rout  in  London 749 

Good  Mothers 750 

Women  in  Asia  751 

MORLEY,  COUNTESS  OF 848 


MOSCHENI,  CONSTANZA 856 

MOSEBY,  MARY  W 883 

MOTHER  ANNA,  or  ANN  OP  SAXONY 447 

MOTT,  LUCRETIA 752 

MOTTE,  REBECCA 448 

MOTTEVILLE,    FRANCES    BERTRAND  DE  449 

MOWATT,  ANNA  CORA  754 

MURATORI,  TERESA 449 

MUSSASA 449 

MYBERG,  MADAME 858 

MYRTIS 49 

NAOMI 49 

NEAL,  ALICE  BRADLEY 755 

The  Bride's  Confession 755 

Old  Letters 756 

The  Day  of  Rest 756 

Dedication  of  the  "Gossips,"  &c 756 

NEALE,  ELIZABETH 449 

NECKER,  SUZANNE 449 

NELLI,  SUOR  PLANTILLA  451 

NEMOURS,  DUCHESS  DE 451 

NEUBER,  CAROLINE 451 

NEUMANN,  MADAME 854 

NEWCASTLE,  DUCHESS  OF 451 

Queen  Mab  452 

Mirth  and  Melancholy 452 

NEWELL,  HARRIET 453 

NICHOLS,  MARY  SARGENT  GOVE- 757 

Medical  Practice 758 

General  View,  &c 760 

NICHOLS,  REBECCA  L 834 

NITOCRIS 49 

NOE,  CANEDI  MADDALENA 761 

NOGAROLA,  ISOTTA 133 

NOGAROLA,  ARCO  D'ANGELA 134 

NORDEN-FLEICHT,  CHEEDERIG  CHAR- 
LOTTE DE 454 

NORTON,  HON.  MRS 761 

Lines  to  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  762 

Twilight 763 

Obscurity  of  Woman's  Worth 763 

Weep  not  for  Him  that  Dieth 763 

Sonnet 764 

Sonnet  to  my  Books 764 

Man  and  Woman 764 

London  Outcasts. 764 

Common  Blessings  ;.  764 

The  Blind 764 

From  "Music  on  the  AVave" 764 

The  Widow 764 

NORTON,  LADY  FRANCES 454 

NOVELLA , 1.34 

OBERLIN,  MADELEINE  SALOME 454 

OCTAVIA,  WIPE  OP  MARC  ANTONY 50 

OCTAVIA,  WIPE  OF  NERO 134 

OLDFIELD,  ANNE 455 

OLGA  134 

OLIVER,  SOPHIA  HELEN > 836 

OLYMPIAS 50 

O'NEILL,  MISS 455 

OPIE,  AMELIA 456 

Two  Years  of  AVedded  Life 456 


INDEX. 


The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale 457 

Song 457 

Song 457 

ORLANDINE,  EMILIA,  OP  SIENNA 457 

ORLEANS,  DUCHESS  D' 457 

ORLEANS,  MARIE  D' 883 

ORPAH 51 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  SARGENT 458 

May-Day  in  New  England 459 

Stanzas 459 

Love  the  lightest  460 

The  Baby  blowing  back,  Ac 460 

Ellen's  first  Tooth 460 

The  little  Slumberer 460 

The  Child  playing  with  a  Watch 461 

Little  Children 461 

To  my  Pen 461 

The  Soul's  Lament  for  Home 461 

New  England's  Mountain  Child 462 

Music 462 

Garden  Gossip 462 

The  Unexpected  Declaration 462 

Beauty's  Prayer 462 

Song 463 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry 463 

A  Weed 463 

Silent  Love 464 

Caprice 464 

Aspirations  464 

Labour  464 

OSTERWYK,  MARIA  VAN 465 

PACHECO,  DONNA  MARIA 134 

PADILLA,  MARY  DE 135 

PAKINGTON,  LADY  DOROTHY 465 

PALADINI,  ARCHANGELA 465 

PAMPHILA 135 

PANTHEA 51 

PANZACCHIA,  MARIA  ELENA 465 

PAOLINI,  MASSIMI  PETRONELLA 465 

PARADIES,  MARIA  THERESA 466 

PARDOE,  JULIA 765 

Amusements  of  the  Court  of  Francis  I. 766 

Training  a  Beauty 766 

The  Religion  of  Fashion 766 

Uses  of  Adversity 767 

PARTHENAY,  ANNE  DE 466 

PARTHENAY,  CATHARINE  DE 466 

PARYSATIS 51 

PASTA,  JUDITH 767 

PAULA,  ST 135 

PAULINA,  A  ROMAN  LADY 135 

PAULINA,  WIFE  OF  SENECA 135 

PEABODY,  ELIZABETH  F 835 

PEARSON,  MARGARET 466 

PEIRSON,  LYDIA  JANE 769 

Old  Trees '. 769 

Women  in  the  Wilderness 769 

The  Mother , 769 

The  Poetess 770 

The  Shadows 770 

To  Sleep 770 

PENELOPE 51 

PENNINGTON,  LADY 466 

PENTHESILEA 51 

PERCY,  ELIZABETH 467 


Page 

PERILLA 51 

PERPETUA,  VIVIA 135 

PETER,  SARAH 870 

PETIGNY,     MARIE    LOUISE    ROSE    LE- 

VESQUE 466 

Le  Papillon 467 

PETRONILLA 135 

PFIEFFER,  CHARLOTTE  BIRCH 767 

PHiEDYMA „ 61 

PHANTASIA 51 

PHEBE 136 

PHELPS,  ALMIRA  H.  LINCOLN 770 

Works  of  Fiction 771 

Moral  Influence 772 

Education 772 

Energy 772 

The  Mother's  Hopes 772 

An  Infant's  first  Ideas 772 

EflFect  of  Excitements 772 

The  Child  and  Nature 773 

The  Wonders  of  Nature 773 

PHERETIMA 51 

PHILIPPA  OF  HAINAULT 136 

PHILIPS,  CATHARINE 467 

Against  Pleasure 467 

A  Country  Life 468 

PHILIPS,  ANNE  H 835 

PHILISTES 51 

PHILLA 52 

PHILOTIS 51 

PHRYNE 52 

PICHLER,  CAROLINE 468 

PICKERING,  ELLEN 884 

PIENNE,  JOAN  DE  HALLUIN 469 

PILKINGTON,  LETITIA 469 

PINCKNEY,  MARIA 469 

PINDAR,  SUSAN 835 

The  Shaded  Flower 835 

PINELLA,  ANTONIA 470 

PIOZZI,  OR  THRALE,  ESTHER  LYNCH 470 

The  Three  Warnings 472 

PIPELET,  CONSTANCE  MARIE  DE  THEIS  473 

Epitre  aux  Femmes 473 

PISCOPIA,  CORNARO  ELENE  473 

PISE,  OR  PISAN,  CHRISTINE  DE 136 

PIX,  MARY 473 

PIZZOLI,  MARIA  LUIGI 473 

PLACIDIA 137 

BLANCHE,  MATILDA 848 

PLANCINA 52 

PLUMPTRE,  ARABELLA 474 

PLUNKETT,  MRS 474 

POCAHONTAS  474 

POICTIERS,    DIANE    DE,    DUCHESS   DE 

VALENTINOIS 475 

POLLA  ARGENTARIA 137 

POLLEY,  MARGARET  476 

POLISH  FEMALE  WRITERS 856 

POLYXENA 52 

POLYXO 52 

POMPADOUR,  MARCHIONESS  DE 476 

POMPEIA  PLOTINA 137 

PONSONBY,  CATHARINE 848 

PONTHIEU,  ADELAIDE 138 


INDEX. 


Page 

POOL,  RACHEL  VAN 477 

POOLE,  MRS 848 

POPE,  MARIA 477 

POPELINIERE,  MADAME  DE 477 

PORTER,  ANNA  MARIA 477 

PORTER,  JANE 478 

From  "The  Scottish  Chiefs" 478 

PORTIA 52 

PORTSMOUTH,  DUCHESS  OF 481 

POZZO,  ISABELLA  DAL 481 

POSTANS,  MRS 848 

PRIE,  N.  DE  BERTELOT,  MARCHIONESS 

DE 481 

PRITCHARD,  HANNAH 481 

PRISCA  138 

PROBA 138 

PULCHERIA 138 

PULCHERIA  ^LIA 138 

PYRRHA 53 

QUEENSBURY,  DUCHESS  OF 884 

RACHEL,  WIFE  OF  JACOB 53 

RACHEL,  MADEMOISELLE 773 

RADCLIFFE,  ANN  481 

Description  of  the  Castle  of  Udolpho 483 

From  the  "Italian" 483 

English  Travellers  visit  a  Neapolitan  Church  483 

RADEGONDE,  ST 138 

RAHAB 54 

RAMBOUILLET,  MARCHIONESS  DE 484 

RAMSAY,  MARTHA  LAURENS 484 

Extracts  from  her  Letters 484 

RANCOURT,  SOPHIE 486 

RAVIRA,  FELETTO  ELEONORA  OF  CASALE  486 

READ,  CATHARINE 486 

REBEKAH 54 

RECAMIER,  MADAME  DE 486 

REEVE,  CLARA 486 

REISKE,  ERNESTINE  CHRISTINE  487 

REMARKS  ON  THE  FIRST  ERA 17 

REMARKS  ON  THE  SECOND  ERA 65 

REMARKS  ON  THE  THIRD  ERA  151 

REMARKS  ON  THE  FOURTH  ERA 563 

RENARD,  CECILE  487 

RENEE    DE    FRANCE,  DUCHESS  OF  FER- 

RARA 488 

REYBAUD,  MADAME  CHARLES  774 

RHODOPE 56 

RICCOBONI,  MARIE  LABORAS-MEZIERES  488 

RICH,  FRANCES  488 

RICHMOND,  DUCHESS  OF 488 

RIEDESEL,  FREDERICA,  BARONESS  OF...  488 

RIGBY,  MISS 849 

RIZPAH 55 

ROBERT,  CLEMENCE 852 

ROBERTS,  EMMA 885 

ROBINSON,    THERESE    ALBERTINE 

LOUISE 775 

Selfishness 776 

Loving  unworthily  776 

Grief  and  Guilt 776 


Pape 

The  Soul's  Power 776 

ROCHE,  MARIE  SOPHIE  DE  LA 489 

ROCHES,  MESDAMES  DES 489 

ROCHIER,  AGNES  DU 139 

RODHIA 1.39 

ROHAN,  ANNE  DE 489 

ROHAN,  FRANCES  DE 489 

ROHAN,  MARIE  ELEONORE  DE 490 

ROLAND,  MARIE  JEANNE 490 

ROPER,  MARGARET 492 

ROSA,  ANNA  DI 492 

ROSALBA,  CARRIERA 492 

ROSAMOND 139 

ROSAMOND  DE  CLIFFORD 139 

ROSARES,  ISABELLA  DE 139 

ROSE,  SUSAN  PENELOPE 492 

ROSSI,  BLANCHE  DE 139 

ROSSI,  PROPERZIA  DE 139 

ROSTOPCHIN,  COUNTESS 857 

ROWE,  ELIZABETH 492 

From  "Meditations" 493 

Ode  to  Love 493 

ROWSON,  SUSANNAH 493 

ROXANA 56 

ROZEE,  MADEMOISELLE 494 

RUPINA,  CLAUDIA 140 

RUSSEL,  LADY  RACHEL 494 

Extracts  from  her  Letters 495 

RUTH  56 

RUTILIA 56 

RUYSCH,  RACHEL 497 

RYVES,  ELIZA 497 

SABINA,  JULIA  140 

SABINA,  POPP^A 141 

SABLlfiRE,  MADAME  DE  LA 497 

ST.  LEGER,  HON.  ELIZABETH 497 

SAINT  CECILIA 17] 

SAINTE-NECTARE,  MAGDALEN  DE 497 

SAINTE-PHALIER,  FRANfOISE  THERESE 

DE 497 

SAINTE  DES  PREZ 141 

SALE,  LADY 849 

SALOME,  SISTER  OF  HEROD 141 

SALOME,  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS 141 

SALOME,  WIFE  OF  ZEBEDEE 141 

SALVIONI,  ROSALBA  MARIA 497 

SAMSON,  DEBORAH 497 

SANDFORD,  MRS 849 

SAPPHIRA,  WIFE  OF  ANANIAS 142 

SAPPHIRA  OF  GUELDRES  142 

SAPPHO 56 

SARAH,  OR  SARAI 57 

SARTE,  DAUPHINE  DE 498 

SAUSSURE,  MADAME  NECKER  DE 886 

SAWYER,  CAROLINE  M 8,36 

Pebbles  836 

SCACERNI,  PROSPERI  ANGELA 776 

SCALA,  ALEXANDRA  142 

SCALIGERI,  LUCIA 498 

SCHOPENHAUER,  JOHANNA  FROSINA 498 

SCHOPPE,  AMALIA  VON 776 


INDEX. 


Page 

SCHROEDER,  SOPHIA 498 

SCHURMAN,  ANNA  MARIA 499 

SCOTT,  LADY  ANNE  498 

SCOTT,  JULIA  H 886 

SCRIBONIA 58 

SCUDERI,  MAGDALEINE  DE 499 

SEDGWICK,  CATHARINE  MARIA 777 

The  Opinions  of  a  Yankee  Spinster 778 

The  Training  of  a  Belle  778 

Thoughts  of  a  Dying  Mother 779 

True  Politeness 779 

Mr.  Aitken's  Philosophy 779 

The  Poor  Rich  Man's  Blessings 779 

His  Advice  to  his  Children 779 

His  Remarks  on  Manners 779 

SEGUIER,  ANNE  DE 500 

SEIDELMANN,  APOLLONIA 500 

SELENA 58 

SELVAGGIA,  RICCIARDA  142 

SEMIRAMIS 68 

SENENA,  OR  SINA  142 

SERMENT,  LOUISE  ANASTASIE 500 

SERVILIA 68 

SESSI,  MARIANNE  AND  ANNA  MARIA....  600 

SETON,  LADY 142 

SETURNAN,  MADAME 600 

SEVIGNE,  MADAME  DE 501 

Extracts  from  her  Letters 501 

SEWARD,  ANNA 503 

Extract  from  a  Letter 503 

SEWELL,  ELIZABETH  M 849 

SEYMOUR,  ANNE,  MARGARET,  AND  JANE  503 

SEYMOUR,  JANE  503 

SFORZA,  BONA 503 

SFORZA,    CHRISTIERNA,    DUCHESS    OF 

MILAN 504 

SFORZA,  BIANCA  MARIA  VISCONTI 143 

SFORZA,  IPPOLITA 143 

SHAKOVOA,  ELIZABETH 857 

SHARPE,  LOUISA 850 

SHELLEY,  MARY  WOLSTONECRAFT 780 

The  Creation  of  the  Monster 781 

Love 781 

SHELOMITH 58 

SHEREEN,  OR  SHIRIN,  or  SIRA 604 

SHERIDAN,  FRANCES 604 

SHERWOOD,  MRS 781 

SHINDLER,  MARY  B 836 

SHIPRAH  AND  PUAH 59 

SHORE,  JANE 143 

SHREWSBURY,  COUNTESS  OF 505 

SHUCK,  HENRIETTA 886 

SIDDONS,  SARAH 506 

SIDLAR,  LUISE 864 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  HUNTLEY 782 

From  Letters  of  a  Mother's,  &c 783 

Power  of  a  Mother 783 

The  Mother's  Teachings 783 

Woman's  Patriotism 783 

Sketch  of  a  Family 783 

The  Mother  of  Washington 784 

Prayer  for  Missions 786 

A  Butterfly  on  a  Child's  Grave  786 

The  Alpine  Flowers  785 


Page 

The  Thriving  Family 785 

SINCLAIR,  CATHARINE 860 

SIRANI,  ELIZABETTA 506 

SIRIES,  VIOLANTE  BEATRICE 507 

SISIGAMBIS,  OR  SISYGAMBIS 69 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE  607 

Flora's  Horologe 508 

The  Cricket 509 

Sonnets 509 

SMITH,  ELIZABETH 509 

SMITH,  ELIZABETH  OAKES 785 

Dreams  of  Childhood 786 

Waking  Dreams 786 

Love 786 

Religion 787 

From  "Woman  and  her  Needs" 787 

Female  Physician 787 

The  Wronged  Mother  and  her  Son  785 

The  Child  Spirit 787 

The  Recall,  or  Soul  Melody 788 

The  Water 788 

Faith 788 

Religion 788 

The  Wife 789 

The  Grief-Child 789 

SMITH,  EMMELINE  S 837 

SMITH,  MRS.  HARRISON 887 

SMITH,  SARAH  LANMAN 511 

Influence  of  Thankfulness  and  Cheerfulness  512 

Satisfaction  in  Employment 512 

Writings  of  Jane  Taylor 612 

Quiet  Usefulness 613 

Excitement 613 

Selfishness 613 

A  Thought  in  Broadway 513 

Anxiety  respecting  Public  Interests 513 

Sideboard  Ornaments 613 

Expensive  Churches 613 

Means  of  Happiness  613 

Self-indulgence 513 

Being  of  God 513 

Contentment 513 

Habits  of  Thought  respecting  Christ 513 

Heaven  514 

State  of  Women  in  Syria 614 

Qualifications  for  an  American,  itc 614 

SMITH,  SARAH  LOUISA  P 610 

The  Huma 610 

The  Heart's  Treasures  510 

Trust  in  Heaven 511 

SOMMERY,  N.  FONTENELLE  DE 615 

SOMERVILLE,  MARY 789 

God  and  his  AVorks 790 

Varieties  of  the  Human  Race 790 

Air 790 

Food 791 

Education  791 

Benevolence  791 

Influence  of  Christianity 791 

SONTAG,  HENRIETTA 79] 

SOPHIA  OF  HISPALI 143 

SOPHIA  OF  WOLFENBUTTEL 615 

SOPHONISBA 59 

SOR,  CHARLOTTE 852 

SOUTHCOTT,  JOANNA 516 

SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE  ANNE 792 

I  never  cast  a  Flower  away 792 


INDEX. 


The  Treaty '...;:.( 

Autumn  Flowers , 

To  Death 

SOUTHWORTH,  EMMA  D.  E.  NEVITTE.... 

Early  Impressions 

Infancy 

Childhood 

Unhappy  Marriages,  &c , 

Mismanagement  of  Children , 

Ill-health 

Early  Courtship 

Dangers  of  Society  to  the  Young , 

SOUZA,  MARIA  FLAHAULT  DE 

SPILBERG,  ADRIANNA 

SPILIMBERGO,  IRENE  DI 

SPROAT,  ELIZA  S 

STAAL,  MADAME  DE , 

STAEL,  ANNE  LOUISE  GERMAINE,  MA- 
DAME  DE 

Woman  

Conversation 

Education 

Poetry 

Taste 

STANHOPE,  LADY  HESTER 

STATIRA 

STEELE,  MRS.  ANNE 

STENGEL,  FRANZISKA  VON 

STEPHENS,  ANN  S 

Our  Homestead 

The  Prisoner's  Trial 

STEPHENS,  KATHARINE  

STEWART,  HARRIET  BRADFORD 

STOWE,  HARRIET  BEECHER  

The  Tea  Rose 

STRATONICE 

STRICKLAND,  MISS  AGNES 

British  Queens 

Roman  Catholic  Queens  

Protestant  Queens... 

STUART,  ARABELLA 

STUART,  FRANCES,   DUCHESS    OF    RICH- 

MOND 

SUFFOLK,  HENRIETTA,  COUNTESS  OF  ... 

SULPITIA 

SURVILLE,  CLOTILDE  DE 

SUZE,  HENRIETTA  COLIGNY  DE  LA 

SYBELLA 

SYBILLA,  OR  SYBIL 

SYMPHOROSA 


Page 
792 
792 
792 

.  793 
794 
794 
794 
794 
795 
795 
795 
795 
516 
617 
517 
837 
517 

517 

518 
518 
519 
519 
519 
519 

59 
521 
854 
796 
797 
798 
521 
521 
837 
837 

59 
798 
799 
799 
799 
522 

522 
523 
143 
144 
524 
144 
59 
144 


TAGGART,  CYNTHIA  524 

The  Happiness  of  Early  Years 524 

Ode  to  the  Poppy 525 

TALBOT,  CATHARINE 525 

TALLEY,  SUSAN  ARCHER 838 

TALLIEN,  THERESA 525 

TAMAR,  OR  THAMAR 60 

TAMARIS  60 

TAMBRONI,  CLOTILDE 526 

TAMYRIS,  OR  TOMYRIS 60 

TANAQUIL,  OR  CARA  CECILIA  60 

TANSKA,  CLEMENTINA 866 

TARABOTI,  CATERINA 527 


Page 

TARNOW,  FANNY „ 800 

TARPEIA 60 

TARQUINIA 60 

TARRAKANOFP,  N.,  PRINCESS  DE 527 

TATNALL,  MRS 873 

TASTU,    SABINE    CASIMIR    AMABLE    VO- 

REST 800 

TAYLOR,  JANE. 527 

The  Things  that  are  unseen,  &c 527 

Experience „ 528 

The  Philosopher's  Scales 52S 

TECHMESSA 61 

TELESILLA 61 

TEMPEST,  MISS ". 850 

TENCIN,  MADAME  DE  629 

TENDA,  BEATRICE 145 

TEODORO,  DANTI 630 

TERENTIA 61 

TERRACINA,  LAURA 530 

THAIS 61 

THALESTRIS 61 

THEANO 61 

THECLA 146 

THEIS    DE    CONSTANCE,    MARIE,    PRIN- 
CESS OP  SALM-DYCK 800 

THIERRY,  MADAME 800 

TUEODELINDA 146 

THEODORA 146 

THEOT,  CATHARINE 530 

THERESA,  ST 530 

THEROIGNE    DE   MERICOURT,  ANNE  JO- 
SEPH    530 

THESSALONICA 61 

THICKNESSE,  ANNE 531 

THISBE 61 

THOMA  146 

THOMAS,  ELIZABETH 531 

THURSTON,  LAURA 888 

THUSNELDA 146 

THYMELE 61 

THYNNE,    FRANCES,    DUCHESS    OF    SO- 
MERSET   531 

The  Dying  Christian's  Hope 531 

TIBERGEAU,  MARCHIONESS  DE 531 

TIGHE,  MA'RY 531 

The  Marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche 532 

Psyche  gazes  on  Love  asleep  533 

Jealousy  533 

Lovers'  Quarrels  534 

Delay  of  Love  compensated 534 

TIMOCLEA 61 

TIM(EA  61 

TINTORETTO,  MARIETTA  534 

TISHEM,  CATHARINE 635 

TOLLET,  ELIZABETH 535 

TOMLINS,  ELIZABETH  S 535 

TONNA,  CHARLOTTE  ELIZABETH 536 

The  Advantages  of  Order 536 

Brothers  and  Sisters 636 

The  Evils  of  Tight  Lacing 537 

Employment 537 

The  Bible 537 

TORNABUONI 147 


INDEX. 


TORKELLA,  IPPOLITA 538 

TOSINI,  EUTROPIA  538 

TOWNSEND,  ELIZA  800 

The  Incomprehensibility  of  God 801 

TRANTHAM,  BETSEY  538 

TRIMMER,  SARAH 538 

Letter  to  Hannah  More 539 

TROLLOPE,  MRS 801 

TROSINE 61 

TULHAME,  MRS 850 

TULLIA 62 

TIILLIA,  OR  TULLIOLA 62 

TUTHILL,  LOUISA  C 803 

A  Daughter's  Duty 803 

Behaviour  to  Servants  803 

Home  Habits 803 

Society 801 

Conversation 805 

Christianity 805 

Independence  805 

Principles  805 

Consistency 805 

Cheerfulness -. 805 

Self-Government 805 

TUTHILL,  CORNELIA 838 

TWAMLEY,  LOUISA  A 838 

TWIERLEIN,  ADERKEID  VON 854 

TYMICHA 62 

ULRICA,  ELEONORA 539 

URGULANIA 147 

URGULANILLA 147 

URRACA,  OB  PATERNA 147 

URSINS,  PRINCESS  DES 540 

UTTMAN,  BARBARA 541 

VALADA 147 

VALDOR,  OR  WALDOR,  MADAME  852 

VALENTINE 147 

VALERIA  147 

VALLIERE,  DUCHESS  DE  LA 541 

VALMORE,  MADAME  852 

VANHOMRIGH,  ESTHER 542 

VAN  LENNEP,  MARY  ELIZABETH 888 

VAN  NESS,  MARCIA 543 

VARANO  DI  COSTANZA 148 

VARIOUS  FRENCH  AUTHORS 852 

VARNHAGEN,  RACHEL  543 

VAROTARI,  CIIIARA 543 

VASHTI  62 

VELEDA,  OR  VELLEDA 148 

VERDIER,  MADAME  DE 543 

VERELST,  MADEMOISELLE 543 

VERNEUIL,  MARCHIONESS  DE 544 

VERONESE,  ANGELA 856 

VERRUE,  COUNTESS  OF 544 

VESTRIS,  MADAME 850 

VERGA,  SILVIA 856 

VICTORIA,  QUEEN  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN..  806 

VICTORINA 148 

VIEN,  MADAME 544 

VIGNE,  ANNE  DE  LA 544 

VIGRI,  CATERINA 544 

A 


VILLEBRUNE,  MARIE  DE 544 

VILLEDIEU,  HORTENSE  DE 544 

Madrigal 544 

VILLENEUVE,  GABRIELLE  DE 544 

VIMIERS,  COUOTESS  OF :.'..  888 

VIOT,  MARIE  ANNE  HENRIETTE 544 

VIPSANIA r. ; 62 

VIRGINIA 62 

VOLUMNIA 63 

VON  DER  WART,  GERTRUDE  148 

WALDIE,  MISS  850 

WAKEFIELD,  PRISCILLA 545 

WALPURGA,  OR  WALPURGIS  ]48 

WALTERS,  HENRIETTA....! 545 

WARE,  KATHARINE  AUGUSTA 545 

A  New-Year's  Wish  545 

Loss  of  the  First-Born 545 

WARFIELD,  CATHARINE 838 

WARNE,  ELIZABETH 545 

AVARREN,  MERCY  546 

Suspicion 546 

Remorse 546 

Fortune 546 

Ardella 546 

Decline  of  Public  Alrtue 546 

Civil  War 546 

The  Courage  of  Virtue 546 

AVAR  WICK,  MARY,  COUNTESS  OF 546 

WASHINGTON,  MARY 547 

WASHINGTON,  MARTHA 549 

WASSER,  ANNA 551 

AVATTS,  JANE 551 

WEBER,  HELENE  MARIE 809 

Synopsis  of  "Tracts,"  <te 809 

WEISSERTHURM,  JOHANNA  F.  Y.  VON....  551 

AVELBY,  AMELIA  B 811 

My  Sisters 811 

To  a  Sea-shell 811 

The  Old  Maid 812 

The  Rainbow  812 

Hopeless  Love 813 

The  Last  Interview  813 

AVELLS,  ANNA  MARIA 839 

Nature 839 

WELSER,  PHILIPPINE  551 

WEST,  ELIZABETH 551 

AVEST,  JANE 551 

AVESTMORELAND,  COUNTESS  OF 552 

AVESTON,  ELIZABETH  JANE 552 

AA'HARTON,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF 552 

AVHEATLEY,  PHILLIS 552 

The  Death  of  the  Rev.  George  AA'hitfield...  553 

WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN 813 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry 814 

The  AYaking  of  the  Heart 814 

The  Maiden's  Dream 814 

Stanzas  with  a  Bridal  Ring 815 

A  Song  of  Springy. 815 

A  still  Day  in  Autumn 815 

Retrospection ,. 816 

AA^HITTLESEY,  ABIGAIL  GOODRICH 872 

AVILKINSON,  ELIZA 553 

WILKINSON,  JEMIMA 553 


INDEX. 


Page 

WILLARD,  EMMA 816 

The  Ocean  Hymn  818 

Greek  Normal  School 818 

How  to  Teach 818 

What  to  Teach 819 

Care  of  Health 819 

Motive  Power  of  the  Blood 819 

WILLIAMS,  ANNA  563 

On  a  Lady  singing 553 

WILLIAMS,  HELEN  MARIA 654 

Trust  in  Providence 664 

WILSON,  MRS 555 

WINCHELSEA,  COUNTESS  OF 554 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie 654 

Life's  Progress  554 

WINCKEL,    THERESA    EMILIA    HENRI- 
ETTA    656 

WINKLE,  MADEMOISELLE  DE 854 

WINTER,  LUCRETIA  WILIIELMINA 668 

WOFFINGTON,  MARGARET 658 

WOLF,  ARNOLDINA 558 

WOLF,  MRS 558 

WOOD,  JEAN 669 

WOODBRIDGE,  ABBY  DWIGHT 839 

WOODMAN,  HANNAH  J 839 

WOODVILLE,    ELIZABETH,    QUEEN    OF 

ENGLAND 148 

WORONZOFF,  ELIZABETH 559 

WORTLEY,  LADY  EMMELINE  STUART....  820 
Extracts  from  "  Travels  in  the  United  States"  820 
Dreams 821 


Page 

American  Mind 821 

A  Farewell  to  America 821 

XANTIPPE 63 

YATES,  MARY 559 

YEARSLEY,  ANNE 560 

To  Stella 660 

YOUNG,  CHARLOTTE 850 

Evening 850 

YOUNG  WRITERS  AND  OTHERS 823 

American 823 

British 839 

French 851 

German 853 

Italian  854 

Polish 856 

Russian 857 

Spanish 857 

Swedish 858 

ZAIDA 149 

ZANARDI,  GENTILE 660 

ZANARDI-BOTTIONI,  SPECIOSA 856 

ZANWISKI,  CONSTANTIA,  PRINCESS 

CZARTONYSKA 560 

ZAPPI,  FAUSTINA 560 

ZENOBIA  SEPTIMIA 149 

ZINGA,  ANNA 560 

ZOBEIDE,  OR  ZOEBD-EL-KHEMATIN 150 

ZOE,  WIFE  OF  LEO  YI 160 

ZOE,  DAUGHTER  OF  CONSTANTINE  IX..,  150 


GENERAL  PREFACE. 


The  want  of  the  world  is  moral  power.  Philosophy  has  become  clear-sighted  to  the  im- 
portance of  physical  and  mental  improvement;  new  discoveries  in  science  are  rife  on  every 
side,  each  one  designed  to  aid  man  in  his  appointed  task  of  subduing  the  earth  j  but  who 
has  found  out  the  way  to  attain  that  moral  power  which  only  can  enable  him  to  govern  his 
ovra  spirit,  and  thus  fit  him  to  rule  in  righteousness  and  peace  over  the  world  he  is  con- 
quering ? 

Schools  of  learning  educate  the  mind,  but  not  the  soul ;  the  world's  school  develops  physi- 
cal energies,  sharpens  the  senses,  enlightens  the  understanding,  incites  the  passions ;  but  does 
not  purify  the  heart.  Even  the  blessed  Gospel,  as  set  forth  by  its  appointed  teachers,  fails 
to  move  the  mass  of  mankind  the  right  way.  There  is  a  dead  weight  of  earthly  propensities 
pressing  down  the  Christian  world;  every  advance  in  material  prosperity  and  intellectual 
power  brings  in  its  train  an  increase  of  degradation  and  misery  to  a  large  class  of  society, 
and  new  devices  of  crime  and  sin  to  darken  history  and  discourage  hope. 

Are  these  things  always  to  continue  ?  Is  the  theory  of  those  philosophers,  who  hold  that 
mankind  will  remain  to  the  end  of  time  in  this  miserable  state  of  perpetual  change  without 
moral  advancement,  true  ?  Not  if  the  Word  of  God  is  true.  A  better  time  is  promised, — 
the  ''  good  time,"  when  "  the  work  of  righteousness  shall  be  peace,  and  the  effect  of  righteous- 
ness, quietness  and  assurance  for  ever."*  And  the  time  will  surely  arrive,  as  the  prophet 
predicted,  when  beholding  by  the  spirit  what  the  nations  of  the  earth  should  become,  he 
declared — "  They  shall  sit  every  man  under  his  vine  and  under  his  fig-tree ;  and  none  shall 
make  them  afraid. "f 

There  must  then  be  somewhere  an  agent  to  promote  this  radical  change,  and,  in  harmony 
with  the  Gospel,  and  by  the  aid  of  the  divine  blessing,  carry  on  and  out  the  moral  advance- 
ment of  society. 

Now  I  believe  (allow  me  to  use  the  "  pronoun  in  the  first  person  singular,"  as  I  only  am 
responsible  for  the  views  this  preface  contains)  that  I  have  found  the  true  source  of  moral 
power  in  human  nature,  and  also  the  way  in  which  this  power  must  be  regulated  and  applied 
to  ensure  the  absolute  moral  advancement  of  mankind.     I  believe,  and  trust  I  shall  make  it  \ 
apparent,  that  Woman  is  God's  appointed  agent  of  morality,  the  teacher  and  inspirer  of      \ 
those  feelings  and  sentiments  which  are  termed  the  virtues  of  humanity;  and  that  the  pro-       ' 
gress  of  these  virtues,  and  the  permanent  improvement  of  our  race,  depend  on  the  manner 
in  which  her  mission  is  treated  by  man. 

There  are  learned  theologians  who  hold  that  the  human  heart  is  utterly  corrupt  by  reason 
of  the  "  first  transgression."  Other  theologians,  equally  learned,  reject  this  doctrine  of  total 
depravity,  affirming  that  there  are  good  dispositions  or  qualities  inherent  in  human  nature, 
which  may  be  cultivated  and  become  noble  moral  virtues. 

Without  entering  into  the  arguments  on  either  side  of  this  question,  permit  me  to  say  that 
my  theory  satisfies  both.     Man,  by  the  "  fall,"  was  rendered  incapable  of  cultivating,  by  his      ' 

*  Isaiah,  Chap,  xxxii.,  verse  17.  f  Micah,  Chap,  iv.,  verse  40. 

(xxxv) 


r 


xxxvi  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

own  unassisted  efforts,  any  good  propensity  or  quality  of  Lis  nature.  Left  fx)  himself,  his 
love  becomes  lust,  patriotism,  policy,  and  religion,  idolatry.  He  is  naturally  selfish  in  his 
affections ;  and  selfishness  is  the  sin  of  depravity.  But  woman  was  not  thus  cast  down.  To 
her  was  confided,  by  the  Creator's  express  declaration,  the  mission  of  disinterested  affection  j 
her  "desire"  was  to  be  to  her  husband  —  not  to  herself;  she  was  endowed  with  the  hope  of 
the  Good,  which,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  developed  by  her  seed,  that  is,  by  Christ,  would 
make  war  with  the  Evil,  and  finally  overcome  Sin,  Death,  and  the  Grave. 

And  now  let  us  turn  to  the  holy  Bible,  the  only  record  of  truths  which  teach  divine  wis- 
dom, for  confirmation  of  this  theory  I  have  ventured  to  propound. 

I  entreat  my  readers,  vien,  who  I  hope  will  read  heedfully  this  preface,  to  lay  aside,  if 
possible,  their  prejudices  of  education,  the  erroneous  views  imbibed  from  poetical  descriptions 
and  learned  commentaries,  respecting  the  Creation  and  the  Fall  of  Man.  Go  not  to  Milton, 
or  the  Fathers,  but  to  the  Word  of  God ;  and  let  us  from  it  read  this  important  history,  the 
foundation  of  all  true  history  of  the  natural  character  and  moral  condition  of  mankind. 

"  And  God  said.  Let  us  make  man  in  our  image,  after  our  likeness  :  and  let  them  have 
dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  the  cattle,  and  over 
all  the  earth,  and  over  every  creeping  thing  that  creepeth  upon  the  earth. 

"  So  God  created  man  in  his  own  image,  in  the  image  of  God  created  he  him ;  male  and 
female  created  he  them. 

"  And  God  blessed  them,  and  God  said  unto  them,  Be  fruitful,  and  multiply,  and  replenish 
the  earth  and  subdue  it :  and  have  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of 
the  air,  and  over  every  living  thing  that  moveth  upon  the  earth."* 

Here  we  are  instructed  that  the  term  man  included  woman ;  the  twain  in  unity,  the  female 
being  the  complement  of  the  male,  formed  the  perfect  being  made  in  the  "  likeness  of  God." 
Such  was  the  recorded  result  of  the  human  creation ;  the  particular  process  of  the  formation 
of  man  is  afterwards  described. 

"  And  the  Lord  God  made  hian  of  the  dust  of  the  ground,  and  breathed  into  him  the 
breath  of  life;  and  man  became  a  living  soul." — Genesis,  Chapter  II.,  ver.  7. 

The  process  of  the  creation  of  woman  is  detailed  in  the  same  chapter,  verses  18,  21,  22, 
23,  24. 

"  And  the  Lord  God  said,  It  is  not  good  that  man  should  be  alone ;  I  will  make  him  an 
help  meet  for  him. 

"  And  the  Lord  God  caused  a  deep  sleep  to  fall  upon  Adam,  and  he  slept :  and  he  took 
one  of  his  ribs,  and  closed  up  the  flesh  instead  thereof; 

"  And  of  the  rib,  which  the  Lord  God  had  taken  from  man,  made  he  a  woman,  and  brought 
her  unto  the  man. 

"  And  Adam  said.  This  is  now  bone  of  my  bones  and  flesh  of  my  flesh ;  she  shall  be  called 
woman,  because  she  was  taken  out  of  man. 

"  Therefore  shall  a  man  leave  his  father  and  his  mother,  and  shall  cleave  to  his  wife :  and 
they  shall  be  one  flesh." 

Who  can  read  this,  and  not  fail  to  perceive  that  there  was  a  care  and  preparation  in  form- 
ing woman  which  was  not  bestowed  on  man  ? 

Why  was  this  recorded,  if  not  to  teach  us  that  the  wife  was  of  finer  mould,  destined  to 
the  most  spiritual  offices, — the  heart  of  humanity,  as  her  husband  was  the  head  ?  She  was 
the  last  work  of  creation.  Every  step, -from  matter  to  man,  had  been  in  the  ascending  scale. 
Woman  was  the  crown  of  all,  \—  the  last,  and  must  therefore  have  been  the  best  in  those 
qualities  which  raise  human  nature  above  animal  life ;  the  link  which  pressed  nearest  towards 
the  angelic,  and  drew  its  chief  beauty  and  strength  from  the  invisible  world.f 

Men,  ay,  good  men,  hold  the  doctrine  of  woman's  inferiority,  because  St.  Paul  says  she 
was  created  "for  man."     Truly  she  was  made  "for  man,"  but  not  in  the  sense  this  text  has 

*  Genesis,  Chapter  I.,  verses  26,  27,  28.  f  See  Biography  of  Eve,  page  38. 


GENERAL    PREFACE.  xxxvii 

heretofore  been  interpreted.  She  was  not  made  to  gratify  his  sensual  desires,  but  to  refine 
his  human  affections,  and  elevate  his  moral  feelings.  Endowed  with  superior  beauty  of  per- 
son, and  a  corresponding  delicacy  of  mind,  her  soul  was  to  "  help"  him  where  he  was  deficient. 
—  namely,  in  his  spiritual  nature.  She  was  made  for  him,  not  to  minister  to,  and  thus  in- 
crease his  animal  appetites,  but  to  purify  his  tastes  and  exalt  his  hopes.  She  was  made  "  a 
help  meet  for  him"  in  Paradise ;  and  that  he  there  needed  her  help  shows  that  he  was  not 
perfect  while  standing  alone.  She  must  have  been  more  perfect  than  he  in  those  qualities 
which  were  to  "  help"  him.  She  had  not  his  strength  of  body  or  his  capacity  of  understand- 
ing to  grasp  the  things  of  earth ;  she  could  not  help  him  in  his  task  of  subduing  the  world ; 
she  must,  therefore,  have  been  above  him  in  her  intuitive  knowledge  of  heavenly  things ; 
and  the  ''  help"  he  needed  from  her  was  for  the  ''  inner  man."  This  will  be  shown  more 
clearly  as  we  proceed. 

Permit  me,  however,  to  remark  here,  that  I  am  not  aiming  to  controvert  the  authority  of 
the  husband,  or  the  right  of  men  to  make  laws  for  the  world  they  are  to  subdue  and  govern. 
I  have  no  sympathy  with  those  who  are  wrangling  for  "  woman's  rights  j"  nor  with  those 
who  are  foolishly  urging  my  sex  to  strive  for  equality  and  competition  with  men.  What  I 
seek  to  establish  is  the  Bible  doctrine,  as  I  understand  it,  that  woman  was  intended  as  the 
teacher  and  the  inspirer  for  man,  morally  speaking,  of  "  whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  and 
pure,  and  of  good  report."  The  Bible  does  not  uphold  the  equality  of  the  sexes.  When 
created,  man  and  woman  were  unlike  in  three  important  respects.  ^ 

1st.  The  mode  of  their  creation  was  different.  ' 

2d.  The  materials*  from  which  each  was  formed  were  unlike. 

3d.  The  functions  for  which  each  was  designed  were  dissimilar. 

They  were  never  equal ;  they  were  one  ;  one  in  flesh  and  bones  ;  one  in  the  harmony  of 
their  wills ;  one  in  the  unison  of  their  souls ;  one  in  their  hope  of  earthly  happiness ;  one 
in  the  favour  of  Grod.  Thus  perfect  was  their  union  in  Eden  while  they  were  innocent.  Yet 
as  in  their  corporeal  forms  woman  was  the  most  refined  and  delicate,  so  her  spirit  (by  the 
term,  I  mean  heart,  soul,  mind,  including  all  the  affections  and  passions)  was  purer  and 
holier  than  man's.  He  was  formed  of  the  earth,  and  ha^  in  the  greatest  development  those 
powers  of  mind  which  are  directed  towards  objects  of  sense ;  she,  formed  from  his  flesh  and 
bones,  had  in  greatest  development  those  powers  of  mind  which  seek  the  affections.  But 
these  differences  did  not  hinder  their  union ;  such  diversities  only  served  to  enhance  the  in- 
tensity and  enlarge  the  variety  of  their  enjoyments.  It  is  not  disparity  of  intellect,  or 
difference  in  the  innocent  enjoyments  of  life,  which  make  the  miseries  of  the  married  pair; 
it  is  disunion  of  hearts  and  hopes,  thfe  conflicts  of  passion  and  will ;  these  mar  domestic 
bliss.  There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  serenity  of  Eden  till  sin  entered ;  then  we  learn 
how  the  sexes  differed.  **'^     ; 

In  the  Biography  of  Eve,  I  have  given  a^apticular  account  of  the  manner  of  the  "  fall ;" 
showing  that  the  man  and  woman  were  togelh^  when  the  serpent  tempted  her ;  and  that 
the  idea  of  her  being  out  alone  gathering  flowAs'  is  as  fabulous  as  the  story  of  Proserpine. 
The  Bible  says : — "  And  when  the  woman  saw  that  the  tree  was  good  for  food,  and  that  it 
was  pleasant  to  the  eyes,  and  a  tree  to  be  desired  to  make  one  wise,  she  took  of  the  fruit 
thereof,  and  did  eat,  and  gave  unto  her  husband  with  her;  and  he  did  eat."  Genesis,  Chap. 
III.,  ver.  6. 

Most  commentators,  men,  of  course,  represent  woman  as  the  inferior,  and  yet  the  most 
blamable.  She  could  not  have  been  both.  If  man,  who  had  the  greatest  strength  of  body, 
had  also  the  greatest  wisdom  of  mind,  and  knew,  as  he  did,  that  the  serpent  was  a  deceiver, 
then  surely  man  was  the  most  criminal.  He  should  have  restrained  or  at  least  warned 
his  wife. 

*  Chemically  tested,  their  bodily  elements  were  similar ;  like  diamond  from  carbon,  woman  had 
been  formed  fi'om  man ;  yet  the  refining  process  which  increased  her  beauty  and  purity  did  not  alter 
this  elemental  identity ;  and  hence  they  were  one  in  the  flesh. 


sxxvm  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

The  Bible,  however,  is  the  authority  to  guide  us  in  understanding  which  was  the  guilty 
transgressor ;  which  sinned  because  loving  the  things  of  earth  more  than  the  wisdom  of  Grod. 
St.  Paul  says  that — "  The  woman,  being  deceived,  was  in  the  transgression ;"  thereby  affirm- 
ing that  if  she  had  understood  what  was  to  follow,  she  would  not  have  disobeyed. 

That  this  is  the  true  interpretation  of  the  apostle's  words  is  made  sure  by  the  trial  of  the 
guilty  pair,  and  their  sentence  from  their  Creator,  who  knew  their  motives  and  could  weigh 
their  sin. 

Woman  pleaded  that  she  was  deceived — "  The  serpent  beguiled  me,  and  I  did  eat." 

The  man  said — "  The  woman  whom  thou  gavest  to  be  with  me,  she  gave  me  of  the  tree, 
and  I  did  eat." 

That  Adam  intended,  in  thus  accusing  his  wife,  covertly  to  throw  the  blame  on  God  for 
creating  her,  seems  probable  from  the  severity  with  which  his  sentence  is  worded.  He  is 
judged  as  though  he  was  the  selfish  criminal,  disobeying  God  from  sensuous  inclinations  — 
"of  the  earth,  earthy;"  — his  sin  is  so  great,  that  the  ground  is  "cursed  for  his  sake;"  — 
like  a  felon  he  is  condemned  to  hard  labour  for  life ;  and  his  death,  connected  with  his  origin 
from  dust,  is  set  before  him  in  the  most  humiliating  light.  The  only  ray  of  hope  to  which 
he  could  turn  was  the  promise  made  to  his  wife ;  thus  showing  him  that  she  was  still  consi- 
dered worthy  of  trust,  and  must  therefore  have  been  the  least  culpable.  A  corroboration  of 
this  is  found  in  the  sentence  pronounced  against  the  serpent  or  spirit  of  Evil  which  had 
deceived  her ;  the  clause  reads  thus  : — "  And  I  will  put  enmity  between  thee  and  the  woman, 
and  between  thy  seed  and  her  seed;  it  shall  bruise  thy  head,  and  thou  shalt  bruise  his  heel." 
Gen.  III.  5. 

Now  mark  the  words  : — God  says, — "  /  ivill  put  enmity  between  thee  and  the  woman."  Is 
not  here  the  assurance  that  the  female  had  still  in  her  nature  the  disposition  towards  good, 
which  should  be  opposed  to  evil  in  this  world?  How  could  there  be  "enmity"  between  her 
and  the  tempter,  if  her  heart  was  wholly  corrupt?  The  conflict  with  sin  was  to  be  first 
waged  by  her  and  with  her.  How  could  this  be.  unless  she  was  then  endowed  with  the  germ 
of  divine  grace,  which,  unfolded  by  the  breath  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  would,  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  be  honoured  by  her  glorious  "seed,"  the  Saviour,  who  would  "put  all  His  enemies 
under  His  feet?" 

This  "enmity"  between  sin  and  the  woman,  which  is  as  positively  predicted  as  the  coming 
of  Christ,  and  his  conflict  with  the  powers  of  Evil,  has  never  been  noticed  by  any  writer  on 
the  Bible.  Yet  the  history  of  the  world  proves  it  is  true,  that  to  degrade  and  demoralize 
the  female  sex  is  one  of  the  first  and  most  persevering  efibrts  of  false  religions,  of  bad 
governments,  and  of  wicked  men. 

The  difierence  between  the  sin  of  the  man  and  that  of  the  woman,  and  the  condition  in 
which  they  stood  before  their  omniscient  Judge,  may  well  be  illustrated  by  a  passage  from 
the  sermon  of  a  learned  and  pious  clergyman,*  who  had  no  thought,  however,  of  this  appli- 
cation. The  text  was  from  Psalms,  CXIX.,  ver.  11.  "  Thy  word  have  I  hid  in  my  heart, 
that  I  might  not  sin  against  thee."  In  the  course  of  the  sermon  this  true  and  striking 
description  of  human  nature  occurs  :  —  "  Man  is  what  the  affections  make  him.  His  body, 
in  its  physical  powers,  obeys  the  behests  of  his  heart.  Mind,  in  its  wondrous  faculties,  is 
also  moulded  by  the  same  influence.  The  Will  bows  to  the  Affections;  the  Judgment  is 
reversed  by  its  decisions ;  Reason  yields  to  its  power ;  and  Conscience  even  is  taught  to  echo 
what  the  heart  desires." 

It  is  the  record  of  the  Bible  that  the  heart  of  the  woman  desired  wisdom.  Even  in  the 
act  of  disobedience  she  did  not  withdraw  her  heart  wholly  from  God.  True,  she  sinned, 
because  she  disobeyed,  or  in  other  words,  aspired  above  her  human  condition,  which  God  had 
forbidden.    Yet  her  aspirations  were  heavenward,  while  the  man  disobeyed  wilfully  and  from 

*  Rev.  Dr.  Stevens,  Rector  of  St.  Andrew's  Cliurch,  Philadelphia. 


GENERAL    PREFACE.  sxxix 

sensuous  motives ;  he  had  no  faith  in  the  tempter's  promises,  no  hope  of  obtaining  heavenly 
wisdom. 

Another  extract  from  this  excellent  sermon  is  important  as  an  illustration  of  my  views ; 
the  preacher  truly  says, — "  The  destinies  of  life  lie  not  in  the  intellect,  but  in  the  disposi- 
tions and  affections  of  man.  The  truths  of  the  Bible  brought  to  bear  upon  the  heart  will 
produce  this  change,  (regeneration;)  nothing  else  can.  Hence,  if  God's  word  be  hid  in 
one's  heart,  it  will  lead  him  to  renounce  sin  and  lead  a  new  life,  following  the  commandments 
of  God." 

Now,  bear  in  mincUthat  the  "  word,"  which  after  the  "  fall"  was  given  to  direct  the  human 
race,  is  all  contained  in  the  declaration  of  God  concerning  the  woman  and  her  seed ,  —  there 
was  no  other  Law  or  Gospel,  no  other  word  of  promise,  given  for  eighteen  hundred  years. 
That  Eve  kept  this  word  hid  in  her  heart,  is  made  sure  by  what  she  said  on  the  birth  of 
Cain  :  "I  have  gotten  a  man  from  the  Lord."  She  believed  God's  word  ;  she  clung  to  His 
promise,  even  when  her  soul  was  pierced  with  such  sore  affliction  as  might  have  been  almost 
an  excuse  for  distrust :  "  God  hath  appointed  me  another  seed  instead  of  Abel,  whom  Cain 
slew,"  was  her  pious  reflection,  when  Seth  was  given  her.  While  she  thus  had  the  word  of 
God  hid  in  her  heart,  could  she  have  been  utterly  depraved  ? 

The  sentence  of  her  punishment  proves  also  her  comparative  innocence.  She  is  not  ac- 
cused of  disobedience  against  God ;  the  word  of  hope  is  given  her  before  she  hears  her  doom  ; 
and  that  doom  shows  the  possession  of  warm  sensibilities  and  fond  affections,  even  a  heart 
of  flesh.  —  "I  will  greatly  multiply  thy  sorrow  and  thy  conception  :  in  sorrow  shalt  thou 
bring  forth  children;  and  thy  desire  shall  be  to  thy  husband,  and  he  shall  rule  over  thee." 
Gen.  IIL  16. 

The  human  pair  were  judged  apart ;  of  course,  they  were  severed  beings ;  they  could  be 
no  longer  one  in  the  sense  of  mutual  reliance  on  God,  and  consciousness  of  perfect  love  to- 
wards each  other,  when  the  wife  was  placed  under  the  rule  of  her  husband.  Had  she  been 
made  inferior  to  him  in  mind,  heart,  soul,  where  would  have  been  her  punishment  ?  She 
would  naturally,  inevitably,  have  fallen  into  this  inferior  position.  But  if  her  nature  was 
more  refined,  more  spiritual,  a  nearer  assimilation  with  the  angelic,  and  therefore  the  hio-hest 
degree  of  excellence  in  the  human,  then  to  be  subjected  to  the  coarser,  ea«thlier,  more  sen- 
suous nature  of  man,  would  be  a  sad  and  humiliating  lot.  Much  did  she  need  the  gracious 
word  she  had  received  and  could  keep  "  hid  in  her  heart,"  that  her  seed  should  at  last  triumph 
over  the  tempter  who  had  wrought  her  woe ;  and  that  although  she  must  bear  oppression  and 
endure  sorrow,  yet  she  should  not  fall  into  the  utter  depths  of  sin ;  there  should  be  "  enmity" 
between  her  nature  and  the  spirit  of  Evil.  Moreover,  that  she  did,  at  first,  hold  the  sove- 
reignty of  the  earth  in  equal  trust  with  man,  is  as  surely  true  as  that,  after  the  "  fall,"  her 
husband  was  appointed  to  "  rule  over"  her.  God  gave  them  joint  dominion  ;*  but  she  had 
sought  to  be  wise  above  her  human  condition ;  by  his  door,  sin  had  entered  Eden ;  the  effect 
of  sin  was  to  separate  the  creature  from  the  Creator;  the  earthly  triumphed  over  the  hea- 
venly, the  sensual  over  the  moral ;  man  would  rule ;  and  that  woman,  with  the  loord  hid  in 
her  heart,  was  subjected  to  him,  could  not  separate  her  happiness  from  his,  but  must  work 
out  the  moral  sense  of  her  sex  through  the  physical  strength  of  his,  was  the  only  way  of 
improvement,  of  salvation  for  the  race. 

This,  then,  is  the  doctrine  of  the  Bible,  that,  when  banished  from  Eden,  man  was  ordained 
to  become  the  Worker  or  Provider  ;  the  Protector  ;  and  the  Lawgiver. 

Woman  was  to  be  the  Preserver ;  the  Teacher  or  Inspirer  ;  and  the  Exemplar. 

Had  each  performed  the  part  assigned,  in  love,  and  faith,  and  truth,  the  world  would  have 
become  an  Eden  to  the  human  family ;  but  sin  was  with  them,  to  poison  their  happiness, 
divide  their  hopes,  and  corrupt  their  inclinations.  This  declension  would,  if  my  views  are 
true,  naturally  begin  on  the  part  of  the  man.     The  Bible  shows,  by  the  record  of  the  first 

*  See  Genesis,  Chap   I.,  verse  28. 


xl  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

murder,  that  it  did  so  begin,  and  thus  it  continued;  the  more  he  exercised  his  physical 
strength  and  cultivated  his  intellectual  powers,  directing  these,  as  in  a  state  of  nature  he 
always  has  done,  for  selfish  ends,  earthward,  the  less  he  appreciated  the  delicate  sensibilities 
of  the  companion  God  had  given  him,  whose  excellence  was  in  the  purifying  power  she 
should  have  held  over  his  grosser  passions.  But  he  hated  the  true  and  the  good,  when 
these  checked  his  animal  propensities,  and  only  prized  the  beautiful  in  woman's  outward 
form,  because  it  ministered  to  his  sensual  desires.  He  could  not,  or  he  would  not,  understand 
that  her  mission  was  to  help  him  in  his  spiritual  nature,  his  warfare  with  sin;  and  so  he  forced 
her  to  become  the  slave  of  his  power  or  the  toy  of  his  lusts.  Woman  was  compelled  to 
yield ;  but  her  nature  had  an  innate  spiritual  strength  he  could  not  wholly  overcome.  There 
was  for  her  no  resource  but  in  this  superior  subtlety  of  her  moral  sense ;  she  could  not  resist 
his  stronger  arm,  but  she  could  turn  his  passions  against  each  other,  and  against  himself. 
She  did  this.  *Delilah  and  Sampson  are  illustrations  of  these  truths.  And  thus  the  sexes, 
being  in  this  false  position,  continued  to  corrupt  each  other  more  and  more  during  the  four 
thousand  years  before  the  coming  of  Christ. 

It  was  not  to  exhibit  the  great  deeds  of  my  sex,  as  the  world  understands  greatness,  that 
I  undertook  the  task  of  preparing  this  Record  of  celebrated  Women.  Viewed  in  the  light, 
or  rather  shadow  of  earthly  value,  the  female  sex  has  done  little  worthy  of  fame,  little  to 
advance  the  material  interests  of  society,  or  build  up  the  renown  of  nations.  But  I  venture 
to  assert  that,  in  the  moral  progress  of  mankind,  woman  has  been  God's  most  efficient  agent, 
the  co-worker  with  His  Providence,  in  those  remarkable  events  which  have  changed  the  fate 
of  nations,  brought  light  out  of  darkness,  and  given  impulse  and  direction  to  the  souls  of 
men,  when  these  sought  to  advance  the  cause  of  righteousness. 

In  order  to  give  more  clearness  to  my  views,  I  have  divided  the  work  into  eras,  or  por- 
tions of  time,  so  that  the  progress  of  woman  and  her  influence  may  be  distinctly  traced. 

Era  First  includes  the  forty  centuries  from  the  creation  to  the  Messiah's  advent.  During 
all  this  time,  the  female  sex  had  only  their  natural  gifts  of  a  lovelier  organization  of  form, 
and  a  purer  moral  sense,  to  aid  them  in  the  struggle  with  sin  which  had  taken  possession  of 
the  brute  strength,  and  human  understanding  of  men.^ 

*  See  page  36. 

•j-  What  Uiis  struggle  was,  and  how  the  "  enmity"  of  the  "  serpent,"  or  wicked  men  who  represent 
the  devil  on  earth,  was  manifested  towards  the  "  woman,"  may  be  inferred  from  the  present  condition 
of  the  female  sex  among  heathen  nations.  Mrs.  Ann  H.  Judson  gives  the  following  account ;  no  one 
who  has  visited  India,  or  read  its  history,  will  question  her  accuracy. 

"  In  Bengal  and  Hindostan,  the  females,  in  the  higher  classes,  are  excluded  from  the  society  of 
men.  At  the  age  of  two  or  three  years,  they  are  married  by  their  parents  to  children  of  their  own 
rank  in  society.  On  these  occasions,  all  the  parade  and  splendour  possible  are  exhibited ;  they  are 
then  conducted  to  their  father's  abode,  not  to  be  ediicated,  not  to  prepare  for  the  performance  of 
duties  incumbent  on  wives  and  mothers,  but  to  drag  out  the  usual  period  allotted  in  listless  idleness, 
in  mental  torpor.  At  the  age  of  thirteen,  fourteen,  or  fifteen,  they  are  demanded  by  their  husbands, 
to  whose  home  they  are  removed,  where  again  confinement  is  their  lot.  No  social  intercourse  is 
allowed  to  cheer  their  gloomy  hours  ;  nor  have  they  the  consolation  of  feeling  that  they  are  viewed, 
even  by  their  husbands,  in  the  light  of  companions.  So  far  from  receiving  those  delicate  attentions 
which  render  happy  the  conjugal  state,  and  which  distinguish  civilized  from  heathen  nations,  the  wife 
receives  the  appellation  of  my  servant,  or  my  dog,  and  is  allowed  to  partake  of  what  her  lordly  husband 
is  pleased  to  give  at  the  conclusion  of  his  repast !  In  this  secluded,  degraded  situation,  females  in 
India  receive  no  instruction ;  consequently,  they  are  wholly  uninformed  of  an  eternal  state.  No 
wonder  mothers  consider  female  existence  a  curse  ;  hence  their  desire  to  destroy  their  female  ofl'spring, 
and  to  burn  themselves  with  the  bodies  of  their  deceased  husbands.  This  last  circumstance  might 
imply  some  attachment,  were  it  not  a  well-known  fact  that  the  disgrace  of  a  woman  who  refuses  to 
burn  with  the  corpse  of  her  husband  is  such,  that  her  nearest  relations  would  refuse  her  a  morsel  of 
rice  to  prevent  her  starvation." 

Another  dreadful  picture  of  the  "  enmity"  of  sin  or  wicked  men  to  the  "  woman,"  is  drawn  by  Mr. 
J.  J.  Jarvis,  in  his  "  History  of  the  Hawaiian  or  Sandwich  Islands."  He  had  been  a  resident  there, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  the  character  and  condition  of  the  people.     He  says : — "  Oppressive  a8 


GENEEAL    PREFACE.  xli 

Era  Second  includes  the  time  from  the  birth  of  Christ  to  the  year  1500.  Woman  had 
now  the  aid  of  the  blessed  Gospel,  which  seems  given  purposely  to  develop  her  powers  and 
sanction  her  influence.  And  that  the  laws  Christ  enjoined  on  his  followers  are  pre-eminently 
favourable  to  the  development  of  her  faculties,  while  they  repress  or  denounce  the  peculiar 
characteristics  usually  called  manly,  is  an  irrefragable  proof  that  her  nature  was  the  best. 
We  can  trace  the  effect  of  Christianity  everywhere  by  its  tendency  to  elevate  woman ;  that 
is,  give  her  that  rightful  place  of  honour  which  makes  her  "  the  glory  of  the  man ;"  and 
through  the  reaction  of  her  purifying  influence  on  her  husband  and  children  we  trace  the 
gradual  improvement  of  society. 

Era  Third  contains  sketches  of  the  eminent  women  who  have  lived  and  died  since  the 
year  1500.  These  were  favoured  with  another  great  advantage.  The  Gospel  had  emanci- 
pated the  soul  of  woman ;  the  invention  of  printing  gave  freedom  to  her  mind.  Instead  of 
the  ignorance  in  which,  like  slaves,  the  sex  had  been  kept,  the  cultivated  intellect  and  supe- 
rior manual  ingenuity  of  their  rulers  were  now  made  to  contribute  to  their  rapid  advancement. 
The  results  of  this  mental  cultivation  on  the  female  character  are  most  cheering.  The  philo- 
sopher, seeking  to  disseminate  truth ;  the  philanthropist,  eager  to  do  good ;  the  patriot,  aiming 
to  exalt  his  country ;  the  Christian,  in  earnest  to  promote  his  religion ;  will  each  and  all  find 
in  educated  woman,  as  the  Bible  represents  her  mission,  and  this  Record  shows  her  influence 
and  her  works,  their  best  earthly  helper,  counsellor,  encourager  and  exemplar. 

Era  Fourth  is  devoted  to  the  living,  who  are  already  known  by  their  writings.  A  new 
element  of  improvement,  now  in  course  of  rapid  development,  is  destined  to  have  a  wonder- 
ful effect  on  the  female  mind  and  character.  This  element  is  individual  liberty,  secured  by 
constitutional  laws.  Such  freedom  gives  all  the  true  light  and  life  nations  derive  from 
the  Word  of  God,  because  this  liberty  is  of  the  Bible ',  and  only  where  religious  freedom 
and  civil  liberty  have  made  some  progi-ess,  is  the  Bible  permitted  to  be  freely  read. 

The  Bible  is  woman's  Magna  Charta ;  in  it  is  set  forth  her  duties  and  her  destiny.  Allow 
me  to  request  those  who  desire  to  learn  what  the  Scriptures  teach  concerning  the  female  sex, 

i  ~ 

were  the  laws  to  the  men,  they  were  far  more  so  upon  the  women.  Their  sex  was  but  an  additional 
motive  for  insult  and  tyranny.  The  right  of  blood  gave  to  the  highest  female  the  power  to  rule ;  but 
she,  equally  with  the  humblest  dependent,  was  subject  to  the  iron  law  of  the  "tabus."  Neither  could 
eat  with  men ;  their  houses  and  their  labours  were  distinct ;  their  aliment  was  separately  prepared. 
A  female  child  from  birth  to  death  was  allowed  no  food  that  had  touched  its  father's  dish.  The  choicest 
of  animal  and  vegetable  products  were  reserved  for  the  male  child  ;  for  the  female,  the  poorest ;  and 
the  use  of  many  kinds,  such  as  pork,  turtle,  shark,  bananas,  and  cocoanut,  were  altogether  interdicted. 
Whatever  was  savoury  or  pleasant,  man  reserved  for  his  own  palate ;  while  woman  was  made  bitterly 
to  feel  her  sexual  degradation.  When  young  and  beautiful,  a  victim  of  sensuality ;  when  old  and 
useless,  of  brutality." 

Nor  is  this  "enmity"  of  sin  to  the  "woman"  confined  to  heathen  nations.  Everywhere  among 
those  called  Christians,  are  wicked  men,  "  earthly,  sensual,  devilish,"  to  use  the  apostle's  words,  who 
strive  to  degrade  and  pollute  woman.  An  account  in  this  same  "  History"  shows  the  worse  than 
brute  wickedness  of  the  commanders  of  vessels  touching  at  the  Islands.  These  fiends  in  hirman 
shape  strove  to  reintroduce  the  licentiousness  which  had  prevailed  before  the  arrival  of  the 
missionaries,  and  the  conversion  of  the  people  to  Christianity ;  and  there  was  exhibited  a  complete 
picture  of  the  "enmity"  of  the  "serpent"  or  sin  to  the  "woman,"  (that  is,  to  her  moral  influence, 
for  she  can  have  none  when  becoming  a  slave  to  the  lusts  of  man,)  and  also  of  the  "enmity"  of  his 
seed  or  wicked  men  to  her  seed,  or  Christian  men.  The  officers  of  these  vessels  were  Englishmen  and 
Americans — one*  was  an  officer  in  the  American  navy ;  and  these  men,  brought  up  in  Christian  com- 
munities, were  not  ashamed  to  allow  their  sailors  to  menace  and  attack  the  missionaries,  who  pre- 
vented them  from  obtaining  their  victims. 

*  See  Jarvis's  "  History  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,"  pp.  263-4-5.  Also,  Tracy's  "  History  of  Mis- 
sions," p.  184,  for  the  name  of  this  miserable  man.  I  will  not  stain  the  pages  of  this  work  with  the 
relation  of  the  conduct  of  one  who  disgraced  the  American  flag,  by  using  the  power  it  gave  him  for 
the  pollution  of  woman,  and  degraded  the  mother  who  bore  him,  by  his  "  enmity"  to  tlie  moral  purity 
of  her  sex. 


xlii  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

to  read  carefully  the  first  four  chapters  of  Genesis ;  and  then  every  portion  connected  with 
the  histories  of  the  Bible  Women,*  named  in  this  Record.  And  there  is  one  chapter  in  the 
New  Testament  particularly  important  in  its  bearing  on  this  subject;  I  allude  to  I.  Corin- 
thians, Chapter  XI.,  verses  from  the  1st  to  the  16th.  This  chapter  has  never,  in  my  opinion, 
been  rightly  understood.  It  contains  the  first  exposition  of  St.  Paul  on  what  is  now  fami- 
liarly termed  "  the  woman  question,"  or  her  right  to  equal  privileges  with  man,  in  the  family, 
the  church,  and  the  state.  In  this  chapter,  and  subsequently  in  others,  the  apostle  gives  his 
opinions,  which  those  who  advocate  the  doctrine  of  man's  supremacy  consider  as  settling  the 
question  entirely  in  their  favour;  while  the  champion  of  ''Woman's  Rights"  always  shirks 
the  decisions  of  St.  Paul,  seemingly  inclined  to  reject  his  authority,  and  even  deny  the  truth 
of  divine  revelation,  rather  than  submit  to  the  clear  letter  of  instruction  in  duties  the  apostle 
sets  forth. 

But  I  believe  his  teachings  were  the  result  of  divine  inspiration;  that  every  command  he 
gave  was  not  only  binding  on  the  men  and  women  of  his  day,  but  will  continue  to  be  the 
law  of  the  trae  church  till  the  end  of  time.  I  do  not  wish  to  have  a  word  expunged,  a  rule 
altered,  nor  a  command  evaded.  What  I  desire  is  to  have  the  meaning  of  St.  Paul  rightly 
understood.  It  appears  to  me  this  has  never  been ;  therefore  I  trust  those  who  make  the 
Bible  their  study,  wise  theologians  and  learned  commentators,  will  pardon  my  attempt  to 
show  the  true  interpretation. 

Rightly  to  understand  the  apostle,  we  must  find  out  the  doctrine  he  sought  to  establish 
and  illustrate ;  which  was,  as  I  read  the  chapter,  (Cor.  I.  XI.,)  the  same  God  revealed  when 
declaring  to  the  serpent — "  /  will  put  enmity  between  thee  and  the  woman."  What  can  this 
declaration  mean,  if  it  does  not  imply  that  the  female  sex  held  the  moral  lever  of  the  world  ? 
The  apostle  teaches  the  same  doctrine.     Let  us  examine  the  manner  in  which. he  enforces  it. 

Under  the  Jewish  dispensation,  the  female  sex  was  included  in  the  covenant  by  the  ad- 
mission of  the  male  only,  because  the  duties  of  religion  or  worship  were  ceremonial ;  and 
therefore,  as  works,  belonged  to  the  province  of  men.  That  they  had  all  the  outward  offices 
of  religion  assigned  to  them,  shows  they  were  farther  from  God  than  women  were.  Of  two 
children,  let  one  be  naturally  strong,  stubborn,  selfish,  sinful ;  the  other  delicate,  docile,  dis- 
interested, devout ;  —  would  not  a  good  and  wise  Father  be  most  concerned  for  the  worst 
child ;  take  most  care  in  his  training ;  set  him  tasks  to  perform,  to  keep  his  duties  in  remem- 
brance, and  prove  his  zeal  ?  Even  thus  has  God  dealt ;  the  Hebrew  men  were  appointed  to 
perform  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  Law,  while  the  women  kept  its  word  hid  in  their  hearts, 
and  did  not  require  to  "  go  up  three  times  each  year  to  Jerusalem,  and  sacrifice  to  the  Lord," 
in  order  to  prove  they  worshipped  the  true  God.  But  when  the  Gospel  was  revealed,  its 
spiritual  worship  harmonized  with  woman's  nature,  and  she  made  public  profession  of  her 
faith  in  Christ.  It  was  natural  that  some  of  the  female  converts,  in  their  devoted  zeal, 
should  think  they  had  now  the  right  to  bear  public  testimony  to  the  truth ;  and  it  was  doubt- 
less in  consequence  of  such  pretension  by  them  or  their  male  friends  on  their  behalf,  that  the 
apostle's  remarks  and  rules  were  required.     He  begins  by  reasserting  the  law  of  God,  as 

*  Eve,  Sarah,  Rebekah,  Jochebed,  Deborah,  Hannah,  Huldah,  and  others,  from  the  Old  Testament  ; 
and  Anna,  Elizabeth,  Mary  of  Nazareth,  and  others,  from  the  New  Testament.  He  will  find  the  He- 
brew woman  was  the  chosen  agent  of  the  moral  providences  of  God  to  that  nation,  from  the  time 
the  Saviour  was  promised  to  Eve,  till  this  her  "seed"  appeared;  and  further,  that  to  woman  the 
Saviour  revealed  first,  and  in  the  clearest  manner,  his  spiritual  mission. 

Then  turn  to  the  history  of  heathen  nations,  and  see  the  dreadful  condition  of  the  female  sex, 
where  the  "enmity"  of  men,  in  their  natural  state,  is  acted  out  against  moral  goodness;  and,  of 
course,  they  value  woman  only  as  she  ministers  to  their  sensuous  desires  and  sensual  lusts.  They 
will  allow  no  manifestation  of  mental  or  moral  power  in  her ;  she  is  bound  down  in  chains  of  servile 
ignorance.  Yet  God  revealed  to  these  poor  oppressed  women  His  truth,  and  chose  them  as  His  agents. 
Rahab  and  Ruth  were  called  to  save  from  utter  extermination  the  stock  of  those  wicked  nations  God 
would  destroy.  Through  the  female  line,  as  the  purest  and  best,  the  Gentiles  were  made  progenitors 
of  Christ,  and  heirs  of  his  Gospel. 


GENERAL    PREFACE.  xliii 

declared  to  Eve,  that  man  should  rule,  and  woman's  lot  was  submission.  He  does  not,  in 
this  chapter,  forbid  her  to  teach  publicly,  but  rather  seems  to  favour  it,  by  giving  directions 
how  she  should  be  apparelled  for  such  a  vocation ;  yet  as  he  afterwards  absolutely  forbids 
her,  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude  these  directions  were  only  preliminary  to  his  final  decision. 
As  God  gave  him  light,  he  declared  the  will  of  Grod.*  But  in  these  directions  concerning 
her  apparel,  he  reveals  most  surely  and  clearly  the  high  spiritual  ofiice  of  woman.  She  must 
not  uncover  her  head  ;  while  man  is  commanded  to  uncover  his.  Is  it  not  the  privilege  of 
the  superior  to  remain  covered  in  the  presence  of  the  inferior  ?    The  passage  reads  thus  : — 

Verse  seventh.  —  "  For  a  man  indeed  ought  not  to  cover  his  head,  forasmuch  as  he  is  the 
image  and  glory  of  God :  but  the  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man." 

That  is,  man  represents  in  the  government  of  the  world  the  authority  of  God,  and  also 
His  creative  power,  so  to  speak,  in  bringing,  by  industry  and  art,  order  out  of  confusion,  and 
restoring  earth  to  its  pristine  fruitfubiess ;  while  woman,  representing  the  moral  power  and 
personal  beauty  of  humanity,  "is  the  glory  of  the  man."  He  wears  the  crown  of  gold,  but 
she  is  the  pure  diamond  which  makes  the  crown  glorious.  This  will  be  more  clearly  ex- 
plained soon. 

Verse  eighth. — "  For  the  man  is  not  of  the  woman;  but  the  woman  of  the  man." 

True;  the  man  was  from  the  "  dust  of  the  ground ;"  therefore  her  origin  from  "  his  flesh 
and  bones"  must  have  been  more  pure  and  delicate  than  his. 

Verse  ninth.  — "  Neither  was  the  man  created  for  the  woman ;  but  the  woman  for  the 
man." 

This  proves  incontestibly  the  more  perfect  nature  of  the  woman ;  she  was  needed  to  make 
the  man  perfect ;  help  him  to  sustain  his  part  in  Paradise ;  and  be  his  "  glory"  when  he 
should  have  been  redeemed  by  the  blood  of  Christ. 

Verse  tenth.  —  "  For  this  cause  ought  the  woman  to  have  power  on  her  head,  because  of 
the  angels." 

Theologians  and  commentators  have  sought  in  vain  the  solution  of  this  emphatic  declara- 
tion of  the  apostle ;  yet  it  is  the  key-stone  of  his  doctrine,  and  upholds  the  whole  structure 
of  divine  truth.  What,  then,  does  St.  Paul  mean,  when  he  says  —  "The  woman  ought  to 
have  power  on  her  head,  because  of  the  angels?"  He  is  declaring  that  woman  represents  to 
the  angels  who  "  minister  to  the  saints,"  and  watch  around  every  place  where  the  true  God 
is  worshipped,  the  moral  nature  of  humanity,  created  at  first  in  the  "likeness  of  God;"  and 
which,  when  redeemed  from  sin  and  clothed  with  immortality,  is  destined  to  rise  superior  to 
angelic  nature. 

That  the  redeemed  are  "  to  judge  angels,"  to  "  become  heirs  of  God,  and  joint  heirs  with 
Jesus  Christ,"f  is  positively  declared.  The  Saviour  had  derived  his  human  nature  from 
woman,  his  human  soul  from  her  soul ;  his  exhibitions  of  human  passions,  feelings,  senti- 
ments, were  such  as  woman  most  naturally  exhibits ;  all  the  Christian  virtues  are  congenial 
to  the  feminine  character.  Did  not  the  Son  of  God  veil  his  divinity  in  the  most  perfect  na- 
ture of  humanity  ?  That  He  came  in  the  form  of  man,  was  necessary  to  draw  men  to  Him ; 
they  are  beings  of  sense,  of  outward  observance,  of  authority  and  law.  They  require  to 
have  works  to  perform  in  order  to  train  them  for  his  kingdom.  The  angels  could  not  see  in 
man,  whose  life  was  in  the  outer  world,  a  type  of  the  spiritual  purity  which,  redeemed  by 
the  blood  of  Christ,  should  become  superior  to  the  heavenly  intelligences.  But  woman, 
permitted  to  appear  even  ,in  the  house  of  God  with  her  head  covered,  bearing  in  humble 
silence  a  glory  which  made  "  the  glory  of  the  man,"  not  obliged  to  struggle  for  dominion 
over  earth,  but  cultivating  the  sweet  charities  of  home,  and  all  those  tender,  spiritual  affec- 
tions which  elevate  the  human  above  animal  nature,  on  her  meek  head  the  angels  beheld 
the  ''power"  which  would  become,  in  its  development,  "above  angels."    Therefore,  on  every 

*  See  I.  Corinthians,  XIV.,  34,  35  ;  also,  Tim.  II.,  11,  12. 
f  See  Cor.  YI.  3 ;  and  Rom.  VIII.  17. 


xliv  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

Sabbath,  in  every  place  where  the  Christian's  Grod  is  worshipped,  and  men  bow  with  heads 
uncovered,  while  women  are  permitted  to  wear  covering  on  their  heads,  the  superior  moral 
purity  of  the  female  sex  is  proclaimed  as  by  a  voice  from  heaven.  Angels  are  witnesses  that 
"  the  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man." 

This  glory  she  would  forfeit,  should  she  attempt  ''  to  usurp  authority  over  him."  And 
while  the  wife  is  commanded  to  reverence  and  obey  her  husband,  is  he  not  the  superior  ? 

In  the  estimation  of  the  world  he  is,  because  he  holds  the  highest  place  in  the  family ; 
but  the  tenure  of  his  ofl&ce  proves  her  superior  moral  endowments.  The  wife  must  reverence 
and  obey  her  husband,  because  ''lie  is  the  saviour  of  the  body;"*  —  that  is,  the  worker  or 
provider,  the  protector,  and  the  lawgiver.  He  has  been  placed  in  this  office  by  God ;  every 
office  so  given  demands  obedience  and  reverence ;  and  the  wife  should,  unhesitatingly,  submit 
to  this  law. 

But  the  command  to  men  Is  —  "  Husbands,  love  your  wives,  even  as  Christ  loved  the 
church,  and  gave  himself  for  it."  Now,  love  is  always  called  forth  by  qualities  of  character 
in  the  being  beloved,  while  reverence  and  obedience  may  belong  to  the  external  condition 
only. 

We  are  commanded  to  "love  God,"  while  we  are  only  "to  honour  the  king."  Through- 
out the  Bible,  the  injunction  "to  love"  always  directs  the  heart,  morally  speaking,  towards 
the  good;  lifts  up  the  soul  towards  an  object  above  it;  draws  the  mind  to  contemplate  a 
being  more  perfect  than  itself.  It  is  the  word  always  used  to  designate  the  homage  men  owe 
to  God.  There  is  in  the  Bible  only  one  single  application  of  the  woi'd  reverence  to  the 
feelings  men  should  cultivate  towards  God;  this  occurs  in  Hebrews,  Chap.  XII.,  ver.  28, 
where  the  apostle  is  enforcing  the  duty  of  submitting  to  the  chastenings  of  God  as  to  a 
Father;  the  term  reverence,  as  there  applied,  savours  more  of  human  than  of  heavenly 
things.  Invariably  it  is  love  God  requires  of  his  creatures ;  love,  called  forth  by  the  con- 
templation of  His  holy  attributes;  love  elevating  the  nature  of  the  one  who  entertains  it 
towards  a  higher  nature.  Love  is  then  a  purifying  process,  an  emotion  directed  towards  a 
better  object ;  and  God,  by  commanding  husbands  to  love  their  wives,  has  set  his  seal  to  this 
doctrine — that  women  are  holier  than  men.  The  world  also  bears  witness  to  the  doctrine ; 
for,  of  all  the  sinful  deeds  done  on  earth,  nine-tenths  are  committed  by  men,  or  caused  by 
their  wickedness. 

The  church  bears  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  doctrine ;  more  than  three-fourths  of  the 
professed  followers  of  Christ  are  women. 

Men  themselves  bear  witness  to  the  ti*uth  of  this  doctrine ;  there  is  not  a  man,  brought 
up  under  the  influence  of  Christianity,  who  would  dare  lay  open  before  woman  the  scenes  of 
iniquity  which  he  has  witnessed  or  in  which  he  has  participated.  He  feels,  as  he  enters  the 
presence  of  a  virtuous  woman,  a  moral  restraint  which  he  does  not  feel  in  the  presence  of  the 
most  holy  man.  It  is  no  excuse  to  say  that  he  must  be  abroad  in  the  world,  which  is  full  of 
temptations  to  vice,  while  she  can  live  in  the  pure  atmosphere  of  home.  What  makes  the 
world  a  sink  of  iniquity,  but  the  wickedness  of  man  ?  What  makes  the  home  a  place  of 
safety,  but  the  innocence — comparatively  speaking — of  woman  ?  Even  when  woman  sins,  it 
is  because  she  is  "  deceived"  by  the  tempter ;  not  that  she  loves  iniquity.  The  Saviour's 
stern  rebuke  to  those  who  brought  before  him  the  woman  "taken  in  adultery,"  is  a  proof  in 
point.  Deeply  he  drove  the  dagger  of  self-accusation  into  the  heart  of  every  accuser ;  and 
as  their  violated  vows,  wicked  devices,  and  brutal  lusts,  rose  like  dark  and  foul  spectres 
before  them,  how  like  branded  felons  they  staggered  and  slunk  away,  priest  and  ruler,  pha- 
risee  and  publican,  from  the  holy  light  of  truth  He  had  opened  before  them  !  And  thus  it 
will  break  upon  many  men  who  hold  themselves  righteous,  at  the  last  day,  when  the  secrets 
of  their  wickedness  are  discovered,  and  the  "  enmity"  they  have  dared  act  out  against  the 
moral  purity  of  the  woman  will  be  shown  as  the  sin  next  in  enormity  to  their  rejection  of 

her  seed  ! 

*  See  Ephesians,  Chap.  V. ;  verses,  from  22  to  33. 


GENERAL    PREFACE.  xlv 

But  the  woman,  the  poor,  feeble,  fallen  woman,  who  no  sooner  heard  her  Saviour's  voice 
than  she  confessed  him — called  him  "  Lord" — how  kind  was  the  word  of  Jesus  to  her !  He 
knew  her  dependent  condition,  her  wrongs,  her  temptations,  her  sorrows,  her  repentance.  He 
did  not  condemn  her,  while  condemning  the  sin.  In  judging  between  the  sexes,  he  has  left 
this  record,  that  man  is  the  greatest  sinner ;  and  hence  Christian  lawgivers  should  take  warn- 
ing and  example,  restrain  their  own  passions,  and  make  laws  to  punish  their  own  sex ;  while 
carefully  protecting  the  honour,  safety,  and  happiness  of  women. 

I  anticipate  the  time  when  wise  and  good  men  will  consider  this  subject  of  providing  for 
the  well-being  of  the  female  sex  as  their  most  important  earthly  duty.  Hitherto  the  mass 
of  men  in  Christian  countries  may  be  said  to  be  at  "  enmity"  with  any  improvement  of 
women  that  does  not  gratify  their  own  sensuous  propensities.  Women  are  free  to  adorn  their 
persons ;  but  if  they  seek  to  cultivate  their  minds,  it  is  treason  against  the  prerogative  of 
man.  The  source  from  whence  this  jealousy  of  female  intelligence  springs,  is  not  fear  that 
the  sex  will  excel  in  learning ;  it  is  hatred  of  the  moral  influence  the  sex  would  wield,  were 
they  better  instructed.  Sensuality  and  selfishness  always  dread  enlightened  women.  Charles 
II.  wanted  none  but  pretty  fools  around  him ;  and  Napoleon  was  more  afraid  of  Madame 
de  Stael  than  of  a  regiment  of  armed  foes.  An  obtuseness  of  the  moral  sense,  even  in  good 
men,  has  prevented  them  from  perceiving  the  capacity  of  the  female  sex  to  aid  the  cause  of 
human  improvement.  What  but  this  torpor  of  soul  could  have  kept  the  Christian  world 
from  reading  aright  this  declaration  of  God  —  that  there  should  be  "  enmity"  between  sin 
and  the  woman  ?  It  has  passed  into  a  proverb,  that  every  eminently  great  man  owes  his 
talents  as  well  as  virtues  to  his  mother ;  yet  still  to  cast  contempt  on  female  intellect  has 
been  and  is  the  fashion  with  the  greater  portion  of  Christendom. 

Can  a  stream  rise  higher  than  its  fountain ;  or  a  weak  root  nourish  a  lofty  tree ;  or  a  light 
burn  clear  unless  fed  with  pure  oil  ?  Thus  the  genius  and  the  goodness  of  the  mother  are 
manifested  through  her  sons,  while  unmindful  of  the  source  from  whence  this  higher 
standard  of  humanity  is  derived,  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  advantages  of  education  are 
conferred  on  man.  Some  of  my  own  sex,  feeling  the  injustice  of  these  things,  are  seeking 
to  "  emancipate"  themselves,  and  contending  for  the  right  of  entering  the  arena  of  business 
and  public  life  equally  with  men.  The  attempt  will  never  succeed.  Thanks  be  to  heaven, 
woman  cannot  put  ofi"  the  moral  delicacy  of  her  nature.  Could  she  do  so,  it  would  be  as  if 
Venus,  leaving  her  sweet  office  of  shining  the  morning  and  the  evening  star,  should  become 
a  fiery  comet,  and  rush  through  the  sky,  bringing  dismay  with  her  light,  and  causing  a  deeper 
darkness  as  she  passed  away.  The  first  woman  left  to  her  daughters  one  duty  to  perform, 
because  it  was  imposed  by  God, —  the  obedience  of  each  wife  to  her  own  husband ;  and  she 
left  also  the  holy  privilege  which  motherhood  gives  over  childhood,  and  the  high  honour  of  a 
human  nature  akin  to  that  of  Jesus  Christ. 

But  with  the  privileges  we  must  take  the  position  of  women ;  leave  the  work  of  the  world 
and  its  reward,  the  government  thereof,  to  men ;  our  task  is  to  fit  them  for  their  office,  and 
inspire  them  to  perform  it  in  righteousness.  Nor  is  female  influence,  though  hidden  from  the 
public  eye,  of  small  importance.  The  most  mighty  agent  in  the  material  world  is  least 
known.  The  sun  is  brilliant  and  powerful,  giving  light  and  heat  to  our  planetary  system  j 
all  eyes  may  see  his  glory,  all  nature  bask  in  his  beams ;  —  but  the  mightier  influence  of 
gravitation,  which  binds  Orion  and  the  Pleiades  with  our  planet,  controls  the  universe,  and 
reaches  —  perchance  —  to  the  throne  of  God ;  who  has  seen  gravitation,  or  can  estimate  its 
power  ? 

Thus  it  is  in  the  moral  world.  The  forms  of  religion  and  the  force  of  laws,  which  men 
make  and  administer  with  pomp  and  observance,  impose  on  the  imagination,  and  may  regu- 
late the  conduct;  but  how  feeble  are  these  to  touch  the  heart  and  improve  the  character  of 
mankind,  compared  with  the  unseen  spiritual  influence  which  the  loving  deeds  and  kind 
words  of  pious  Christian  women  possess  ! 

The  Record  I  have  prepared  will  show  these  things ;  and  will,  moreover,  bring  to  light 


xlvi  GENERAL    PREFACE. 

one  curious  fact,  never  before,  I  believe,  noticed,  but  which  goes  far  to  prove  that  the  female 
was  never  formed,  had  she  remained  in  innocence,  to  take  an  equal  share  in  the  work  of 
Eden.  Setting  aside  her  delicacy  of  organization,  woman  has  very  little  of  that  kind  of 
genius  termed  mechanical  or  inventive.  Among  these  hundreds  of  celebrated  ladies,  not 
one  has  ever  made  herself  famous  by  great  discoveries  in  physical  science,  or  by  any  wonder- 
ful invention  in  the  arts.  Nor  is  it  the  lack  of  learning  which  has  caused  this  uniform  lack 
of  constructive  talent.  Many  ignorant  men  have  studied  out  and  made  curious  inventions 
of  mechanical  skill ;  women  never.  I  am  constrained  to  say,  I  do  not  believe  a  woman  ever 
would  have  invented  the  compass,  the  printing-press,  the  steam-engine,  or  even  a  time-piece. 
Seeking  to  find  out  the  reason  for  this  lack  of  mechanical  skill  in  the  female,  I  have  studied 
the  Bible,  history,  philosophy,  and  life ;  my  position  and  pursuits  have  favoured  the  research  j 
I  believe  I  have  found  the  cause ;  but  those  who  hold  the  doctrine  of  sexual  equality  will  be 
no  doubt  shocked  to  hear  that  I  am  convinced  the  difference  between  the  constructive  genius 
of  man  and  woman  is  the  result  of  an  organic  difference  in  the  operations  of  their  minds. 
That  she  reasons  intuitively,  or  by  inspiration,  while  he  must  plod  through  a  regular  sequence 
of  logical  arguments,  is  admitted  by  all  writers  on  mental  philosophy;  but  there  is  another 
difference  which  has  not  been  noticed.  Woman  never  applies  her  intuitive  reasoning  to  me- 
chanical pursuits.  It  is  the  world  of  life,  not  of  things,  which  she  inhabits.  Man  models 
the  world  of  matter.  These  manifestations  are  precisely  such  as  would  result  from  the 
differences  in  the  nature  of  the  two  sexes,  as  I  have  described  them  in  Adam  and  Eve.  And 
also  we  here  find  the  perfect  solution  of  the  assertion  of  St.  Paul,  that  man  "  is  the  image 
and  glory  of  God;  but  the  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man."  —  An  image  is  something  visi- 
ble ;  the  glory  of  God  which  men  see,  is  in  the  things  He  has  created ;  consequently,  to 
create  is  to  show  forth,  or  be  the  "  glory  of  God."  Man  is  the  maker  or  creator  on  earth  : 
true,  he  cannot  absolutely  make  or  create  a  particle  of  matter ;  but  he  can,  by  new  combina- 
tions, create  innumerable  differences  in  the  particles  of  matter ;  and  make,  apparently,  new 
elements  and  new  things.     He,  therefore,  represents  on  earth  the  Creator's  glory. 

But  to  create  is  not  man's  greatest  glory;  it  is  to  worship  God  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  The 
manifestation  of  this  worship  is  moral  goodness.  Woman  cannot  create  or  make,  like  man ; 
but,  better  than  he,  she  worships  God  in  spirit  and  in  truth ;  and  thus,  showing  forth  the 
beauty  of  moral  goodness,  becomes  "  the  glory  of  the  man." 

Hence  it  is  apparent  that  those  who  are  seeking  to  elevate  women  through  industrial  pur- 
suits and  competition  with  men  in  the  arts,  will  never  succeed.  The  wife  cannot  work  with 
materials  of  earth ;  build  up  cities;  mould  marble  forms;  or  discover  new  mechanical  inven- 
tions, to  aid  physical  improvement.  She  has  a  better,  a  holier  vocation.  She  works  iu  the 
elements  of  human  nature ;  her  orders  of  architecture  are  formed  in  the  soul ; — Obedience, 
Temperance,  Truth,  Love,  Piety, — these  she  must  build  up  in  the  character  of  her  children ; 
often,  too,  she  is  called  to  repair  the  ravages  and  beautify  the  waste  places  which  sin,  care, 
and  the  desolating  storms  of  life,  leave  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  husband  she  reverences 
and  obeys.  This  task  she  should  perform  faithfully,  but  with  humility;  remembering  that 
it  was  for  woman's  sake  Eden  was  forfeited,  because  Adam  loved  his  wife  more  than  his 
Creator;  and  that  man's  nature  has  to  contend  with  a  degree  of  depravity  into  which  the 
female,  by  the  grace  of  God,  has  never  descended.  Yes,  the  wife  should  be  humble.  She 
is  dependent  on  her  husband  for  the  position  she  holds  in  society ;  she  must  rely  on  him  for 
protection  and  support.  She  should  look  up  to  him  with  reverence  as  her  earthly  guardian, 
the  "saviour  of  the  body,"  and  be  obedient.  Does  any  wife  say  her  husband  is  not  worthy 
of  this  honour  !  Then  render  it  to  the  office  with  which  God  has  invested  him  as  head  of 
the  family ;  but  use  your  privilege  of  motherhood  to  train  your  sons  so  that  tjbey  may  be 
worthy  of  this  reverence  and  obedience  from  their  wives.  Thus,  through  your  sufierings, 
the  world  may  be  made  better ;  every  faithful  performance  of  private  duty  adds  to  the  stock 
of  public  virtues. 

And  man :  should  he  not  bear  himself  humbly,  from  the  remembrance  that  to  woman's 


GENERAL    PREFACE.  xlvii 

loving  care  he  is  indebted  for  preservation  during  lielpless  infancy ;  that  his  mind  takes  its 
impress  from  her  daily  teachings ;  from  her  example  he  derives  faith  in  those  affections  and 
virtues  which  are  the  life  of  the  soul ;  that  "  God  has  chosen  the  weak  things  of  this  world 
to  confound  the  things  which  ai-e  mighty ;"  and  given  to  woman  the  moral  sceptre  under 
which  men  must  pass  before  they  can  be  prepared  to  enter  heaven  ?* 

Humility  is  a  Christian  virtue  equally  necessary  for  both  sexes ;  by  giving  to  each  one 
particular  endowments  to  which  the  other  must  pay  honour,  all  cause  for  boasting  is  removed 
from  both ;  each  should  seek  to  promote  the  other's  happiness  and  glory,  and  then  the  true 
happiness  and  glory  of  both  would  be  won. 

It  is  the  moral  influence  woman  is  destined  to  wield  which  makes  imperative  the  necessity 
for  female  education.^  If  the  mind  which  stamps  the  first  and  most  indelible  impression  on 
the  child  is  in  a  state  of  mental  darkness,  how  can  the  true  light  be  communicated  ?  A 
mother  will  teach  the  best  she  knows  to  her  son ;  but  if  she  does  not  understand  the  true, 
she  will,  of  necessity,  imbue  his  mind  with  the  false.  Woman  has  a  quicker  capacity  for 
comprehending  moral  truth  or  sentiment  than  man,  but  she  cannot  explain  this  truth,  nor 
expose  error  to  his  comprehension,  unless  her  intellect  has  been,  in  some  measure,  trained 
like  his.  Men  have  little  sympathy  with  intuitive  knowledge,  or  feeling — "  pure  Reason" — 
in  the  doctrine  of  Kant :  hence  they  must  have  the  truth  set  before  them  in  its  relations 
with  "  practical  Reason."  The  mother  who  can  in  this  intelligible  manner  aid  the  mind  of  her 
son  in  his  pursuit  of  knowledge,  will  have  over  him  a  double  control ;  he  will  honour  as  well 
as  love  her.  And  the  pious  woman  who  can  give,  clearly  and  wisely,  a  "  reason  for  her  hope," 
will  often  silence  the  proud  infidel  who  scofi«  at  believing  what  is  only  felt  to  be  true. 

The  examples  in  this  "  Record"  prove  the  beneficial  results  of  education  on  the  female 
mind  and  character,  and  also  show  that  men  gain  happiness  and  glory  when  aiding  and 
encouraging  the  genius  of  woman.  There  is  rarely  an  example  where  the  father  has  given 
his  daughter  a  liberal  education,  but  she  has  nobly  and  sweetly  repaid  his  care,  added  enjoy- 
ment to  his  life,  and  honour  to  his  memory.  There  is  scarcely  an  instance  where  the  husband 
has  admired  and  cherished  the  intellectual  gifts  of  his  wife,  but  these  have  proved  to  himself 
a  blessing,  a  "  help,"  and  a  "  glory."  The  wide  field  of  my  plan,  gathering  records|  of 
women  from  every  age,  country,  condition  and  character,  presents  an  opportunity,  never  before 
accessible,  of  ascertaining  the  scope  of  female  talent,  and  the  effect  the  cultivated  intellect 
of  the  sex,  when  brought  to  bear  on  Christian  civilization,  would  exercise.  It  must  be  mani- 
fest to  every  person  who  will  examine  this  subject,  that  the  "  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man," 
and  that  her  condition  settles  the  destiny  of  humanity.  In  every  country  where  men  are  at 
"enmity"  with  her  moral  and  intellectual  influence,  there  the  race  is  barbarian,  brutal,  or 

*  I  am  far  from  intending  to  represent  that  every  individual  woman  is  better,  morally  speaking, 
than  any  individual  man.  The  broad  lines  of  distinction  between  the  sexes  is  what  I  am  describing ; 
there  are  innumerable  shades  of  moral  character  in  both ;  some  women  appear  nearly  as  devoid  of 
moral  sensibility  as  men ;  while  these  last,  when  trained  by  pious  mothers,  or  renewed  by  divine 
grace,  approach  the  female  standard  of  feeling.  A  few  instances  of  the  highest  moral  purity  have 
been  found  in  men ;  Joseph  is  an  example.  When  a  man  is  thus,  as  it  were,  clothed  in  righteousness, 
he  exhibits  to  the  world  a  spectacle  of  the  sublimity  of  moral  virtue  above  that  of  woman.  Our  own 
Washington  is  another  example ;  he  acted  out,  by  his  strong  will,  the  holy  precepts  of  his  mother ; 
the  grandeur  of  her  goodness  was  made  visible  through  his  brave  soul ;  the  awe  which  this  moral 
virtue  inspired  surrounded  him,  while  he  lived,  with  a  majesty  above  that  of  kings,  and  has  made  his 
memory  the  glory  of  his  country,  and  a  blessing  to  the  world. 

f  At  the  close  of  the  work,  some  suggestions  will  be  offered  respecting  the  means  and  ends  of 
female  education,  showing  how  the  cultivated  intellect  of  woman  may  be  best  employed  to  her  own 
and  the  general  good.  Many  wise  men  are  doubtful  of  the  expediency  of  giving  to  females  a  thorough 
education,  lest  they  should  become  unfitted  for  their  feminine  duties,  and  obtrusive  in  encroaching  on 
the  prerogatives  of  the  other  sex.  There  is  no  danger  from  either  of  these  results,  if  the  Bible  doc- 
trine is  clearly  recognized  and  obeyed.  Ignorance  is  not  goodness,  nor  is  it  "  bliss."  The  higher  the 
standard  of  female  excellence,  the  higher  will  be  man's  glory. 

J  The  "  list  of  authorities"  will  be  found  at  the  cl<>se  of  the  work. 


xlviii  GENERAL   PREFACE. 

bigoted.  Where  the  female  sex  is  most  kindly  protected  and  most  highly  honoured,  there 
the  race  enjoys  the  greatest  degree  of  civil  freedom  and  social  happiness,  and  is  most  rapidly 
advancing  in  intelligence,  prosperity,  and  civilization.* 

This  result  will  become  every  year  more  ajiparent,  if  female  education  and  influence  go  on 
progressively ;  because,  as  woman  rises,  she  will  elevate,  proportionably,  the  mind  and  life  of 
man.  Such  is  her  mission  j  for  though  human  nature  in  both  sexes  is  rendered  sinful  or 
prone  to  sin  by  the  "  fall,"  yet  woman's  nature  has  never  sunk  to  the  brute  sensuality  of 
man's ;  this  comparative  purity  has  kept  her  mind,  as  regards  morality,  above  the  standard 
which  even  the  most  Christian  men  fix  for  their  own  sex.  This  assertion  requires  no 
laboured  proof.  Look  around  on  society — who  are  the  conservators  of  domestic  purity,  of 
social  decorum,  of  public  sentiment  ?  The  moral  sense  f  is  the  highest  natural  faculty  or 
element  of  the  human  soul ;  woman  has  this  moral  sense,  the  intuitive  feeling  of  disgust 
for  sensuality,  vice,  and  falsehood;  the  intuitive  feeling  of  love  for  the  innocent,  beautiful, 
and  true,  better  developed  and  more  active  than  is  found  in  the  other   sex. 

I  might  here  cite  many  authorities  to  show  that  good  and  great  men  have  had  glimpses  of 
these  truths,  that  they  have  felt  what  woman  has  done,  what  she  may  do,  and  what  she  will 
become,  when  men,  acknowledging  her  moral  mission,  shall  allow  her  the  education  and 
opportunity  necessary  for  its  fulfilment.  I  have  room  now  for  only  a  few  of  these ;  at  the 
close  of  the  volume  I  shall  recur  to  the  subject. 

"  The  little  of  true  piety  which  yet  exists  on  earth  we  owe  to  women  much  more  than  to 
theologians.  Our  religion  is  that  of  our  mother,"  says  the  learned  Aime-Martin.  "The 
mother  is  endowed,  and  endowed  by  God  himself,  with  all  the  qualities  which  should  render 
her  fit  to  become  the  principal  agent  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  development  of  her  child," 
says  the  good  Pestalozzi.  "  What  the  elevation  of  woman  has  done  for  the  reform  of  social 
manners,  her  educated  mind  is  doing  for  our  books,"  says  our  own  eloquent  Bethune.  "  On 
the  cultivation  of  the  minds  of  women  depends  the  wisdom  of  men,"  says  the  penetrating 
Sheridan.  "  The  future  destiny  of  the  child  is  always  the  work  of  the  mother,"  said  the 
sagacious  Napoleon. 

But  higher  than  these  testimonies  of  good,  learned  and  great  men  to  the  influence  of  the 
female  soul,  comes  the  authority  of  God's  Word.  That  the  eulogy  on  woman  was  uttered  by 
a  wicked  and  voluptuous  king,  who  had  dishonoured  the  sex  by  abolishing,  so  far  as  his  ex- 
ample had  power,  the  true  idea  of  marriage,  militates  nothing  against  its  divine  truth. 
Like  Balaam,  Solomon  was  compelled  to  speak  what  the  Lord  permitted;  had  it  been 
otherwise,  had  that  selflsh  sensualist  commended  what  he  jM-actised,  the  Bible  would  have  been 
no  better  than  the  Koran.  It  is  because  the  written  counsel  even  of  this  bad  man  was  wise 
and  good,  that  we  feel  the  inspiration  of  the  Holy  Spirit  dictated  to  his  conscience  that  re- 
markable declaration  and  prophesy  concerning  woman,  in  the  chapter  of  his  praises  of  the 
feminine  virtues  :  —  "  Strength  and  honour  are  her  clothing ;  and  she  shall  rejoice  in  time 
to  come." 

*  The  United  States  of  North  America  is  the  land  of  modern  chivalry,  where  the  moral  qualities  of 
woman  are  most  highly  valued,  and  her  station  in  society  as  "  the  glory  of  the  man"  most  fully  ac- 
knowledged. The  remarkable  effect  this  has  had  on  the  destiny  of  the  nation  was  comprehended  by 
M.  de  Tocqueville,  who  observed  the  result,  though  he  did  not  analyze  the  process.  At  the  close  of 
his  work  on  America,  he  remarks,  that  if  he  were  required  to  point  out  the  cause  of  the  wonderful 
advancement  in  prosperity  and  civilization  of  the  American  people,  he  should  reply  —  "It  was  the 
superior  character  of  their  women." 

•j-  By  moral  sense,  I  mean  that  feeling,  or  sentiment,  which  not  only  distinguishes  between  right  and 
•wrong,  but  inclines  to  the  right  —  an  enlightened  conscience  ;  or  "  the  pi-imitive  law  of  the  heart,"  as 
the  German  philosopher  expressed  it.  Faith  in  God  is  a  feeling  or  faculty  of  the  soul  above  this 
moral  sense;  but  such  saving  grace  ov  faith  is  the  supernatural  gift  of  God.     (See  Ephesians,  II.  8.) 


KEMARKS   ON   THE   FIRST  ERA. 


We  shall  include  in  this  era  the  time  from  the  Creation  to  the  birth  of  Christ ;  and,  of  course,  the 
names  of  all  the  distinguished  women  recorded  in  the  annals  of  the  world  for  four  thousand  years. 
A  long  period  ;  but  much  of  it  concealed  in  thick  darkness;  only  here  and  there  a  faint,  far-off  star 
of  hope  may  be  descried  breaking  through  the  gloom  of  sin,  ignorance  and  misery  cast  over  the  lot 
of  the  woman. 

During  these  forty  centuries  she  had  only  the  peculiar  attributes  of  her  feminine  nature  to  aid  her 
in  the  struggle  for  progress,  which  was  the  law  of  humanity  after  the  first  pair  were  driven  forth  on 
the  rough  world,  as  happiness  had  been  their  privilege  while  abiding  in  Eden.  Man  had  now  the 
ground,  "cursed  for  his  sake  with  briars  and  thorns,"  to  subdue;  and,  harder  still,  his  own  earthly 
passions  to  combat.  Woman,  though  she  was  not  commanded  to  work,  was  placed  under  the  power 
of  the  man ;  and  soon  she,  who  was  formed  and  endowed  to  be  his  soul's  help-meet,  his  bosom 
friend,  was  degraded  into  the  toy  of  his  sensual  lusts,  or  the  slave  of  his  physical  strength. 

We  do  not  know  how  long  the  woman's  spirit  struggled  against  the  vile  degradation  polygamy 
imposes  on  the  sex ;  but  we  find  that  death-doom  of  her  moral  influence  recorded  at  an  early  period 
of  the  world's  history.  Might  then  took  the  place  of  right;  and  for  nearly  eighteen  centuries  the 
spiritual  affections  of  woman  were  completely  overshadowed  by  the  sensual  passions  of  man. 
Excepting  our  first  mother,  no  feminine  mind  has  left  its  impress  on  the  sin-blotted  page  of  those 
long  centuries.  Woman's  nature  must  have  yielded  to  the  tide  of  wickedness  that  swept  over  the 
antediluvian  world,  because  it  is  recorded,  "all  flesh  had  corrupted  his  way  upon  the  earth."  No 
wonder  the  race  was  destroyed,  if  the  mothers  had  become  utterly  corrupt  in  their  "  imaginations." 
If  the  heart  of  woman  was  "  only  evil  continually,"  there  could  be  no  hope  of  reform.  But  the 
Bible  places  this  dreadful  wickedness  to  man's  account.  "  The  earth  was  filled  with  violence,"  does 
not  apply  to  the  conduct  of  the  dependent  sex.  Yet  the  poison  of  sin  had  reached  the  core  of 
humanity — woman's  heart :  all  were  corrupted;  all  perished. 

The  flood  was  over,  and  the  most  contaminating  sin  blotted  out.  No  polygamist  was  permitted 
to  pollute  the  ark.  The  four  husbands  and  their  four  wives  came  forth  to  the  empire  of  a  world 
they  were  to  subdue  and  improve.  The  race  of  mankind  was  now  to  continue  till  the  end  of  time; 
and  the  law  of  human  improvement  was  made  sure  by  giving  to  woman  a  new  and  great  advantage. 
Human  life  was  shortened ;  and  thus  the  mother's  influence  most  wonderfully  increased.  Allow 
ten  years  as  the  period  of  childhood,  when  the  mother's  authority  over  her  sons  is  predominant;  then 
compare  the  length  of  Noah's  life  with  that  of  Moses,  and  it  will  be  apparent  how  greatly  female 
influence  was  extended  when  man's  life  was  shortened  from  950  years  to  120  years.  In  the  former 
case,  her  period  of  power  over  her  sons  was  as  1  to  95 ;  in  the  latter,  1  to  12. 

We  have,  in  the  general  preface,  explained  what  we  consider  the  distinctive  characteristics  of 
woman's  nature ;  and  how  these  were  intended  to  make  her  God's  best,  as  she  was  his  last  work  of 
creation.  Also,  in  the  biography  of  Eve,  we  have  dwelt  on  these  themes ;  and  we  now  call  tlie 
reader's  attention  to  the  remarkable  corroboration  of  our  theory  which,  in  the  first  era,  the  glimpses 
of  the  Hebrew  women,  reflected  from  the  faithful  mirror  of  divine  history,  afford. 

If,  as  we  affirm,  the  peculiar  tendencies  of  the  female  mind  are  insight,  or  the  wisdom  that  seizes 
.  intuitively  on  the  true  and  the  good ;  also  the  moral  sense,  which  turns  instinctively,  so  to  speak, 
heavenward  ;  then  we  ought  to  find  woman  more  elastic  in  hope,  more  fervent  in  faith,  more  idealized 
in  sentiment,  more  disinterested  in  affection,  than  man.  Is  she  not  sol  Do  we  not  look  to  woman 
for  love  and  tenderness"?  Do  we  not  find  that  she  is  more  easily  impressed  with  the  truth  of  divine 
revelations,  when  these  exceed  the  reasoning  powers  of  man  ?  Was  there  a  woman  who  saw  the 
miracles  of  Christ  and  doubted?  Obstacles  in  the  path  of  duty,  that  to  man's  reason  seem  as  moun- 
B  17 


REMARKS    ON    THE    FIRST    ERA. 

tains,  are  to  her  faith  but  tnole-hills.     And  when  the  black  cloud  of  fear  fills  the  horizon,  and  he 
listens  for  the  thunder,  she  is  looking  upward  for  the  rainbow. 

Thus,  though  her  physical  strength  and  worldly  knowledge  be  far  inferior  to  man's,  yet  her  firm 
trust  in  heaven,  her  faithful  truth  in  love,  her  disinterested  zeal  in  duty,  win  the  palm  of  victory  in 
conflicts  that  he  abandons  in  despair. 

The  Bible  history  of  woman  clearly  illustrates  these  important  truths;  showing  that  when  the 
faith  and  resources  of  men  have  been  utterly  overwhelmed,  then  the  salvation  of  the  cause  of 
improvement  has  been  her  work.  Thus  maternal  love,  faith  and  energy,  preserved  Moses  to  be 
the  Law-Giver  for  the  world ;  made  Samuel  the  High  Priest  of  the  Lord ;  seated  Solomon  on  the 
throne  of  David.  Each  one  of  these  events  was  of  great  and  momentous  import,  not  only  to  the 
destiny  of  the  Hebrew  nation,  but  to  the  progress  of  mankind.  Deborah  was  the  Deliverer  of  Israel 
when  not  a  Hebrew  man  dared  lift  his  hand  in  defence  of  his  country  till  she  led  the  way.  Esther 
saved  the  Jews  when  no  man  could  have  stayed  the  decree  of  death.  In  short,  from  the  time  when 
the  promised  seed  was  reaffirmed  to  the  descendants  of  Sarah,  "  a  mother  of  nations,"  the  Hebrew 
women  kept  the  hope  of"  Shiloh"  ever  in  their  race.  This  divine  faith,  like  a  living  liglit,  passing 
from  hand  to  hand,  shines  out  in  the  characters  of  the  Hebrew  women  from  Sarah  to  Huldah  the 
prophetess,  who  had  the  light  of  God's  law  when  the  high  priest  was  in  darkness.  It  is  worthy, 
too,  of  note, that  the  Bible  furnishes  no  record  of  an  apostate  Hebrew  woman;  while  the  Hebrew 
men  could  not  be  restrained  from  licentiousness,  idolatry  and  apostasy. 

Among  the  heathen  nations,  the  mission  of  woman  is  less  distinctly  traced,  because  the  revelation 
of  the  hope  in  motherhood  was  lost.  There  was  no  "Shiloh,"  or  Redeemer,  expected.  Still  the 
feminine  nature  displayed  its  inherent  tendencies,  a  spiritual  feeling  more  refined,  and  a  moral  sense 
more  delicate,  than  man's;  these  constituted  her  insight,  intuition  or  wisdom  (call  it  which  you 
will),  which  made  her  appreciate  the  true  and  the  good  with  more  readiness  and  more  sympathy 
than  man.  If  it  were  not  so,  why  was  the  idea  of  woman  invested  with  supreme  wisdom  and  good- 
ness ?  Why  was  she  deified  and  worshipped  for  those  higher  attributes  of  human  nature ;  Justice, 
as  she  was  in  Themis;  Wisdom,  in  Minerva;  and  Chastity,  or  Virtue,  in  Diana  1 

We  shall  not,  in  our  work,  give  the  histories  of  the  different  goddesses  (which  properly  belongs 
to  mythology);  though,  undoubtedly,  all  were  representations  of  real  women,  or  of  those  qualities 
which  the  wisest  of  heathen  men  believed  were  types  of  female  character ;  qualities  more  inherent 
or  better  developed  in  woman  than  in  man. 

But  we  would  wish  those  who  take  an  interest  in  our  researches  to  examine  carefully  the  cha- 
racter of  each  distinguished  woman  we  here  introduce  by  the  standard  suggested.  Compare  the 
conduct  of  the  woman  with  that  of  the  man  of  her  own  era  and  condition.  Compare  Cleopatra  with 
Marc  Antony.  She  was  wicked ;  but  she  was  less  selfish,  less  gross  in  her  wickedness  than  he. 
She  was  true  to  her  country  and  her  people ;  he  was  a  traitor  to  the  first,  and  a  deserter  of  the  last. 
Patriotism  was  the  highest  virtue  of  the  heathen  mind.  Which  of  these  two  persons  showed  the 
most  patriotism'!     And  which  mind  was  the  victor] 

So,  too,  of  Aspasia.  She  was  the  creature  of  the  corrupt  institutions  which  man,  by  his  superior 
i)iiysical  strength,  sensuous  passions  and  unjust  laws,  had  imposed  on  social  life.  Yet,  degraded  as 
she  was,  Pericles,  the  hero  of  the  Athenians,  was  her  slave  ;  and  Socrates,  the  wisest  of  the  heathen 
sages,  her  admirer  and  friend.  Thus  the  woman's  spirit  held  sway  over  the  subtle  Greek!  Aspasia 
was  better  than  those  she  subdued.  They  had  degraded  humanity  by  degrading  woman;  thus 
compelling  her  to  seek  that  influence  by  unholy  means  which  should  have  been  the  right  of  every 
Athenian  wife,  namely,  that  of  social  equality  and  companionship  with  her  husband. 

In  Rome,  while  the  ideal  of  woman  was  the  divinity  which  gave  the  priest  oracles  and  the  people 
laws,  domestic  purity  was  preserved.  If  the  Sibyl  and  Egeria  were  only  the  fictions  of  artful  men, 
yet  that  these  men  had  recourse  to  the  feminine  spirit  for  their  purest  wisdom,  shows  their  estima- 
tion of  the  female  mind.  The  Vestal  virgins  represented  the  highest  attributes  of  heavenly  good- 
ness. Purity  and  Mercy.  Nor  was  it  till  the  Roman  men  were  banded  together  and  absent  from 
their  homes  in  their  long  wars,  thus  losing  the  softening,  purifying  influence  of  their  mothers, 
wives  and  daughters,  that  the  frightful  demoralization  of  the  nation  was  reached.  For  the  first  five 
hundred  years  not  an  instance  of  divorce  occurred.  While  the  wife  was  honoured,  woman  continued 
worthy  of  honour.  When  men  repudiated  their  wives,  as  Cicero  did  his,  for  no  fault,  but  only  to 
gratify  his  selfish  propensities,  and  the  multitude  of  divorces  had  created  a  virtual  polygamy,  in 
which  the  women  participated,  then  the  Roman  Empire  fell  to  rise  no  more.  The  Lucretias  were 
the  life  of  the  Republic;  the  Messalinas,  the  death  of  the  Empire.  Yet  the  licentious  example  was 
set  by  the  men; — they  made  the  laws;  and  always  the  women  were  better  than  the  men  of  their  time. 

18 


WOMAN'S    RECOKD. 


FIRST  EUA. 


FROM  THE   CREATION   TO  THE   BIRTH   OF  JESUS   CHRIST. 


ABIGAIL, 

Wife  of  Nabal,  a  rich  but  chm-lish  man,  of 
little  understanding,  of  the  tribe  of  Judah,  lived 
probably  near  Maon,  one  of  the  most  southern 
cities  of  Judah.  When  David,  who  had  taken 
refuge  from  the  pursuit  of  Saul  in  the  wilderness 
of  Paran,  sent  ten  young  men  to  request  assist- 
ance from  Nabal,  who  was  then  employed  in 
shearing  his  numerous  flocks,  Nabal  surlily  re- 
fused to  give  of  his  substance  to  strangers,  al- 
though David  had  protected  his  shepherds  from 
injury  during  his  residence  among  them.  Then 
David,  in  his  indignation,  ordered  four  hundred 
of  his  men  to  arm  themselves,  and  went  to  put 
Nabal  and  his  family  to  the  sword.  But  Abigail, 
whose  wisdom  equalled  her  beauty,  hearing  of 
what  had  passed,  and  foreseeing  the  result  of  her 
husband's  refusal,  hastened  to  prepare  provisions, 
without  Nabal's  knowledge,  with  which  she  met 
and  appeased  David.  When  Abigail  returned  from 
her  interview  with  David,  she  found  her  husband 
at  a  feast,  and  intoxicated ;  so  that  she  said  no- 
thing of  the  affair  to  him  till  the  next  day.  Then, 
when  he  heard  of  the  danger  he  had  escaped,  his 
heart  was  so  struck  with  fear  that  he  died  in  ten 
days.  When  David  was  informed  of  Nabal's  death, 
he  sent  messengers  to  Abigail,  to  request  that  she 
would  become  his  wife ;  to  which  she  consented, 
and  accompanied  the  servants  of  David  on  their 
return. 

The  old  commentators  are  unanimous  in  their 
commendations  of  the  character  and  conduct  of 
Abigail.  Father  Berruyer,  the  Jesuit,  in  his  "  His- 
tory of  the  People  of  God,"  has  been  an  excellent 
painter  on  this  subject.  "Nabal's  riches,"  says 
he,  "consisted  in  vines  and  corn,  but  especially 
in  pasture  grounds,  in  which  a  thousand  goats  and 
three  thousand  sheep  grazed.  However,  these 
large  possessions  were  nothing  in  comparison  of 


( 


the  treasure  he  possessed  in  the  chaste  Abigail, 
his  wife,  the  most  accomplished  woman  of  her 
tribe.  Nabal,  unhappily  for  Abigail,  was  not 
worthy  of  her,  and  never  couple  were  worse 
matched.  The  wife  was  beautiful,  careful,  pru- 
dent, a  good  housewife,  vastly  good-natured,  and 
indefatigably  vigilant ;  but  as  for  the  husband, 
he  was  dissolute,  capricious,  headstrong,  con- 
temptuous ;  always  exasperated  at  good  advice, 
and  never  fiiiling  to  make  a  bad  use  of  it ;  in  a 
word,  a  man  whose  riotous  intemperance  the  vii-- 
tuous  Abigail  was  perpetually  obliged  to  bear 
with,  to  atone  for  his  extravagant  sallies,  or  dis- 
semble his  follies ;  besides,  he  was  an  infidel,  and 
as  depraved  an  Israelite  as  his  wife  was  regular 
and  fervent." 

Whether  all  these  fancies  of  the  learned  Jesuit 
be  true  or  not,  the  history,  as  the  holy  Book  re- 
cords it,  is  highly  in  favour  of  the  intellectual 
powers  as  well  as  personal  attractions  of  Abigail. 
Her  speech  to  David  is  replete  with  beauties,  and 
is  a  model  of  the  oratory  of  thought  applied  to  the 
passions,  to  the  prejudices,  and  the  previous  asso- 
ciations of  David.  Read  it  in  Samuel,  I.  Book, 
chap,  sxv.,  verses  from  24  to  31,  and  then  judge 
of  the  effect  it  must  have  had  on  her  auditor, 
when  his  heart  biu'st  forth,  as  it  were,  in  this 
reply : 

"  And  David  said  to  Abigail,  Blessed  be  the 
Lord  God  of  Israel,  which  hath  sent  thee  this  day 
to  meet  me. 

"And  blessed  be  thy  advice,  and  blessed  be 
thou,  which  hast  kept  me  this  day  from  coming 
to  shed  blood,  and  from  avenging  myself  with 
mine  own  hand." 

These  events  occurred,  B.  C.  1057. 

ABISHAG, 
The  Shunamite,  a  beautiful  young  ^^rgin,  who 
cherished  David,  king  of  Israel,  in  his  old  age, 
and  was   afterwards  desired   by  his   son  Adoni- 

ly 


AC 


AG 


jah,  as  a  -wife ;  -which  request  caused  him  to  be 
put  to  death  by  the  command  of  Solomon,  who 
looked  upon  it  as  an  indication  that  Adonijah 
wished  in  other  respects  also  to  take  David,  their 
father's  place.  A  learned  commentator  thus  tells 
the  story: — "The  king,  (David,)  thovigh  he  had 
been  so  robust  in  his  youth,  seemed  to  decay  daily. 
His  affiictions,  labours,  fatigues,  and  perpetual 
wars,  had  exhausted  '.lioi  so  much,  that  entering 
on  his  seventieth  year,  his  natural  heat  seemed 
on  the  point  of  being  extinguished ;  while  his 
mind  was  as  vigorous  as  ever,  and  he  still  governed 
with  so  much  wisdom  and  authority,  as  made  his 
life  precious.  His  physicians,  in  order  to  prolong 
it,  hit  upon  an  expedient  which  succeeded,  at 
least,  for  some  time.  All  Israel  was  sought  through 
to  find  out  a  proper  person,  and  the  choice  fell  on 
Abishag,  the  Slumamite,  a  young,  beautiful,  and 
virtuous  woman.  He  made  her  his  wife,  and  she 
was  '  with  him  both  night  and  day ;  but  though 
he  married  her,  they  always  lived  together  in  a 
state  of  continence.'  "  That  Abishag  was  consi- 
dered the  honourable  wife  of  king  David,  and  was 
so,  according  to  the  customs  of  that  dai-k  age, 
there  is  no  doubt ;  she  was  innocent,  yet  the  wick- 
edness of  polygamy  is  apparent  in  this  gross  trans- 
action. The  sons  of  David  were,  in  consequence 
of  this  sin  of  their  father,  involved  in  a  quarrel 
which  cost  the  life  of  the  eldest,  and  stained  Solo- 
mon's hands  with  his  brother's  blood. 

ACCA-LAURENTIA  or  ARCA-LAURENTIA, 

Was  wife  of  the  shepherd  Faustulus,  and  nurse 
to  Remus  and  Romulus.  She  was  deified  by  the 
Romans,  to  whom  the  flamen  of  Jupiter  once  a 
year  offered  a  sacrifice,  on  a  holiday  instituted  to 
her  honour.     She  lived  about  B.  C.  760. 

ACME, 

Was  a  Jewish  lady,  retained  in  the  service  of 
Livia,  the  vrife  of  Augustus  Csesar.  She  was 
bribed  by  Antipater,  the  son  of  Herod  the  Great, 
to  engage  in  his  interest ;  but  one  of  her  attempts 
to  serve  him  proved  fatal  to  herself;  for  having 
forged  a  letter  in  the  name  of  Salome,  that  king's 
sister,  to  her  mistress  Livia,  in  order  to  expose 
the  former  to  Herod's  resentment,  the  imposture 
was  detected,  and  she  was  punished  with  death. 
Antipater  was  suffered  to  escape,  though  the 
greater  criminal. 

ADA, 

A  SISTER  of  Artemisia,  queen  of  Caria,  mar- 
ried Hidricus.  After  her  husband's  death  she 
succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Caria,  but  was  ex- 
pelled by  her  younger  brother,  Pexodores,  who, 
in  order  to  maintain  himself  in  his  usurpation, 
gave  his  daughter  in  marriage  to  a  Persian  lord 
called  Orondates;  and  he,  afterwards,  became 
king  of  Caria,  and  defended  Halicarnassus  against 
Alexander  the  Great.  The  revolutions  which  hap- 
pened at  that  time,  proved  favourable  to  Ada ;  she 
implored  the  protection  of  the  conqueror  Alexan- 
der against  Orondates,  the  usurper  of  her  king- 
dom. Alexander  gave  her  a  very  kind  reception, 
and  restored  her  to  the  authority  she  had  formerly 


enjoyed  over  all  Caria,  after  he  had  taken  the  city 
of  Halicarnassus.  Ada,  woman-like,  thought  to 
give  some  testimony  of  her  gratitude  by  sending 
him  all  sorts  of  refreshments,  sweetmeats,  pastry, 
delicate  viands,  and  the  best  cooks  she  could  hear 
of;  but  Alexander  answered  that  he  had  no  occa- 
sion for  such  things  ;  for  Leonidas,  his  tutor,  had 
formerly  furnished  him  with  much  more  excellent 
cooks,  by  teaching  him,  that  he  who  would  have  an 
appetite  to  his  dinner,  must  rise  early  and  take  a 
walk;  and  if  he  is  desirous  of  making  a  delicious 
supper,  he  must  eat  moderately  at  dinner. 

AVhy  will  not  mothers  be  more  careful  to  teach 
these  wise  lessons  to  their  sons  ? 

AGESISTRATA, 
Wife  of  Eudamidas  II.,  and  mother  of  Agis  IV., 
king  of  Sparta,  was  a  woman  of  great  wealth  and 
influence  among  her  people.  She  had  brought 
up  her  son  very  voluptuously ;  but  when  he  be- 
came king,  he  resolved  to  restore  the  ancient  se- 
vere discipline  and  mode  of  living  of  the  Spar- 
tans, and  began  by  setting  the  example  himself. 
Agesistrata  at  first  opposed  the  reformation,  by 
which  she  would  lose  much  of  her  wealth ;  after- 
wards she  not  only  approved  of  her  son's  design, 
but  endeavoured  to  gain  the  other  women  to 
join  her,  as  they  had  great  influence  in  the  com- 
munity, and  the  greatest  difficulty  was  expected 
to  arise  from  their  opposition ;  but  instead  of 
uniting  with  her,  they  applied  to  Leonidas  III., 
the  other  king  of  Lacedajmon,  to  frustrate  the  de- 
signs of  his  colleague.  In  consequence  of  the 
disturbances  that  ensued,  Agis  was  obliged  to  take 
refuge  in  one  of  the  temples ;  but  one  day,  on  his 
returning  to  his  sanctuary  from  a  bath,  he  was 
seized  and  thrown  into  prison.  Agesistrata,  and 
i\rchidamia,  grandmother  of  Agis,  used  all  their 
influence,  but  in  vain,  to  induce  the  ephori  to  al- 
low Agis  to  plead  his  cause  before  his  own  people. 
They  were,  however,  allowed  to  share  his  pi-ison, 
when  one  of  the  ephori,  who  was  in  debt  to  Agesis- 
trata, by  his  intrigues  succeeded  in  having  them 
all  strangled  at  once.  Agesistrata  met  her  unex- 
pected death  with  calmness  and  composure,  about 
B.  C.  300. 

AGNODICE, 

An  Athenian  virgin,  who  disguised  her  sex,  to 
learn  medicine.  She  was  taught  midwifery  by 
Herophilus,  an  eminent  physician,  born  in  B.  C. 
606,  and  when  employed  always  discovered  her 
sex  to  her  patients.  This  procured  her  so  much 
practice,  that  the  male  physicians  accused  her  of 
corruption  before  the  Areopagus.  She  confessed 
her  sex  to  the  judge,  and  a  law  was  immediately 
made  allowing  all  free-born  women  to  learn  mid- 
wifery. 

AGRIPPINA, 

The  daughter  of  M.  Vipsanius  Agrippa  and 
.Julia,  the  only  child  of  Augustus,  married  Ger- 
manicus,  the  son  of  Drusus,  and  nephew  to  Ti- 
berius, to  whom  she  bore  nine  children.  Three 
of  them  died  in  infancy,  and  among  the  remain- 
ing six  were  Caligula,  afterwards  emperor,  and 

20 


AG 


AG 


Agrippina,  the  mother  of  Nero.  On  the  death 
of  Augustus  (A.  D.  14)  Germanicus  and  his  wife 
were  with  the  army,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
where  they  had  much  difficulty  in  restraining  the 
mutinous  soldiery  from  proclaiming  Germanicus 
in  opposition  to  his  uncle.  On  this  occasion  Agrip- 
pina, by  her  resolution  and  courage,  showed  her- 
self worthy  of  her  descent  from  Augustus ;  and 
the  following  year  she  exhibited  the  same  quali- 
ties, in  repressing  a  general  panic  that  had  seized 
on  the  soldiers  during  her  husband's  absence,  and 
preventing  them  from  disgracing  themselves. 
Agrippina  was  with  her  husband,  in  Syiia,  when 
he  fell  a  victim  to  the  arts  of  Piso  and  Plancina. 
Her  resentment  at  this  treatment  was  such  as  to 
draw  upon  her  the  anger  of  Tiberius  ;  and  when, 
after  a  widowhood  of  seven  years,  she  requested 
him  to  give  her  a  husband,  he  evaded  her  petition, 
knowing  well  that  the  husband  of  Agrippina  would 
be  a  dangerous  enemy.  At  length  she  so  offended 
the  emperor,  by  showing  him  that  she  suspected 
him  of  an  intention  to  poison  her,  that  he  banished 
her  to  the  island  of  Pandataria,  and  at  last  closed 
her  life  by  starvation,  October  13,  A.  D.  33.  The 
rage  of  Tiberius  was  not  appeased  by  the  death 
of  Agrippina ;  he  had  injured  her  too  deeply  to 
forgive  himself,  and  so  he  sought  to  appease  his 
hatred  by  persecuting  her  children  —  and  her  two 
eldest  sons  were  his  victims. 

The  character  of  Agrippina  presents  some  of 
the  strongest  points,  both  of  the  good  and  bad,  in 
Roman  life.  She  was  frank,  upright,  sternly  cou- 
rageous, and  unimpeachably  virtuous.  She  was 
faithful  and  loving  to  her  husband,  watchful  and 
anxious  for  her  children.  Yet  with  all  this,  she 
was  excessively  proud  of  her  noble  descent ;  fiery 
and  impetuous  in  passion,  indiscreet  in  speech, 
and  imprudent  in  conduct.  This  is  a  mixed  cha- 
racter, but  a  shining  one.  It  was  one  which  fell 
short  of  Cornelia,  but  excelled  all  common  fame. 
Compared  with  Tiberius,  she  was  an  angel  in  con- 
flict with  a  demon. 


AGRIPPINA. 

JtJLL\,   gi-eat-granddaughter  of  Augustus,   and 
daughter  of  Germanicus  and  Agrippina,  was  born 


amidst  the  excitement  of  war,  in  a  Roman  camp, 
on  the  shores  of  the  Rhine,  —  and  reared  under 
the  laui-els  of  her  father's  conquests,  and  the  halo 
of  her  mother's  grandem-.  Her  father's  death 
occurring  at  a  very  early  period  of  her  life,  her 
first  perception  of  the  career  opened  to  her  might 
have  been  derived  from  the  sympathy  and  respect 
accorded  by  the  Roman  people  to  her  family,  even 
in  the  presence  of  her  father's  murderers. 

Some  historians  have  attributed  to  her  a  spirit 
of  vengeance,  which,  though  the  accusation  is  not 
well  substantiated,  might  indeed  have  been  fos- 
tered by  the  trials  of  her  life,  commencing  with 
her  early  estrangement  from  her  glorious  mother, 
which  was  followed  by  her  persecution,  first  by 
the  infamous  Sejanus,  and  after  the  death  of  het 
husband  Domitius,  by  her  brother  Caligula — who 
accused  her  before  the  senate,  of  participation  in 
a  conspiracy,  forced  them  to  condemn  her,  and 
had  her  driven  into  exile,  where  she  remained  in 
constant  fear  of  a  violent  death. 

On  the  death  of  Caligula,  Agrippina,  recalled 
from  exile,  was  married  to  the  consul  Crispinus, 
whose  sudden  death  was  ascribed  by  her  enemies 
to  poison  administered  by  his  wife.  Five  years 
after  this,  Pallas  proposed  her  to  Claudius  as  the 
successor  of  Messalina,  and  after  the  interval  of  a 
year,  during  which  Agi'ippina  had  much  to  con- 
tend with  from  rivalry  and  intrigue,  the  obstacle 
opposed  to  this  marriage  by  the  ties  of  consan- 
guinity was  relieved  by  a  special  law,  and  the 
daughter  of  Germanicus  ascended  the  throne  of 
Augustus,  and  ruled  the  empire,  from  that  mo- 
ment, in  the  name  of  her  imbecile  husband.  Under 
her  brilliant  and  vigorous  administration,  faction 
was  controlled,  order  re-established,  and  that  sys- 
tem of  espionage  abolished  which  had  filled  Rome 
with  informers  and  their  victims.  The  reserve 
and  dignity  of  her  deportment  produced  a  reform 
in  the  manners  of  the  imperial  palace,  and  her  in- 
fluence over  her  husband  was  of  a  most  salutary 
nature. 

Tacitus  has  loaded  the  memory  of  Agrippina 
with  the  imputation  of  inordinate  ambition,  and, 
though  there  is  probably  considerable  calumny  in 
these  charges,  it  may  be  supposed  that  a  temper- 
ament like  hers  did  not  shrink  from  the  arbitrary 
and  cruel  acts  which  might  be  thought  necessary 
to  her  safety  or  advancement.  Still,  the  woman 
must  be  judged  by  the  circumstances  under  which 
she  lived,  and  with  reference  to  the  morality  of 
her  contemporaries ;  and,  so  judged,  she  rises 
immeasurably  superior  to  the  greatest  men  asso- 
ciated with  her  history. 

Agrippina  was  the  first  woman  who  acquired 
the  privilege  of  entering  the  capitol  in  the  vehicle 
assigned  to  the  priests  in  religious  ceremonies, 
and  on  all  public  occasions  she  took  an  elevated 
seat  reserved  for  her,  near  the  emperor. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  adoption  of  her  son  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  emperor's  own  child  by  Mes- 
salina, the  infant  Britannicus,  she  received  the 
cognomen  of  Augusta  ;  and  to  the  proplietic  augur 
who  bade  her  "beware,  lest  the  son  she  had  so 
elevated  might  prove  her  ruin,"  she  replied,  "  Let 
me  perish,  but  let  Nero  reign."     In  this  answer 

21 


AG 


AL 


•we  have  the  secret  of  her  great  actions,  and  the 
motive  for  all  her  imputed  crimes.  Amidst  all 
her  lofty  aspirations,  her  indomitable  pride,  her 
keen  sense  of  injuries  inflicted,  her  consciousness 
of  power  acquired,  there  was  one  deep  and  redeem- 
ing affection ;  this  bi-illiant  despot,  the  astute 
politician  of  her  age,  was  still,  above  all  and  in 
all  —  a  mother ! 

The  marriage  of  her  son  to  Octavia,  the  empe- 
ror's daughter,  consummated  the  hopes  and  views 
of  Agrippina,  and  relieving  her  from  maternal 
anxiety,  allowed  her  to  give  up  her  mind  entirely 
to  the  affairs  of  state ;  and  owing  to  her  vigorous 
guidance  of  the  reins  of  government,  the  last  years 
of  the  reign  of  Claudius  were  years  of  almost  i\n- 
ecjualled  prosperity  in  every  resjject  —  and  this 
indolent  and  imbecile  emperor  died  while  the 
genius  and  vigour  of  his  wife  were  giving  such 
illustrations  to  his  reign. 

Agrippina  has  been  accused  of  poisoning  her 
husband,  but  on  no  sufficient  grounds  —  his  own 
gluttony  was  most  probably  the  cause  of  his  death. 
But  that  Agripi^ina's  arts  seated  her  son  on  the 
throne  of  the  Ctesars,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

In  all  this  great  historical  drama,  who  was  the 
manager,  and  most  efficient  actor?  woman,  or 
man  ?  Whose  was  the  superior  mind  ?  who  was 
the  intellectual  agent  ?  Was  it  the  wily  Seneca  ? 
the  ductile  Burrhus  ?  the  sordid  army  ?  the  ser- 
vile senate  ?  the  excitable  people  ?  or  the  con- 
sistent, concentrated  Agrippina ;  who,  actuated  by 
one  all-absorbing  feeling,  in  the  pursuit  of  one 
great. object,  put  them  all  in  motion?  that  feeling 
was  maternal  love,  that  object  the  empire  of  the 
world ! 

Nero  was  but  eighteen  years  old  when  he  as- 
cended the  throne ;  and,  grateful  to  her  whose 
genius  had  placed  him  there,  he  resigned  the  ad- 
ministration of  affairs  into  her  hands,  and  evinced 
an  extraordinary  tenderness  and  svibmission  to  his 
august  mother.  The  senate  vied  with  him  in 
demonstrations  of  deference  to  her,  and  raised  her 
to  the  priesthood,  an  assignment  at  once  of  power 
and  respect. 

The  conscript  fathers  yielded  to  all  her  wishes  ; 
the  Roman  people  had  already  been  accustomed 
to  seeing  her  on  the  imperial  tribunal ;  and 
Seneca,  Burrhus,  and  Pallas  became  but  the 
agents  of  her  will.  In  reference  to  the  repose 
and  prosperity  of  the  empire  under  her  sway, 
Trajan,  in  after  years,  was  wont  to  compare  the 
first  five  years  of  Nero's  reign  with  those  of 
Rome's  best  emperors. 

Agrippina  must  have  early  discovered  Nero's 
deficiency  in  that  physical  sensibility,  and  those 
finer  sympathies  which  raise  man  above  the  tiger 
and  vulture.  She  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  The 
reign  of  Nero  has  begun  as  that  of  Augustus 
ended ;  but  when  I  am  gone,  it  will  end  as  that 
of  Augustus  began:" — the  awful  prophecy  was 
soon  accomplished.  The  profound  policy  by  which 
she  endeavoured  to  prolong  her  own  government, 
and  her  watchfulness  over  the  young  Britannicus, 
are  sufficient  evidences  that  the  son  so  loved  in 
the   perversity  of  maternal   instinct   must   have 


eventually  laid  bare  the  inherent  egotism  and 
cruelty  of  his  nature. 

When,  on  the  occasion  of  a  public  reception 
given  to  an  embassy  from  the  East,  Agrippina 
moved  forward  to  take  her  usual  place  beside 
Nero,  he,  with  officious  courtesy  and  ironical  re- 
spect, sprang  forward  and  prevented  the  accom- 
plishment of  her  intention.  After  this  public 
insult,  Agrippina  lost  all  self-control,  and  uttered 
passionate  and  impolitic  words  that  were  soon 
conveyed  to  the  emperor,  and  by  awakening  his 
fears,  let  loose  his  worst  passions.  After  murder- 
ing Britannicus  to  frustrate  her  designs,  imprison- 
ing her  in  her  own  palace,  and  attempting  to  poi- 
son her,  a  reconciliation  took  place  between  Nero 
and  Agrippina,  of  which  the  mother  was  the  only 
dupe,  for  the  world  understood  the  hollowness  of 
her  son's  professions  of  affection,  and  all  aban- 
doned her. 

Nero  was  now  resolved  on  the  death  of  his 
mother,  and  took  great  pains  in  arranging  an  art- 
ful scheme  to  accomplish  it — which  was  frustrated 
by  Aceronia,  who  voluntarily  received  the  blow 
intended  for  her  mistress.  Agrippina  escaped 
then,  but  was  soon  afterwards  murdered  by  Ani- 
cetus,  who,  commissioned  by  her  son,  entered  her 
chamber  with  a  band  of  soldiers  and  put  an  end 
to  her  life,  after  a  glorious  reign  of  ten  years ; 
during  which  she  was  distinguished  for  personal 
and  intellectual  endowments,  and  gave  peace  and 
prosperity  to  the  empire  she  governed.  Her  faults 
belonged  to  the  bad  men  and  the  bad  age  in  which 
she  lived —  the  worst  on  record :  her  virtues  and 
her  genius  were  her  own.  She  inhei-ited  them 
from  Agrippa,  the  friend  and  counsellor  of  Augus- 
tus, and  from  Agrippina,  the  wife  of  Germanicus. 

The  mind  of  this  extraordinary  woman  was  not 
wholly  engrossed  by  the  arts  of  intrigue  or  the 
cares  of  government ;  she  found  time  to  write  her 
own  Memoirs  or  Commentaries  on  the  events  of 
her  time,  of  which  Tacitus  availed  himself  for  his 
historical  works.  Pliny  also  quotes  from  her 
writings. 

ALCESTE, 

Daughter  of  Pelias,  and  wife  of  Admetus,  king 
of  Thessaly.  Her  husband  was  sick,  and,  ac- 
cording to  an  oracle,  would  die,  unless  some  one 
else  made  a  vow  to  meet  death  in  his  stead. 
This  was  done  secretly  by  Alceste,  who  became 
ill  as  Admetus  recovered.  After  her  death,  Her- 
cules visited  Admetus,  and  promised  his  friend 
that  he  would  bring  back  his  wife  from  the  infer- 
nal regions.  He  compelled  Pluto  to  restore  Al- 
ceste to  her  husband.  Eiu-ipides  has  made  this 
story  the  subject  of  a  tragedy. 

ALCINOE, 
Daughter  of  Polybius  the  Corinthian,  and  wife 
of  Amphilochus,  fell  in  love  with  one  Xanthus 
of  the  Isle  of  Samos,  who  lodged  at  her  house. 
This  is  not  the  strangest  thing  in  the  story  of 
her  life ;  the  subject  of  siu'prise  is  to  see  that 
it  was  Minerva  who  inspired  her  with  this  disease 
of  love,  to  punish  her  because  she  had  not  paid 

22 


AL 


AN 


all  she  had  promised  to  a  poor  woman  who  had 
worked  for  her.  This  woman  prayed  to  Miuei'va 
to  avenge  her,  and  behold  her  prayei-s  were  heard. 
Alcinoe,  by  the  care  of  this  goddess,  became  so 
desperately  in  love  with  her  lodger,  that  she  left 
her  home  and  little  children,  and  embarked  with 
him.  But  dui-iug  the  voyage  she  reflected  upon 
her  conduct ;  and  as  she  called  to  mind  her  young 
husband  and  her  children,  she  wept  in  despaii'. 
All  the  promises  of  Xanthus  to  many  her  were  of 
no  avail  to  console  her  grief, — and  she  threw  her- 
self into  the  sea.  This  story  shows  that  the  an- 
cient heathen  had  a  true  sense  of  the  great  impor- 
tance of  being  just  to  the  poor. 

ALEXANDRA, 
Queen  of  Judea,  widow  and  successor  of  Alexan- 
der JanniBus,  a  wise  and  virtuous  princess,  who, 
contrary  to  the  example  of  her  husband,  studied 
to  please  her  subjects,  and  preserved  peace  and 
prosiierity  during  her  reign  of  seven  years.  She 
died  in  the  seventy-third  year  of  her  age,  B.  C.  70. 
She  was  the  mother  of  Hyrcanusand  Aristobulus, 
and  the  latter  years  of  her  reign  were  disturbed 
by  the  attempt  of  her  younger  son,  Aristobulus, 
to  obtain  the  sovereignty,  as  he  had  been  exaspe- 
rated by  the  favour  his  mother  showed  to  the  sect 
of  the  Pharisees,  and  the  authority  she  allowed 
them. 

ALEXANDRA, 

Daughter  of  Hyrcanus,  and  mother  of  Aristo- 
buliis  and  Mariamne,  wife  of  Herod  the  Great, 
was  a  woman  of  superior  powers  of  mind.  When 
Herod  appointed  Ananel,  a  person  of  obscure 
birth,  high-priest,  instead  of  her  son  Aristobulus, 
who  had  a  right  to  that  office,  her  spirited  con- 
duct caused  him  to  depose  Ananel  in  favour  of 
Aristobulus.  Herod,  displeased  at  her  interfer- 
ence, had  her  confined  and  guarded  in  her  own 
palace ;  but  Alexandra,  receif ing  an  invitation 
from  Cleopatra  to  come  to  Egypt,  with  her  son, 
attempted  to  escape  with  him,  in  two  coffins ; 
they  were  discovered,  however,  and  brought  back. 
Herod,  jealous  of  the  affection  of  the  Jews  for 
Aristobulus,  had  him  drowned,  which  so  much 
affected  Alexandra,  that  she  at  first  resolved  on 
committing  suicide ;  but  finally  decided  to  live, 
that  she  might  revenge  herself  on  the  murderer. 
She  interested  Cleopatra  in  her  cause,  who  induced 
Anthony  to  send  for  Herod  to  exculpate  himself 
from  the  charge,  which,  by  presents  and  flattery, 
he  succeeded  in  doing.  And  when  Herod  returned 
he  again  ordered  Alexandra  to  be  confined.  But 
Alexandra  showed  great  terror,  if  the  account  be 
true,  and  cowardice,  when  the  jealousy  of  Herod 
induced  him  to  order  the  death  of  his  wife  Mari- 
amne. Though  she  knew  the  innocence  of  her 
daughter,  she  was  so  much  alarmed  for  fear  she 
should  share  the  same  fate,  that  she  sought  every 
opportunity  of  traducing  her,  and  pi-aising  the 
justice  of  Herod. 

After  the  death  of  Mariamne,  Herod's  grief  so 
overcame  him,  that  he  lost  his  health,  and  was 


at  times  deranged.  'WTiile  in  this  state,  he  retired 
to  Samaria,  leaving  Alexandra  at  Jerusalem.  Al- 
exandra attempted  to  obtain  possession  of  the  for- 
tresses near  the  capital,  that  she  might  eventually 
become  mistress  of  the  city ;  Herod  being  informed 
of  her  attempts,  sent  orders  that  she  should  be 
immediately  put  to  death,  which  was  done,  about 
B.  C.  27. 

AMALTH^A, 

The  name  of  the  sibyl  of  Cumss,  who  is  said 
to  have  offered  to  Tarquin  II.,  or.  The  Proud, 
king  of  Rome,  B.  C.  524,  nine  books,  containing 
the  Roman  destinies,  and  demanded  for  them 
three  hundred  pieces  of  gold.  He  derided  her, 
for  supposing  that  he  would  give  so  high  a  price 
for  her  books  ;  she  went  away  and  burning  three 
of  them,  returned  and  asked  the  same  price 
for  the  other  six ;  this  being  again  denied,  she 
burnt  three  more,  and  offered  the  remaining  three, 
without  lessening  her  demand.  Upon  which  Tar- 
quin, consulting  the  pontiffs,  was  advised  to  buy 
them.  These  books,  called  the  "  Sibylline  Ora- 
cles," were  in  such  esteem,  that  two  magistrates 
were  created  to  consult  them  upon  extraordinary 
occasions.  The  books,  and  the  story  about  them, 
were  probably  fabrications  of  the  priests  of  Rome, 
to  impose  on  that  superstitious  people,  and  in- 
crease their  own  importance,  by  occasionally  quot- 
ing and  interpreting  these  oracles.  The  story  is 
also  of  importance  in  showing  the  spiritual  influ- 
ence the  mind  of  woman  exerted  over  that  proud 
nation  which  owed  its  greatness  to  the  sword. 
Even  there  the  strength  of  man  was  fain  to  seek 
aid  from  the  quicker  intellect  and  more  refined 
moral  sense  of  woman. 

ANCHITA, 

Wife  of  Cleombrutus,  king  of  Sparta,  was  mother 
of  Pausanias,  who  distinguished  himself  at  the 
battle  of  Platfea.  Afterwards,  he  disgusted  his 
countrymen  by  his  foolish  and  arrogant  conduct, 
whom  he  also  agreed  to  betray  to  the  Persian 
king,  on  condition  of  receiving  his  daughter  in 
marriage.  His  treason  being  discovered,  he  took 
refuge  in  the  temple  of  Minerva,  from  which 
it  was  not  hiwful  to  force  him.  His  pursuers 
therefore  blocked  up  the  door  with  stones,  the  first 
of  which,  in  the  proud  anguish  of  a  Spartan  mo- 
ther, was  placed  by  Anchita.  Pausanias  died 
there  of  hunger,  B.  C.  471. 

ANDROCLEA, 
Celebrated  for  her  love  to  her  country,  was  a 
native  of  Thebes  in  Boeotia.  That  state  was  at 
war  with  the  Orchomenians,  and  the  oracle  de- 
clared that  they  would  be  victors  if  the  most 
noble  among  them  would  suffer  a  voluntary  death. 
Antiopcenus,  father  of  Androclea,  the  most  illus- 
trious person  in  Thebes,  was  not  disposed  to 
sacrifice  himself.  Androclea  and  her  sister  Alois 
fulfilled  this  duty  in  their  father's  stead  ;  and  the 
grateful  Thebans  erected  the  statue  of  a  lion  to 
their  memory  in  the  temple  of  Diana. 

23 


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AN 


ANDROMACHE, 

Wife  of  the  valiant  Hector,  son  of  Priam  king 
of  Troy,  and  tlie  mother  of  Astyanax,  was  daugh- 
ter of  Eetion,  king  of  Thebes,  in  Cilicia.  After 
the  death  of  Hector,  and  the  destruction  of  Troy, 
B.  C.  1184,  she  was  given  to  Pyrrhus,  son  of 
Achilles,  and  one  of  the  most  celebrated  Greek 
warriors,  who  married  her.  Helenus,  son  of  Pri- 
am, was  also  a  captive  to  Pyrrhus,  and  having 
given  him  advice,  which  resulted  favourably,  Pyr- 
rhus bestowed  Andromache  upon  him,  with  part 
of  the  country  of  Epirus.  She  had  children  by 
Pyrrhus ;  and  some  authors  are  of  opinion  that 
all  the  kings  of  Epirus,  to  that  Pyrrhus  who  made 
war  against  the  Romans,  were  descended  from  a 
son  of  Andromache.  This  princess  had  seven  bro- 
thers, who  were  killed  by  Achilles,  together  with 
their  fathei*,  in  one  day.  One  author  tells  us,  that 
she  accompanied  Priam  when  he  went  to  desire 
Achilles  to  sell  him  the  body  of  Hector ;  and  that 
to  move  him  to  greater  compassion,  she  carried 
her  son  with  her,  who  was  an  infant.  She  was 
of  a  large  stature,  if  the  poets  are  good  authority ; 
but  though  her  beauty  of  person  would  never  have 
made  her  celebrated  like  Helen,  the  purity  of  her 
mind  and  the  beauty  of  her  character  have  given 
her  a  much  nobler  celebrity.  The  tragedy  of  Eu- 
ripides is  a  monument  to  her  memory ;  and  her 
dialogue  with  Hector  in  the  Sixth  Book  of  the 
Hiad  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  that 
poem. 

ANDROMEDA, 

Was  daughter  of  Cepheus,  king  of  Ethiopia 
and  of  Cassiopeia.  Cassiopeia  having  boasted 
that  her  daughter  surpassed  the  Nereides,  if  not 
Juno  herself,  in  beauty,  the  offended  goddesses 
called  on  Neptune,  their  father,  to  revenge  the 
insult.  He  not  only  inundated  the  territory 
of  Ethiopia,  but  sent  a  horrid  sea-monster  which 
threatened  universal  destruction.  The  oracle  de- 
clared that  the  wrath  of  Neptune  could  be  ap- 
peased only  by  the  delivery  of  Andromeda  to  the 
monster.  In  this  extremity  Perseus  beheld  her 
when  he  was  retui-ning  from  his  victory  over  Me- 


dusa. Touched  by  compassion  and  love,  Perseus 
offered  to  kill  the  monster,  on  condition  that  the 
virgin  should  be  given  him  in  marriage.  Cepheus 
promised  this,  and  kept  his  word.  In  memory  of 
the  exploits  of  Perseus,  Andromeda  was  placed  by 
Pallas  among  the  stars. 

ANGITIA, 

Sister  of  Medea,  and  daughter  of  jEtes,  king 
of  Colchis,  taught  antidotes  against  poison  and 
serpents.     She  lived  about,  B.  C.  1228. 

ANNA, 
Daughter  of  Belus,  king  of  Tyre,  and  sister 
of  Dido,  whom  she  accompanied  in  her  flight  to 
Carthage.  She  was  worshipped  as  a  goddess  by 
the  ancient  Romans,  under  the  title  of  Anna 
Perenna,  and  sacrifices  were  offered  to  her  both 
publicly  and  privately. 

ANTIGONE, 

Was  daughter  of  (Edipus,  king  of  Thebes,  by 
his  sister  Jocasta.  This  incestuous  union  brought 
a  curse  on  the  innocent  Antigone  ;  yet  she  never 
failed  in  her  duty  to  her  father,  but  attended  him 
in  his  greatest  misfortunes.  She  was  slain  by 
the  usurper  Creon,  whose  son  Htemon,  being  in 
love  with  her,  killed  himself  upon  her  tomb. 
Her  death  was  avenged  on  Creon  by  Theseus, 
and  her  name  has  been  immortalized  in  a  tragedy 
by  Sophocles.     She  lived  about,  B.  C.  1250. 

ANTONIA   MAJOR, 

The  eldest  daughter  of  Marc  Antony  and  Octa- 
via,  sister  to  Augustus,  was  born  B.  C.  39.  She 
married  L.  Domitius.  Some  of  the  most  illustri- 
ous persons  in  Rome  were  descended  from  her. 
Also  it  was  her  misfortune  that  the  infamous 
Messalina  and  Nero  were  her  grandchildi-en. 

ANTONIA   MINOR, 

Sister  of  the  preceding,  was  born  B.  C.  38  or 
37.  She  married  Drusus,  brother  of  Tiberius, 
whose  mother,  Livia,  had  married  the  emperor 
Augustus.  After  a  victorious  campaign  in  Ger- 
many, Drusus  died  when  on  his  way  to  Rome  to 
receive  the  reward  of  his  exploits.  The  despair 
of  Antonia  at  this  affliction  knew  no  bounds. 
Their  union  and  virtues,  in  a  dissolute  court,  had 
been  the  admiration  of  Rome.  Three  children, 
Germanicus,  Claudius,  afterwards  emperor,  and 
Livilla,  were  the  fruits  of  this  marriage. 

Antonia,  though  widowed  in  the  bloom  of  beauty 
and  the  prime  of  life,  refused  all  the  splendid  con- 
nections which  courted  her  acceptance ;  and,  re- 
jecting the  solicitations  of  Augustus  to  reside  at 
his  court,  she  passed  her  time  in  retirement,  and 
in  educating  her  children.  She  gained  the  respect 
and  confidence  of  Tiberius,  who  had  succeeded 
Augustus,  by  informing  him  of  a  conspiracy  form- 
ed by  his  favourite  Sejanus  against  his  life. 

Domestic  calamities  seemed  to  pursue  this  prin- 
cess. Her  son  Germanicus,  endowed  with  every 
noble  quality,  adored  by  the  army,  the  idol  of  the 
people,  and  the  presumptive  heir  to  the  throne, 
died  suddenly  in  Syria,  probably  poisoned  by  order 

24 


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AR 


of  the  emperor.  Agi-ippiua,  wife  of  Germanicus, 
returned  to  Rome,  bearing  in  an  urn  the  ashes  of 
her  husband,  and  joined  with  Antonia  in  demand- 
ing, but  in  vain,  vengeance  of  the  Senate. 

Claudius,  her  younger  son,  dishonoured  the 
family  by  his  stupidity  and  vices  ;  and  Livilla  was 
convicted  of  adultery  and  the  murder  of  her  hus- 
band. She  was  given  up  by  Tiberius  to  Antonia, 
who,  with  the  spu-it  of  the  ancient  Romans,  con- 
fined her  in  a  room  and  left  her  to  pei-ish  of 
hunger. 

Antonia  died  in  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of 
her  grandson  Caligula,  who,  by  his  neglect  and 
open  contempt,  is  supposed  to  have  hastened  her 
death.  She  was  probably  about  seventy-five  when 
she  died.  Of  her  private  life  little  is  known.  She 
was  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  chastity,  and  in- 
tegrity. Pliny  speaks  of  a  temjjle  dedicated  to 
her. 

ARETAPHILA, 

Of  Cyi'ene,  wife  of  Phaedimus,  a  nobleman  of 
that  place,  lived  about,  B.  C.  120.  Nicocrates, 
having  usurped  the  government  of  Cyrene,  caused 
Phcedimus  to  be  slain,  and  forcibly  espoixsed  his 
widow,  of  whose  beauty  he  had  become  en- 
amoured. Cyrene  groaned  under  the  cruelty  of 
tJie  tjTant,  who  was  gentle  and  kind  only  to  Are- 
taphila.  Determined  to  free  her  country  from 
this  cruel  yoke,  Ai-etaphila  obtained  several  poi- 
sons in  order  to  try  their  strength.  Her  drugs 
were  discovered,  and  her  design  suspected.  Cal- 
bia,  mother  of  Nicocrates,  insisted  that  she  should 
be  tortui'ed,  and  after  some  delay  Nicocrates  con- 
sented. But  even  in  the  extremity  of  her  anguish, 
Aretaphila  persisted  in  her  first  explanation,  that 
the  drugs  were  intended  merely  to  compose  love 
philters  for  the  preservation  of  his  affections. 
Nicocrates  afterwards  entreated  her  forgiveness, 
but  she  remained  inexorable. 

Ai'etaphila  had  one  daughter  by  her  first  mar- 
riage, whom  she  had  united  to  Lysander,  brother 
of  Nicocrates,  and  through  whom  she  persuaded 
Lysander  to  rebel  against  the  tyrant.  He  was 
successful  in  his  attempt,  and  Nicocrates  was  de- 
posed and  assassinated.  But  after  Lysander's 
accession  to  the  throne,  he  neglected  Aretaphila's 
advice,  and  imitated  the  cruelties  and  the  tyranny 
of  his  brother. 

Disappointed  in  her  son-in-law,  she  sent  secretly 
to  Anabus,  a  prince  of  Lybia,  to  ask  him  to  invade 
Cyrene,  and  free  it  of  its  oppressors.  When  Ana- 
bus  had  arrived  near  Cyrene,  Aretaphila,  in  a 
secret  conference  with  him,  promised  to  place 
Lysander  in  his  hands,  if  he  would  retain  him 
prisoner  as  a  tyrant  and  usurper.  For  this  ser- 
vice, she  promised  him  magnificent  gifts  and  a 
present  in  money.  She  then  insinuated  into  the 
mind  of  Lysander,  suspicions  of  the  loyalty  of  his 
nobles  and  captains,  and  prevailed  on  him  to  seek 
an  interview  with  Anabus,  in  order  to  make  peace. 

Lysander  and  Aretaphila  accordingly  set  for- 
ward unarmed  and  unattended  to  the  camp  of 
Anabus.  AVhen  they  approached  it,  Lysander's 
courage  failed  him,  and  he  would  have  retreated. 
But   his   mother-in-law   m-ged    him    on,    saying, 


"  Should  you  now  return,  you  would  be  stamped 
as  a  coward  and  a  traitor ;  as  a  man  who,  faith- 
less, perfidious  himself,  was  incapable  of  a  gener- 
ous confidence." 

Again,  when  on  the  point  of  meeting  Anabus, 
Lysander  hesitated ;  but  Ai-etaphila  seized  his 
hand,  and  drawing  him  forward,  gave  him  up  to 
Anabus. 

The  tyrant  was  detained  in  the  camp  till  the 
stipulated  presents  arrived.  The  people  of  Cyrene, 
when  they  learned  what  had  happened,  flocked  in 
crowds  to  the  camp  of  Anabus,  and  throwing 
themselves  at  the  feet  of  Aretaphila,  they  ac- 
knowledged her  as  their  saviour  and  their  queen. 
Lysander  was  taken  back  to  the  city,  fastened  in 
a  leather  bag,  and  thrown  into  the  sea ;  and  Calbia 
was  burnt  at  the  stake.  It  was  then  decreed  that 
the  administration  of  the  government  should  be 
given  to  Aretaphila,  assisted  by  a  council  of  the 
nobles.  But  she  declined  the  honour,  preferring 
the  privacy  of  domestic  life.  She  retired  to  her 
own  habitation  amidst  the  prayers  and  blessings 
of  the  people. 

ARETE, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Aristippus  of  Cyrene,  who 
flourished  about,  B.  C.  380,  and  was  the  founder 
of  the  Cyi'enaic  system  of  philosophy.  Arete  was 
carefully  instructed  by  her  father ;  and  after  his 
death  she  taught  his  system  with  great  success. 
She  had  a  son,  Aristippus,  to  whom  she  commu- 
nicated the  philosophy  she  received  from  her 
father. 

ARSINOE, 

Daughtek  of  Ptolemy  I.,  son  of  Lagus,  king  of 
Egypt,  and  of  Berenice,  was  married  to  Lysima- 
chus,  king  of  Thrace.  Lysimachus  fell  in  battle 
in  Asia,  and  his  kingdom  of  Macedonia  was  taken 
possession  of  by  Seleucus.  Seven  months  after- 
wards, Seleucus  was  assassinated  by  Ptolemy 
Ceraunus,  elder  brother  of  Ptolemy  Philadelphus, 
who  also  piit  to  death  the  two  children  of  his  half- 
sister  Arsinoe,  after  he  had  inveigled  her  into  a 
mari'iage  with  him.  Their  mother  he  then  ban- 
ished to  the  island  of  Samothracia,  where  she  re- 
mained till  she  was  summoned  to  Egypt  to  become 
the  second  wife  of  her  brother,  Ptolemy  II.  Phila- 
delphiis,  king  of  that  country,  who  reigned  from 
B.  C.  284  to  276.  This  is  the  first  instance  of  the 
unnatural  custom  of  incestuous  mai-riages  which 
prevailed  among  the  Greek  kings  of  Egypt.  Though 
Arsinoe  was  now  quite  advanced,  her  brother  was 
much  attached  to  her,  and  called  one  of  the  dis- 
tricts of  Egypt  after  her.  She  is  said  to  have 
founded  a  city,  called  by  her  own  name,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Achelous,  in  jEtolia. 

ARSINOE, 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Lysimachus,  king  of  Thrace,  was 
the  first  wife  of  Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  king  of 
Egypt,  by  whom  she  had  three  children,  Ptolemy, 
Lysimachus,  and  Berenice.  Suspecting  her  of 
plotting  against  his  life,  Ptolemy  banished  her, 
and  she  fled  to  Cyrene,  where  she  was  kindly 
received  by  Magas,  half-brother  of  the  king  of 

25 


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AS 


Egypt,  Magas  married  her,  and  adopted  her 
daughter,  Berenice.  Berenice  was  betrothed  to 
Demetrius,  son  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes,  who 
came  from  Macedonia  to  marry  her ;  but  instead, 
transferred  his  affections  to  Arsinoe,  which  led  to 
his  assassination,  and  the  marriage  of  Berenice  to 
Ptolemy  ^11.,  who  was  probably  her  brother,  by 
which  the  kingdoms  of  Egypt  and  Cyrene  were 
again  united.  The  history  of  this  princess  is  very 
confused  ;  and  there  is  much  difference  of  opinion 
on  the  subject. 

ARSINOE, 
Daughter  of  Ptolemy  III.  Euergetes,  was  mar- 
ried to  her  brother,  Ptolemy  IV.  Philopater;  she 
is  called  Eurydice  by  Justin,  and  Cleopatra  by 
Livy.  She  was  present  at  the  battle  of  Rhaphia, 
a  city  not  far  from  Gaza,  in  Palestine,  fought  be- 
tween her  husband  and  Antiochus  the  Great, 
B.  C.  217,  and  is  said  to  have  contributed  not  a 
little  to  gain  the  victory.  Ptolemy  afterwards, 
seduced  by  the  charms  of  Agathoclea,  ordered 
Ai'sinoe  to  be  put  to  death. 

ARTEMISIA, 

Daughter  of  Lygdamis,  became  queen  of  Caria, 
in  Asia  Minor,  when  her  husband  died.  Accord- 
ing to  Herodotus,  she  was  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished women  of  antiquity.  She  attended  Xerxes 
in  his  expedition  against  Greece,  B.  C.  480,  and 
furnished  five  ships,  which  were  only  inferior  to 
those  of  the  Sidonians.  In  the  council  of  war 
before  the  battle  of  Salamis,  she  strongly  repre- 
sented to  Xerxes  the  folly  of  risking  a  naval  en- 
gagement, and  the  event  justified  her  opinion. 
In  the  battle  she  displayed  so  much  courage,  that 
Xerxes  exclaimed,  "  The  men  behave  like  women, 
and  the  women  like  men!"  To  her  Xerxes  in- 
trusted his  children,  that  they  might  be  safely 
transjjorted  to  his  kingdom,  when,  agreeably  to  her 
advice,  he  abandoned  Greece,  to  return  to  Asia. 

These  great  qualities  did  not  secure  her  from 
the  weakness  of  love ;  she  was  passionately  fond 
of  a  man  of  Abydos,  whose  name  was  Dardanus, 
and  was  so  eni'aged  at  his  neglect  of  her,  that  she 
put  out  his  eyes  while  he  was  asleep.  This,  how- 
ever, instead  of  diminishing  her  passion,  seemed 
to  increase  it.  At  length  she  consulted  the  Del- 
phic oracle,  to  learn  how  to  conquer  her  love ;  and 
being  advised  to  go  to  Leucadia,  the  ordinary  re- 
sort of  desperate  lovers,  she,  like  the  poet  Sappho, 
took  the  fatal  leap  from  that  promontory,  and  was 
drowned  and  buried  there.  Many  writers  con- 
found this  Artemisia  with  the  wife  of  Mausolus, 
who  lived  some  time  after. 

ARTEMISIA  II., 
The  queen  of  Caria,  wife  of  Mausolus,  immor- 
talized by  her  attachment  to  her  husband,  built 
for  him,  at  his  death,  the  celebrated  and  stately 
tomb,  that  was  considered  one  of  the  seven  won- 
ders of  the  world.  It  was  called  the  Mausoleum, 
and  from  it  all  other  magnificent  sepulchres  have 
received  the  same  name.  It  was  built  by  four 
architects,  and  the  expense  of  its  construction  was 
enormous ;  the  philosopher  iVnaxagoras  exclaimed. 


when  he  saw  it,  "  How  much  money  changed  into 
stones !" 

Artemisia  frequently  visited  the  place  where  her 
husband's  ashes  were  deposited ;  mixed  the  earth 
that  covered  him  with  water,  and  drank  it,  for  the 
l^urpose,  as  she  said,  of  becoming  the  living  tomb 
of  her  departed  lord.  She  offered  the  richest 
prizes  to  those  who  should  excel  in  composing  a 
panegyric  on  his  virtues.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  all 
her  grief,  she  did  not  suffer  it  to  interfere  with  the 
duties  of  her  elevated  position,  but  took  the  com- 
mand of  her  army  in  a  war  against  the  Rhodians, 
in  which  she  is  said  to  have  shown  undaunted 
bravery.  She  took  possession  of  the  city  of 
Rhodes,  and  treated  the  inhabitants  with  great 
severity.  She  caused  two  statues  to  be  erected: 
one  of  the  city  of  Rhodes,  habited  like  a  slave ; 
and  the  other  of  herself,  branding  the  city  with  a 
hot  iron.  Vitruvius  adds,  that  the  Rhodians  never 
dared  to  i-emove  that  trophy  from  its  place ;  such 
an  attempt  being  prohibited  by  their  religion ;  but 
they  built  a  wall  around  it,  which  prevented  it 
from  being  seen.  She  lived  in  the  fom-th  century 
before  Christ. 

ASENATH, 
Daughter  of  Potiphar  or  Potiphera,  and  wife  of 
Joseph,  prime  minister  to  Pharaoh,  king  of  Egypt, 
is  supposed  by  some  to  be  the  daughter  of  the 
same  Potiphar,  whose  wife  had  caused  Joseph's 
imprisonment,  and  that  Asenath  had  endeared 
herself  to  Joseph  by  taking  his  part  in  his  adver- 
sity, and  vindicating  him  to  her  father. 


:,-;i^ 


ASTASIA, 
Of  Miletus,  and  daughter  of  Axiochus,  lived 
principally  at  Athens.  She  gained  the  affections 
of  Pericles,  who,  according  to  Plutarch,  divorced 
his  first  wife,  with  her  own  consent,  in  order  to 
marry  Aspasia.  We  are  told  little  of  her  beauty, 
but  much  of  her  mental  powers  and  cultivation.  In 
eloquence,  she  surpassed  all  her  contemporaries. 
She  was  the  friend,  and,  according  to  Plato,  the 
instructress  of  Socrates,  who  gives  her  the  high 
praise  of  "having  made  many  good  orators,  and 
one  eminent  over  all  the  Greeks,  Pericles,  the  son 

26 


AS 


AS 


of  Xanthippus."  On  this  and  similar  authoi-ity 
we  learn,  that  Pericles  was  indebted  to  Aspasia 
for  much  of  his  high  mental  cultivation.  The 
Athenians  used  often  to  bring  their  wives  to  hear 
her  converse,  notwithstanding  what  was  said  of 
her  immoral  life.  She  is  accused  of  having  ex- 
cited, from  motives  of  personal  resentment,  the 
war  of  Peloponnesus ;  yet,  calamitous  as  that  con- 
flict proved  to  Greece,  Aspasia  inflicted  on  the 
country  still  more  incurable  evils.  Her  example 
and  instructions  foi'med  a  school  at  Athens,  by 
which  her  dangerous  profession  was  reduced  to  a 
system. 

Aspasia,  on  occasion  of  a  check  of  the  Athenian 
army,  came  herself  into  the  assembly  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  pronounced  an  oration,  inciting  them  to 
rally  and  redeem  their  cause ;  her  speech  was 
allowed  to  be  far  more  eloquent  than  those  of  Gor- 
gias,  and  other  famous  orators  who  spoke  on  the 
same  conjuncture. 

Hermippus,  a  comic  poet,  prosecuted  Aspasia  for 
impiety,  which  seems  to  have  consisted  in  disputing 
the  existence  of  their  imaginary  gods,  and  intro- 
ducing new  opinions  about  celestial  appearances. 
But  she  was  acquitted,  though  contrary  to  the 
law,  by  means  of  Pericles,  who  is  said  to  have 
shed  tears  in  his  application  for  mercy  in  her  be- 
half. 

It  should  not  be  omitted  that  some  modern 
writers  have  maintained  opinions  on  the  life  of 
Aspasia  very  different  from  those  popularly  enter- 
tained. They  say,  the  woman  whom  Socrates  re- 
spected, the  woman  who  for  years  was  the  bosom 
counsellor  of  so  eminent  a  man  as  Pericles,  never 
could  have  been  devoid  of  j^ersonal  purity ;  vice 
palls ;  vice  may  please  by  charms  of  exterior,  but 
never  could  keep  up  mental  enthusiasm  such  as 
Aspasia  certainly  excited  and  retained  with  Pei-i- 
cles.  They  suggest  that  aspersions  were  thrown 
upon  her  character  by  Aristophanes,  to  wound  Pe- 
ricles through  her  bosom  ;  but  that  the  friend,  the 
adviser,  the  sympathizing  comiianion  of  the  man 
who  has  been  called  Piinccjjs  Gracia,  was  not  a 
courtezan.  AVe  may  here  recall  some  verses  of 
Croly,  who,  in  a  note  to  the  poem  now  quoted, 
evidently  leans  to  the  opinions  just  stated. 

"  And  throned  immortal  by  his  side 

A  woman  sits  with  eye  sublime, 
Aspasia,  all  his  spirit's  bride ; 

But  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 
Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage ; 
Their  crime  was  in  their  darken'd  ago." 

Socrates,  who  was  the  intellectual  admirer  of 
this  fascinating  woman,  in  his  Dialogue  of  iEschi- 
nes,  gives  an  account  of  the  method  which  Asj^asia 
took,  in  order  to  persuade  Xenophon  and  his  wife 
to  observe  the  reciprocal  duties  of  a  married  state 
in  the  best  manner.  The  persons  in  the  Dialogue 
are  Aspasia,  Xenophon,  and  his  wife,  whom  Mr. 
Le  Glerc  supposes  from  a  passage  in  Laertius  to 
have  been  named  Philesia. 

"Tell  me,  Philesia,"  says  Aspasia,  "whether, 
if  your  neighboiu'  had  a  piece  of  gold  of  more 
value  than  your  own,  you  would  not  choose  it  be- 
fore your  own  ?"  "  Yes,"  answered  Philesia.  "  If 
she  had  a  gown,  or  any  of  the  female  ornaments. 


better  than  your's,  would  not  you  choose  them 
rather  than  your  own?"  "Yes,"  answered  she. 
"But,"  says  Aspasia,  "if  she  had  an  husband  of 
more  merit  than  your  own,  would  not  you  choose 
the  former?"  Upon  this  Philesia  blushed.  As- 
pasia then  addressed  herself  to  Xenophon.  "If 
yom*  neighbour,  Xenophon,  had  an  horse  better 
than  your  own,  would  not  you  choose  him  prefer- 
ably to  your  own?"  "Yes,"  answered  he.  "If 
he  had  an  estate  or  farm  of  more  value  than  your 
own,  which  would  you  choose  ?"  "  The  former," 
answered  he,  "  that  is,  that  which  is  more  of  va- 
lue." "  But  if  his  wife  was  better  than  your  own, 
would  not  you  choose  your  neighbour's  ?"  Here 
Xenophon  was  silent  upon  this  question.  Aspasia 
therefore  proceeded  thus:  "Since  both  of  you, 
then,  have  refused  to  answer  me  in  that  point  only, 
which  I  wanted  you  to  satisfy  me  in,  I  will  tell 
you  myself  what  you  both  think:  for  you,  Phile- 
sia, would  have  the  best  of  husbands,  and  you, 
Xenophon,  the  best  of  wives.  And  therefore  if 
you  don't  endeavour  that  there  be  not  a  better 
husband  and  wife  in  the  world  than  yourselves, 
you  will  always  be  wishing  for  that  which  you 
shall  think  best;  you,  Xenophon,  will  wish  you 
might  be  mai'ried  to  the  best  of  wives,  and  Phi- 
lesia, that  she  might  have  the  best  of  husbands." 
Pericles  died  at  the  age  of  seventy,  B.  C.  429 ; 
and  after  this  we  hear  nothing  of  Aspasia,  except- 
ing that  she  transferred  her  affections  to  Lysicles,  a 
grazier,  who,  in  consequence  of  her  influence,  be- 
came, for  a  time,  one  of  the  leading  men  in  Athens. 

ASPASIA,   or  MILTO, 

Mistress  of  Cyriis  the  younger,  was  born  about 
421,  B.  C.  of  free  parents,  at  Phocis,  in  Ionia.  She 
was  brought  up  virtuously  but  in  poverty,  and 
being  very  beautiful,  with  a  profusion  of  light  curl- 
ing hair,  very  imcommon  in  that  country,  she  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  one  of  the  satraps  of  Cyrus, 
who  forced  her  father  to  give  her  to  him  for  the 
seraglio  of  this  prince.  Her  modesty,  dignity,  and 
grief  had  such  an  effect  on  Cyrus,  that  he  made 
her  his  wife  in  every  thing  but  the  name,  consult- 
ing her  in  the  most  important  affairs,  and  following 
her  counsels.  He  changed  her  name  to  Aspasia, 
that  being  the  appellation  of  the  celebrated  wit  and 
beauty  of  Miletus.  Aspasia  bore  her  honours  with 
the  greatest  moderation,  and  availed  herself  of  the 
change  in  her  fortunes  only  to  rescue  her  father 
from  his  poverty.  When  Cyrus  was  killed,  B.  C. 
401,  in  the  ambitious  attempt  to  dethrone  his  bro- 
ther Artaxerxes,  Aspasia  was  taken  prisoner  and 
brought  before  the  conqueror.  Artaxerxes  treated 
her  with  the  greatest  attention,  and  made  her  the 
first  among  his  women,  although  he  could  not 
marry  her,  as  his  wife  Statira  was  still  living.  He 
ordered  her  to  be  clothed  in  magnificent  apparel, 
and  to  be  sumptuously  lodged ;  but  it  was  long 
before  his  attentions  or  kindness  could  efface  the 
memory  of  Cyrus,  whom  she  had  tenderly  loved. 
She  showed  the  utmost  indifference,  through  her 
whole  life,  to  her  own  personal  aggrandizement, 
and  would  seldom  accept  any  present  which  she 
did  not  need.  On  one  occasion  Cyrus  had  sent 
her  a  chain  of  gold,  remarking  that  "  It  was  wor- 

27 


AT 


BE 


thy  the  wife  of  a  king ;"  but  she  requested  him  to 
send  it  to  his  mother  Parysatis.  Tliis  so  pleased 
Parysatis,  that  she  sent  Aspasia  many  grand  pre- 
sents and  a  large  sum  of  gold,  all  of  which  Aspasia 
gave  to  Cyrus,  after  praising  the  generosity  of  his 
mother. 

"It  may  be  of  service  to  you,"  said  she,  "who 
ai'e  my  riches  and  ornament." 

ATHALIAH, 

The  daughter  of  Ahab  king  of  Samaria,  and 
of  Jezebel,  daughter  of  Ethbaal  king  of  the  Si- 
donians,  was  wife  of  Jehoram,  king  of  Judah, 
who  walked  in  the  idolatrous  ways  of  the  house 
of  Ahab.  Jehoram  died  in  the  year  B.  C.  885, 
and  the  kingdom  devolved  on  Ahaziah  their  son. 
Ahaziah  reigned  only  one  year,  and  on  his  un- 
timely death,  Athaliah  '  arose  and  slew  all  the 
seed-royal  of  the  house  of  Judah,'  although  they 
were  her  grand-children,  and  ascended  the  throne 
B.  C.  884,  and  reigned  six  years.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  Joash,  a  son  of  Ahaziah,  who  had  been 
concealed  six  years  in  the  temple  by  his  aunt  Je- 
hosheba,  the  wife  of  Jehoida  the  high-priest,  was 
produced  by  Jehoida  before  the  priests  and  sol- 
diers, and  anointed  king.  Athaliah  hastened  to 
the  temple  and  attempted  to  excite  a  reaction  in 
her  own  favoiu-  by  raising  a  cry  of  treason,  but  in 
vain,  for  Jehoida  gave  instant  orders  that  she 
should  be  removed  from  the  sacred  enclosure  and 
slain.  This  command  was  immediately  obeyed, 
B.  C.  878.  The  discovery  of  Joash  is  the  subject 
of  a  tragedy  by  Racine,  written  by  command  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon. 

AXIOTHEA, 

A  FEMALE  philosopher  of  the  age  of  Plato,  whose 
lectures  she  attended  in  male  attire. 


B. 

BATHSHEBA,  or  BATHCHUAH, 

Daugiitee,  of  Eliam  Ammiel,  was  wife  of  Uriah 
the  Hittite.  While  her  husband  was  absent  at  the 
siege  of  Rabbah,  David,  king  of  Israel,  accident- 
ally saw  her  and  fell  violently  in  love  with  her. 
In  consequence  of  this,  he  contrived  the  death  of 
her  husband,  and  married  her.  Bathsheba's  eldest 
child  by  David  died,  but  she  bore  four  others  to 
him,  of  whom  Solomon  and  Nathan  are  reckoned 
in  the  genealogy  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Bathsheba  is  represented  as  very  beautiful ; 
and  she  must  have  been  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
powers  of  mind,  as  she  exercised  over  her  hus- 
band, king  David,  such  paramount  influence. 
Though  he  had,  by  his  other  wives,  several  sons 
older  than  Solomon,  and  Adonijah  seems  to  have 
been  his  favourite,  yet  she  induced  him  to  promise 
that  Solomon  her  son  should  succeed  to  the  throne. 
The  scene  in  David's  death-chamber,  when,  at  her 
appeal,  the  old  king  calls  back,  as  it  were,  the  full 
powers  of  his  strong  mind  to  give  her  again  the 
solemn  promise  that  her  son  shall  reign,  is  suffi- 
cient confirmation  of  her  influence.  After  David's 
death  she  was  treated  with  profound  reverence  by 


her  son,  king  Solomon.  The  period  of  her  death  is 
not  recorded ;  but  the  last  time  she  is  mentioned, 
when  she  "  sat  on  the  right  hand"  of  her  son,  who 
was  "  on  his  throne,"  was  about  B.  C.  1012. 

BAUCIS, 
A  Phrygian  woman,  wife  of  Philemon,  who  re- 
ceived Jupiter  and  Mercury  kindly,  after  these 
gods  had  been  denied  hospitality  in  the  whole 
country,  while  travelling  in  disguise.  A  deluge 
afterwards  destroyed  all  but  Philemon  and  Bau- 
cis, who  entreated  the  gods  to  make  their  cot- 
tage a  temple,  in  which  they  could  officiate  as 
priest  and  priestess,  and  that  they  might  die 
together.  Both  of  these  requests  were  granted. 
Their  story  has  been  a  favourite  theme  of  poetry. 

BERENICE  (1), 
One  of  the  four  wives  of  Ptolemy  I.,  the  found- 
er of  the  dynasty  of  the  LagidiB  in  Egypt,  and 
the  mother  of  Ptolemy  II.,  called  Philadelphus. 
She  had  another  son,  Magas,  by  a  former  husband, 
who  was  afterwards  king  of  Cyrene. 

BERENICE  (2), 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Ptolcmy  II.,  Philadelphus,  and 
sister  of  Ptolemy  III.,  Euergetes.  She  was  mar- 
ried to  Antiochus  II.,  king  of  Syria,  who  divorced 
his  wife  Laodice  on  the  occasion.  But  after  the 
death  of  Philadelphus,  Antiochus  divorced  Bere- 
nice and  took  back  Laodice,  who,  enraged  at  her 
husband's  having  married  Berenice,  murdered 
them  both,  as  well  as  a  son  Berenice  had  by  An- 
tiochus, B.  C.  248. 

BERENICE  (3), 
The  daughter  of  Ptolemy  Philadelphus  and 
Arsinoe,  married  her  brother  Euergetes.  Being 
passionately  attached  to  him,  she  made  a  vow  to 
consecrate  her  beautiful  locks  to  Venus,  in  case 
of  his  safe  retirrn  from  a  dangerous  expedition. 
He  came  home  iinhurt,  and  she  performed  her 
vow ;  but  some  time  after,  the  hair  disappeared 
from  the  temple,  and  Conon,  the  astronomer,  pub- 
lished that  they  had  been  placed  among  the  stars ; 
and  he  gave  to  a  constellation  the  name  of  Bere- 
nice's hair,  which  it  still  retains.  She  was  put  to 
death  by  her  own  son,  B.  C.  221. 

BERENICE   (4), 

Sometimes  called  Cleopatra,  was  the  only  legi- 
timate child  of  Ptolemy  VIII.  (Soter  II.),  reigned 
six  months,  and  was  then  murdered  by  her  hus- 
band, Alexander  II.,  to  whom  she  had  been  mar- 
ried only  nineteen  days. 

BERENICE  (5), 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Ptolcmy  IX.,  Auletes,  who  began 
to  reign  in  Egypt  B.  C.  81,  was  sister  of  the  cele- 
brated Cleopatra.  AVhile  her  father  was  at  Rome, 
from  B.  C.  58  to  B.  C.  55,  Berenice  was  made  re- 
gent; but  on  the  restoration  of  Auletes,  he  put  his 
daughter  to  death.  Berenice  first  married  Seleu- 
cus,  whom,  it  is  said,  she  caused  to  be  strangled ; 
and  afterwards,  Archelaus,  who  was  also  put  to 
death  by  Auletes. 

28 


BE 


CA 


BERENICE   (6), 

Of  Chios,  one  of  the  wives  of  Mithridates  Eupa- 
tor,  king  of  Pontus,  J3.  C.  123,  generally  called 
Mithridates  the  Great,  was  put  to  death  by  his 
command,  together  with  his  other  wives,  lest  they 
should  fall  into  the  hands  of  his  conqueror,  Lu- 
cullus. 

BERENICE    (7), 

Daughter  of  Costoborus  and  Salome,  Herod  the 
Great's  sister,  was  married  first  to  her  cousin 
Aristobulus,  son  of  Herod  and  Mariamne.  He, 
belonging  to  the  Asmonean  race,  and  having  a 
brother  who  married  the  daughter  of  Archelaus, 
king  of  Cappadocia,  often  upbraided  Berenice  that 
he  had  married  below  himself  in  wedding  her. 
Berenice  related  these  discourses  to  her  mother, 
and  exasperated  her  so  furiously  that  Salome,  who 
had  great  influence  over  her  brother  Herod,  made 
him  suspicious  of  Aristobulus,  and  caused  him  to 
order  the  murder  of  his  own  son.  Berenice  mar- 
ried again ;  and,  having  lost  her  second  husband, 
went  to  Rome,  and  got  into  the  favour  of  Augus- 
tus ;  and  also  of  Antonia,  wife  of  Drusus,  son  of 
Augustus,  which,  in  the  end,  proved  of  great  ser- 
vice to  Herod  Agrippa,  her  son  by  Aristobulus. 


c. 

CALPURNIA, 

Daughter  of  Lucius  Piso,  of  an  ancient  and  an 
honourable  family  in  Rome,  married  Ceesar,  after 
his  divorce  fi'om  his  third  wife,  Pompeia.  In  her, 
Caesar  found  a  wife  such  as  he  desired,  whose 
propriety  of  conduct  placed  her  "above  suspi- 
cion." To  her  virtues  she  added  beauty,  talents, 
prudence,  an  extraordinary  eloquence,  and  a  gen- 
erosity and  magnanimity  of  mind  truly  Roman. 
Unmoved  by  all  reverses  of  fortune,  she  showed 
herself  equally  dignified  when  wife  to  CsBsar,  sena- 
tor of  Rome,  as  when  consort  to  the  master  of  the 
■world.  Warned,  as  she  thought,  in  a  dream,  of 
her  husband's  fate,  she  entreated  him  not  to  leave 
his  hotise  on  the  ides  of  March ;  but,  urged  by  the 
conspirators,  he  disregarded  her  prayers,  and  was 
assassinated  before  his  return,  March  15th,  B.  C. 
44. 

Calpurnia,  superior  to  the  weakness  of  ordinary 
minds,  pronounced  publicly,  in  the  rostra,  the 
funeral  eulogium  of  her  husband  in  an  impressive 
and  eloquent  manner.  Having  declared  a  loss 
like  hers  to  be  irreparable,  she  passed  the  re- 
mainder of  her  life  in  mourning,  secluded  in  the 
house  of  Mark  Antony,  to  whom  she  entrusted  the 
treasures  and  papers  of  Cffisar,  that  she  might  be 
the  better  enabled  to  avenge  his  death. 

CAMILLA, 

Daughter  and  successor  of  Metabus,  king  of  the 
Volsci,  and  ally  of  Turnus  in  his  contests  with 
iEneas  in  Italy.  She  was  killed  on  the  field  of 
battle.  She  is  celebrated  by  Virgil  for  her 
v.ilour. 


CARMENTA,    or  NICOSTRATA, 

An  ancient  poetess  of  Latium,  flourished  before 
the  foundation  of  Rome,  in  which,  afterwards,  di- 
vine honours  were  paid  her.  According  to  Diony- 
sius  of  Halicarnassus,  Carmenta  was  born  in  Arca- 
dia, where  she  was  known  by  her  name  of  Nicos- 
trata.  Her  son  Evander  being  implicated  in  an 
imintentional  homicide,  she  found  means  for  an 
emigration,  which  she  conducted  herself,  about  60 
years  prior  to  the  Trojan  war.  She  led  her  follow- 
ers into  Italy,  and  established  her  son  Evander  as 
king  of  that  country,  which  afterwards  contained 
Rome.  She  found  it  inhabited  by  a  savage  race, 
without  religion,  without  courtesy,  without  agri- 
culture. She  taught  them  to  sow  grain,  she  polished 
them  by  introducing  poetry  and  music ;  and  she 
built  their  first  temple,  and  lifted  their  thoughts  to 
a  superintending  Deity.  For  these  great  benefits 
she  was  revered  as  prophetess,  priestess  and 
queen,  and  received  her  celebrated  name  of  Car- 
menta, in  alhision  to  the  oracular  power  with 
which  she  was  supposed  to  be  gifted. 

That  she  was  a  woman  of  wonderful  genius  and 
a  remarkably  practical  mind,  there  can  be  little 
doubt ;  as  the  Romans  would  not  otherwise  have 
acknowledged,  for  such  a  length  of  time,  her 
talents  and  merits.  In  their  proudest  days,  the 
Romans  never  forgot  the  honours  due  to  the  bene- 
factress of  their  rude  ancestors.  Cicero  speaks 
of  an  ofiicer  in  his  day  called  Flamen  Carvientalis, 
who  had  charge  of  the  rites  instituted  Tjy  this 
ancient  prophetess.  Virgil  alludes  to  this  remark- 
able woman  in  the  eighth  book  of  the  ^Eneid : — 
Dehinc  progressus,  monstrat  et  aram, 


Et  Carmentalcm  Romano  nomine  portam, 

(iuam  memorant  NyinphiB  priscum  Cannentis  lionorem 

Vatis  fatidiCcE. 

It  is  supposed  to  be  from  her  name  that  verses 
were  named  Carmina  by  the  Latins.  She  was 
well  skilled  in  the  Greek  language,  and  of  extra- 
ordinary learning  for  the  age  in  which  she  lived. 

CASSANDRA. 
Daughter  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  was  regarded 
as  a  prophetess ;  and,  during  the  siege  of  Troy, 
uttered  various  predictions  of  impending  calami- 

29 


CA 


CL 


ties,  Tvhich  -were  disregarded  at  the  time,  but  veri- 
fied in  the  event.  During  the  plunder  of  Troy, 
B.  C.  1184,  she  took  refuge  in  the  temple  of  Mi- 
nerva, -where  she  -was  barbarously  treated  by  Ajax. 
In  the  division  of  the  spoil,  she  fell  to  the  lot  of 
Agamemnon,  -who  brought  her  home,  -where  she 
excited  the  jealousy  of  Clytemnestra.  In  conse- 
quence, Cassandra  and  Agamemnon  -were  both 
murdered  by  Clytemnestra  and  her  paramour. 
She  is  said  to  have  been  very  beautiful,  and  to 
have  had  many  suitors  in  the  flourishing  time  of 
Troy. 

CASSIOPEIA, 

Daughter  of  Arabus,  and  -wife  of  Cepheus,  king 
of  Ethiopia,  to  -whom  she  bore  Andromeda.  She 
dared  to  compare  her  daughter's  beauty  to  that 
of  the  Nereides,  -who  besought  Neptune  for  ven- 
geance. The  god  complied  by  laying  -waste  the 
dominions  of  Cepheus  by  a  deluge  and  a  sea- 
monster.  In  astronomy,  Cassiopeia  is  a  conspicu- 
ous constellation  in  the  northern  hemisphere. 

CECONIA,    or  CESENIA, 

Wife  of  Caligula,  emperor  of  Rome,  -was  killed 
by  Julius  Lupus,  A.  D.  41,  -while  -weeping  over  the 
body  of  her  murdered  husband.  When  she  saw 
the  assassin  approaching,  and  discovered  his  pur- 
pose, she  calmly  presented  her  breast  to  his  s-word, 
urging  him  to  finish  the  tragedy  his  companions 
had  begun.  Her  t-wo  daughters  died  by  the  same 
hand. 

CHARIXENA, 

A  VERT  learned  Grecian  lady,  -who  composed 
many  pieces  in  prose  and  verse.  One  of  her 
poems  is  entitled  "  Cromata."  She  is  mentioned 
by  Aristophanes. 

CHELIDONIS, 

Daughter  of  Leotychides,  and  grand-daughter 
of  Timoea,  -wife  of  Agis,  king  of  Sparta,  married 
Cleonymus,  son  of  Cleomenes  II.,  king  of  Sparta. 
Cleonymus  "was  disliked  by  the  Lacedemonians, 
on  account  of  his  violent  temper,  and  they  gave 
the  royal  authority  to  Atreus,  his  brother's  son. 
Chelidonis  also  despised  him  and  loved  Acrotatus, 
a  very  beautiful  youth,  the  son  of  Atreus.  Cleo- 
nymus left  Lacedremon  in  anger,  and  -went  to  so- 
licit Pyrrhus,  king  of  Epirus,  to  make  war  against 
the  Lacedsemonians.  PjTrhus  came  against  the 
city  with  a  large  army,  but  was  repulsed.  The 
Spartans,  on  his  approach,  had  resolved  to  send 
the  women,  by  night,  to  Crete  for  safety ;  but  Ar- 
chidamia  came,  sword  in  hand,  into  the  senate, 
complaining  that  they  were  thought  capable  of 
surviving  the  destruction  of  their  country.  The 
women  laboured  all  night  on  the  abutments,  with 
the  exception  of  Chelidonis,  who  put  a  rope  around 
her  neck,  resolving  not  to  fall  alive  into  the  hands 
of  her  husband.  Acrotatus  did  wonders,  and  was 
received  with  acclamations  on  his  return  as  a 
conqueror  to  the  city,  which  was  saved  chiefly  by 
the  patriotism  of  the  women,  inspired  by  Chelido- 
nis.    She  lived  about  280  B.  C 


CHELONIS, 

Daughter  of  Leonidas,  king  of  Sparta,  B.  C. 
491,  was  the  wife  of  Cleombrutus.  Her  father 
was  deposed  by  a  faction,  who  placed  Cleombrutus 
on  the  throne  in  his  stead.  Chelonis  refused  to 
share  her  husband's  triumph,  and  retired  with  her 
father  into  a  temple  in  which  he  had  taken  sanc- 
tuary. Leonidas,  some  time  after,  was  permitted 
to  retire  to  Tagea,  whither  Chelonis  accompanied 
him. 

A  change  occurring  in  the  feelings  of  the  popu- 
lace, Leonidas  was  restored,  and  Cleombrutus 
obliged  to  take  refuge,  in  his  turn,  in  the  sanc- 
tuary. Chelonis  now  left  her  father  for  her  hus- 
band. Leonidas  repaired,  with  an  armed  force, 
to  the  sanctuary,  and  bitterly  reproached  Cleom- 
brutus, who  listened  in  silence,  with  the  injuries 
he  had  received  from  him.  The  tears  of  Chelonis, 
who  protested  that  she  would  not  survive  Cleom- 
brutus, softened  Leonidas,  and  he  not  only  gave 
his  son-in-law  his  life,  but  allowed  liim  to  choose 
his  place  of  exile.  To  the  entreaties  of  Leonidas 
that  Chelonis  would  remain  -with  him,  she  returned 
a  resolute  refusal ;  and,  placing  one  of  her  chil- 
dren in  her  husband's  arms,  and  taking  the  other 
in  her  own,  she  went  with  him  into  banishment. 

CH 10  MAR  A, 

The  heroic  wife  of  Ortiagon,  a  Gaulish  prince, 
equally  celebrated  for  her  beauty  and  her  chas- 
tity. During  the  war  between  the  Romans  and 
the  Gauls,  B.  C.  186,  the  latter  were  entii-ely  de- 
feated on  Mount  Olympus.  Chiomara,  among -many 
other  ladies,  was  taken  prisoner,  and  committed 
to  the  charge  of  a  centm-ion.  This  centurion, 
not  being  able  to  overcome  the  chastity  of  the 
princess  by  persuasion,  employed  force  ;  and  then, 
to  make  her  amends,  offered  her  her  liberty,  for 
an  Attic  talent.  To  conceal  his  design  from  the 
other  Romans,  he  allowed  her  to  send  a  slave  of 
her  own,  who  was  among  the  prisoners,  to  her 
relations,  and  assigned  a  place  near  the  river 
where  she  could  be  exchanged  for  tlie  gold. 

She  was  carried  there  the  next  night  by  the 
centurion,  and  found  there  two  relations  of  her 
own,  with  the  gold.  While  the  centurion  was 
weighing  it,  Chiomara,  speaking  in  her  own  tongue, 
commanded  her  friends  to  kill  him,  which  they 
did.  Then  cutting  off  his  head  herself,  she  carried 
it  under  her  robe  to  her  husband,  Ortiagon,  who 
had  returned  home  after  the  defeat  of  his  ti-oops. 
As  soon  as  she  came  into  his  presence  she  threw 
the  head  at  his  feet.  Surprised,  as  he  might  well 
be,  at  such  a  sight,  he  asked  whose  head  it  was, 
and  what  had  induced  her  to  do  a  deed  so  uncom- 
mon with  her  sex  ?  Blushing,  but  at  the  same 
time  expressing  her  fierce  indignation,  she  de- 
clared the  outrage  that  had  been  done  her,  and 
the  revenge  she  had  taken.  Dtiring  the  remainder 
of  her  life,  she  strenuously  retained  her  purity  of 
manners,  and  was  treated  with  great  esteem. 

C  L  E  L I A , 

One  of  the  Roman  virgins  given  as  a  hostage  to 
Porsenna,  when  he  came  to  restore  the  Tarquins, 

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Stealing  from  his  camp  by  night,  she  crossed  the 
Tiber  on  horseback.  Porsenna  sent  to  demand 
her,  and  she  was  given  up  to  him ;  but  he  dis- 
missed her  with  her  companions  for  the  great 
esteem  he  had  of  her  virtue.  The  Senate  erected 
an  equestrian  statue  to  her. 

CLEOBULE,   or  CLEOBULINE, 

Daughter  of  Cleobulus,  prince  of  Lindos,  in 
Greece,  who  flourished  B.  C.  594,  was  celebrated 
for  her  enigmatical  sentences,  or  riddles,  composed 
chiefly  in  Greek  verse. 


CLEOPATRA, 

Was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Ptolemy  Auletes, 
king  of  Egypt.  On  his  death,  B.  C.  51,  he  left 
his  crown  to  her,  then  only  seventeen  years  old, 
and  her  eldest  brother  Ptolemy,  who  was  still 
younger,  directing  them,  according  to  the  custom 
of  that  family,  to  be  mai'ried,  and  committing 
them  to  the  care  of  the  Roman  Senate.  They 
could  not  agree,  however,  either  to  be  married  or 
to  reign  together ;  and  the  ministers  of  Ptolemy 
deprived  Cleopatra  of  her  share  in  the  govern- 
ment, and  banished  her  from  the  kingdom.  She 
retired  to  Syria,  and  raised  an  army,  with  which 
she  approached  the  Egyptian  frontier.  Just  at 
this  time,  Julius  Csesar,  in  pursuit  of  Pompey, 
sailed  into  Egypt,  and  came  to  Alexandria.  Here 
he  employed  himself  in  hearing  and  determining 
the  controversy  between  Ptolemy  and  Cleopatra, 
which  he  claimed  a  right  to  do  as  an  arbitrator 
appointed  by  the  will  of  Auletes ;  the  power  of  the 
Romans  being  then  vested  in  him  as  dictator.  But 
Cleopatra  laid  a  plot  to  attach  him  to  her  cause 
by  the  power  of  those  charms  which  distinguished 
her  in  so  peculiar  a  manner.  She  sent  word  to 
Caesar  that  her  cause  was  betrayed  by  those  who 
managed  it  for  her,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
come  in  person  and  plead  it  before  him.  This 
being  granted,  she  came  secretly  into  the  port  of 
Alexandria  in  a  small  skifi",  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening ;  and  to  elude  her  brother's  officers,  who 
then  commanded  the  place,  she  caused  herself  to 
be  tied  up  in  her  bedding  and  carried  to  Ccesar's 
apartment  on  the  back  of  one  of  her  slaves.  She 
was  then  about  nineteen  ;  and  though,  according 
to  Plutarch,  not  transcendently  beautiful,  yet  her 
wit  and  fascinating  manners  made  her  quite  irre- 
sistible. Her  eyes  were  remarkably  fine,  and  her 
voice  was  delightfully  melodious,  and  capable  of 
all  the  variety  of  modulation  belonging  to  a  musi- 
cal instrument.  She  spoke  seven  diflferent  lan- 
guages, and  seldom  employed  an  interpreter  in 


her  answer  to  foreign  ambassadors.  She  herself 
gave  audience  to  the  Ethiopians,  the  Troglodytes, 
Hebrews,  Arabians,  Syrians,  Medes,  and  Par- 
thians.  She  could  converse  on  all  topics,  grave 
or  gay ;  and  put  on  any  humour,  accoi-ding  to  the 
piu'pose  of  the  moment.  So  many  charms  capti- 
vated Ciesar  at  once ;  and  the  next  morning  he 
sent  for  Ptolemy  and  urged  him  to  receive  Cleo- 
pati-a  on  her  own  terms ;  but  Ptolemy  appealed  to 
the  people,  and  put  the  whole  city  in  an  uproar. 
A  war  commenced,  in  which  Ctesar  proved  victo- 
rious ;  and  Ptolemy,  while  endeavouring  to  escape 
across  the  Nile  in  a  boat,  was  drowned.  Csesar 
then  caused  Cleopatra  to  marry  her  younger  bro- 
ther, also  named  Ptolemy,  who,  being  a  boy  of 
eleven,  could  only  contribute  his  name  to  the  joint 
sovereignty.  This  mature  statesman  and  warrior, 
who  had  almost  forgotten  ambition  for  love,  at 
length  tore  himself  from  Cleopatra,  who  had  borne 
him  a  son,  Csesarion,  and  went  to  Rome. 

After  his  departure,  Cleopati-a  reigned  unmo- 
lested ;  and  when  her  husband  had  reached  his 
fourteenth  year,  the  age  of  majority  in  Egypt, 
she  poisoned  him,  and  from  that  time  reigned 
alone  in  Egypt.  She  went  to  Rome  to  see  Cajsar, 
and  while  there  lodged  in  his  house,  where  her 
authority  over  him  made  her  insolence  intolerable 
to  the  Romans.  His  assassination  so  alanned  her 
that  she  fled  precipitately  to  her  own  country, 
where,  out  of  regard  to  the  memory  of  Caesar, 
she  raised  a  fleet  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  the 
triumvirs,  but  was  obliged  by  a  storm  to  return. 

After  the  battle  of  Philippi,  Antony  visited 
Asia,  and,  on  the  pretext  that  Cleopati'a  had  fur- 
nished Cassius  with  some  supplies,  he  summoned 
her  to  appear  before  him  at  Tarsus,  in  Cilicia. 
Cleopatra  prepared  for  the  interview  in  a  manner 
suited  to  the  state  of  a  young  and  beautiful  east- 
ern queen.  Laden  with  money  and  magnificent 
gifts,  she  sailed  with  her  fleet  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Cydmis.  There  she  embarked  in  a  vessel  whose 
stern  was  of  gold,  sails  of  purple  silk,  and  oars 
of  silver  that  kept  time  to  a  concert  of  several  in- 
struments. She  herself  was  lying  under  a  canopy 
of  cloth  of  gold,  dressed  like  Venus  rising  out  of 
the  sea ;  about  her  were  lovely  children  like  Cupids 
fanning  her ;  the  handsomest  of  her  women,  ha- 
bited like  Nereids  and  Graces,  were  leaning  on 
the  sides  and  shrouds  of  the  vessel ;  the  sweets 
that  were  burning  perfumed  the  banks  of  the 
river,  which  were  covered  by  crowds  of  people, 
shouting,  that  "  the  goddess  Venus  was  come  to 
visit  Bacchus  for  the  happiness  of  Asia;"  while 
Antony  sat  alone  and  vmattended. 

Cleopatra  succeeded  in  her  object;  Antony  be- 
came her  captive ;  and  the  impression  her  beauty 
and  splendour  had  made  on  him  was  completed 
and  rendered  durable  by  the  charms  of  her  society. 
Her  infliience  over  him  became  unbounded,  and 
she  abused  it  to  the  worst  purposes.  At  her 
request,  her  younger  sister,  Arsinoe,  was  assas- 
sinated ;  and  she  scrupled  no  act  of  injustice  for 
the  aggrandizement  of  her  dominions.  After 
Antonj'^  had  spent  a  winter  with  her  at  Alexan- 
dria, he  went  to  Italy,  where  he  married  Octavia. 
Cleopatra's  charms,  however,  drew  him  back  to 

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Egypt ;  and  when  he  had  proceeded  on  his  expe- 
dition against  Parthia,  he  sent  for  her  into  Syria, 
•where  she  rendered  him  odious  by  the  cruelties 
and  oppressions  she  urged  him  to  practice.  After 
his  return,  he  bestowed  upon  her  many  provinces, 
by  which  he  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  Roman 
people.  When  the  civil  war  broke  out  between 
Antony  and  Octavianus,  afterwards  Augustus  Cae- 
sar, emperor  of  Rome,  Cleopatra  accompanied 
Antony,  and  added  sixty  ships  to  his  navy.  It 
was  by  her  persuasion  that  the  deciding  battle 
was  fought  by  sea,  at  Actium.  She  commanded 
her  own  fleet ;  but  her  corn-age  soon  failed  her, 
and  before  the  danger  reached  her  she  fled,  fol- 
lowed by  the  whole  squadron  and  the  infatuated 
Antony,  who,  however,  was  very  angry  with  Cleo- 
patra on  this  occasion,  and  remained  three  days 
without  seeing  her.  He  was  at  length  reconciled 
to  her,  and,  on  the  approach  of  Octavianus,  they 
both  sent  publicly  to  treat  with  him  ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  Cleopatra  gave  her  ambassadors  pri- 
vate instructions  for  negotiating  with  him  sepa- 
rately. Hoping  to  secure  the  kingdom  of  Egypt 
for  herself  and  her  children,  she  promised  to  put 
it  into  the  hands  of  Octavianus  ;  and,  as  a  pledge 
for  the  performance,  she  delivered  up  to  him  the 
important  city  of  Pelusium. 

Near  the  temple  of  Isis  she  had  built  a  tower, 
which  she  designed  for  her  sepulchre ;  and  into 
this  was  carried  all  her  treasures,  as  gold,  jewels, 
pearls,  ivory,  ebony,  cinnamon,  and  other  precious 
woods ;  it  was  also  filled  with  torches,  faggots, 
and  tow,  so  that  it  could  be  easily  set  on  fire. 
To  this  tower  she  retired  after  the  last  defeat  of 
Antony,  and  on  the  approach  of  Octavianus;  and 
when  Antony  gave  himself  the  mortal  stab,  he  was 
carried  to  the  foot  of  the  tower,  and  drawn  up 
into  it  by  Cleopatra  and  her  women,  where  he  ex- 
pired in  her  arms. 

Octavianus,  who  feared  lest  Cleopatra  should 
burn  herself  and  all  her  treasures,  and  thus  avoid 
falling  into  his  hands  and  gracing  his  triumphal 
entry  into  Rome,  sent  Proculus  to  employ  all  his 
art  in  obtaining  possession  of  her-  person ;  which 
he  managed  to  do  by  stealing  in  at  one  of  the 
windows.  When  Cleopatra  saw  him,  she  attempted 
to  kill  herself ;  but  Procidus  prevented  her,  and 
took  from  her  every  weapon  with  which  she  might 
commit  such  an  act.  She  then  resolved  to  starve 
herself;  but  her  children  were  threatened  with 
death  if  she  persisted  in  the  attempt.  When  Oc- 
tavianus came  to  see  her,  she  attempted  to  capti- 
vate him,  but  unsuccessfully ;  she  had,  however, 
gained  the  heart  of  his  friend,  Dolabella,  who  gave 
her  private  notice  that  she  was  to  be  carried  to 
Rome  within  three  days,  to  take  a  part  in  the 
triumph  of  Octavianus.  She  had  an  asp,  a  small 
serpent,  whose  bite  is  said  to  induce  a  kind  of 
lethargy  and  death  without  pain,  brought  to  her 
in  a  basket  of  figs ;  and  the  guards  who  were  sent 
to  secure  her  person,  found  her  lying  dead  on  a 
couch,  dressed  in  her  royal  robes,  with  one  of  her 
women  dead  at  her  feet,  and  the  other  expiring. 
The  victor,  though  greatly  disappointed,  buried 
her,  with  much  magnificence,  in  the  tomb  with 
Antony,  as  she  had  requested.     She  was  in  her 


thirty-ninth  year  at  the  time  of  her  death ;  she 
left  two  sons  and  a  daughter  by  Antony,  whom 
she  had  married  after  his  divorce  from  Octavia, 
besides  her  son  by  Csesar,  whom  Octavianus  put 
to  death  as  a  rival.  With  her  terminated  the 
family  of  Ptolemy  Lagus,  and  the  monarchy  of 
Egypt,  which  was  thenceforth  a  Roman  province. 
Cleopatra  was  an  object  of  great  dread  and  abhor- 
rence to  the  Romans,  who  detested  her  as  the 
cause  of  Antony's  divorce  from  Octavia,  and  the 
subsequent  civil  war.  Her  ambition  was  as  un- 
bounded as  her  love  of  pleasure  ;  and  her  usual 
oath  was,  "So  may  I  give  law  in  the  capitol." 
Her  temper  was  imperious,  and  she  was  bound- 
lessly profuse  in  her  expenditures ;  nor  did  she 
ever  hesitate  to  sacrifice,  when  it  suited  her  own 
interest,  all  the  decorums  of  her  rank  and  sex. 
But  we  must  remember,  also,  that  she  lived  in  an 
age  of  crime.  She  was  better  than  the  men  her 
subtle  spirit  subdued, — for  she  was  true  to  her 
country.  Never  was  Egypt  so  rich  in  wealth, 
power  and  civilization,  as  under  her  reign.  She 
reconstructed  the  precious  library  of  her  capital ; 
and  when  the  wealth  of  Rome  was  at  her  com- 
mand, prospered  by  the  dissolute  Antony,  who 
thought  her  smiles  cheaply  bought  at  the  price  of 
the  Roman  empire,  Cleopatra  remarked, — "  The 
treasures  I  want  are  two  hundred  thousand  vo- 
lumes from  Perganms,  for  my  libraj-y  of  Alex- 
andria." 

Her  children,  by  Antony,  were  carried  to  Rome, 
to  grace  the  triumph  of  Octavianus.  Octavia, 
Antony's  repudiated  wife,  took  charge  of  them ; 
and  Cleopatra,  the  daughter,  was  afterwards  mar- 
ried to  Juba,  king  of  Mauritania. 

CLYTEMNESTRA 

Was  the  daughter  of  Tyndarus,  king  of  Sparta, 
and  Leda,  and  twin-sister  of  Helen.  She  bore 
her  husband,  Agameriinon,  two  daughters,  Sphi- 
genia  and  Electra,  and  one  son,  Orestes.  During 
the  absence  of  Agamemnon,  in  his  wars  against 
Troy,  she  became  enamoured  of  jEgisthus,  and 
assisted  him  to  murder  Agamemnon  on  his  return. 
She  then,  together  with  ^Egisthus,  governed  My- 
cene  for  seven  years.  Orestes,  at  length,  killed 
them  both. 

CORINNA, 

A  POETESS,  to  whom  the  Greeks  gave  the  appel- 
lation of  the  Lyric  Muse,  was  a  native  of  Tanagra, 
in  Boeotia.  She  flourished  in  the  fifth  century  B. 
C,  and  was  a  contemporary  of  Pindar,  from  whom 
she  five  times  won  the  prize  in  poetical  contests. 
Her  fellow-citizens  erected  a  tomb  to  her  in  the 
most  frequented  part  of  their  city.  Only  a  few 
fragments  of  her  works  are  extant.  She  did  jus- 
tice to  the  superiority  of  Pindar's  genius,  but  ad- 
vised him  not  to  suffer  his  poetical  oi'naments  to 
intrude  so  often,  as  they  smothered  the  principal 
subject ;  comparing  it  to  pouring  a  vase  of  flowers 
all  at  once  on  the  ground,  when  their  beauty  and 
excellence  could  only  be  observed  in  proportion  to 
their  rarity  and  situation.  Her  glory  seems  to 
have  been  established  by  the  public  memorial  of 
her   picture,  exhibited   in   her   native    city,  and 


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adorned  ■with  a  symbol  of  her  victory.  Paus.inias, 
■who  saw  it,  supposes  her  to  have  been  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  ■women  of  her  age ;  and  observes 
that  her  personal  charms  probably  rendered  her 
judges  partial, — a  very  masculine  idea. 

CORINNA,  or  CRINNA, 

Of  the  Isle  of  Telos,  lived  about  B.  C.  610.  She 
■wrote  a  fine  poem  in  the  Doric  language,  consist- 
ing of  three  hundred  verses.  Her  style  is  said  to 
have  resembled  that  of  Homer.  She  died  at  the 
age  of  nineteen. 

CORNELIA, 

The  mother  of  the  Gracchi.     In  this  lady  every 
circumstance  of  birth,  life,,  and  character,  con- 
spired to  give  her  a  glo^wing  and  ever-living  page 
in   history.     Two   thousand   years    have   passed 
away,  and  yet  her  name  stands  out  as  freshly,  as 
if  she  had  been  cotemporaneous  with  Elizabeth 
and  Mary.     She  ■was  the  daughter  of  Scipio  Afri- 
canus,  the  conqueror  of  Hannibal.     Such  descent 
could  hardly  have  received  an  addition  of  glory  or 
distinction.     But,  such  was  the  life  of  Cornelia, 
that  even  the  fame  of  Scipio  received  new  lustre. 
She  was  married  to  a  man,  who,  though  he  filled 
many  high  Roman  offices,  yet  derived  still  greater 
dignity   from    her   ■virtues.      This   was   Tiberius 
Gracchus,  the  grandson  of  Sempronius,  who  was 
eulogized  by  Cicero  for  ■wisdom  and  ■virtue.     He 
was  thought  worthy  of  Cornelia,  and  the  event 
proved  that  one  was  as  remarkable  as  the  other, 
for  what  in  that  age  of  the  world  must  have  been 
deemed   the   highest  excellencies  of  the  human 
character.     Tiberius  died,  leaving  Cornelia  with 
-  twelve  children.     Her  character  was  such,  that 
Ptolemy  king  of  Egypt  paid  his  addresses  to  her, 
but  was  rejected.     She  devoted  herself  to  the  care 
of  her  house  and  children ;  in  which  she  behaved 
with  the  sweetest  sobriety,  parental  affection,  and 
greatness  of  mind.     During  her  widowhood,  she 
lost  all  her  children  except  three,  one  daughter, 
who  was  married  to  Scipio  the  younger,  and  two 
sons,  Tiberius  and  Caius  Gracchus.     Plutarch  re- 
marks, that  "Cornelia  brought  them  up  with  so 
much  care,  that  tliough  they  were  without  dispute 
of    the   noblest   family,    and   had    the    happiest 
geniuses  of  any  of  the  Roman  youth,  yet  educa- 
tion was  allowed  to  have  contributed  more  to  their 
perfections  than  nature."    This  remark  may  show 
in  forcible  colours  the  vast  influence  of  mothers  in 
the  education  of  youth.     It  is  certain  that  there 
is  no  natural  genius  which  may  not  be  improved 
by  education,  and  it  is  equally  certain  that  no 
human  being  can  have  as  much  influence  on  that 
education   as   the   mother.     When  a  Campanian 
lady  once  displayed  her  jewels  before  Cornelia, 
requesting  to  see  hers  in  return,  Cornelia  pro- 
duced her  two  sons,  saying,  "  These  are  all  the 
jewels  of  which  I  can  boast.". 

She  also  gave  public  lectures  on  philosophy  in 
Rome,  and  was  more  fortunate  in  her  disciples 
than  her  sons.  Cicero  says  of  her,  that,  "  Cor- 
nelia, had  she  not  been  a  woman,  would  have 
deserved  the  first  place  among  philosophers." 
Cornelia,  like  all  the  leading  women  of  Rome, 
C 


had  imbibed  the  heroic,  or  ambitious  spirit  of  the 
age.  She  is  said  to  have  made  remarks  to  her 
sons  which  seemed  to  spur  them  on  more  rapidly 
in  their  public  career.  The  result  was  not  very 
fortunate.  For  though  her  sons  sustained  the 
highest  name  for  purity  of  character  ;  though  they 
have  come  down  to  us,  distinguished  as  the  Gracchi, 
and  though  they  were  associated  with  the  popular 
cause,  yet  their  measures  were  so  revolutionary 
and  violent,  that  they  were  both  destroyed  in 
popular  tumults. 

Cornelia  sur^vived  the  death  of  her  sons,  which 
she  bore  ■with  great  magnanimity.  They  had  been 
killed  on  consecrated  ground,  and  of  these  places 
she  said,  that  "  they  were  monuments  worthy  of 
them."  She  lived  subsequently  a  life  of  elegant 
and  hospitable  ease,  surrounded  by  men  of  letters, 
and  courted  by  the  great.  We  cannot  have  a  bet- 
ter idea  of  the  close  of  her  life,  and  of  the  high 
estimation  in  which  she  stood,  than  by  the  very 
words  of  Plutarch.  This  ■writer  closes  the  lives  of 
the  Gracchi  with  the  following  account  of  Cornelia : 
"  She  took  up  her  residence  at  Misenum,  and 
made  no  alteration  in  her  manner  of  living.  As 
she  had  many  friends,  her  table  was  always  open 
for  the  purpose  of  hospitality.  Greek,  and  other 
men  of  letters  she  had  always  with  her,  and  all 
the  kings  in  alliance  with  Rome  expressed  their 
regard  by  sending  her  presents,  and  receiving  the 
like  civilities  in  return.  She  made  herself  very 
agreeable  to  her  guests,  by  acquainting  them  with 
many  particulars  of  her  father  Africanus,  and  of 
his  manner  of  living.  But  what  they  most  ad- 
mired in  her  was,  that  she  could  speak  of  her  sons 
without  a  sigh  or  a  tear,  and  recount  their  actions 
and  sufferings  as  if  she  had  been  gi^ving  an  account 
of  some  ancient  heroes.  Some  therefore  imagined 
that  age  and  the  greatness  of  her  misfortunes  had 
deprived  her  of  her  understanding  and  sensibility. 
But  those  who  were  of  that  opinion  seem  rather 
to  have  wanted  understanding  themselves ;  since 
they  know  not  how  much  a  noble  mind  may,  by  a 
liberal  education,  be  enabled  to  support  itself 
against  distress ;  and  that  though,  in  the  pursuit 
of  rectitude,  Fortune  may  often  defeat  the  pur- 
poses of  Virtue,  yet  Virtue,  in  bearing  afiliction, 
can  never  lose  her  prerogative." 

The  whole  life  of  Cornelia  presents  a  beautiful 
character ;  and  from  the  facts  which  have  come 
down  to  us  we  may  draw  these  inferences :  1.  Cor- 
nelia must  have  been  educated  in  a  very  superior 
manner  by  her  father.  For  in  no  other  manner 
can  we  account  for  her  knowledge  and  love  of  lite- 
rature ;  nor  for  the  fact,  that  while  yet  young  she 
was  regarded  as  worthy  of  the  most  virtuous  and 
noble  men  of  Rome.  2.  She  must  have  been, 
from  the  beginning,  a  woman  oi  fixed  principles  and 
undaunted  courage;  for,  in  no  other  manner  can 
we  give  a  solution  to  her  rejection  of  the  king  of 
Egypt,  her  unremitting  care  of  her  family,  the 
high  education  of  her  sons,  and  the  great  influence 
she  held  over  them.  3.  She  must  have  cultivated 
literature  and  the  graces  of  conversation ;  for,  how 
else  could  she  have  drawn  around  the  fireside  of 
a  retired  widow,  the  men  of  letters,  and  even  the 
compliments  of  distant  princes  ? 

33 


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From  all  this  we  may  draw  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  quite  possible  for  a  lady  to  be  a  woman  of 
letters,  and  yet  a  good  housekeeper,  a  good 
mother,  a  very  agreeable  companion,  and  a  useful 
member  of  society.  It  is  true,  that  all  women 
cannot  have  the  same  early  advantages,  the  same 
parental  care,  the  same  I'ich  opportunities,  and 
the  same  splendid  line  of  life.  Yet  how  few  are 
they  who  have  improved,  to  the  same  advantage, 
the  talents  with  which  they  have  really  been  en- 
dowed !  And,  yet  more,  how  few  are  the  fathers 
and  mothers  who  think  these  riches  of  the  immor- 
tal mind  at  all  equivalent  to  the  petty  accomplish- 
ments of  fashion  ?  Yet  it  is  these  high  qualities 
of  mind  alone  which  remain,  like  the  eternal  laws 
of  nature,  after  all  the  modes  of  fashion  and  the 
revolutions  of  time.  From  this  living  fountain 
flows  all  the  biibbling,  sparkling,  running  waters 
of  life.  It  overilows  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
life,  and  eni'iches  every  territory  of  distant  pos- 
terity. 

In  her  lifetime  a  statue  was  raised  to  her,  with 
this  inscription :  Cornelia  mater  Gracchorum.  She 
died  about  230  years  before  Christ. 

CORNELIA, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  Mctellus  Scipio,  who  married 
Pompey,  after  the  death  of  her  first  husband,  P. 
Crassus.  She  was  an  eminently  virtuous  woman, 
and  followed  Pompey  in  his  flight  to  Egypt,  after 
his  defeat  by  Cresar  at  Pharsalia,  B.  C.  48 ;  and 
saw  him  murdered  on  his  lauding.  She  attributed 
all  his  misfortunes  to  his  connection  with  her. 

CORNELIA, 

Daughter  of  Cinna,  and  first  wife  of  Julius 
Caesar.  She  became  the  mother  of  Julia,  Pom- 
pey's  wife,  and  was  so  beloved  by  her  husband 
that  he  pronounced  a  funeral  oration  over  her 
corpse. 

CRATESIPOLIS, 
A  QUEEN  of  Sicyon,  celebrated  for  her  valour, 
after  the  death  of  her  husband,  Alexander,  B.  C. 
314. 

CREUSA, 

Daughter  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  and  of  Hecuba 
his  wife,  married  ^Eneas,  by  whom  she  had  Asca- 
nius.  ^Vhen  Troy  was  taken,  B.  C.  1184,  she  fled 
in  the  night  with  her  husband ;  but  in  the  confu- 
sion they  were  separated,  and  ^neas  could  not 
recover  her.  Some  assert  that  Cybele  saved  her, 
and  that  Creusa  became  a  priestess  in  her  temple. 

CYNISCA, 

Daughter  of  Agesilaus,  king  of  Sparta,  B.  C. 
400,  was  celebrated  by  the  Lacedtemonians  for 
excelling  in  the  Olympic  games.  Her  brother,  to 
show  his  contempt  for  these  exercises,  with  diffi- 
culty persuaded  her  to  enter  the  lists ;  for  he 
thought  those  amusements  would  not  be  held  in 
estimation,  if  a  woman  could  obtain  the  prize. 


D. 

DA  MO 

Daughter  of  Pythagoras,  the  philosopher,  was 
one  of  his  favourite  disciples,  and  was  initiated  by 
him  into  all  the  secrets  of  his  philosophy.  Her 
father  entrusted  to  her  all  his  writings,  enjoining 
her  not  to  make  them  public.  This  command  she 
strictly  obeyed,  though  tempted  with  large  offers, 
while  she  was  struggling  with  the  evils  of  poverty. 
She  lived  single,  in  obedience  to  her  father's 
wishes,  and  exhorted  other  young  women,  whose 
education  she  took  charge  of,  to  do  the  same. 
She  was  born  at  Crotona,  in  Italy,  and  lived  about 
B.  C.  500. 

DAMOPHILA, 
Wife  of  Damophilus,  the  Grecian  philosopher, 
was  the  contemporary,  relation,  and  rival  of 
Sappho.  She  composed  a  poem  on  Diana,  and  a 
variety  of  odes  on  subjects  connected  with  the 
passion  of  love.  She  is  mentioned  by  Theophilus, 
in  his  life  of  Apollonius  Thayneus.  She  flourished 
about  B.  C.  610. 

DEBORAH, 

A  PROPHETESS  and  judge  in  Israel,  and  the  most 
extraordinary  woman  recorded  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment. She  lived  about  a  hundred  and  thirty  years 
after  the  death  of  Joshua.  The  Israelites  were  in 
subjection  to  Jabin,  king  of  the  Canaanites,  who 
for  twenty  years  had  "  mightily  oppressed  "  them. 
Josephus  says,  "No  humiliation  was  saved  them; 
and  this  was  permitted  by  God,  to  punish  them 
for  tlieir  pride  and  obstinacy ;"  according  to  the 
Bible,  for  their  "idolatry  and  wickedness."  In 
this  miserable  and  degraded  condition  they  were, 
when  "  Deborah,  a  prophetess,  the  wife  of  Lapi- 
doth,"  was  raised  up  to  be  the  "judge"  and  deli- 
verer of  her  people.  By  the  authority  God  had 
sanctioned,  in  giving  her  superior  spiritual  insight 
and  patriotism,  she  called  and  commissioned  Barak 
to  take  10,000  men  of  the  children  of  Naphthali  and 
of  Zebulun,  and  go  against  Sisera  and  his  host. 
According  to  Josephus,  this  armed  host  of  Ca- 
naanites consisted  of  300,000  infantry,  10,000 
cavalry,  and  3000  chariots ;  the  Bible  does  not 
give  the  number,  but  names  "  nine  hundred  cha- 
riots of  iron,"  and  the  army  as  "a  multitude." 
Barak  seems  to  have  been  so  alarmed  at  the  idea 
of  defying  such  a  host  of  enemies,  or  so  doubtful 
of  succeeding  in  gathering  his  own  army,  that  he 
refused  to  go,  unless  Deborah  would  go  with  him. 
Here  was  a  new  and  great  call  on  her  energies. 
She  had  shown  wisdom  in  counsel,  superior,  we 
must  infer,  to  that  of  any  man  in  Israel,  for  all  the 
people  "came  up  to  her  for  judgment;" — but  had 
she  courage  to  go  out  to  battle  for  her  country  ? 
The  sequel  showed  that  she  was  brave  as  Avise  ;  and 
the  reproof  she  bestowed  on  Barak  for  his  cow- 
ardice or  want  of  faith,  is  both  delicate  and  dig- 
nified. She  had  offered  him  the  post  of  military 
glory ;  it  belonged  to  him  as  a  man ;  but  since  he 
would  not  take  it,  since  he  resolved  to  drag  a 
woman  forward  to  bear  the  blame  of  the  insurrec- 
tion, should  the  patriot  elfort  fail;  the  "honour" 

34 


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of  success  ■would  be  given  to  a  "woman!"  And 
it  was.  But  Deborah's  spirit-stirring  influence 
so  animated  tlie  army  of  the  Israelites,  that 
the  numerical  force  of  the  Canaanites  was  of  no 
avail.  When  she  said  to  Barak,  "  Up  ;  for  this  is 
the  day  in  which  the  Lord  hath  delivered  Sisera 
into  thine  hand;"  her  battle-cry  inspired  him  with 
faith,  and  he  rushed  "down  from  Mount  Tabor, 
and  10,000  men  after  him."  "  The  Lord  discom- 
fited Sisera  and  all  his  chariots,  and  all  his  host;" 
being,  if  Josephus  is  right,  a  hundred  to  one 
against  the  little  army  of  Barak,  besides  the  "nine 
hundred  iron  chai'iots ;"  of  the  mighty  host  of 
Sisera,  not  a  man  escaped.  What  a  victory  to  be 
achieved,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  under  the  guid- 
ance of  a  woman !  After  the  battle  was  won  and 
Israel  saved,  then  Deborah,  who  had  shown  her 
wisdom  as  a  judge  and  her  bravery  as  a  warrior, 
came  forth  to  her  people  in  her  higher  quality  of 
prophetess  and  priestess,  and  raised  her  glorious 
song,  which,  for  poetry,  sublimity  and  historic  in- 
terest, has  never  been  exceeded,  except  by  the 
canticle  of  Moses.  It  is  true  that  Barak's  name 
is  joined  with  hers  in  the  singing,  but  the  wording 
of  the  ode  shows  that  it  was  her  composition ;  as 
she  tlius  declares, — "Hear,  0  ye  kings;  give  ear, 
0  ye  princes ;  I,  I,  will  sing  unto  the  Lord ;  I 
will  sing  to  the  Lord  God  of  Israel."  Then  she 
pathetically  alludes  to  the  wasted  condition  of  her 
country,  when  the  "  highw.ays  were  unoccupied, 
and  the  travellers  walked  through  by-ways." — 
"  The  villages  ceased,  they  ceased  in  Israel,  until 
that  I,  Deborah,  arose,  that  I  arose  a  mother  in 
Israel." 

How  beautiful  is  her  character  shown  in  the  title 
she  assumed  for  herself!  not  "Judge,"  '^Heroirie" 
"Pro2}hetess,"  though  she  was  all  these,  but  she 
chose  the  tender  name  of  "ilother,"  as  the  highest 
style  of  woman ;  and  described  the  utter  misery 
of  her  people,  as  arousing  her  to  nssume  the  high 
station  of  a  patriot  and  leader.  It  was  not  ambi- 
tion, but  love,  that  stirred  her  noble  spirit,  and 
nerved  her  for  the  duties  of  government.  She  is 
a  remarkable  exemplification  of  the  spiritual  in- 
fluence woman  has  wielded  for  the  benefit  of  hu- 
manity, when  the  energies  of  man  seemed  entirely 
overcome.  Her  genius  was  superior  to  any  re- 
corded in  the  history  of  th?  Hebrews,  from  Moses 
to  David,  an  interval  of  more  than  four  hundred 
years ;  and  scriptural  commentators  have  re- 
marked, that  Deborah  alone,  of  all  the  rulers  of 
Israel,  has  escaped  unreproved  by  the  prophets 
and  inspired  historians.  The  land  under  her 
motherly  rule  had  "rest  forty  years."  See 
"Judges,"  chapters  iv.,  v. 

The  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman,  in  his  "  History  of  the 
Jews,"  thus  comments  on  the  genius  of  this  ex- 
traordinary woman. 

"  Deborah's  hymn  of  triumph  was  worthy  of  the 
victory.  The  solemn  religious  commencement — 
the  picturesque  description  of  the  state  of  the 
country — the  mustering  of  the  troops  from  all 
quarters — the  sudden  transition  to  the  most  con- 
temptuous sarcasm  against  the  tribes  that  stood 
aloof — the  life,  fire,  and  energy  of  the  battle — the 
bitter  pathos  of  the  close — lyric  poetry  has  no- 


thing, in  any  language,  which  can  surpass  the 
boldness  and  animation  of  this  striking  production. 
But  this  hymn  has  great  historic  as  well  as  poetic 
value.  It  is  the  only  description  of  the  relation 
of  the  tribes  to  each  other,  and  of  the  state  of 
society  during  the  period  of  the  Judges.  The 
northern  tribes — Zebulun,  Issachar,  Naphthali — 
appear  in  a  state  of  insurrection  against  their 
oppressors :  they  receive  some  assistance  from 
Ejihraim,  Manasseh,  and  Benjamin.  The  pastoral 
tribes  beyond  Jordan  remain  in  unpatriotic  inac- 
tivity. Dan  and  Asher  are  engaged  in  their  mari- 
time concerns ;  a  curious  fact,  for  we  have  no  other 
intimation  of  any  mercantile  transactions  of  the 
Hebrews — as  these  expressions  seem  to  imply — 
earlier  than  the  reign  of  Solomon.  Of  Judah  and 
Simeon  there  is  no  notice  whatever,  as  if  they  had 
seceded  from  the  confederacy,  or  were  occupied 
by  enemies  of  their  own. 

Thus  sang  Deborah  and  Barak,  son  of  Abinoam, 

In  the  day  of  victory  thus  tliey  sang; 

That  Israel  hath  wrought  her  mighty  vengeance, 

That  the  willing  people  rushed  to  battle. 

Oh,  therefore,  praise  Jehovah! 

Hear,  ye  kings!  give  ear,  ye  princes! 
I  to  Jehovah,  I  will  lift  the  song, 
I  will  sound  the  harp  to  Jehovah,  God  of  Israel ! 
Jehovah!  when  thou  wentest  forth  fromSeir! 
When  thou  inarchedst  through  the  fields  of  Edom 
Quaked  the  earth,  and  poured  the  heavens. 
Yea,  the  clouds  poured  down  with  water: 
Before  Jehovahs  face  the  mountains  melted. 
That  Sinai  before  Jehovah's  face. 
The  God  of  Israel. 

In  the  days  of  Shamgar,  son  of  Anath, 

In  Jael's  days,  untrodden  were  the  highways. 

Through  the  winding  by-path  stole  the  traveller; 

Upon  the  plains  deserted  lay  the  hamlets, 

Even  till  that  I,  till  Deborah  arose. 

Till  I  arose  in  Israel  a  mother. 

They  chose  new  gods ; 

War  was  in  all  their  gates! 

Was  buckler  seen,  or  lance, 

'Mong  forty  thousand  sons  of  Israel? 

My  soul  is  yours,  ye  chiefs  of  I'srael ! 
And  ye,  the  self  devoted  of  the  people. 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  me ! 
Ye  that  ride  upon  the  snow- white  asses, 
Ye  that  sit  to  judge  on  rich  divans; 
Ye  that  plod  on  foot  the  open  way, 
Come  meditate  the  song. 

For  the  noise  of  plundering  archers  by  the  wells  of  water 
Now  they  meet  and  sing  aloud  Jehovah's  righteous  acts ; 
His  righteous  acts  the  hamlets  sing  upon  the  open  plains. 
And  enter  their  deserted  gates  the  people  of  Jehovah. 

Awake,  Deborah!    Awake! 

Awake,  uplift  the  song! 

Barak,  awake !  and  lead  thy  captives  captive 

Thou  son  of  Abinoam  ! 

With  him  a  valiant  few  went  down  against  the  mighty, 
With  me  Jeliovah's  people  went  down  against  the  strong 

First  Ephraim,  from  the  Mount  of  Amalek, 

And  after  thee,  the  bands  of  Benjamin  ! 

From  Machir  came  the  rulers  of  the  people. 

From  Zebulun  those  that  bear  the  marshall's  staff; 

And  Issachar's  brave  princes  came  with  Deborah, 

Issachar.  the  strength  of  Barak : 

They  burst  into  the  valley  on  his  footsteps. 

By  Reuben's  fountains  there  was  deep  debating— 
Why  sat'st  thou  idle,  Reuben, 'mid  thy  herd-stalls? 

35 


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Was  it  to  hear  the  lowing  of  thy  cattle  ? 

By  Reuben's  fountains  there  was  deep  debating^ 

And  Gilead  lingered  on  the  shores  of  Jordan— 
And  Daji,  why  dwelled  he  among  his  sliips? — 
And  Asher  dwelled  in  his  sea-shore  havens, 
And  sate  upon  his  rocks  precipitous. 
But  Zebulun  was  a  death-defying  people, 
And  Naphthali  from  off  the  mountain  heights. 

Came  the  king  and  fought. 

Fought  the  kings  of  Canaan, 

By  Taanach,  by  Meghklo's  waters, 

For  the  golden  booty  that  they  won  not. 

From  the  heavens  they  fought  'gainst  Sisera, 

In  their  courses  fought  their  stars  against  him : 

The  torrent  Kishon  swept  them  down, 

That  ancient  river  Kishon. 

So  trample  thou,  my  soul,  upon  their  might. 

Then  stamped  the  clattering  hoofs  of  prancing  horse 
At  the  flight,  at  the  flight  of  the  mighty. 

Curse  ye  Meroz,  saith  the  angel  of  tlie  Lord, 

Curse,  a  twofold  curse  upon  her  dastard  sons: 

For  they  came  not  to  the  succour  of  Jehovah, 

To  the  succour  of  Jehovah  'gainst  the  mighty. 

Above  all  women  blest  be  Jael, 

Heber  the  Kenite's  wife. 

O'er  all  the  women  blest,  that  dwell  in  tents. 

Water  he  asked — she  gave  him  milk, 
The  curded  milk,  in  her  costliest  bowl. 

Her  left  hand  to  the  nail  she  set. 
Her  right  hand  to  the  workman's  hammer- 
Then  Sisera  she  smote— she  clave  his  head  ; 
She  bruised — she  pierced  his  temples. 
At  her  feet  he  bowed;  he  fell;  he  lay; 
At  her  feet  he  bowfed  ;  he  fell; 
Where  he  bowed,  there  he  fell  dead. 

From  the  window  she  looked  forth,  she  cried. 
The  mother  of  Sisera,  through  the  lattice: 
"Why  is  his  chariot  so  long  in  coming? 
Why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot?" 
Her  prudent  women  answered  her — 
Yea,  she  herself  gave  answer  to  herself — 
"  Have  they  not  seized,  not  shared  the  spoil? 
One  damsel,  or  two  damsels  to  each  chief? 
To  Sisera  a  many-coloured  robe, 
A  many-coloured  robe,  and  richly  broidered. 
Many-coloured,  and  broidered  round  the  neck." 

Thus  perish  all  thine  enemies,  Jehovah; 

And  those  who  love  thee,  like  the  sun,  shine  forth, 

The  sun  in  all  its  glory.* 

DELILAH, 

Of  Sorek,  a  Philistine  woman,  who  enticed 
Samson  to  reveal  to  her  the  secret  of  his  superna- 
tural strength,  which  was  in  his  hair.  This  she 
caused  to  be  cut  off,  and  thus  delivered  him,  help- 
less, into  the  hands  of  his  enemies. 

The  history  of  Samson  is  the  history  of  the  tri- 
umphs of  womans's  spiritual  nature  over  the  phy- 
sical strength  and  mental  powers  of  man.  Sam- 
son's birth,  character  and  mission  were  first  re- 
vealed to  his  mother ;  the  angel  appearing  twice 
to  her  before  her  husband  was  permitted  to  see 
the  heavenly  messenger.  All  the  preparatory 
regimen  to  ensure  this  wonderful  son  was  ap- 
pointed as  the  mother's  duty;  and  when  the  angel 


*  "  In  the  above  translation  an  attempt  is  made  to  preserve 
something  like  a  rhythmical  flow.  It  adheres  to  the  original 
language,  excepting  where  an  occasional  word  is  but  rarely, 
inserted,  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity.' 


of  the  Lord  was  revealed,  the  man's  earthly  na- 
ture was  overwhelmed  with  fear;  the  woman's 
spiritual  nature  held  its  heavenly  trust  unshaken. 
The  arguments  of  the  wife,  to  comfort  and  sustain 
her  husband,  are  as  well-reasoned  as  any  to  be 
found  in  man's  philosophy. 

Next,  the  "woman  in  Timnath,"  the  wife  of 
Samson,  persuaded  him  to  tell  her  his  riddle  or 
enigma,  then  considered  a  remarkable  proof  of 
genius  to  make.  His  wisdom  was  weakness 
weighed  with  her  attractions.  But  his  great  phy- 
sical strength  remained  a  secret  still.  It  was  the 
especial  gift  of  God,  confided  to  him  that  he  might 
become  the  deliverer  of  his  nation.  Yet  this  en- 
dowment was  rendered  of  little  real  avail,  because 
he  devoted  it  to  unworthy  purposes,  either  to  gra- 
tify his  sensual  passions  or  to  escape  the  snares 
into  which  these  had  led  him.  The  last  trial  of 
his  strength,  mental  and  bodily,  against  the  sub- 
tlety of  the  woman's  spirit,  proved  her  superior 
power.  Delilah  conquered  Samson,  and  in  the 
means  she  employed  she  was  far  less  culijable 
than  he ;  because  she  was  his  paramour,  perhaps 
his  victim,  and  he  the  heaven-gifted  champion  of 
Israel.  Read  the  history  as  recorded  in  the  Bible, 
not  in  Milton's  "  Samson  Agonistes,"  where  the 
whole  is  set  in  a  false  light.  Delilah  was  not  the 
wife  of  Samson.  She  owed  him  no  obedience,  no 
faith.  But  his  strength  was  consecrated  to  God — 
he  was  the  traitor,  when  he  disclosed  the  secret. 
See  Judges,  from  chapters  xiii.  to  xvii.  These 
events  occurred  B.  C.  1120. 

DIDO,  or  ELISSA, 
A  Daughter  of  Belus,  king  of  Tyre,  who  mar- 
ried Sichseus  of  Sicharbas,  her  uncle,  priest  of 
Hercules.  Her  brother,  Pygmalion,  who  suc- 
ceeded Belus,  murdered  Sichceus,  to  get  possession 
of  his  immense  riches  ;  and  Dido,  disconsolate  for 
the  loss  of  her  husband,  whom  she  tenderly  loved, 
and  dreading  lest  she  should  also  fall  a  victim  to 
her  brother's  avarice,  set  sail,  with  a  number  of 
Tyrians,  to  whom  Pygmalion  had  become  odious 
from  his  tyranny,  for  a  new  settlement.  Accord- 
ing to  some  historians,  she  threw,  into  the  sea  the 
riches  of  her  husband,  and  by  that  artifice  com- 
pelled the  ships  to  fly  with  her,  that  had  come  by 
the  order  of  the  tyrant*to  obtain  possession  of  her 
wealth.  But  it  is  more  probable  that  she  carried 
her  riches  with  her,  and  by  this  influence  pre- 
vailed on  the  Tyrian  sailors  to  accompany  her. 
During  her  voyage  Dido  stopped  at  Cyprus,  from 
which  she  carried  away  fifty  young  women,  and 
gave  them  as  wives  to  her  followers.  A  storm 
drove  her  fleet  on  the  African  coast,  where  she 
bought  of  the  inhabitants  as  much  land  as  could 
be  surrounded  by  a  bull's  hide  cut  into  thongs. 
Upon  this  land  she  built  a  citadel,  called  Byrsa ; 
and  the  increase  of  population  soon  obliged  her 
to  enlarge  her  city  and  dominions. 

Her  beauty,  as  well  as  the  fame  of  her  enter- 
prise, gained  her  many  admirers  ;  and  her  subjects 
wished  to  compel  her  to  marry  Jarbas,  king  of 
Mauritania,  who  threatened  them  with  a  dreadful 
war.  Dido  asked  for  three  months  before  she 
gave  a  decisive  answer ;  and  during  that  tin  e  she 

36 


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erected  a  funeral  pile,  as  if  -wishing  by  a  solemn 
sacrifice  to  appease  the  manes  of  Sichajus,  to  whom 
she  had  vowed  eternal  fidelity.  When  all  was 
prepared,  she  stabbed  herself  on  the  pile  in  pre- 
sence of  her  people  ;  and  by  this  uncommon  action 
obtained  the  name  of  Dido,  or  "the  valiant  wo- 
man," instead  of  Elissa.  Virgil  and  others  repre- 
sent her  as  visited  by  ^Eneas,  after  whose  depart- 
ure she  destroyed  herself  from  disappointed  love  ; 
but  this  is  a  poetical  fiction,  as  iEneas  and  Dido 
did  not  live  in  the  same  age.  After  her  death, 
Dido  was  honoured  as  a  deity  by  her  subjects. 
She  flourished  about  B.  C.  980. 

DINAH, 

The  only  daughter  of  the  patriarch  Jacob.  Her 
seduction  by  prince  Shechem ;  his  honourable 
proposal  of  repairing  the  injury  by  marriage,  and 
the  prevention  of  the  fulfilment  of  this  just  inten- 
tion by  the  treachery  and  barbarity  of  her  bloody 
brethren  Simeon  and  Levi,  are  recorded  in  Gen. 
xxxiv.  But  every  character  in  the  Bible  has  its 
mission  as  an  example  or  a  warning,  and  Dinah's 
should  be  the  beacon  to  warn  the  young  of  her 
sex  against  levity  of  manners  and  eagerness  for 
society.  "She  went  out  to  see  the  daughters  of 
the  land ;"  the  result  of  her  %asit  was  her  own 
ruin,  and  involving  two  of  her  brothere  in  such 
deeds  of  revenge  as  brought  a  curse  upon  them 
and  their  posterity.  And  thus  the  idle  curiosity 
or  weak  vanity  of  those  women  who  are  always 
seeking  excitement  and  amusement,  may  end  most 
fatally  for  themselves  and  those  nearest  connected 
and  best  beloved.     Dinah  lived  B.  C.  1732. 

DIOTIMA, 

One  of  the  learned  women  who  taught  Socrates, 
as  he  himself  declared,  the  "divine  philosophy." 
She  was  supposed  to  have  been  inspired  with  the 
spirit  of  prophecy ;  and  Socrates  learned  of  her 
how  from  corporeal  beauty  to  find  out  that  of  the 
soul,  of  the  angelical  mind,  and  of  God.  She  lived 
in  Greece,  about  B.  C.  468. 


E. 

eg:^e, 

Queen  of  the  African  Amazons,  of  whom  it  is 
related,  that  she  passed  from  Lybia  into  Asia, 
with  a  powerful  army,  with  which  she  made  great 
ravages.  Opposed  by  Laomedon,  king  of  Troy, 
she  set  his  power  at  defiance  ;  and,  charged  with 
an  immense  booty,  retook  the  way  to  her  own 
country.  In  repassing  the  sea,  she  perished  with 
her  whole  army. 

ELECTRA, 

Daughter  of  Agamemnon  and  Clytemnestra, 
was  the  sister  of  Iphigenia  and  Orestes,  Her 
step-father  ^gisthus  would  not  allow  her  to  marry 
any  of  her  suitors  who  were  princes,  lest  her  child- 
ren should  avenge  the  murder  of  Agamemnon ; 
but  he  married  her  to  a  man  of  humble  rank  in 
Argos,  who  left  her  a  virgin.  At  the  time  of  her 
father'?  death  she  saved  her  brother  Orestes,  and 


afterwards  instigated  him  to  murder  iEgisthus 
and  Clytemnestra.  When  Orestes  was  tortured 
by  the  furies  on  account  of  these  murders,  Electra 
was  informed  by  the  oracle  of  Delphi  that  he  was 
slain  by  a  priestess  of  Diana ;  this  so  excited  her 
that  she  was  about  to  kill  Iphigenia,  who  had  just 
entered  the  temple  as  a  priestess  of  Diana,  with  a 
firebrand,  when  Orestes  appeared.  Electra  after- 
wards married  Pylades,  the  friend  of  Orestes. 

ERINNA, 

A  Grecian  lady  cotemporary  with  Sappho ; 
composed  several  poems,  of  which  some  fragments 
are  extant  in  the  "  Carmina  Novem  Poetanim  Scmi- 
namm,"  published  in  Antwerp,  in  1568.  She 
lived  about  B.  C.  595.  One  of  her  poems,  called 
"  The  Distaff,"  consisted  of  three  hundred  hexa- 
meter lines.  It  was  thought  that  her  verses  ri- 
valled Homer's.  She  died  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
unmarried. 

There  is  another  poetess  of  the  same  name  men- 
tioned by  Eusebius,  who  flourished  iu  the  year    ^ 
B.  C.  354.     This  appears  to  have  been  the  poetess 
mentioned  by  Pliny  as  having  celebrated  Myro  in 
her  poems. 

ESTHER, 

A  Jewish  maiden,  whose  great  beauty  raised 
her  to  the  throne  of  Persia,  whereby  she  saved 
her  countrymen  from  total  extermination.  Esther 
was  an  orphan,  brought  up  by  her  cousin  Morde- 
cai,  who  was  of  the  tribe  of  Benjamin,  the  great- 
grandson  of  Kish,  one  of  the  captives  taken  from 
Jerusalem  by  Nebuchadnezzar.  Mordecai  was 
probably  born  in  Babylon ;  but  he  was  a  devout 
worshipper  of  the  God  of  Israel.  He  had  adopted 
Esther  as  his  own  daughter; — and  when  after 
king  Ahasuerus  had  repudiated  his  first  queen 
Vashti,  and  chosen  the  "  fair  and  beautiful"  .Jew- 
ish maid,  then  her  uncle,  who  had  strictly  enjoined 
her  not  to  let  it  be  made  known  to  the  king  that 
she  was  a  Jewess,  left  Babylon  for  Susa,  where  he 
often  waited  at  the  gate  to  see  his  niece  and  hear 
of  her  welfare. 

About  this  time  Ahasuerus  passed  an  ordinance, 
importing,  that  none  of  his  household,  under  pen- 
alty of  death,  should  come  into  his  presence  while 
he  was  engaged  in  the  administration  of  justice. 
If,  however,  he  extended  the  golden  sceptre  to- 
wards the  intruder,  the  penalty  was  to  be  remit- 
ted. Not  long  after,  two  of  the  chamberlains  of 
the  king  conspired  against  him ;  the  plot  was  dis- 
closed to  Mordecai,  and,  through  the  medium  of 
Esther,  the  king  was  apprised  of  his  danger.  Mor- 
decai received  no  reward  for  this  service,  except 
having  the  transaction  entered  in  the  records  of 
the  state,  and  being  allowed  the  privilege  of  ad- 
mission to  the  palace. 

Haman,  an  Amalekite,  now  became  the  chief 
favourite  of  king  Ahasuerus  ; — Mordecai,  probably 
proud  of  his  Jewish  blood,  and  despising  the  base 
parasite,  refused  to  bow  down  to  him  in  the  gate, 
as  did  all  the  king's  servants.  This  affront,  so 
offensive  to  Haman's  pride,  determined  him  not 
only  to  destroy  Mordecai,  but  all  the  captive  Jews 
throughout  the  wide  dominions  of  king  Ahasuerus. 

87 


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The  favourite  made  such  representations  to  the 
king  concerning  the  Jews,  that  a  proclamation  for 
their  entire  destruction  was  promulgated. 

The  result  is  known  to  all  who  have  read  the 
*'  Book  of  Esther ;" — how  this  pious  and  beautiful 
woman,  trusting  in  heaven  and  earnestly  employ- 
ing her  own  influence,  succeeded  in  defeating  the 
malice  of  the  Amalekite ;  "  Haman  was  hanged 
on  the  gallows  he  had  prepared  for  Mordecai." 
The  relationship  of  Esther  and  Mordecai  was  made 
known  to  the  king,  who  gave  Haman's  office  to 
the  noble  Jew,  and  from  that  time  took  him  into 
his  confidential  service  and  promoted  him  to  the 
highest  honours.  Between  the  king  and  his  lovely 
wife  the  most  perfect  confidence  was  restored. 
Indeed  from  what  is  said  by  the  prophet  Nehe- 
miah,  who  wrote  some  ten  or  twelve  years  later, 
and  who  represented  the  queen  as  sitting  beside 
the  king  when  petition  was  made  concerning  the 
Jews,  we  must  infer  she  was  ever  after  his  coun- 
sellor and  good  angel. 

The  learned  are  not  agreed  who  this  Ahasuerus 
was ;  Josephus  asserts,  that  he  is  the  same  as  the 
Artaxerxes  Longimanus  of  profane  history ;  and 
the  Septuagint,  throughout  the  whole  book  of 
Esther,  translates  Ahasuerus  by  Artaxerxes.  In- 
deed the  great  kindness  shown  by  Artaxerxes  to 
the  Jews,  can  hardly  be  accounted  for,  except  on 
the  supposition  that  they  had  so  powerful  an  advo- 
cate as  Esther  to  intercede  for  them.  Some  wri- 
ters, however,  assert  that  he  is  the  same  as  Darius 
Hystaspes,  king  of  Persia,  B.  C.  521,  who  allowed 
the  Jews  to  resume  the  building  of  their  temple. 
But  whoever  the  Ahasuerus  of  this  history  might 
be,  its  interest  centres  in  Esther.  In  her  example 
the  influence  of  woman's  pious  patriotism  is  exhi- 
bited and  rewarded.  Esther  was  deeply  indebted 
to  Mordecai  for  his  care  and  zeal  in  her  educa- 
tion ;  still,  had  she  not  possessed,  and  exercised 
too,  the  highest  powers  of  woman's  mind — faith 
in  God,  and  love,  self-sacrificing  love  for  her  peo- 
ple— the  Jews  must  have  perished.  This  wonder- 
ful deliverance  has,  from  that  time  to  this — more 
than  twenty-three  centuries — been  celebrated  by 
the  Jews,  as  a  festival  called  "  the  days  of  Purim," 
or,  more  generally,  "Esther's  Feast."  This  great 
triumph  occurred  B.  C.  509. 

EURYDICE, 

An  Illyrian  lady,  is  commended  by  Plutarch, 
for  applying  herself  to  study,  though  already  ad- 
vanced in  years,  and  a  native  of  a  bai'barous  coun- 
try, that  she  might  be  enabled  to  educate  her 
children.  She  consecrated  to  the  muses  an  in- 
scription, in  which  this  circumstance  is  mentioned. 

EURYDICE, 
Wife  of  Amyntas,  king  of  Macedonia,  in  the 
fifth  century  before  Christ,  was  the  mother  of 
Alexander,  Perdiccas,  and  Philip,  father  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  and  of  one  daughter,  Euryone. 
From  a  criminal  love  she  had  for  her  daughter's 
husband,  she  conspired  against  Amyntas ;  but  he 
discovered  the  plot,  through  one  of  his  daughters 
by  a  former  wife,  and  forgave  her.  On  the  death 
of  Amyntas,  Alexander  ascended  the  throne,  but 


he  perished  through  the  ambition  of  his  mother, 
as  well  as  his  brother  and  successor,  Perdiccas. 
Philip,  who  succeeded  them,  preserved  his  crown 
from  all  her  attempts,  on  which  she  fled  to  Iphi- 
crates,  the  Athenian  general.  What  became  of 
her  afterwards,  is  not  known. 

EURYDICE, 

Wife  of  Aridceus,  the  natural  son  of  Philip, 
king  of  Macedonia,  who,  after  the  death  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  was  made  king  for  a  short  time. 
Aridaeus  had  not  full  possession  of  his  senses,  and 
was  governed  entirely  by  his  wife.  After  a  reign 
of  seven  years,  Ai-idaeus  and  Em-ydice  were  put 
to  death,  B.  C.  319,  by  Olympias,  mother  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  who  had  conquered  them. 

EVE, 

The  crowning  work  of  creation,  the  fii'st  woman, 
the  mother  of  our  race.  Her  history,  in  the  sacred 
Book,  is  told  in  few  words ;  but  the  mighty  conse- 
quences of  her  life  will  be  felt  through  time,  and 
through  eternity.  We  shall  endeavoui'  to  give 
what  we  consider  a  just  idea  of  her  character  and 
the  influence  her  destiny  exercises  over  her  sex 
and  race. 

The  Bible  records  that  "  the  Lord  God  formed 
man  of  the  dust  of  the  ground,  and  breathed  into 
his  nostrils  the  breath  of  life  ;  and  man  became  a 
living  soul."  Yet  he  was  not  perfect  then,  because 
God  said,  "It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone." 
Would  a  perfect  being  have  needed  a  helper? 
So  God  caused  a  deep  sleep  to  fall  upon  Adam ; 
and  while  he  slept  God  took  one  of  the  ribs  of  the 
man;  "And  the  rib  which  the  Lord  God  had 
taken  from  man,  made  he  a  woman,  and  brought 
her  unto  the  man.  And  Adam  said,  This  is  now 
bone  of  my  bones  and  flesh  of  my  flesh ;  she  shall 
be  called  woman,  because  she  was  taken  out  of 
man."  It  was  this  twain  in  imity,  to  which  allu- 
sion is  made  in  the  1st  chap,  of  Genesis,  27th  and 
28th  verses.  The  creation  is  there  represented 
as  finished,  and  the  "  image  of  God  was  viale  and 
female;"  that  is,  comprising  the  moral  excellen- 
ces of  man  and  woman ;  thus  united,  they  formed 
the  perfect  being  called  Adam. 

It  is  only  when  we  analyze  the  record  of  the 
particular  process  of  creation,  and  the  history  of 
the  fall,  and  its  punishment,  that  we  can  learn 
what  were  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  man  and 
woman  as  each  came  from  the  hand  of  God.  Thus 
guided,  the  man  seems  to  have  represented 
strength,  the  woman  beauty ;  he  reason,  she  feel- 
ing ;  he  knowledge,  she  wisdom  ;  he  the  material 
or  earthly,  she  the  spiritual  or  heavenly  in  human 
nature. 

That  woman  was  superior  to  man  in  some  way 
is  proven,  first,  by  the  care  and  preparation  in 
forming  her;  and  secondly,  by  analogy.  Every 
step  in  the  creation  had  been  in  the  ascending 
scale.  Was  the  last  retrograde  ?  It  must  have 
been,  unless  the  woman's  nature  was  more  refined, 
pure,  spiritual,  a  nearer  assimilation  with  the  an- 
gelic, a  link  in  the  chain  connecting  earth  with 
heaven,  more  elevated  than  the  nature  of  man. 
Adam  was  endowed  with  the  perfection  of  physi- 

38 


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cal  strength,  which  his  wife  had  not.  He  did  not 
require  her  help  in  subduing  the  earth.  He  also 
had  the  large  understanding  which  could  gi"asp 
and  comprehend  all  subjects  relating  to  this  world 

—  and  was  equal  to  its  government.  "He  gave 
names  to  all  cattle,  and  to  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and 
to  every  beast  of  the  field ;"  and  that  these  names 
were  significant  of  the  nature  of  all  the  animals, 
thus  subordinated  to  him,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
Still,  the  sacred  narrative  goes  on  —  "But  for 
Adam  there  was  not  found  any  help  meet  for  him ;" 
that  is,  a  created  being  who  could  comprehend 
him  and  help  him  where  he  was  deficient, — in  his 
spiritual  nature.   For  this  help  woman  was  formed, 

—  and  while  the  twain  were  one,  Adam  was  per- 
fect. It  was  not  till  this  holy  union  was  dissolved 
by  sin  that  the  distinctive  natures  of  the  masculine 
and  the  feminine  were  exhibited. 

Let  us  examine  this  exhibition.  Adam  and  his 
wife  were  placed  in  the  garden  of  Eden,  where 
grew  the  "  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil,"  the  fruit  of  which  they  were  forbidden  to 
eat  on  pain  of  death.  The  woman,  being  deceived 
by  the  serpent,  or  spirit  of  evil,  into  the  belief 
that  the  penalty  would  not  be  inflicted,  and  that 
the  fruit  would  confer  on  them,  the  human  pair, 
a  higher  degree  of  spiritual  knowledge  than  they 
then  possessed  —  "Ye  shall  be  as  gods,  knowing 
good  and  evil,"  was  the  promise  of  the  subtle 
tempter — "  she  took  of  the  fruit,  and  did  eat,  and 
gave  also  unto  her  husband  with  her,  and  he  did 
eat."  Such  is  the  precise  account  of  the  fall. 
Commentators  have  imputed  weakness  of  mind  to 
the  woman,  because  the  tempter  assailed  her. 
But  does  it  not  rather  show  she  was  the  spiritual 
leader,  the  most  difficult  to  be  won,  and  the  ser- 
pent knew  if  he  could  gain  her  the  result  was 
sure?  Remember  tliat  her  husband  was  "with 
her'^ — the  serpent  addressed  them  both — "Ye  shall 
be  as  gods,"  &c.  Now,  is  it  not  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  the  nature  (the  human  pair  was  then 
one,)  best  qualified  to  judge  of  these  high  subjects, 
would  respond?  The  decision  was,  apparently, 
left  to  her.  The  woman  led ;  the  man  followed. 
Which  showed  the  greatest  spiritual  power,  the 
controlling  energy  of  mind  ?  In  the  act  of  disobe- 
dience the  conduct  of  the  woman  displayed  her 
superior  nature.  The  arguments  used  by  the 
tempter  were  addressed  to  the  higher  faculties  of 
mind  as  her  predominant  feelings,  namely,  the 
desire  for  knowledge  and  wisdom.  With  her  these 
arguments  prevailed ;  while  man,  according  to  his 
own  showing,  had  no  higher  motives  than  gratify- 
ing his  sensuous  inclinations ;  he  ate,  because  his 
wife  gave  him  the  fruit.  Precisely  such  conduct 
as  we  might  expect  from  a  lower  nature  towards 
a  higher ;  compliance  without  reason  or  from  in- 
ferior considerations. 

We  next  come  to  the  trial  of  the  guilty  pair,  and 
their  sentence  from  the  mouth  of  their  Maker. 
Every  word  confirms  the  truth  of  the  position, 
that  woman's  moral  sense  was  of  a  higher  standard 
than  man's.  She  was  first  sentenced.  Meekly  and 
truly  had  she  confessed  her  fault ;  the  unerring 
sign  of  a  noble  spirit  betrayed  into  sin  when 
striving  for  glory.     Her  temporal  punishment  im- 


plied deep  affections  and  acute  sensibilities,  re- 
quiring endowments  of  a  spiritual  and  intellectual 
character.  She  was  to  suffer  "  sorrow"  for  her 
children,  and  be  subjected  to  the  rule  of  her  hus- 
band, to  whom  her  desire  "  shall  be  ;"  that  is,  her 
hopes  of  escaping  from  the  ignorance  and  infe- 
riority to  which  he  would  consign  her,  must  be 
centred  on  winning,  by  her  love,  gentleness  and 
submission,  his  heart ;  and  through  the  influence 
of  her  purer  mind,  infused  into  their  children, 
finally  spiritualize  his  harder  and  more  earthly 
nature.  Her  doom  was  sad,  but  not  degrading ; 
for  though  like  an  angel  with  wings  bound,  she 
was  to  minister  to  her  husband,  yet  a  promise  of 
wondrous  blessings  for  her  seed  preceded  her  sen- 
tence. Not  so  with  Adam.  He  had  shown  at 
every  step  that  his  mind  was  of  a  different  stamp. 
He  had  disobeyed  God  from  a  lower  motive  ;  and 
when  arraigned,  instead  of  humility,  he  showed 
fear  and  selfislmess.  He  sought  to  excuse  him- 
self by  throwing  the  blame  on  his  wife.  True,  he 
was  not  deceived.  His  worldly  wisdom  had  not 
been  dazzled  by  the  idea  of  gaining  heavenly  wis- 
dom, which  he  probably  did  not  covet  or  estimate 
as  she  did.  His  sentence  was  in  accordance  with 
his  character,  addressed  to  the  material  rather 
than  the  spiritual  in  human  nature.  Like  a  felon 
he  was  condemned  to  hard  labour  for  life,  on  the 
ground  cursed  for  his  sake.  And  he  was  further 
degraded  by  reference  to  his  origin — "from  the 
dust ;"  and  consigned  to  death  and  the  grave  !  Not 
a  ray  of  hope  was  given  the  man,  save  through 
the  promise  made  to  the  woman ! 

Does  it  not  mark  her  purer  spiritual  nature 
that,  even  after  the  fall,  when  she  was  placed 
under  her  husband's  control,  she  still  held  his  im- 
mortal destiny,  so  to  speak,  in  her  keeping  ?  To 
her  what  a  gracious  promise  of  future  glory  was 
given !  Her  seed  was  to  triumph  over  the  tempter 
which  had  deceived  her.  She  was  not  only  to  be 
delivered  from  the  power  of  the  curse,  but  from 
her  was  to  come  the  deliverer  of  her  earthly  ruler, 
man. 

After  the  sentence  was  promulgated,  we  find  in- 
stant acknowledgement  that  the  mysterious  union, 
which  had  made  this  first  man  and  wonjan  one 
being  in  Adam,  was  altered.  There  was  no  longef 
the  unity  of  soul ;  there  could  not  be  where  the 
wife  had  been  subjected  to  the  husband.  And 
then  it  was  that  Adam  gave  to  woman  her  specific 
name — Uve,  or  the  iMother. 

Thus  was  motherhood  predicated  as  the  true 
field  of  woman's  mission,  where  her  spiritual  na- 
ture might  be  developed,  and  her  intellectual 
agency  could  bear  sway ;  where  her  moral  sense 
might  be  effective  in  the  progress  of  mankind,  and 
her  mental  triumphs  would  be  won.  Eve  at  once 
comprehended  this,  and  expressed  its  truth  in  the 
sentiment,  uttered  on  the  birth  of  her  first-born, 
"I  have  gotten  a  man  from  the  Lord."  When 
her  hopes  for  Cain  were  destroyed  by  the  frater- 
cidal  tragedy,  she,  woman-like,  still  clung  to  the 
spiritual  promise,  transferring  it  to  Seth.  The 
time  of  her  death  is  not  recorded. 

According  to  Blair's  chronology,  Adam  and  Eve 
were  created  on  Friday,  October  28th,  4004  B.  C. 

39 


GL 


HA 


F. 
FLORA, 

A  FAMOUS  courtezan  of  Rome,  who  loved  Pom- 
pey  so  devotedly,  tliat  though  at  his  entreaties 
she  consented  to  receive  another  lover,  yet  when 
Pompey  took  that  opportunity  to  discontinue  his 
visits  entirely,  she  fell  into  such  despair  as  showed 
she  had  the  true  woman's  heart,  although  so  pol- 
luted by  her  degradation  that  its  holiest  feelings 
were  made  to  become  her  severest  tortures.  Flora 
was  so  beautiful  that  Cecilius  Metellus  had  her 
pictiu-e  drawn  and  kept  in  the  temple  of  Castor 
and  Pollux. 

FULVIA, 

An  extraordinary  Roman  lady,  wife  of  Marc 
Antony,  had,  as  Paterculus  expresses  it,  nothing 
of  her  sex  but  the  body ;  for  her  temper  and  cou- 
rage breathed  only  policy  and  war.  She  had  two 
husbands  before  she  married  Antony  —  Clodius, 
the  great  enemy  of  Cicero,  and  Curio,  who  was 
killed  while  fighting  in  Africa,  on  Cajsar's  side, 
before  the  battle  of  Pharsalia.  After  the  victory, 
which  Octavius  and  Antony  gained  at  Philippi 
over  Brutus  and  Cassius,  Antony  went  to  Asia  to 
settle  the  affairs  of  the  East.  Octavius  returned 
to  Rome,  where,  falling  out  with  Fulvia,  he  could 
not  decide  the  quarrel  but  with  the  sword.  She 
retired  to  Pra3neste,  and  withdrew  thither  the 
senators  and  knights  of  her  party;  she  armed 
herself  in  person,  gave  the  word  to  her  soldiers, 
and  harangiied  them  bravely. 

Bold  and  violent  as  Antony  was,  he  met  his 
match  in  Fulvia.  "  She  was  a  woman,"  says  Plu- 
tarch, "  not  born  for  spinning  or  housewifery,  not 
one  that  would  be  content  with  ruling  a  private 
husband,  but  capable  of  advising  a  magistrate,  or 
ruling  the  general  of  an  army."  Antony  had  the 
courage,  however,  to  show  great  anger  at  Fulvia 
for  levying  war  against  Octavius ;  and  when  he 
returned  to  Rome,  he  treated  her  with  so  much 
contempt  and  indignation,  that  she  went  to  Greece, 
and  died  there  of  a  disease  occasioned  by  her. 
grief. 

She  participated  with,  and  assisted  her  cruel 
nusband,  during  the  massacres  of  the  triumvirate, 
and  had  several  persons  put  to  death,  on  her  own 
authority,  either  from  avarice  or  a  spirit  of  re- 
venge. After  Cicero  was  beheaded,  Fulvia  caused 
his  head  to  be  brought  to  her,  spit  upon  it,  draw- 
ing out  the  tongue,  which  she  pierced  several 
times  with  her  bodkin,  addressing  to  the  lifeless 
Cicero,  all  the  time,  the  most  opprobrious  lan- 
guage. What  a  contrast  to  the  character  of  Octa- 
via,  the  last  wife  of  Marc  Antony ! 


a. 

G  L  A  P  H  Y  R  A , 

A  PRIESTESS  of  Bellona's  temple  in  Cappadocia, 
and  a  daughter  of  Archelaus,  the  high-priest  of 
Bellona,  is  celebrated  for  her  beauty  and  intrigue. 
Although  she  was   married   and   had  two  sons. 


Sisinna  and  Archelaus,  yet  she  fell  in  love  with 
Marc  Antony,  and  he  gave  her  the  kingdom  of 
Cappadocia  for  her  children.  This  infidelity  of 
Antony  so  displeased  his  wife  Fulvia,  that  she 
resolved  to  revenge  herself  by -taking  the  same 
course. 

Glaphyi-a  had  a  granddaughter  of  the  same 
name,  who  was  a  daughter  of  Archelaus,  king  of 
Cappadocia,  and  married  Alexander,  son  of  Herod 
and  Mariamne,  by  whom  she  had  two  sons.  After 
the  death  of  Alexander  she  married  her  brother- 
in-law  Archelaus. 


H. 

HAGAR, 

An  Egyptian  woman,  the  handmaid  of  Sarai, 
whom  she  gave  to  her  husband  Abram  as  a  concu- 
bine or  left-handed  wife.  Such  arrangements 
were  not  uncommon  in  those  old  times.  When 
the  honoured  wife  was  childless,  she  would  give 
her  favourite  slave  or  maid-servant  to  her  hus- 
band, and  the  children  born  of  this  connection 
were  considered  as  belonging  to  the  real  wife. 

It  had  been  promised  Abram  that  his  seed 
should  become  a  great  nation  ;  but  his  wife  Sarai 
had  borne  him  no  children.  She  was  nearly  eighty 
years  of  age  ;  her  husband  ten  years  older.  De- 
spairing of  becoming  herself  the  mother  of  the 
promised  seed,  she  would  not  stand  in  the  way  of 
God's  blessing  to  her  husband  —  so  she  gave  him 
Hagar.  It  was,  like  all  plans  of  human  device 
that  controvert  the  laws  of  God,  very  unfortunate 
for  the  happiness  of  the  parties.  Hagar  was  soon 
uplifted  by  this  preference  ;  and  believing  herself 
the  mother  of  the  promised  heir,  she  despised  her 
mistress ;  was  rebuked,  and  fled  into  the  wilder- 
ness. There  the  angel  of  the  Lord  met  her,  and 
commanded  her  to  return  to  Sarai,  and  be  sub- 
missive. Hagar  seems  to  have  obeyed  the  divine 
command  at  once ;  and  all  was,  for  a  time,  well. 
Ishmael  was  born,  and  for  twelve  years  was  the 
only  child,  the  pi'esumptive  heir  of  one  of  the 
richest  princes  of  the  East.  But  at  the  birth  of 
Isaac,  the  true  heir,  all  Hagar's  glory  vanished. 
The  bondwoman  and  her  son  were  finally  sent 
forth  from  the  tents  of  the  patriarch,  with  "  bread 
and  a  bottle  of  water."  Hagar  carried  these  on 
her  shoulder,  a  poor,  outcast  mother,  the  victim  of 
circumstances  and  events  she  could  not  change  or 
control.  But  God  hears  the  cry  of  afiliction,  and 
all  who  turn  to  Him  in  their  hearts  will  be  com- 
forted. Thus  was  Hagar  relieved ;  God  "opened 
her  eyes,  and  she  saw  a  well  of  water,"  when 
Ishmael  was  dying  of  thirst.  "  She  went  and  filled 
the  bottle  with  water,  and  gave  the  lad  drink." 
Mother-like,  she  never  thought  of  herself,  of  her 
own  sorrows  and  wants.  She  devoted  herself  to  her 
son,  who  became  the  "father  of  twelve  princes," 
the  progenitor  of  the  Arabs,  who,  to  this  day, 
keep  possession  of  the  wilderness  where  Hagar 
wandered  with  her  son  Ishmael.  Poetry  and  paint- 
ing have  made  this  scene  of  her  life  memorable. 
It  happened  B.  C.  1898. 

40 


HA 


HI 


HANNAH, 

Was  wife  of  Elkanah,  a  Levite,  and  an  inhabi- 
tant of  Ramah.  Her  history,  as  given  in  scrip- 
ture, is  very  brief,  but  full  of  interest  and  instruc- 
tion. Elkanah  had  another  wife,  as  was  not 
uncommon  among  the  Israelites,  a  practice  their 
law  tolerated  though  it  never  approved.  Hannah 
was  the  beloved  wife,  but  she  had  no  children ; 
and  her  rival,  who  had,  taunted  her  with  this 
sterility.  The  picture  of  this  family  gives  a  vivid 
idea  of  the  domestic  discord  caused  by  polygamy. 

Hannah  was  fervent  in  faith  towards  God,  and 
when  she  went  up  to  the  temple  to  worship,  prayed 
earnestly  for  a  son,  and  "wept  sore."  Eli  the 
priest  thought  she  wa^  drunken ;  but  on  her  expla- 
nation, blessed  her,  and  she  believed.  The  prayer 
of  Hannah  was  granted ;  she  bore  a  son,  and 
named  him  Samuel  —  that  is,  "asked  of  God." 
She  had  vowed,  if  a  son  were  given  her  to  "  lend 
him  unto  the  Lord,"  or  dedicate  him  to  the  service 
of  the  temple.  Her  tenderness  as  a  mother  is 
only  exceeded  by  her  faith  towards  God.  She 
nursed  her  son  most  carefully,  but  he  is  nursed 
for  God.  Her  zeal  and  piety  appear  to  have  been 
transfused  into  his  nature  ;  from  his  birth  he  was 
"in  favour  with  the  Lord,  and  also  with  men." 
No  wonder  he  was  chosen  to  be  among  the  most 
illustrious  of  God's  people.  The  last  of  her 
judges ;  the  first  of  a  long  line  of  prophets ;  emi- 
nent as  well  for  wisdom  in  the  cabinet  as  for 
valour  in  the  field ;  uncorrupted  and  incorruptible  in 
the  midst  of  temptations ;  Samuel's  name  stands 
distinguished  not  only  in  the  annals  of  Israel,  but  in 
the  history  of  all  our  race.  Grotius  has  compared 
him  to  Aristides,  others  to  Alcibiades,  and  all 
have  celebrated  his  lofty  and  patriotic  character. 
And  these  great  qualities,  these  wonderful  powers, 
directed  to  good  purposes,  were  but  the  appro- 
priate sequel  to  his  mother's  fervent  prayere  and 
faithful  training ;  and  God's  blessing,  which  will 
follow  those  who  earnestly  seek  it. 

HECUBA, 

Second  wife  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  and  mother 
of  Hector  and  Paris,  was,  according  to  Homer,  the 
daughter  of  Dymas ;  but  accoi'ding  to  Virgil,  of 
Cisseis,  king  of  Thrace,  and  sister  of  Theais, 
priestess  of  Apollo  at  Troy  during  the  war.  After 
the  capture  of  Troy,  B.  C.  1184,  she  attempted  to 
revenge  the  death  of  her  son  Polydorus,  and  was 
stoned  to  death  by  the  Greeks.  Some  say  that 
she  became  a  slave  to  Ulysses,  and  that  he  left 
her  in  the  hands  of  her  enemies,  who  caused  her 
to  be  stoned.  It  is  probable,  however,  that 
Ulysses  himself  was  the  cause  of  her  death ;  as 
it  is  recorded,  that  upon  his  arrival  in  Sicily,  he 
was  so  tormented  with  dreams,  that  in  order  to 
appease  the  gods,  he  built  a  temple  to  Hecate, 
who  presided  over  dreams,  and  a  chapel  to  Hecuba. 
Eui'ipides,  in  his  tragedy  of  "  Hecuba,"  has  im- 
mortalized this  unfortunate  mother  and  queen. 

HELEN, 

The  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  age,  was  the 
daughter  of  Tyndarus,  king  of  Sparta,  and  Leda, 


his  wife.  When  very  young  she  was  carried  off 
by  Theseus,  king  of  Athens,  a  celebrated  hero  of 
antiquity,  by  whom  she  had  a  daughter.  Not- 
withstanding this  her  hand  was  eagerly  sought, 
and  she  numbered  among  her  suitors  all  the  most 
illustrious  and  distinguished  princes  of  Greece. 
The  number  of  her  admirers  alarmed  Tyndarus, 
who  feared  for  the  safety  of  his  kingdom  ;  but  the 
wise  Ulysses,  withdrawing  his  pretensions  to 
Helen,  in  favour  of  Penelope,  niece  of  Tyndarus, 
advised  him  to  bind  by  a  solemn  oath  all  the  suit- 
ors, to  approve  of  the  uninfluenced  choice  which 
Helen  should  make,  and  to  unite  to  defend  her,  if 
she  should  be  forced  from  her  husband.  This 
advice  was  followed,  and  Helen  chose  Menelaus, 
king  of  Sparta.  For  three  years  they  lived  very 
happily,  and  had  one  daughter,  Hermione.  Paris, 
son  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  visiting  Menelaus, 
saw  Helen,  and  persuaded  her,  during  her  hus- 
band's absence  at  Crete,  to  fly  with  him  to  Troy. 

All  the  former  suitors  of  Helen,  bound  by  their 
oath,  took  up  arms  to  assist  Menelaus  in  recover- 
ing her.  They  succeeded  in  taking  Troy,  B.  C. 
1184,  when  Helen  regained  the  favour  of  her  hus- 
band and  returned  with  him  to  Sparta.  After  the 
death  of  Menelaus,  Helen  fled  to  Rhodes.  Polyxo, 
queen  of  Rhodes,  detained  her ;  and  to  punish  her 
for  being  the  cause  of  a  war  in  which  Polyxo's 
husband  had  perished,  had  her  hung  on  a  tree. 
Euripides  has  made  Helen  the  subject  of  a  tragedy. 

HERO, 

A  PRIESTESS  of  Venus  at  Sestos,  on  the  coast 
of  Thrace.  She  saw  Leander,  a  youth  of  Abydos, 
at  a  festival  in  honour  of  Venus  and  Adonis  at 
Sestos,  and  they  became  in  love  with  each  other. 
The  sacred  ofiBce  of  Hero,  and  the  opposition  of 
her  relatives,  prevented  their  marriage  ;  but  every 
night  Leander  swam  across  the  Hellespont,  guided 
by  a  torch  placed  by  Hero  in  her  tower.  At  length 
he  perished  one  night  in  the  attempt,  and  Hero, 
while  waiting  for  him,  saw  his  lifeless  body  thrown 
by  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  her  tower.  In  her 
desperation,  she  sprang  from  the  tower  on  the 
corpse  of  Leander,  and  was  killed  by  the  fall. 

HERSILIA, 
Wife  of  Romulus,  the  founder  of  Rome,  B.  C. 
753,  was  deified  after  her  death,  and  worshipped 
under  the  names  of  Horta  or  Orta. 

HIPPARCHIA, 

A  celebrated  lady  at  Maronea,  in  Thrace,  who 
lived  about  B.  C.  328.  She  was  at  one  time  mis- 
tress to  Alexander  the  Great ;  but  her  attachment 
to  learning  and  philosophy  was  so  great,  that 
having  attended  the  lectures  of  Crates,  the  cynic, 
she  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  resolved  to  marry 
him,  though  he  was  old,  ugly,  and  deformed ;  and 
though  she  was  addressed  by  many  handsome 
young  men,  distinguished  by  their  rank  and 
riches.  Crates  himself  was  prevailed  upon  by  her 
friends  to  try  to  dissuade  her  from  her  singular 
choice,  which  he  did,  by  displaying  to  her  his 
poverty,  his  cloak  of  sheep's  skins,  and  his  crooked 
back ;  but  all  in  vain.     At  last,  he  told  her  that 

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she  could  not  be  his  wife,  unless  she  resolved  to 
live  as  he  did.  This  she  cheerfully  agreed  to, 
assumed  the  habit  of  the  order,  and  accompanied 
him  everywhere  to  public  entertainments  and 
other  places,  which  was  not  customary  with  the 
Grecian  women.  She  wrote  several  tragedies,  phi- 
losophical hypotheses,  and  reasonings  and  ques- 
tions proposed  to  Theodorus,  the  atheist ;  but 
none  of  her  writings  are  extant.  She  had  two 
daughters  by  Crates. 

HIPPODAMIA 

Was  the  daughter  of  (Enomaus,  king  of  Pisa,  in 
Elis.  An  oracle  had  predicted  to  the  king  that  he 
would  be  mxirdered  by  his  son-in-law ;  and  there- 
fore he  declared  that  all  the  suitors  of  his  daughter 
should  contend  with  him  in  a  chariot-race,  and 
that  if  he  defeated  them,  he  should  be  allowed  to 
put  them  to  death.  In  this  way  he  slew  thirteen 
or  seventeen  suitors,  when  Pelops,  by  bribing  the 
driver  of  the  king's  chariot,  had  him  overturned 
in  the  middle  of  the  course,  and  he  lost  his  life. 
Hippodamia  married  Pelops,  and  became  the  mo- 
ther of  Atreus  and  Thyestes.  She  killed  herself 
from  grief,  at  being  accused  of  haviug  caused 
these  sons  to  commit  fratricide. 

HORTENSIA, 

A  Roman  lady,  daughter  of  Hortensius,  the  ora- 
tor, was  born  B.  C.  85.  She  inherited  her  father's 
eloquence,  as  a  speech  preserved  by  Appian  de- 
monstrates ;  which,  for  elegance  of  language,  and 
justness  of  thought,  would  do  honoui-  to  Cicero  or 
Demosthenes. 

The  triumvirs  of  Rome,  in  want  of  a  large  sum 
of  money  for  carrying  on  a  war,  drew  up  a  list  of 
fourteen  hundred  of  the  wealthiest  women,  intend- 
ing to  tax  them.  The  women,  after  having  in  vain 
tried  every  means  to  evade  so  great  an  innovation, 
at  last  chose  Hortensia  for  a  speaker,  and  went 
with  her  to  the  market-place,  where  she  addressed 
the  triumvirs,  while  they  were  administering  jus- 
tice, in  the  following  words : 

"  The  unhappy  women  you  see  here,  imploring 
your  justice  and  bounty,  would  never  have  pre- 
sumed to  appear  in  this  place,  had  tliey  not  first 
made  use  of  all  other  means  their  natural  modesty 
could  suggest.  Though  our  appearing  here  may 
seem  contrary  to  the  rules  prescribed  to  our  sex, 
which  we  have  hitherto  strictly  observed,  yet  the 
loss  of  our  fathers,  children,  brothers,  and  hus- 
bands, may  sufficiently  excuse  us,  especially  when' 
their  unhappy  deaths  are  made  a  pretence  for  our 
further  misfortunes.  You  plead  that  they  had 
offended  and  provoked  you;  but  what  injury  have 
we  women  done,  that  we  must  be  impoverished  ? 
If  we  are  blameable  as  the  men,  why  not  proscribe 
us  also  ?  Have  we  declared  you  enemies  to  your 
country  ?  Have  we  suborned  your  soldiers,  raised 
troops  against  you,  or  opposed  you  in  pursuit  of 
those  honours  and  offices  which  you  claim  ?  We 
pretend  not  to  govern  the  republic,  nor  is  it  our 
ambition  which  has  drawn  our  present  misfortune 
on  our  heads ;  empires,  dignities  and  honours,  are 
not  for  us ;  why  should  we,  then,  contribute  to  a 
war  in  which  we  have  no  manner  of  interest  ?     It 


is  true,  indeed,  that  in  the  Carthaginian  war  our 
mothers  assisted  the  republic,  which  was  at  that 
time  reduced  to  the  utmost  distress ;  but  neither 
their  houses,  their  lands,  nor  their  moveables, 
were  sold  for  this  service ;  some  rings,  and  a  few 
jewels,  furnished  the  supply.  Nor  was  it  con- 
straint or  violence  that  forced  those  from  them ; 
what  they  contributed,  was  the  voluntary  offering 
of  generosity.  AVhat  danger  at  present  threatens 
Rome  ?  If  the  Gauls  or  Parthians  were  encamped 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber  or  the  Arno,  you  should 
find  us  not  less  zealous  in  the  defence  of  our  coun- 
try, than  our  mothers  were  before  us ;  but  it  be- 
comes not  us,  and  we  are  resolved  that  we  will 
not  be  in  any  way  concerned  in  a  ci\-il  war.  Nei- 
ther Marius,  nor  Caesar,  nor  Pompey,  ever  thought 
of  obliging  us  to  take  part  in  the  domestic  troubles 
which  their  ambition  had  raised ;  nay,  nor  did 
ever  Sylla  himself,  who  first  set  up  tyranny  in 
Rome ;  and  yet  you  assume  the  glorious  title  of 
reformers  of  the  state,  a  title  which  will  turn  to 
your  eternal  infamy,  if,  without  the  least  regard 
to  the  laws  of  equity,  you  persist  in  your  wicked 
resolution  of  plundering  those  of  their  lives  and 
fortunes,  who  have  given  you  no  just  cause  of 
offence." 

Sti'uck  with  the  justness  of  her  sj^eech,  yet 
offended  at  its  boldness,  the  triumvirs  ordered  the 
women  to  be  driven  away ;  but  the  populace  grow- 
ing tumultuous  in  their  favour,  they  were  afraid 
of  an  insurrection,  and  reduced  the  list  of  those 
who  should  be  taxed  to  four  hundred. 

HULDAH, 

A  Jewish  prophetess,  in  the  time  of  king  Josiah. 
Her  husband  was  Shallum,  keeper  of  the  royal 
wardrobe,  an  office  of  high  honour.  We  have  but 
a  glimpse  of  Huldah,  just  sufficient  to  show,  that 
when  the  Jewish  nation  was  given  up  to  idolatry 
and  ignorance  of  the  Good,  still  the  lamp  of  divine 
truth  was  kept  burning  in  the  heart  of  a  woman. 

When  Josiah,  who  was  one  of  the  few  good  kings 
who  ruled  over  Jvidah,  came  to  the  throne,  he 
found  the  Holy  Temple  partly  given  up  to  idola- 
trous rites,  partly  falling  into  ruins.  In  repairing 
the  temple,  the  copy  of  the  Book  of  the  Law  was 
found  among  the  rubbish,  and  carried  to  Josiah. 
The  king  and  his  counsellors  seem  to  have  been 
ignorant  of  this  book ;  and  the  king  was  struck 
with  consternation,  when  he  heard  the  law  read, 
and  felt  how  it  had  been  violated.  He  imme- 
diately sent  three  of  his  chief  officers,  one  of 
whom  was  Hilkiah,  the  high  priest,  to  "enquire 
of  the  Lord  concerning  the  words  of  the  book." 
The  officers  went  to  "Huldah,  the  prophetess, 
(now  she  dwelt  in  Jerusalem,  in  the  college,)  and 
communed  with  her." 

Would  the  high  priest  have  gone  to  consult  a 
woman,  had  not  her  repute  for  wisdom  and  piety 
been  well  known;  and  considered  superior  to  what 
was  possessed  by  any  man  in  Jerusalem  ?  Her 
place  of  residence  was  in  "the  college,"  among 
the  most  learned  of  the  land ;  and,  as  a  prophetess 
or  priestess,  her  response  shows  her  to  have  been 
worthy  of  the  high  office  she  held.  How  bold 
was  her  rebuke  of  sin, — how  clear  her  prophetic 

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insight, — liow  true  lier  predictions !  The  language 
and  the  style  of  her  reply  to  the  king  of  Judah, 
make  it  as  grand  and  impressive  as  any  of  the 
prophecies  from  the  lips  of  inspired  men.  The 
history  may  be  found  in  II.  Kings,  chapter  xxii. 
Huldah  lived  about  B.  C.  624. 


I. 

IPHIGENIA 

Was  daughter  of  Agamemnon,  leader  of  the 
Greek  forces  against  Troy,  and  of  Clytemnestra,  his 
wife.  When  the  Greeks,  going  to  the  Trojan  war, 
were  detained  at  Aulis  by  adverse  winds,  they 
were  told,  by  an  oracle,  that  Iphigenia  must  be 
sacrificed  to  appease  Diana,  who  was  incensed 
agaiast  Agamemnon  for  killing  one  of  her  stags. 
The  father  was  horror-struck,  and  commanded  his 
herald  to  disband  the  forces.  The  other  generals 
interfered,  and  Agamemnon  at  last  consented  to 
the  sacrifice.  As  Iphigenia  was  tenderly  loved  by 
her  mother,  the  Greeks  sent  for  her  on  pretence 
of  giving  her  in  marriage  to  Achilles.  When 
Iphigenia  came  to  Aulis,  and  saw  the  preparations 
for  the  sacrifice,  she  implored  the  protection  of 
her  father,  but  in  vain.  Calchas,  the  Grecian 
priest,  took  the  knife,  and  was  about  to  strik*  the 
fatal  blow,  when  Diana  relented,  caught  away 
Iphigenia,  who  suddenly  disappeared,  and  a  goat 
of  uncommon  size  and  beauty  was  found  in  her 
place.  This  supernatural  change  animated  the 
Greeks ;  the  wind  suddenly  became  favourable, 
and  the  combiaed  fleet  set  sail  from  Aulis.  Cal- 
chas, the  Grecian  priest,  seems  to  have  acted  with 
the  same  humane  policy  in  this  affair  that  the 
bishop  of  Beauvois  did  in  the  case  of  Joan  of  Arc. 
This  story  of  Iphigenia  has  furnished  materials 
for  several  tragedies ;  those  of  Euripides  are 
world-renowned. 


JAEL,  or  JAHEL, 

Wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite,  killed  Sisera,  general 
of  the  Canaanitish  army,  who  had  fled  to  her  tent, 
and  while  sleeping  there,  Jael  drove  a  large  nail 
through  his  temple.  Her  story  is  related  in  the 
fourth  chapter  of  Judges,  B.  C.  1285. 

JEMIMA,  KEZIA,  KERENH APPUCH: 

These  three  were  the  daughters  of  Job,  born  to 
him  after  he  was  restored  to  the  favour  of  God 
and  man. 

We  give  their  names,  not  for  any  thing  they 
did,  but  for  the  sentiment  taught  in  this  sacred 
history  concerning  family  relations  and  female 
claims.  We  are  instructed,  by  the  particularity 
with  which  these  daughters  are  named,  that  they 
were  considered  the  crowning  blessing  God  be- 
stowed on  his  servant  Job.  And  Job  showed  his 
integrity  as  a  man,  and  his  wisdom  as  a  father,  in 
providing  justly  for  these  his  fair  daughters.     He 


"gave  them  inheritance  among  their  brethren ;" 
that  is,  secured  to  them  an  equal  share  of  his 
property,  and  left  them  free  to  enjoy  it  as  they 
chose. 

JEZEBEL, 

Daughter  of  Ethbaal,  king  of  Tyre  and  Sidon, 
was  the  wife  of  Ahab,  king  of  Israel.  She  seduced 
him  into  the  worship  of  Baal,  and  persecuted  the 
prophets  of  the  Lord.  Enraged  at  the  death  of 
the  prophets  of  Baal,  slain  by  the  command  of 
Elisha,  she  resolved  on  his  destruction ;  but  he 
escaped  her  vengeance.  Ahab,  being  very  desirous 
of  obtaining  a  vineyard  belonging  to  Naboth  the 
Jezreelite,  which  was  close  by  the  palace  of  the 
king,  offered  the  owner  a  better  one  in  its  stead ; 
but  Naboth  refused  to  give  up  the  inheritance 
which  had  descended  to  him  from  his  fathers.  In 
consequence  of  this  disappointment,  Ahab  came 
into  his  house  sad  and  dispirited ;  Jezebel,  disco- 
vering the  reason  of  his  depression,  procured  the 
death  of  Naboth,  and  Ahab  took  possession  of  the 
vineyard.  In  consequence  of  this  act  of  wicked- 
ness, Elijah  foretold  the  sudden  and  violent  death 
both  of  Ahab  and  Jezebel,  which  occurred  three 
years  after.  The  story  of  this  "wicked  woman'' 
shows  the  power  of  female  influence,  and  how  per 
nicious  it  may  be  when  exerted  for  evil  over  tha 
mind  of  man.  Happily  for  the  world,  there  have 
been  few  Jezebels,  and  therefore  the  wickedness 
of  this  one  appears  so  awful  that  it  has  made  her 
name  to  be  forever  abhorred.     She  died  B.  C.  884. 

JOCASTA, 
Daughter  of  Creon,  king  of  Thebes,  and  wife 
of  Laius,  was  mother  to  (Edipus,  whom  she  after- 
wards ignorantly  married,  and  had  by  him  Poly- 
nices  and  Eteocles,  who  having  killed  one  another 
in  a  battle  for  the  succession,  Jocasta  destroyed 
herself  in  grief.  She  flourished  about  B.  C.  1266. 
Her  son  (Edipus  had  been  given  by  Laius,  his 
father,  to  a  shepherd  to  destroy,  as  an  oracle  had 
foretold  that  he  should  be  killed  by  his  own  son. 
But  the  shepherd,  not  liking  to  kill  the  child,  left 
him  to  perish  by  hunger ;  and  he  was  found  by 
Phorbus,  shepherd  to  Polybus,  king  of  Corinth, 
who  brought  him  up,  and  (Edipus  unwittingly  ful- 
filled the  oracle.  Sophocles  has  written  a  tragedy 
founded  on  this  story. 

JOCHEBED, 

Wife  of  Amram,  and  mother  of  Miriam,  Aaron, 
and  Moses,  has  stamped  her  memory  indelibly  ou 
the  heart  of  Jew  and  Christian.  She  was  grand- 
daughter of  Levi ;  her  husband  was  also  of  the 
same  family  or  tribe ;  their  exact  relationship  is 
not  decided,  though  the  probability  is  that  they 
were  cousins-german. 

As  Amram  is  only  mentioned  incidentally,  we 
have  no  authority  for  concluding  he  took  any  part 
in  the  great  crisis  of  Jochebed's  life ;  but  as  their 
children  were  all  distinguished  for  talents  and 
piety,  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude  that  this  mar- 
ried pair  were  congenial  in  mind  aud  heart.  StUl, 
though  both  were  pious  believers  in  the  promises 
made  by  God  to  their  forefathers,  it  was  only  the 

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wife  who  had  the  opportunity  of  manifesting  by 
her  deeds  her  superior  wisdom  and  faith. 

Nearly  three  hundred  years  had  gone  by  since 
Jacob  and  his  sons  went  down  into  Egypt.  Their 
posterity  was  now  a  numerous  people,  but  held  in 
the  most  abject  bondage.  Pharaoh,  a  king  "  who 
knew  not  Joseph,"  endeavouring  to  extirpate  the 
hated  race,  had  given  strict  commands  to  destroy 
every  male  child  born  of  a  Hebrew  mother. 

Jochebed  had  borne  two  children  before  this 
bloody  edict  was  promulgated ;  Miriam,  a  daugh- 
ter of  thirteen,  and  Aaron,  a  little  son  of  three 
years  old.  These  were  safe ;  but  now  God  gives 
her  another  son,  "a  goodly  child;"  and  the  mo- 
ther's heart  must  have  nearly  fainted  with  grief 
and  terror,  as  she  looked  on  her  helpless  babe, 
and  knew  he  was  doomed  by  the  cruel  Pharaoh  to 
be  cast  forth  to  the  monsters  of  the  Nile.  No  ray 
of  hope  from  the  help  of  man  was  visible.  The 
Hebrew  men  had  been  bowed  beneath  the  lash  of 
their  oppressors,  till  their  souls  had  become  abject 
as  their  toils.  Jochebed  could  have  no  aid  from 
her  husband's  superior  physical  strength  and 
worldly  knowledge.  The  man  was  overborne ; 
the  superior  spiritual  insight  of  the  woman  was 
now  to  lead ;  her  mother's  soul  had  been  gifted 
with  a  strength  the  power  of  Pharaoh  could  not 
subdue  ;  her  moral  sense  had  a  sagacity  that  the 
reason  of  man  could  never  have  reached.  Thus, 
in  the  history  of  the  human  race,  woman  has  ever 
led  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  world's  moral  progresa. 
Jochebed  was  then  such  a  leader.  She  must  have 
had  faith  in  God's  promise  of  deliverance  for  her 
people ;  every  man-child  brought  a  new  ray  of 
hope,  as  the  chosen  deliverer.  She  had  a  "goodly 
son" — he  should  not  die.  So  "she  hid  him  three 
months."  Language  can  never  express  the  agony 
which  must  have  wrung  the  mother's  heart  during 
those  months,  when  each  dawning  day  might  bring 
the  death-doom  of  her  nursling  son.  At  length, 
she  can  hide  him  no  longer.  Another  resource 
must  be  tried.  She  must  trust  him  to  God's  pro- 
vidence ;  God  could  move  the  compassion  even  of 
the  Egyptian  heart.  But  the  mother  has  her 
work  to  perform ;  all  that  she  can  do,  she  must 
do.  So  she  gathers  her  materials,  and  as  she  sits 
weaving  an  "ark  of  biilrushes,  and  daubing  it 
with  slime,"  her  slight  fingers  trembling  with  the 
unwonted  task,  who  that  saw  her  could  have 
dreamed  she  was  building  a  structure  of  more 
importance  to  mankind  than  all  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt  ?  That  in  this  mother's  heart  there  was  a 
divine  strength  with  which  all  the  power  of  Pha- 
raoh would  strive  in  vain  to  cope  ?  That  on  the 
events  depending  upon  her  work  rested  the  me- 
mory of  this  very  Pharaoh,  and  not  on  the  monu- 
ments he  was  reai-ing  at  Raamses  ? 

She  finished  her  "  ark  of  bulrushes,"  and  in 
the  frail  structure  laid  down  her  infant  son.  Then 
concealing  the  basket  among  the  flags  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile,  she  placed  her  daughter  Miriam 
to  watch  what  should  become  of  the  babe,  while 
she,  no  doubt,  retired  to  weep  and  pray.  The 
whole  plan  was  in  perfect  accordance  with  the 
peculiar  nature  of  woman — aiid  women  only  were 
the  actors  in  this  drama  of  life  and  life's  holiest 


hopes.  That  the  preservation  of  Moses,  and  his 
preparation  for  his  great  mission  as  the  Deliverer 
of  Israel,  and  the  Lawgiver  for  all  men  who  wor- 
ship Jehovah,  were  eflFected  by  the  agency  of 
woman,  displays  her  spiritual  gifts  in  such  a  clear 
light  as  must  make  them  strikingly  apparent ;  . 
and  that  their  importance  in  the  progress  of  man- 
kind, vrill  be  frankly  acknowledged  by  all  Chris- 
tian men,  seems  certain  —  whenever  they  will, 
laying  aside  their  masculine  prejudices,  carefully 
study  the  word  of  God.  These  events  occurred 
B.  C.  1535.     See  Exodus,  chap.  I.  and  II. 

JUDITH, 

Of  the  tribe  of  Reuben,  daughter  of  Meravi, 
and  widow  of  Manasseh,  lived  in  Bethuliah,  when 
it  was  besieged  by  Holofernes.  She  was  beautiful 
and  wealthy,  and  lived  very  much  secluded.  Being 
informed  that  the  chief  of  Bethulia  had  promised 
to  deliver  it  in  five  days,  she  sent  for  the  elders 
and  remonstrated  with  them,  and  declared  her  ' 
intention  of  leaving  the  city  for  a  short  time. 
Judith  then  prayed,  dressed  herself  in  her  best 
attire,  and  pretending  to  have  fled  from  the  city, 
went,  with  her  maid,  to  the  camp  of  Holofernes. 
He  was  immediately  captivated  by  her,  and  pro- 
mised her  his  protection.  Judith  continued  with 
Holofernes,  going  out  of  his  camp  every  night ; 
but 'the  fourth  night  Holofernes  sent  for  her  to 
stay  with  him.  She  went  gorgeously  apparelled  ; 
eating  and  drinking  not  with  Holofernes,  but  only 
what  her  maid  prepared  for  her.  Holofernes, 
transported  with  joy  at  sight  of  her,  drank  immo- 
derately, and  fell  into  a  sound  sleep.  Evening 
being  come,  the  servants  departed,  leaving  Judith 
and  her  maid  alone  with  him.  Judith  ordered  the 
maid  to  stand  without  and  watch,  and  putting  up 
a  prayer  to  God,  she  took  Holofernes'  sabre,  and 
seized  him  by  his  hair,  saying,  "  Strengthen  me 
this  day,  0  Lord !"  Then  she  struck  him  twice  on 
the  neck,  and  cut  off  his  head,  which  she  told  her 
maid  to  put  in  a  bag — then  wrapping  the  body  in 
the  curtains  of  the  bed,  they  went,  as  usual,  out  of 
the  camp,  and  returned  to  Bethulia,  where  the  head 
of  Holofernes  being  displayed  on  the  gates  of  the 
city,  struck  his  army  with  dismay,  and  they  were 
entirely  defeated.  The  high-priest  Joachim  came 
from  .lerusalem  to  Bethulia  to  compliment  Judith. 
Everything  that  had  belonged  to  Holofernes  was 
given  to  her,  and  she  consecrated  his  arms  and 
the  curtains  of  his  bed  to  the  Lord.  Judith  set 
her  maid  free,  and  died  in  Bethulia  at  the  age  of 
one  hundred  and  five,  was  buried  with  her  hus- 
band, and  all  the  people  lamented  her  seven  days. 

The    "  Song   of  Judith,"    as   recorded   in   the 
Apocrypha,  is  a  poem  of  much  power  and  beauty. 

JULIA, 
D.vTJGHTER  of  Julius  Cffisar  and  Cornelia,  was 
one  of  the  most  attractive  and  most  virtuous  of 
the  Roman  ladies.  She  was  first  married  to  Cor- 
nelius Cfepion,  but  divorced  from  him  to  become 
the  wife  of  Pompey.  Pompey  was  so  fond  of  her 
as  to  neglect,  on  her  account,  politics  and  arms. 
She  died  B.  C.  53.  Had  she  lived,  there  would 
not  have  been  war  between  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

44 


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JULIA, 

Daughter  of  Augustus  and  Scribonia,  was  the 
wife  successively  of  Metellus,  Agrippa,  and  Tibe- 
rius. She  was  banished  for  her  debaucheries  by 
her  father,  and  died  of  want  in  the  beginning  of 
the  reign  of  Tiberius,  A.  D.  15.  Her  daughter, 
Julia,  was  equally  licentious. 


LAIS, 

A  CELEBRATED  courtczan,  was  supposed  to  be 
the  daughter  of  the  courtezan  Timandra  and  Alci- 
biades.  She  was  born  at  Hyrcania,  in  Sicily,  and 
being  carried  into  Greece  by  Nicias,  the  Athenian 
general,  began  her  conquests  by  music.  Almost 
all  the  celebrated  courtezans  of  antiquity  w5re 
originally  musicians  ;  and  that  art  was  considered 
almost  a  necessary  female  accomplishment. 

Lais  spent  most  of  her  life  at  Corinth,  and  from 
that  is  often  called  the  Corinthian.  Diogenes  the 
cynic  was  one  of  her  admirers,  and  also  Aristip- 
pus,  another  celebrated  philosopher.  This  woman 
sometimes  ridiculed  the  fidelity  of  the  philoso- 
phers she  had  captivated.  "  I  do  not  understand 
what  is  meant  by  the  austerity  of  philosophers," 
she  said,  "  for  with  this  fine  name,  they  are  as 
much  in  my  power  as  the  rest  of  the  Athenians." 

After  having  corrupted  nearly  all  the  youth  of 
Corinth  and  Athens,  she  went  into  Thessaly,  to 
see  a  lover  of  hers ;  where  she  is  said  to  have  been 
stoned  by  the  women,  jealous  of  her  power  over 
their  husbands,  B.  C.  340,  in  the  temple  of  Venus. 

LAMIA, 

The  most  celebrated  female  flute-player  of  an- 
tiquity, was  regarded  as  a  prodigy  —  from  her 
beauty,  wit,  and  skill  in  her  profession.  The 
honours  she  received,  which  are  recorded  by  sev- 
eral authors,  particularly  by  Plutarch  and  Athe- 
nasus,  are  sufficient  testimonies  of  her  great  power 
over  the  passions  of  her  hearers.  Her  claim  to 
admiration  from  her  personal  charms,  does  not 
entirely  depend  upon  the  fidelity  of  historians, 
since  an  exquisite  engraving  of  her  head,  upon 
amethyst,  is  pi-eserved  in  a  collection  at  Paris, 
which  authenticates  the  account  of  her  beauty. 

As  she  was  a  great  traveller,  her  reputation 
soon  became  very  extensive.  Her  first  joiu-ney 
from  Athens,  the  place  of  her  birth,  was  into 
Egypt,  whither  she  was  drawn  by  the  fame  of  a 
flute-player  of  that  country.  Her  genius  and 
beauty  procured  for  her  the  notice  of  Ptolemy, 
and  she  became  his  mistress  ;  but  in  the  conflict 
between  Ptolemy  and  Demetrius  Poliorcetes,  for 
the  island  of  Cyprus,  about  B.  C.  332,  Ptolemy 
being  defeated,  his  wives,  domestics,  and  military 
stores  fell  into  the  hands  of  Demetrius. 

The  celebrated  Lamia  was  among  the  captives 
on  this  occasion,  and  Demetrius,  who  was  said  to 
have  conquered  as  many  hearts  as  cities,  con- 
ceived so  ardent  a  passion  for  her,  that  from  a 
sovBreign  he  was  transformed  into  a  slave — though 


her  beauty  was  in  the  decline,  and  Demetrius,  the 
handsomest  prince  of  his  time,  was  much  younger 
than  herself. 

At  her  instigation,  he  conferred  such  extraor- 
dinary benefits  on  the  Athenians,  that  they  ren- 
dered him  divine  honours  ;  and,  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  influence  Lamia  had  exercised  in  their 
favour,  they  dedicated  a  temple  to  her,'  imder  the 
name  of  "Venus  Damia." 

LAODICE, 
Daughter  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  and  of  his 
wife  Hecuba,  who  fell  in  love  mth  Acamas,  son 
of  Theseus,  who  came  to  Troy  to  demand  the  res- 
toration of  Helen  to  Menelaus.  She  had  a  son, 
called  Munitus,  by  him.  She  afterwards  married 
Helicaon,  son  of  Antenor  and  Telephus,  king  of 
Mysia.  She  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself  from 
the  top  of  a  tower,  when  Troy  was  taken  by  the 
Greeks. 

LAODICE, 

A  SISTER  of  Mithridates  the  Great,  king  of  Pon- 
tus,  flom-ished  about  B.  C.  120.  She  first  married 
Ariarthes  VII.,  king  of  Cappadocia ;  but  he  being 
assassinated  by  order  of  Mithridates,  she  next 
married  Nicomedes,  king  of  Bithynia,  who  had 
taken  possession  of  Cappadocia.  She  was  put  to 
death  by  Mithridates,  for  plotting  his  assassina- 
tion. Laodice  was  also  the  name  of  a  queen  of 
Cappadocia,  who  was  put  to  death  by  the  people, 
for  poisoning  five  of  her  children. 

LAODICE, 

A  sister  of  Antiochus  II.,  king  of  Syria,  who 
also  became  his  wife,  and  had  two  sons  by  him. 
She  murdered  Berenice,  daughter  of  Ptolemy  of 
Egypt,  another  wife  of  Antiochus,  after  having 
poisoned  the  king.  She  then  suborned  Ai'temon, 
who  resembled  Antiochus,  to  represent  him.  Ar- 
temon,  accordingly,  pretended  to  be  indisposed, 
and,  as  king,  called  all  the  ministers,  and  recom- 
mended to  them  Seleucus,  surnamed  Callamachus, 
son  of  Laodice,  as  his  successor.  It  was  then 
reported  that  the  king  had  died  suddenly,  and 
Laodice  placed  her  son  on  the  throne,  B.  C.  246. 
•She  was  put  to  death  by  command  of  Ptolemy 
Euergetes  of  Egypt.  The  city  of  Laodicea  re- 
ceived its  name  in  honour  of  this  queen.  There 
are  several  other  women  of  that  name  mentioned 
in  ancient  history. 

One  of  these,  the  wife  of  a  king  of  Pontus,  was 
renowned  for  her  beauty,  and  the  magnificence  of 
her  court.  But  losing  her  only  child,  a  daughter, 
by  death,  Laodice  retired  to  her  inner  apartments, 
shut  herself  up,  and  was  never  seen  afterwards, 
except  by  her  nearest  friends. 

LEAH, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Laban,  the  Syrian,  who 
deceived  Jacob  into  an  intercourse,  then  termed 
marriage,  Avith  this  unsought,  unloved  woman. 
She  became  mother  of  six  sons,  named  as  heads 
of  six  of  the  tribes  of  Israel.  Among  these  was 
Levi,  whose  posterity  inherited  the  priesthood, 
and  Judah,  the  law-giver,  from  whom  descended 

45 


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"  SWloh,"  or  the  Messiah.  These  -were  great  pri- 
vileges ;  yet  dearly  did  Leah  pay  the  penalty  of 
her  high  estate,  obtained  by  selfish  artifice,  in 
which  modesty,  truth,  and  sisterly  affection,  were 
all  violated.  Jacob,  her  husband,  "hated  her," 
and  she  knew  it ;  knew,  too,  his  heart  was  wholly 
given  to  his  other  wife,  her  beautiful,  virtuous 
sister ;  what  earthly  punishment  could  have  been 
so  intensely  grievous  to  Leah  ?  As  her  name  im- 
plies, "  tender-eyed,^^  she  was  pi'obably  affectionate, 
but  unprincipled  and  of  a  weak  mind,  or  she  would 
never  have  taken  the  place  of  her  sister,  whom  she 
knew  Jacob  had  served  seven  years  to  gain.  Leah 
loved  her  husband  devotedly ;  but  thoiigh  she  was 
submissive  and  tender,  and  bore  him  many  sons, 
a  great  claim  on  his  favour,  yet  he  never  appeared 
to  have  felt  for  her  either  esteem  or  aflFection. 

Jacob  had  sought  to  unite  himself  with  Rachel 
in  the  holy  union  of  one  man  with  one  woman, 
which  only  is  true  marriage ;  but  the  artifice  of 
Laban,  and  the  passion  of  Leah,  desecrated  this 
union,  and  by  introducing  polygamy  into  the 
family  of  the  chosen  Founder  of  the  house  of 
Israel,  opened  the  way  for  the  worst  of  evils  to 
that  nation,  the  voluptuousness  and  idolatry  which 
finally  destroyed  it.  A  treacherous  sister,  a  for- 
ward woman,  an  unloved  wife,  Leah  has  left  a 
name  unhonoured  and  unsung.  She  was  married 
about  B.  C.  1753. 

LEiENA, 
A  COURTEZAN  of  Athens,  took  an  active  part  in 
the  conspiracy  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton, 
against  Hipparchus,  son  of  Pisistratus.  She  was 
arrested,  and  put  to  the  torture  by  Hippias,  the 
brother  of  Hipparchus,  but  she  refused  to  betray 
her  accomplices.  However,  fearful  that  her  reso- 
lution would  not  endure  against  the  torments  she 
was  sufi'ering,  she  bit  through  her  tongue,  and 
spat  it  in  the  face  of  her  tormentor.  When  the 
Athenians  recovered  their  liberty,  they  erected  to 
her  honour  the  statue  of  a  lion  without  a  tongue. 
She  Uved  about  B.  C.  505. 

LEONTIUM, 
An  Athenian  courtezan,  who  lived  about  B.  C. 
350,  became  a  convert  to  the  philosophy  of  Epi- 
curus. She  married  Metrodorus,  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal disciples  of  Epicurus,  and  had  a  son  by  him, 
whom  Epicurus  commended  to  the  notice  and  re- 
gard of  his  executors.  She  wrote  in  defence  of 
the  Epicurean  philosophy,  against  Theophrastus, 
one  of  the  principal  of  the  peripatetic  sect.  The 
book  is  said  by  Cicero  to  have  been  written  in  a 
polite  and  elegant  style.  From  her  love  of  letters, 
she  was  drawn  by  Theodorus,  the  painter,  in  a 
posture  of  meditation. 

LIVIA, 

Daughter  of  Livius  Drusus  Calidianus,  mar- 
ried Tiberius  Claudius  Nero,  by  whom  she  had 
two  sons,  Drusus  and  the  emperor  Tiberius.  Her 
husband  was  attached  to  the  cause  of  Antony ; 
and  as  he  fled  from  the  danger  with  which  he  was 
threatened  by  Octavianus,  afterwards  the  emperor 
Augustus,  Livia  was  seen  by  Octavianus,  who  im- 


mediately resolved  to  marry  her.  He  divorced  his 
wife  Scribonia,  and,  with  the  approbation  of  the 
augurs,  married  Livia.  She  enjoyed,  from  this 
moment,  the  entire  confidence  of  Augustus,  and 
gained  a  complete  ascendency  over  his  mind  by 
an  implicit  obedience  to  his  will  —  by  never  ex- 
pressing a  desire  to  learn  his  secrets  —  and  by 
seeming  ignorant  of  his  infidelities.  Her  children 
by  Drusus  she  persuaded  Augustus  to  adopt  as 
his  own ;  and  after  the  death  of  Drusus  the  eldest 
son,  Augustus  appointed  Tiberius  his  successor. 
The  respect  and  love  of  Augustus  for  Livia  ended 
only  with  his  life.  As  he  lay  dying,  he  turned  his 
gaze  on  her,  drew  her  in  the  grasp  of  death  to- 
wards him,  and  said  —  "  Livia,  be  happy,  and  re- 
member how  we  have  loved." 

Livia  has  been  accused  of  having  involved  in 
one  common  ruin  the  heirs  and  nearest  relations 
of  Augustus,  and  also  of  poisoning  her  husband 
that  her  son  might  receive  the  kingdom  sooner ; 
but  these  accusations  seem  to  be  unfounded.  By 
her  husband's  will  she  was  instituted  co-heiress 
with  Tiberius,  adopted  as  his  daughter,  and 
directed  to  assume  the  name  of  Livia  Augusta. 
On  the  deification  of  Augustus,  she  became  the 
priestess  of  the  new  god. 

Tiberius,  her  son,  and  the  successor  to  Augus- 
tus, treated  her  with  great  neglect  and  ingrati- 
tude, and  allowed  her  no  share  in  the  government. 
She  died  A.  D.  29 ;  and  Tiberius  would  not  allow 
any  public  or  private  honours  to  be  paid  to  her 
memory.  Tacitus  speaks  of  her  as  being  strictly 
moral,  but  says  she  was  "  an  imperious  mother,  a 
compliant  wife,  a  match  for  her  hiisband  in  art, 
and  her  son  in  dissimulation."  But  if  she  was 
"  strictly  moral,"  she  must  have  been  far  worthier 
than  her  son  or  her  husband. 

LOCUSTA, 

A  NOTORIOUS  woman  at  Rome,  a  favourite  of 
Nero,  the  emperor.  She  poisoned  Claudius  and 
Britannicus,  and  at  last  attempted  to  destroy 
Nero  himself,  for  which  she  was  executed. 

LUCRETIA. 

This  celebrated  female  was  the  daughter  of 
Lucretius,  and  the  wife  of  Collatinus,  an  officer 
of  rank ;  who,  at  the  siege  of  Ardes,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  unfortunately  boasted  of  the  virtues 
she  possessed.  Several  other  young  men  likewise 
expressed  an  entire  confidence  in  the  chastity  and 
virtue  of  their  wives.  A  wager  was  the  conse- 
quence of  this  conversation ;  and  it  was  agreed 
that  Sextus,  the  son  of  Tarquin,  should  go  to 
Rome,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  how  the  different 
females  were  employed.  Upon  his  arrival  at  the 
capital,  he  found  all  the  other  ladies  occupied  in 
paying  visits,  or  receiving  different  guests ;  but, 
when  he  went  to  the  house  of  Collatinus,  Lucretia 
was  bewailing  the  absence  of  her  husband,  and 
directing  her  household  affairs.  As  Sextus  was 
distantly  related  to  Collatinus,  and  son  of  the 
monarch  who  reigned  upon  the  throne,  Lucretia 
entertained  him  with  that  elegance  and  hospitality 
due  to  a  man  of  such  elevated  rank.  If  the  person 
of  this  charming  woman  excited  brutal  passions 

46 


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in  his  bosom,  her  conversation  delighted  and  cap- 
tivated his  mind ;  and  a  short  time  after  he  had 
retired  to  the  apartment  prepared  for  him,  the 
terrified  Lucretia  beheld  him  enter  her  room.  In 
vain  this  detestable  man  pleaded  the  violence  of 
his  passion  for  this  breach  of  hospitality,  and  this 
deviation  from  what  was  right;  for  the  alarmed 
Lucretia  preserved  her  purity  until  the  monster 
presented  a  dagger  to  her  breast,  and  swore  by 
all  the  gods  that  he  was  determined  to  gratify  his 
inclinations ;  and  that  he  would  then  kill  her  and 
one  of  Collatinus's  slaves,  and  afterwards  place 
him  by  the  side  of  the  injured  Lucretia,  and  in- 
form her  husband  that  he  had  murdered  both,  in 
consequence  of  having  discovered  them  in  the  act 
of  committing  the  crime.  The  dread  of  having 
her  memory  tarnished  by  so  vile  an  aspersion  at 
length  induced  the  terrified  Lucretia  to  consent  to 
his  desires ;  but  the  next  morning  she  despatched 
a  messenger  to  her  father  and  her  husband, "re- 
questing them  immediately  to  repair  to  Rome. 
They  obeyed  the  summons  with  pleasure  and 
alacrity,  at  the  same  time  they  were  anxious  to 
know  the  cause  of  this  singular  request ;  but, 
when  they  beheld  the  object  of  their  solicitude,  a 
thousand  apprehensions  took  possession  of  their 
breasts.  Instead  of  being  welcomed  with  smiles 
of  pleasure,  the  countenance  of  Lucretia  was 
bathed  in  tears,  her  hair  was  dishevelled,  her  gar- 
ments of  the  deepest  sable,  and  her  whole  figure 
displayed  the  image  of  despair.  After  describing, 
in  the  most  eloquent  terms,  the  outrage  that  had 
been  committed  upon  her  person,  she  implored 
them  to  avenge  the  insult  she  had  received ;  and, 
at  the  same  time  drawing  forth  a  dagger,  which 
she  had  concealed  for  the  purpose,  declared  her 
resolution  of  not  surviving  her  shame ;  and,  be- 
fore they  were  able  to  prevent  the  horrid  purpose, 
buried  the  weapon  in  her  heart. 

The  horror  and  despair  of  these  dear  connec- 
tions were  indescribable.  Brutus,  one  of  her  re- 
lations, drew  the  reeking  weapon  from  her  bosom, 
and,  with  all  the  energy  of  true  feeling,  swore  he 
would  avenge  her  fate.  "  I  swear  by  this  blood, 
once  so  pure,"  said  he,  "  and  which  nothing  but 
the  villany  of  a  Tarquin  could  have  polluted,  that 
I  will  pursue  Lucius  Tarquinius  the  Proud,  his 
wicked  wife  and  their  children,  with  fire  and 
sword ;  nor  will  I  ever  suffer  any  of  that  family, 
or  any  other,  henceforward  to  reign  in  Rome ! 
And  I  now  call  all  the  gods  to  witness,  that  I  will 
most  sacredly  fulfil  my  oath." 

If  the  most  poignant  grief  had  taken  possession 
of  the  minds  of  those  who  witnessed  the  dreadful 
catastrophe  which  had  recently  happened,  astonish- 
ment for  a  moment  banished  the  impression,  at 
the  firmness  and  energy  of  the  noble  Roman's 
words ;  who,  until  that  moment,  had  assumed  the 
appearance  of  idiotism,  to  avoid  the  suspicions  of 
Tarquin  the  Proud.  Roused  into  action  by  the 
affecting  scene  before  him,  the  hatre'd  which  he 
had  long  nourished  burst  into  a  flame,  and  he 
executed  the  vengeance  he  had  threatened.  The 
Tarquins  were  expelled  from  Rome,  the  kingly 
government  was   overthrown,   and  the  Republic 


founded,  in  consequence  of  the  outrage  on  the 
chaste  Lucretia  and  her  heroic  death. 

An  inscription  is  said  to  have  been  seen  at 
Rome,  in  the  diocese  of  Viterbo,  composed  by 
CoUatinus,  in  honour  of  Lucretia,  to  the  following 
purport:  —  "CoUatinus  Tarquinius,  to  his  most 
dear  and  incomparable  wife,  honour  of  chastity, 
glory  of  women.  She  who  was  most  dear  to  me, 
lived  two-and-twenty  years,  three  months,  and  six 
days." 


M. 

M  ^  R  0  E , 
A  WOMAN  famed  by  the  ancients  for  her  extraor- 
dinaiy  learning,  and  particularly  remembered  for 
her  hymn  to  Neptune.   She  was  a  native  of  Greece ; 
but  her  birthplace  is  not  known. 

MAKEDA, 

Or,  as  she  is  called  by  the  Arabians,  Balkis, 
queen  of  Sheba,  famous  for  her  visit  to  Solomon, 
was  probably  queen  of  Abyssinia,  or  of  that  part 
of  Arabia  Felix  which  was  inhabited  by  the  Sa- 
beans,  where  women  were  admitted  to  govern. 
Josephus  says  that  she  reigned  over  Egypt  and 
Ethiopia.  According  to  the  Abyssinian  historians, 
Balkis  was  a  pagan  when  she  undertook  the  jour- 
ney ;  but  struck  by  the  grandeur  and  wisdom  of 
Solomon,  she  became  a  convert  to  the  true  reli- 
gion. They  also  state  that  she  had  a  son  by  Solo- 
mon, named  David  by  his  father,  but  called  Meni- 
lek,  that  is,  another  self,  by  his  mother.  This  son 
was  sent  to  the  court  of  Solomon  to  be  educated, 
and  returned  to  his  own  country  accompanied  by 
many  doctors  of  the  law,  who  introduced  the  Jew- 
ish religion  into  Abyssinia,  where  it  continued  till 
the  introduction  of  Christianity. 

The  compilers  of  the  Universal  History  are  of 
opinion,  and  so  is  Mr.  Bruce,  that  the  queen  of 
Sheba  was  really  sovereign  of  Ethiopia.  They 
say  that  Ethiopia  is  more  to  the  south  of  Judea, 
than  the  territory  of  the  kingdom  of  Saba  in  Ara- 
bia Felix ;  consequently  had  a  better  claim  than 
that  country  to  be  the  dominions  of  the  princess 
whom  our  Saviour  calls  "  the  Queen  of  the  South." 
One  thing  is  certain  —  a  queen  came  from  a  far 
country  to  "  hear  the  wisdom  of  Solomon ;"  while 
there  is  no  record  that  any  king  sought  to  be  in- 
structed in  the  truths  of  his  philosophy,  or  to  be 
enlightened  by  his  wisdom.  Why  was  this,  unless 
the  mind  of  the  woman  was  more  in  harmony  with 
this  wisdom  than  were  the  minds  of  ordinary  men  ? 
So  it  should  be,  if  our  theory  of  the  intuitive  fa- 
culty of  woman's  soul  be  true  ;  for  Solomon's  wis- 
dom was  thus  intuitive ;  the  gift  of  God,  not  the 
result  of  patient  reflection  and  logical  reasoning. 
The  mind  of  the  queen  was  undoubtedly  gifted 
with  that  refined  sensibility  for  the  high  subjects 
discussed  which  stood  to  her  in  place  of  the  learn- 
ing of  the  schools.  And  as  she  came  to  prove 
Solomon  with  "  hard  questions,"  she  might  have 
been,  also,  a  scholar.  She  has  left  proof  of  her 
genius  and  delicate  tact  in  her  beautiful  address 

47 


MA 

before  presenting  her  oflFering  to  the  ifvise  king. 
See  I.  Kings,  chap.  x. 

MANDANE, 

Daughter  of  Astyages  and  wife  of  Cambyses, 
receives  her  liighest  honour  from  being  the  mother 
of  Cyi-us  the  Great.  Herodotus  asserts  that  the 
birthright  and  glory  of  Cyrus  came  from  his  mo- 
ther, and  that  his  father  was  a  man  of  obscure 
birth.  Tliis  is  partly  confirmed  by  history,  which 
records  that  Astyages,  who  was  king  of  Media, 
di-eamed  that  from  the  womb  of  his  daughter  Man- 
darne,  then  married  to  Cambyses,  king  of  Persia, 
there  sprung  up  a  vine  which  spread  over  all  Asia. 
Cyi'us  was  such  a  son  as  must  have  gladdened 
his  mother's  heart ;  and  we  must  believe  his  mo- 
ther was  worthy  of  him.     She  lived  B.  C.  599. 

MARIA, 

Wife  of  Zenis,  who  governed  ^tolia,  as  deputy 
under  Pharnabazus,  a  satrap  of  Persia,  about 
B.  C.  409.  Having  lost  her  husband,  she  waited 
on  the  satrap,  and  entreated  to  be  entrusted  with 
the  power  which  had  been  enjoyed  by  Zenis,  which 
she  promised  to  wield  with  the  same  zeal  and 
fidelity.  Her  desire  being  granted,  she  eifectually 
fulfilled  her  engagements,  and  acted  on  all  occa- 
sions with  consummate  courage  and  prudence. 
She  not  only  defended  the  places  committed  to 
her  charge,  but  conquered  others ;  and,  besides 
paying  punctually  the  customary  tribute  to  Phar- 
nabazus, sent  him  magnificent  presents.  She 
commanded  her  troops  in  person,  and  preserved 
the  strictest  discipline  in  her  army.  Pharnabazus 
held  her  in  the  highest  esteem. 

At  length,  her  son-in-law,  Midias,  mortified  by 
the  reproach  of  having  suffered  a  woman  to  reign 
»  in  his  place,  gained  admittance  privately  to  her 
apartments,  and  murdered  both  her  and  her  son. 

MARIAMNE, 

Daughter  of  Alexander  and  wife  of  Herod  the 
Great,  tetrarch  or  king  of  Judaea,  and  mother  of 
Alexander  and  Aristobulus,  and  of  two  daughters, 
was  a  woman  of  great  beauty,  intelligence,  and 
power?  of  conversation.  Her  husband  was  so 
much  in  love  with  her  that  he  never  opposed  her 
or  denied  her  any  thing,  but  on  two  occasions. 
When  he  left  her  on  dangerous  errands,  he  gave 
orders  with  persons  high  in  his  confidence,  that 
she  should  not  be  allowed  to  survive  him.  Mari- 
amne  was  informed  of  these  orders,  and  conceived 
such  a  dislike  to  her  husband,  that  on  his  return 
she  could  not  avoid  his  perceiving  it ;  nor  would 
her  pride  allow  her  to  conceal  her  feelings,  but 
she  openly  reproached  Herod  with  his  barbarous 
commands.  His  mother  and  his  sister  Salome 
used  every  means  to  irritate  him  against  his  wife, 
and  suborned  the  king's  cup-bearer  to  accuse  Ma- 
riamne  of  an  attempt  to  poison  her  husband ;  she 
was  also  accused  of  infidelity  to  him.  Herod, 
furious  at  these  charges,  had  her  tried  for  the  at- 
tempt to  poison  him,  and  she  was  condemned  and 
executed.  Mariarane  met  death  with  the  greatest 
firmness,  without  even  changing  colour ;  but  after 
her  execution,  which  took  place  about  B.  C.  28,  | 


MI 

Herod's  remorse  and  grief  were  so  great,  that  he 
became  for  a  time  insane. 

Lord  Byron  in  his  poem  "  Herod's  Lament,"  &c., 
has  given  expression  to  this  agony  of  the  royal 
mui'derer's  mind : 

"  O  Mariamne !  now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'st  is  bleeding; 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne !  where  art  thou  ? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading: 
Ah,  couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now, 

Though  heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding." 

MEDEA, 

Daughter  of  iEtes,  king  of  Colchis,  assisted 
Jason  in  carrying  oif  the  Golden  Fleece  from  her 
father.  When  Medea  ran  away  with  Jason,  .^Etes 
pursued  her,  but,  to  retard  his  progress,  she  tore 
Absyrtus,  her  brother,  to  pieces,  and  strewed  his 
limbs  in  the  way.  Jason  afterwards  divorced  Me- 
dea, and  married  Glance,  daughter  of  the  king  of 
Corinth.     She  lived  about  B.  C.  1228. 

Euripides  has  written  a  fine  tragedy  on  this 
story,  in  which  Medea  ascribes  the  crimes  and 
misfortunes  of  her  sex  to  laws,  which  obliged  wo- 
men to  purchase  husbands  with  large  fortunes, 
only  to  become  their  slaves  and  victims. 

MEGALOSTRATA, 

A  Grecian  poetess,  a  friend  of  Alcman,  a  Spar- 
tan lyric  poet,  flourished  in  the  twenty-seventh 
Olympiad,  about  B.  C.  668.  None  of  her  poems 
remain,  but  there  are  satires  written  against  her, 
which  prove  her  talents  were  known  and  envied. 

MERAB, 

Eldest  daughter  of  king  Saul,  and  promised  by 
him  to  David  in  reward  for  his  victory  over  Goli- 
ath ;  but  Saul  gave  her  to  Adriel  instead,  by  whom 
she  had  six  sons,  whom  David  gave  up  to  the  Gibe- 
onites  to  be  put  to  death,  in  expiation  of  some 
cruelties  Saul  had  inflicted  on  them. 

MIC  HAL, 

Daughter  of  king  Saul,  fell  in  love  with  David, 
which  Saul  took  advantage  of  to  require  proofs 
of  valom*  from  David,  hoping  he  would  fall  by  the 
hands  of  the  Philistines.  But  David  doubled  what 
Saul  required,  and  obtained  Michal.  Saul  after- 
wards sent  messengers  to  seize  David  at  night,  but 
Michal  let  him  down  out  of  the  window,  and  placed 
a  figure  in  David's  bed  to  deceive  the  people.  Mi- 
chal excused  herself  to  her  father  by  saying  that 
David  threatened  to  kill  her  if  she  did  not  assist 
him  in  his  escape.  Saul  afterwards  gave  Michal 
to  Phalti  or  Phaltiel,  son  of  Laish ;  but  when  Da- 
vid came  to  the  crown,  he  caused  Michal  to  be 
restored  to  him.  Some  time  after,  Michal,  seeing 
David  from  a  window,  dancing  before  the  ark, 
when  it  was  brought  from  Shiloh  to  Jerusalem, 
upbraided  him  on  his  return,  for  dancing  and 
playing  among  his  servants,  acting  rather  like  a 
buff"oon  than  a  king.  David  vindicated  himself 
and  reproved  her.  Michal  bore  David  no  children, 
which  the  Scripture  seems  to  impute  to  these  re- 
proaches.    This  was  B.  C.  about  1042. 

48 


MI 


NI 


MIRIAM, 

Sister  of  Aaron  and  Moses,  was  daughter  of 
Amram  and  Jochebad.  Her  name — Miriam,  "  the 
xtar  of  the  sea,"  (according  to  St.  Jerome,  "  sAe 
xcho  brightens  or  enlightens'") — may  have  been  given 
from  a  precocious  exhibition  of  the  great  qualities 
which  afterwards  distinguished  her.  That  it  was 
rightly  given,  her  history  proves.  Our  first  view 
of  her  is  when  she  is  keeping  watch  over  the  frail 
basket,  among  the  flags  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 
where  Moses,  her  baby-brother,  lay  concealed. 
Miriam  was  then  thirteen  years  old,  but  her  intel- 
ligence and  discretion  seem  mature.  Then,  when 
the  time  came  for  the  redemption  of  Israel  from 
the  house  of  bondage,  Moses  was  not  alone  ;  Aaron 
his  brother  and  Miriam  his  sister  were  his  coadju- 
tors. 

"It  is  certain,"  says  Dr.  Clarke  (a  learned  and 
pious  expounder  of  the  Old  Testament)  "  that  Mi- 
riam had  received  a  portion  of  the  prophetic  spi- 
rit ;  and  that  she  was  a  joint  leader  of  the  people 
with  her  two  brothers,  is  proved  by  the  words  of 
the  prophet  Micah ; — '  For  I  brought  thee  up  out 
of  the  land  of  Egypt,  and  I  sent  before  thee  Mo- 
ses, and  Aaron,  and  Miriam;" — which  would  not 
have  been  said  if  she  had  not  taken  a  prominent 
post  in  the  emigration.  Probably  she  was  the 
leader  of  the  women ;  as  we  find  after  the  mii-a- 
culous  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  Pharaoh  and  his  army,  when  Moses,  to 
celebrate  the  great  events,  sung  his  glorious  '  Song,' 
the  eai'liest  recorded  poetry  of  the  world,  that  his 
sister  came  forward  and  gave  her  beautiful  and 
spirit-thrilling  response. 

"  And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of 
Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her  hand ;  and  all  the 
women  went  out  after  her  with  timbrels  and 
dances. 

"  And  Miriam  answered  them,  '  Sing  ye  to  the 
Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously ;  the  horse 
and  his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea.' " 

It  is  sad  that  we  must  record  the  fall  of  Miriam 
from  the  high  pinnacle  which  her  faith,  energy, 
and  genius  had  won.  What  her  crime  was  is  not 
fully  stated,  only  that  she  and  Aaron  "spake  , 
against  Moses"  because  "  he  had  married  an  Ethi- 
opian woman."  Perhaps  Miriam  disliked  her  sis- 
ter-in-law ;  though  it  appears  she  and  Aaron  dis- 
paraged the  authority  of  Moses ;  it  might  be  from 
envy  of  his  favour  with  the  Lord.  Her  sin,  what- 
ever passion  prompted  it,  was  soon  exposed  and 
punished.  God  smote  her  with  leprosy ;  and  only 
at  the  earnest  intercession  of  Moses,  healed  her, 
after  seven  days.  The  camp  moved  not  while  she 
was  shut  out ;  thus  the  people  testified  their  reve- 
rence and  aflfection  for  her.  She  lived  nineteen 
years  after  this,  but  her  name  is  mentioned  no 
more  till  the  record  of  her  death.  She  died  a 
short  time  before  her  brother  Aaron,  in  Kadesh, 
when  the  children  of  Israel  were  within  sight  of 
the  promised  land.  Eusebius  asserts  that  her 
monument  stood  near  the  city  of  Petrae,  and  was 
considered  a  consecrated  spot  when  he  lived  and 
wrote,  in  the  fourth  century.  Her  death  occurred 
B.  C.  1453,  when  she  was  about  one  hundred  and 
D 


thirty-one  years  old,  so  that  her  life  was  prolonged 
beyond  the  term  of  either  of  her  brothers.  She 
has  left  a  beautiful  example  of  sisterly  tenderness, 
and  warm  womanly  participation  in  a  holy  cause. 
In  genius,  she  was  superior  to  all  the  women  who 
preceded  her ;  and  in  the  inspiration  of  her  spirit 
(she  was  a  "  prophetess"  or  poet,)  none  of  her  con- 
temporaries, male  or  female,  except  Moses,  was 
her  equal.  That  she  was  too  ambitious  is  proba- 
ble, and  did  not  willingly  yield  to  the  authority 
with  which  the  Lord  had  invested  her  younger 
brother,  who  had  been  her  nursling  charge.  From 
this  portion  of  her  history,  a  warning  is  sounded 
against  the  pride  and  self-sufficiency  which  the 
consciousness  of  great  genius  and  great  usefulness 
is  calculated  to  incite.  Woman  should  never  put 
ofi"  her  humility.  It  is  her  guard  as  well  as  orna- 
ment. 

MONIMA, 

Wife  of  Mithridates  the  Great,  was  a  native  of 
Salonica.  Her  husband  loved  her  devotedly,  but 
when  he  was  defeated  by  Lucullus,  he  caused  her 
and  all  his  other  wives  to  be  put  to  death,  lest 
they  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
Some  years  after,  Mithridates  was  killed  at  his 
own  request,  to  avoid  a  similar  fate,  B.  C.  64. 

MYRTIS, 

A  Greek  woman,  distinguished  for  her  poetical 

talents.     She  lived  about  B.  C.  500,  and  instructed 

the  celebrated  Corinna  in  the  art  of  versification. 

Pindar  also  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  her  pupils. 


N. 
NAOMI, 

And  her  husband  Elimelech,  went  to  the  land 
of  Moab,  because  of  a  famine  in  Canaan.  After 
about  ten  years,  her  husband  and  two  sons  died, 
leaving  no  children.  Naomi  then  returned  with 
Ruth,  one  of  her  daughters-in-law,  to  her  own 
country,  poor  and  humble.  Yet  it  speaks  well  for 
the  character  and  consistency  of  Naomi,  that  she 
so  thoroughly  won  the  love  and  respect  of  her 
daughters-in-law.  And  not  only  this,  but  she  must 
have  convinced  them,  by  the  sanctity  of  her  daily 
life,  that  the  Lord  whom  she  worshipped  was  the 
true  God.  Her  name,  Naomi,  signifies  beauty ; 
and  we  feel,  when  reading  her  story,  that,  in  its 
highest  sense,  she  deserves  to  be  thus  character- 
ized. 

After  Ruth  married  Boaz,  which  event  was 
brought  about,  humanely  speaking,  by  Naomi's 
wise  counsel,  she  appears  to  have  lived  with  them ; 
and  she  took  their  first-born  son  as  her  own,  "  laid 
him  in  her  bosom,  and  became  nurse  to  him." 
This  child  was  Obed,  the  grandfather  of  David. 
Well  might  the  race  be  advanced  which  had  such 
a  nurse  and  instructress.  These  events  occurred 
about  1312,  B.  C. 

NITOCRIS, 
Mentioned  by  Herodotus,  is  supposed  by  some 
to  have  been  the  vrife  or  at  least  the  contemporary 

49 


oc 


oc 


of  Nebuchadnezzar,  king  of  Assyria.  She  contri- 
buted much  to  the  improvement  of  Babylon,  and 
built  a  bridge  to  connect  the  two  parts  of  the 
city  divided  by  the  Euphrates,  and  also  extensive 
embankments  along  the  river.  She  gave  orders 
there  should  be  an  inscription  on  her  tomb,  signi- 
fying that  her  successors  would  find  great  trea- 
sures within,  if  they  were  in  need  of  money ;  but 
that  their  labour  would  be  ill  repaid  if  they  open- 
ed it  without  necessity.  Cyrus  opened  it  from 
curiosity,  and  found  within  it  only  these  words : 
"If  thy  avarice  had  not  been  insatiable,  thou 
never  wouldst  have  violated  the  monuments  of  the 
dead !" 

Other  historians  suppose  her  to  have  been  the 
wife  of  Evil-Merodach,  son  and  successor  of  Nebu- 
chadnezzar, who  also  governed  during  the  lunacy 
of  his  father.  She  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
abilities,  and  did  all  that  she  could  by  human  pru- 
dence to  sustain  a  tottering  empire.  She  lived  in 
the  sixth  century  before  Christ. 


o. 

OCTAVIA, 

Daughter  of  Caius  Octavius,  and  sister  to 
Augustus  Csesar,  was  one  of  the  most  illustrious 
ladies  of  ancient  Rome.  She  was  first  married  to 
Claudius  Marcellus,  who  was  consul.  She  bore 
this  husband  three  children.  After  his  death  she 
married  Antony,  and  in  this  way  brought  about  a 
reconciliation  between  Antony  and  her  brother 
Octavianus,  afterwards  the  emperor  Augustus 
Caesar.  These  nuptials  were  solemnized  B.  C.  41. 
Three  years  after,  Antony  went  with  his  wife  to 
spend  the  winter  at  Athens.  Here,  becoming  again 
exasperated  against  Augustus  by  evil  reports,  he 
sailed  for  Italy ;  but  Octavia  a  second  time  in- 
duced a  reconciliation  between  them. 

Antony  went  to  the  East  soon  afterwards,  leav- 
ing Octavia  in  Italy ;  and  though  she  discovered 
that  he  did  not  intend  to  return,  she  remained  in 
his  palace,  continuing  to  take  the  same  care  of 
everything  as  though  he  had  been  the  best  of  hus- 
bands ;  acting  the  part  of  a  kind  mother  to  the 
children  of  his  first  wife.  She  would  not  consent 
that  Antony's  treatment  of  her  should  cause  a 
civil  war.  At  length  she  was  ordered  to  leave  the 
house  by  Antony,  who  sent  her  at  the  same  time  a 
divorce.  This  treatment  of  Octavia  exposed  An- 
tony to  the  hatred  and  contempt  of  the  Romans, 
when  they  saw  him  prefer  to  her  a  woman  of 
Cleopatra's  abandoned  character,  who  had  no  ad- 
vantage of  her  rival  either  in  youth  or  beauty. 
Indeed,  Cleopatra  dreaded  Octavia's  charms  so 
much  that  she  had  recourse  to  the  most  studied 
artifices  to  persuade  Antony  to  forbid  Octavia  to 
come  to  him  ;  and  she  accompanied  him  wherever 
he  went. 

After  Antony's  death,  fortune  seemed  to  flatter 
Octavia  with  the  prospect  of  the  highest  worldly 
felicity.  The  son  she  had  by  her  first  husband, 
Marcellus,  was  now  about  twelve,  and  was  a  boy  of 
great  genius,  and  of  an  unusually  cheerful,  digni- 
fied and  noble  disposition.    Augustus  married  him 


to  his  own  daughter,  and  declared  him  heir  to  the 
empire.  But  he  died  early,  not  without  suspicion 
of  being  poisoned  by  Livia,  wife  of  Augustus. 
His  mother  sank  under  this  blow,  and  mourned 
bitterly  for  him  till  her  death. 

Virgil  wrote  in  honour  of  this  yovith  an  eulogy 
in  the  conclusion  of  the  sixth  ^neid  ;  and  it  is 
said  that  Octavia  fainted  on  hearing  him  read  it, 
but  rewarded  the  poet  afterwards  with  ten  sesterces 
for  each  verse,  of  which  there  are  twenty-six. 
Octavia  died  B.  C.  11,  leaving  two  daughters  whom 
she  had  by  Antony.  Great  honours  were  paid  to 
her  memory  by  her  brother  and  the  Senate. 

So  destitute  was  she  of  all  petty  jealousy,  that 
after  the  death  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  when 
their  children  were  brought  to  Rome  to  grace  her 
brother's  triumph,  she  took  them  under  her  pro- 
tection, and  married  the  daughter  to  Juba,  king 
of  Mauritania. 


OLYMPIAS, 

Daughter  of  the  king  of  Epirus,  married  Philip, 
king  of  Macedonia,  by  whom  she  had  Alexander  the 
Great.  Her  haughtiness  and  suspected  infidelity 
induced  Philip  to  repudiate  her,  and  marry  Cleo- 
patra, niece  of  Attains.  This  incensed  Olympias, 
and  Alexander,  her  son,  shared  her  indignation. 
Some  have  attributed  the  murder  of  Philip  to  the 
intrigues  of  Olympias,  who  paid  the  greatest  ho- 
nour to  the  dead  body  of  her  husband's  murderer. 
Though  the  administration  of  Alexander  was  not 
altogether  pleasing  to  Olympias,  she  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  declare  publicly,  that  he  was  not  the  son 
of  Philip,  but  of  Jupiter.  On  Alexander's  death, 
B.  C.  324,  Olympias  seized  on  the  government,  and 
ci'uelly  put  to  death  Aridoeus,  one  of  Philip's  ille- 
gitimate sons,  who  had  claimed  the  throne,  and  his 
wife  Eurydice,  as  well  as  Nicanor,  the  brother  of 
Cassander,  with  a  hundred  of  the  principal  men 
of  Macedonia.  Cassander  besieged  her  in  Pydna, 
where  she  had  retired,  and  after  an  obstinate  de- 
fence she  was  obliged  to  surrender.  Two  hundred 
soldiers  were  sent  to  put  her  to  death,  but  the 
splendour  and  majesty  of  the  queen  overawe(! 
them,  and  she  was  at  last  massacred  by  those 
whom  she  had  injured  by  her  tyranny.  She  died 
about  316,  B.  C. 

50 


OR 


PH 


ORPAH, 
A  MoABiTiSH  damsel,  who  married  Chillon,  the 
yoxmgest  of  the  two  sons  of  Elimelech  and  Naomi, 
Israelites  from  Bethlehem-judah.  Her  story  is 
included  in  the  Book  of  Ruth ;  and  thougli  but  a 
glimpse  is  aiforded,  the  character  is  sti'ikingly  de- 
fined. Orpah  signifies,  in  the  Hebrew,  the  open 
mouth,  a  name  probably  given  her  to  denote  her 
quick  sensibility  and  lack  of  firmness.  She  was 
a  creature  of  feeling,  but  there  was  wanting  the 
strength  of  will  to  perform  what  she  had  pui-posed 
as  duty.  After  the  death  of  Elimelech  and  his 
two  sons,  Naomi,  with  her  two  young  daughters- 
in-law,  set  out  to  return  to  her  own  land ;  Orpah 
seemingly  more  earnest  than  Ruth  to  accompany 
Naomi.  But  when  the  trials  of  the  undertaking 
were  set  before  them,  Orpah  "kissed"  her  mother- 
in-law,  and  went  "back  to  her  people  and  her 
gods." 


PANTHEA, 
Wife  of  Abradatas,  king  of  the  Lusians,  was 
taken  prisoner  by  Cyrus  the  Great.  Though 
the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  time,  Cyrus 
treated  her  with  a  delicacy  and  forbearance  very 
unusual  in  those  times,  and  permitted  her  to  send 
for  her  husband.  Out  of  gratitude  to  Cyrus, 
Abradatas  became  his  ally,  and  was  slain  while 
fighting  for  him  against  the  Egyptians.  Panthea 
killed  herself  on  the  dead  body  of  her  husband, 
and  was  buried  in  the  same  grave. 

PARYSATIS, 
Wife  of  Darius  Nothus,  who  ascended  the  throne 
of  Persia  in  the  year  423  B.  C,  was  the  mother 
of  Artaxerxes  AInemon  and  Cyrus.  Her  par- 
tiality for  Cyrus  led  her  to  commit  the  greatest 
injustice  and  barbarities ;  and  she  poisoned  Statira, 
the  wife  of  Artaxerxes. 

PENELOPE, 

Daughter  of  Icarus,  married  Ulysses,  king  of 
Ithaca,  by  whom  she  had  Telemachus.  During 
the  absence  of  Ulysses,  who  went  to  the  siege  of 
Troy,  and  was  absent  twenty  years,  several  princes, 
charmed  with  Penelope's  beauty,  told  her  that 
Ulysses  was  dead,  and  urged  her  to  marry  one 
of  them.  She  promised  compliance  on  condition 
that  they  would  allow  her  to  finish  a  piece  of 
tapestry  she  was  weaving ;  but  she  undid  at  night 
what  she  had  woven  in  the  day,  and  thus  eluded 
their  importunity  till  the  return  of  Ulysses. 

Her  beauty  and  conjugal  fidelity  have  won  for 
her  the  praises  of  poets,  and  a  warm  place  in  the 
heart  of  every  pure-minded  woman.  Her  character 
and  example  appear  most  lovely  when  contrasted 
with  her  celebrated  contemporary  Helen.  The 
character  of  Telemachus,  as  drawn  by  Fenelon, 
is  such  as  we  should  imagine  would  be  displayed 
by  the  son  of  Penelope, — her  wise  influence  would 
be  his  Mentor. 


PENTHESILEA, 

Queen  of  the  Amazons,  succeeded  Osythia.  She 
fought  bravely  at  the  siege  of  Troy,  and  was  killed 
by  Achilles,  B.C.  1187.  Pliny  says  she  invented 
the  battle-axe.    She  must  have  been  a  real  amazon, 

PERILLA, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  the  poct  Ovid,  and  of  his  third 
wife,  was  very  fond  of  poetry  and  literature,  and 
very  devoted  to  her  father.  She  accompanied 
him  in  his  banishment,  and  is  supposed  to  have 
survived  him.  She  lived  in  the  first  century  after 
Christ.  It  is  the  best  example  left  by  Ovid,  that 
he  encouraged  his  daughter  in  her  literary  tastes ; 
and  well  did  she  repay  his  care,  in  the  cultivation 
of  her  mind,  by  her  devoted  attachment  to  him  in 
his  misfortunes. 

PHyEDYMA, 

Daughter  of  Olanes,  one  of  the  seven  Persian 
lords  who  conspired  against  Smerdis  the  ]\Iagian. 
Being  married  to  Smerdis,  who  pretended  to  be 
the  son  of  Cyrus  the  Great,  she  discovered  his  im- 
posture to  her  father,  by  his  want  of  ears,  which 
Cambyses  had  cut  off.     She  lived  B.  C.  521. 

PHANTASIA, 

Daughter  of  Nicanchus  of  Memphis,  in  Egypt. 
Chiron,  a  celebrated  personage  of  antiquity,  as- 
serted that  Phantasia  wrote  a  poem  on  the  Trojan 
war,  and  another  on  the  return  of  Ulysses  to 
Ithaca,  from  which  Homer  copied  the  greater  part 
of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  when  he  visited  Memphis, 
where  these  poems  were  deposited.  She  lived  in 
the  12th  century  before  Christ. 

PHERETIMA, 

Wife  of  Battus,  king  of  Cyrene,  and  the  mother 
of  Arcesilaus,  who  was  driven  from  his  kingdom 
in  a  sedition,  and  assassinated.  After  her  sonV 
death,  she  recovered  the  kingdom  by  the  aid  of 
Amasis  king  of  Egypt ;  and  to  avenge  the  murder 
of  Arcesilaus,  she  caused  all  his  assassins  to  be 
crucified  round  the  walls  of  Cyrene,  and  she  cui 
off  the  breasts  of  their  wives,  and  hung  them  neai- 
their  husbands.  It  is  said  she  was  devoured  by 
worms ;  which  probably  had  reference  to  the  re- 
morse she  must  have  felt  for  her  cruelties.  She 
lived  about  G24  B.  C. 

P  H  I  L I  S  T  E  S , 
An  ancient  queen,  whose  coin  is  still  extant,  but 
of  whose  life,  reign,  country,  and  government, 
nothing  can  be  ascertained.  Herodotus  speaks  of 
her  coin,  so  she  must  have  flourished  before  he 
lived,  that  is  before  B.  C.  487  ;  but  says  nothing 
else  of  her.  Some  persons  think  that  she  was 
queen  of  Sicily,  others  of  Malta  or  Cossara. 

P  H I L  0  T I  S , 

A  servant-maid  at  Rome,  saved  her  country- 
men from  destruction.  After  the  siege  of  Rome, 
by  the  Gauls,  about  381  B.  C,  the  Fidenate^ 
marched  with  an  army  against  the  capital,  demand- 
ing all  the  wives  and  daughters  in  the  city,  as  tho 

51 


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PO 


only  conditions  of  peace.  Philotis  advised  the 
senators  to  send  the  female  slaves,  disguised  in 
matrons'  clothes ;  she  offered  to  march  herself 
at  their  head.  The  advice  was  followed,  and 
when  the  Fidenates,  havirg  feasted  late,  had  fallen 
asleep  intoxicated,  Philotis  lighted  a  torch,  as  a 
signal  for  her  countrymen  to  attack  the  enemy. 
The  Fidenates  were  conquered ;  and  the  senate, 
to  rewai'd  the  fidelity  of  the  slaves,  allowed  them 
to  appear  in  the  dress  of  the  Fioman  matrons. 

PHILLA 

Was  daughter  of  Antipater,  governor  of  Mace- 
don,  during  the  absence  of  Alexander,  B.  C.  334. 
She  was  a- woman  of  remarkable  powers  of  mind, 
being  consulted  when  quite  young,  by  her  father, 
one  of  the  wisest  politicians  of  the  time,  on  affairs 
of  the  greatest  moment.  By  skilful  management 
she  prevented  an  army,  full  of  factions  and  turbu- 
lent spirits,  from  making  an  insurrection ;  she 
married  poor  maidens  at  her  own  expense,  and 
opposed  the  oppressors  of  innocency  with  so  much 
vigour,  that  she  preserved  the  lives  of  many  guilt- 
less persons.  Philla  first  married  Craterus,  one 
of  Alexander's  captains,  and  the  favourite  of  the 
Macedonians ;  and  after  his  death  Demetrius  I.,  son 
of  Antigonus,  king  of  Asia.  He  was  a  voluptuous 
man,  and  though  she  was  the  chief  of  his  wives, 
she  had  little  share  in  his  affections.  Philla  poi- 
soned herself  on  hearing  that  Demetrius  had  lost 
liis  possessions  in  Asia,  in  a  battle  at  Ipsus,  B.  C. 
•'iOl,  with  three  of  Alexander's  former  generals. 
She  had  by  Demetrius  a  son  and  a  daughter,  the 
famous  Stratonice,  who  was  the  wife  of  Seleucus, 
and  yielded  to  him  by  his  son  Antiochus.  Diodorus 
Siculus  gave  a  history  of  this  excellent  princess, 
but  unfortunate  woman,  in  which  he  extolled  her 
character  and  talents. 

PHRYNE, 

A  Grecian  courtezan,  flourished  at  Athens, 
about  B.  C.  328.  Society  alone  can  discover  the 
<;harms  of  the  understanding,  and  the  virtuous 
women  of  ancient  Greece  were  excluded  from 
society.  The  houses  of  the  courtezans,  on  the 
contrary,  were  frequented  by  the  poets,  statesmen, 
philosophers,  and  artists  of  Athens,  and  became 
schools  of  eloquence.  Phryne  was  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  that  class  of  women.  She  served 
as  a  model  for  Praxiteles,  and  a  subject  for  Apel- 
les,  and  was  represented  by  both  as  Venus.  Her 
statue  in  gold  was  placed  between  those  of  two 
kings  at  Delphi.  She  offered  to  rebuild  at  her 
own  expense  the  walls  of  Thebes,  if  she  might  be 
allowed  to  inscribe  on  them,  "  Alexander  destroyed 
Thebes,  Phryne  rebuilt  it."  She  was  born  in 
ThespifB  in  Boeotia.  She  was  accused  of  disbelief 
in  the  gods,  but  Hyperides  obtained  her  acquittal 
by  exposing  her  charms  to  the  venerable  judges 
of  the  Helica. 

But  though  all  these  honours  and  favours  were 
bestowed  on  Phryne,  she  was  not  allowed  to  re- 
build the  walls  of  Thebes;  and  this  shows  there 
still  remained  in  the  hearts  of  those  old  Greeks, 
corrupted  as  they  were,  the  sentiment  of  respect 
for  female  virtue ;  and  also  a  fear  of  degradation 


if  they  permitted  such  a  woman  to  immortalize 
her  name. 

PLANCINA 

Was  the  wife  of  Piso,  consul  in  the  reign  of 
Augustus,  and  accused  with  him  of  having  mur- 
dered Germanicus  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius.  She 
was  acquitted,  either  through  the  partiality  of  the 
empress  Livia,  or  of  Tiberius.  Though  devoted 
to  her  husband  during  their  confinement,  she  was 
no  sooner  set  free  than  she  left  him  to  his  fate. 
At  the  instigation  of  Livia,  she  committed  the 
greatest  crimes  to  injure  Agrippina.  Being  accused 
of  them,  and  knowing  she  could  not  elude  justice, 
she  committed  suicide,  A.  D.  33. 

POLYXENA, 

One  of  the  daughters  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy, 
and  Hecuba.  Achilles,  the  celebrated  hero  of  the 
Greeks,  loved  her ;  and  by  means  of  his  passion 
for  her  his  death  was  effected,  for  he  was  mortally 
wounded  in  the  heel  by  her  brother  Paris,  while 
treating  about  the  marriage.  It  is  said  by  some 
that  she  was  sacrificed  to  his  manes ;  by  others, 
that  she  killed  herself  on  his  tomb.  She  is  sup- 
posed to  have  died  about  B.  C.  1183. 

POLYXO, 

A  native  of  Argos,  who  married  Tleoptolemus. 
She  followed  him  to  Rhodes,  and  when  he  went  to 
the  Trojan  war,  B.  C.  1184,  Polyxo  became  sole 
mistress  of  the  kingdom.  After  the  death  of 
Menelaus,  Helen  fled  from  Peloponnesus  to  Rhodes ; 
and  Polyxo,  to  punish  her  for  being  the  cause  of  a 
war  in  which  Tleoptolemus  had  perished,  ordered 
her  to  be  hanged  on  a  tree  by  her  female  servants, 
disguised  as  furies. 


PORTIA, 

Daughter  of  the  celebrated  Cato  of  Utica,  was 
married  first  to  Bibulus,  by  whom  she  had  two 
children.  Becoming  a  widow,  she  married  her 
cousin  Marcus  Brutus.  When  Brutus  was  engaged 
in  the  conspiracy  against  Caesar,  he  attempted, 
but  in  vain,  to  conceal  the  agitation  of  his  mind 

52 


PO 


RA 


from  his  wife,  who  did  not  venture  to  urge  him  to 
let  her  share  in  the  secret,  till  she  had  given  deci- 
sive proof  of  her  strength  of  mind.  She  accord- 
ingly gave  herself  a  deep  wound  in  the  thigh,  and 
then,  when  pain  and  loss  of  blood  had  confined  her 
to  her  bed,  she  represented  to  Brutus,  that  the 
daughter  of  Cato,  and  his  wife,  might  hope  to  be 
considered  as  something  more  than  a  mere  female 
companion.  She  then  showed  him  her  wound, 
and  Brutus,  after  imploring  the  gods  that  he 
might  live  to  prove  himself  worthy  a  wife  like 
Portia,  informed  her  of  the  conspiracy. 

When  the  important  day  arrived,  March  15, 
B.  C.  44,  she  sent  messenger  after  messenger  to 
bring  her  word  what  Brutus  was  doing,  and  at 
length  fainted  away,  so  that  a  report  reached  her 
husband  that  she  was  dead. 

Brutus  perceiving  that  he  had  not  accomplished 
his  object  by  the  assassination  of  Cajsar,  left  Rome 
for  Athens.  Portia  accompanied  him  to  the  shore 
and  then  left  him,  as  he  thought  it  necessary  that 
she  should  return  to  Rome.  On  parting  with  him 
she  melted  into  tears,  and  some  one  present  re- 
peated from  Homer  the  address  of  Andromache  to 
her  husband  — 

"  Be  careful,  Hector,  for  with  thee  my  all. 
My  father,  mother,  brother,  husband,  fall." 

Brutus  replied,  smiling,  "  I  must  not  answer  Por- 
tia in  the  words  of  Hector, 

Mind  you  your  wheel,  and  to  your  maids  give  law ;' 

for,  if  the  weakness  of  her  frame  seconds  not  her 
mind,  in  courage,  in  activity,  in  concern  for  the 
cause  of  freedom,  and  for  the  welfare  of  her  coun- 
try, she  is  not  inferior  to  any  of  us." 

After  the  death  of  Brutus,  Portia  resolved  not 
to  survive  him,  and  being  closely  watched  by  her 
friends,  snatched  burning  coals  from  the  fire,  and 
thrusting  them  in  her  mouth,  held  them  there  till 
she  was  suffocated,  B.  C.  42. 

The  character  of  Portia  appears  to  have  been 
much  nearer  the  common  standard  of  high-bred 
women,  than  that  of  the  accomplished  and  com- 
manding Cornelia,  whose  grandeur  and  supremacy 
of  spirit  seems  to  have  swayed  both  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  all  around  her.  Portia,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  more  strictly  feminine.  She  gushed 
out  with  warm  affection  to  her  husband.  She  felt 
the  dignity  of  her  Patrician  descent  from  the 
family  of  Cato.  She  was  full  of  anxiety  for  her 
own  friends,  and  she  entered  into  the  spirit  and 
enterprises  of  the  times.  If  the  anecdote  about 
the  painting  and  quotations  of  Brutus  be  true,  and 
we  have  no  reason  to  doubt  them,  it  gives  us  some 
insight  into  the  spirit  of  Roman  education.  Both 
Brutus  and  Portia  must  have  been  familiar  with 
Homer.  This  shows  how  much  the  Roman  litera- 
ture and  education  were  founded  upon  that  of  the 
Greeks.  Many  distinguished  men,  and  probably 
Brutus  himself,  visited  Athens  to  finish  their  edu- 
cation, Brutus  was  familiar  with  the  Greek  phi- 
losophy, and  as  Portia  was  his  cousin  and  the 
daughter  of  Cato,  she  must  have  had  a  highly 
finished  education.  It  is  more  than  probable  that 
the  Roman  women  of  the  higher  ranks  had  a 
better  education  in  proportion  to  the  men,  than 


the  women  of  our  own  era.  They  were  educated 
more  in  the  solid,  than  in  the  merely  ornamental 
knowledge  of  life.  They  were  not  estranged  alto- 
gether from  the  politics  and  the  higher  philosophy 
of  their  country.  They  read,  in  common  with 
fathers  and  husbands,  the  stern  and  yet  brilliant 
literature  of  the  ancient  Greeks.  Barbarous  and 
heathen  as  it  was,  it  had  the  advantage  of  being 
exempted  from  the  effeminacy  and  corrupting  in- 
fluences of  oriental  manners. 

PYRRHA, 

Tub  daughter  of  Epimethus  and  Pandora,  wa,« 
wife  of  Deucalion,  king  of  Thessaly,  in  whose 
reign  a  flood  happened.  She  was  the  mother  of 
Amphictyon,  Helen,  and  Protogenia. 

The  flood  that  occurred  in  the  time  of  Deuca- 
lion, about  B.  C.  1500,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
only  an  inundation  of  that  country,  occasioned  by 
heavy  rains,  and  an  earthquake,  that  stopped  the 
course  of  the  river  Penus,  where  it  usually  dis- 
charged itself  into  the  sea.  Deucalion  governed 
his  people  with  equity ;  but  the  rest  of  mankind 
being  very  wicked,  were  destroyed  by  a  flood, 
while  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha  saved  themselves  by 
ascending  Mount  Parnassus.  When  the  waters 
had  subsided,  they  consulted  the  oracle  of  Themis 
on  the  means  by  which  the  earth  was  to  be  re- 
peopled;  when  they  were  ordered  to  veil  their 
faces,  unloose  their  girdles,  and  throw  behind 
them  the  bones  of  their  great  mother.  At  this 
advice,  Pyrrha  was  seized  with  horror ;  but  Deu- 
calion explained  the  mystery,  by  observing,  that 
their  great  mother  meant  the  earth,  and  her  bones 
the  stones ;  when,  following  the  directions  of  the 
oracle,  those  thrown  by  Deucalion  became  men, 
and  those  by  Pyrrha,  women. 

Some  have  supposed  that  Deucalion  was  the 
same  with  the  patriarch  Noah  ;  and  that  his  flood 
in  Thessaly,  was  the  same  as  that  recorded  in  the 
Scriptures ;  tradition  thus  corroborating  the  autho- 
rity of  the  Bible. 


R. 

RACHEL, 

The  youngest  daughter  of  Laban,  the  Syrian, 
the  beloved  wife  of  Jacob,  the  patriarch,  mother 
of  Joseph  and  Benjamin; — how  many  beautiful 
traits  of  character,  how  many  touching  incidents 
of  her  husband's  life,  are  connected  with  her 
name !  Rachel  was  the  true  wife  of  Jacob,  the 
wife  of  his  choice,  his  first  and  only  love.  For 
her,  "he  served  Laban  seven  years,  and  they 
seemed  to  him  but  a  few  days,  for  the  love  he  bore 
her."  At  the  close  of  this  term,  the  crafty  father, 
who  wished  to  retain  Jacob  in  his  service,  prac- 
tised the  gross  deception  of  giving  Leah  instead 
of  Rachel,  and  then  permitting  Jacob  to  have  the 
beloved  one  as  another  wife,  provided  he  would 
serve  another  seven  years !  Thus  Rachel  really 
cost  her  husband  fourteen  years'  servitude. 

She  was  "beautiful  and  well-favoured,"  Moses 
tells  us ;  yet  surely  it  was  not  her  personal  charms 
which  gained  such  entire  ascendency  over  the  wise 

§3 


RA 


RE 


son  of  Isaac.  Jacob  must  have  been  nearly  sixty 
years  old  at  the  time  of  his  marriage ;  and  if 
Rachel  had  been  deficient  in  those  noble  qualities 
of  mind  and  soul,  which  could  understand  and 
harmonize  with  his  lofty  aspirations  to  fulfil  the 
great  duties  God  had  imposed  on  him,  as  the 
chosen  Founder  of  the  house  of  Israel,  she  never 
would  have  been  his  confidant,  counsellor,  friend, 
as  well  as  his  lovely,  and  loving  wife.  That  she 
was  this  all  in  all  to  her  husband,  seems  certain 
by  the  grief,  the  utter  desolation  of  spirit,  which 
overwhelmed  him  for  her  loss.  He  cherished  her 
memory  in  his  heart,  loved  her  in  the  passionate 
love  he  lavished  on  her  children  till  his  dying  day. 
Her  two  sons  were,  in  moral  character,  far  supe- 
rior to  the  other  sons  of  Jacob ;  and  this  is  ti'ue 
testimony  of  her  great  and  good  qualities.  She 
died  in  giving  birth  to  Benjamin,  while  Jacob, 
with  all  his  family,  was  on  his  way  from  Syi'ia  to 
his  own  land.  She  was  buried  near  Bethlehem, 
in  Judea,  and  Jacob  erected  a  monument  over  her 
grave.  Her  precious  dust  was  thus  left,  as  though 
to  keep  possession  of  the  land  sure,  to  hers  and 
her  husband's  posterity,  during  the  long  centimes 
of  absence  and  bondage.  And,  as  if  to  mark  that 
this  ground  was  hallowed,  the  Messiah  was  born 
near  the  place  of  Rachel's  grave.  She  died  B.  C. 
1732. 

RAHAB, 

A  WOMAN  of  Jericho.  When  Joshua,  the  leader 
of  the  Israelitish  host,  sent  out  two  spies,  saying, 
"  Go  view  tlie  land,  even  Jericho,"  it  is  recorded 
"  that  they  went,  and  came  into  an  harlot's  house, 
named  Rahab,  and  lodged  there."  The  king  of 
Jericho  hearing  of  their  visit,  sent  to  Rahab,  re- 
quiring her  to  bring  the  men  forth ;  but  instead 
of  complying,  she  deceived  the  king,  by  telling 
him  that  they  went  out  of  the  city  about  the  time 
of  the  shutting  of  the  gate,  and  whither  they  went, 
she  knew  not,  but  doubtless  if  the  king  pursued 
after  them  they  woiild  be  overtaken.  In  the  mean 
time,  while  the  messengers  thus  put  upon  the  false 
track  pursued  after  them  to  the  fords  of  Jordan, 
Rahab  took  the  two  men  up  to  the  roof  of  the 
house,  which,  after  the  custom  of  eastern  cities, 
was  flat,  and  hid  them  under  the  stalks  of  flax 
which  she  had  spread  out  there  to 'dry. 

This  strange  conduct,  in  defence  of  two  stran- 
gers, she  explained  to  the  spies,  by  telling  them, 
■after  they  reached  the  roof,  that  ' '  she  knew  that 
the  Lord  had  given  the  children  of  Israel  the  land, 
for  they  had  heard  of  their  doings  from  the  time 
that  they  came  out  of  Egypt,  so  that  all  the  in- 
habitants of  the  land  faint  because  of  you." 

In  return  for  her  care,  she  made  them  swear 
unto  her  that  they  would  save  alive  herself  and 
all  her  family, — father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters; 
and  all  that  they  had.  Having  thus  secured  her- 
self from  threatened  destruction,  she  let  them 
down  by  a  cord  through  a  window,  for  her  house 
was  upon  the  town  wall,  and  they  escaped  to  the 
mountains,  whence,  after  three  days,  they  re- 
turned to  the  camp  of  Joshua. 

For  the  important  service  rendered  to  these 
spies,  herself  and  kindred  were  saved  from  the 


general  massacre  which  followed  the  capture  of 
Jericho,  her  house  being  designated  by  a  scarlet 
cord  let  down  from  the  window  oiit  of  which  the 
spies  escaped. 

Several  commentators,  anxious  to  relieve  the 
character  of  a  woman  so  renowned  from  the  im- 
putation cast  upon  her  by  the  opprobrious  epithet 
usually  affixed  to  her  name,  would  translate  the 
Hebrew  word  Zonah,  which  our  version  renders 
harlot,  by  the  term  hostess  or  innkeeper.  But 
the  same  Hebrew  word  in  every  other  place  means 
what  the  old  English  version  says,  and  we  see  no 
reason  to  make  its  use  here  an  exception ;  besides, 
there  were  no  inns  in  those  days  and  countries ; 
and  when,  subsequently,  something  answerable  to 
our  ideas  of  them  were  introduced,  in  the  shape 
of  caravanseri,  they  were  never  kept  by  women. 

It  is  a  remarkable  feature  of  the  Bible,  that  it 
glosses  over  no  characters,  but  freely  mentions 
failings  and  defects,  as  well  as  goodness  and 
virtue ;  and  hence,  when  errors  of  life  are  spoken 
of  as  connected  with  any  individual,  it  is  not  in- 
cumbent on  us  to  defend  all  the  life  of  that  indi- 
vidual, if  the  character  is  good  from  the  time  that 
it  professes  to  be  good ;  the  evil  living  which  went 
before,  may  freely  be  named  without  compro- 
mising or  reflecting  upon  subsequent  goodness. 

Her  remarks  to  the  spies  evince  her  belief  in 
the  God  of  the  Hebrews,  and  her  marriage,  at  a 
later  period,  with  Salmon,  one  of  the  princes  of 
Israel,  proves  her  conversion  to  Judaism. 

The  Jewish  writers  abound  in  praises  of  Rahab ; 
and  even  those  who  do  not  deny  that  she  was  a 
harlot,  admit  that  she  eventually  became  the  wife 
of  a  prince  of  Israel,  and  that  many  great  persons 
of  their  nation  sprang  from  this  union. 

According  to  the  Bible,  Rahab  was  a  woman  of 
fidelity,  discretion,  and  a  believer  in  the  God  of 
Israel ;  and  the  only  individual,  among  all  the  na- 
tions which  Joshua  was  commissioned  to  destroy, 
who  aided  the  Israelites,  and  who  was  received 
and  dwelt  among  the  people  of  God  as  one  with 
them.  St.  Paul  quotes  her  as  one  of  his  examples 
of  eminent  faith.  These  events  occurred  B.  C. 
14.51. 

REBEKAH, 

Daughter  of  Bethuel,  and  wife  of  Isaac  the 
patriarch,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  female 
characters  the  Bible  exhibits  for  the  example  and 
instruction  of  her  sex.  Her  betrothal  and  mar- 
riage are  graphic  pictures  of  the  simple  customs 
of  her  maiden  life,  and  her  own  heart-devotion  to 
the  will  of  God.  No  wonder  her  beauty,  modesty 
and  piety,  won  the  love  and  confidence  of  Isaac  at 
once.  She  was  his  only  wife,  and  thus  highly 
favoured  above  those  who  were  obliged  to  share 
the  heart  of  a  husband  with  hand-maidens  and 
concubines.  The  plague-spot  of  polygamy  which 
has  polluted  even  the  homes  of  the  chosen  of  God 
did  not  fasten  its  curse  on  her  bridal  tent.  So 
distinguished  was  this  example,  tliat  ever  since, 
the  young  married  pair  have  been  admonished  to 
be,  as  "Isaac  and  Rebecca,  faithful." 

The  first  portion  of  her  history,  contained  in 
Genesis,  chap.  xxiv.  (any  synopsis  would  mar  its 

64 


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beauty)  has  won  for  her  unqualified  approbation  ; 
while  commentators  and  divines  are  almost  as 
un;inimous  in  censuring  her  later  conduct.  But 
is  this  censure  desei-ved  ?  Let  us  examine  care- 
fully before  we  venture  to  condemn  what  the  Bible 
does  not. 

This  pious  couple,  who  inherited  the  promises 
of  God,  and  in  whom  centred  the  hopes  of  the 
world,  were  childless  for  twenty  years ;  when 
Rebekah's  twin  sons  were  born.  Before  their 
birth,  it  had,  in  some  mysterious  manner,  been 
revealed  to  the  mother  that  these  sons  would  be 
the  progenitors  of  two  nations,  different  from  each 
other,  and  that  the  elder  should  serve  the  younger. 
From  their  birth  the  boys  were  as  unlike  as  though 
they  were  of  different  races.  Esau  is  represented 
as  red,  rough,  reckless,  rebellious ;  Jacob  was 
fair,  gentle,  home-loving  and  obedient ;  such  a 
son  as  must  have  gladdened  his  mother's  heart. 
But  there  was  a  higher  and  holier  motive  for  her 
devoted  love  to  this,  her  youngest  son, — she  kneiu 
he  was  the  chosen  of  God. 

"Isaac  loved  Esau,  because  he  did  eat  of  his 
venison;  but  Rebekah  loved  Jacob;"  —  that  is, 
she  loved  him  with  the  holy,  disinterested  affec- 
tion which  her  faith  that  he  was  born  for  a  high 
destiny  would  inspire.  She  kept  him  with  her 
and  instructed  him  in  this  faith,  making  him  thus 
aware  of  the  value  of  the  birthright ;  while  Esau, 
like  a  young  heathen,  was  passing  his  life  in  the 
hunting-field,  caring  nothing  for  the  promises 
made  to  Abraham ;  probably  scoffing  at  the  men- 
tion of  such  superstitions,  he  "  despised  his  birth- 
right," and  sold  it  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

Next  occurs  a  scene  reflecting  great  honour  on 
the  character  of  Rebekah,  as  it  shows  she  had  the 
heart-purity  which  is  ever  under  the  holy  guar- 
dianship of  heaven ; — we  allude  to  what  passed  at 
Gerar.  Isaac  was  there  guilty  of  a  cowardly  false- 
hood, and  seems  to  have  been  forgiven,  and  great 
privileges  allowed  him  solely  on  account  of  the 
reverence  and  admiration  felt  for  his  wife.  Thvis 
the  patriarch  prospered  exceedingly  in  conse- 
quence of  Rebekah's  beauty,  virtue,  and  piety ; 
while  Esau's  perverse  disposition  manifested  itself 
more  and  more.  And  yet,  though  he  grieved  the 
hearts  of  his  parents  by  uniting  himself  with 
idolaters,  (marrying  two  Hittite  wives,)  still  the 
father's  heart  clung  to  this  unworthy  son — because 
he  furnished  him  savoury  food  ! 

Isaac  had  grown  older  in  constitution  than  in 
years;  "his  eyes  were  dim  so  that  he  could  not 
see;"  fearing  he  might  die  suddenly,  he  called 
Esau,  and  said  to  him  —  "  Take,  I  pray  thee,  thy 
weapons,  thy  quiver  and  thy  bow,  and  go  out  to 
the  field,  and  take  me  venison ;  and  make  me 
savoury  food,  such  as  I  love,  and  bring  it  to  me, 
that  I  may  eat ;  that  my  soul  may  bless  thee  be- 
fore I  die."  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  Isaac  did 
not  allude  to  any  blessing  the  Lord  had  promised 
to  his  eldest  son,  nor  to  any  motive,  save  indulging 
his  own  appetite.  If  Isaac  knew  tliat  Jacob  the 
younger  son  had  been  by  God  prefei'red  before 
the  elder,  did  he  not  purpose  committing  a  great 
sin,  in  thus  attempting  to  give  the  blessing  to 
Esau?     And  if  Isaac  did  not  know  the  promise 


made  to  Rebekah  concerning  the  destiny  of  her 
sons,  then  we  must  allow  the  spiritual  insight  con- 
ferred on  her  devolved  also  the  duty  of  prevent- 
ing, if  possible,  the  sin  her  husband  would  bring 
on  his  own  soul  by  attempting  to  bless  him  whom 
the  Lord  had  not  blessed.  It  is  manifest  that 
Rebekah  felt  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  act. 
If  she  had  entreated  her  husband  to  bless  the 
youngest  born,  he  had  not  listened  to  her  counsel, 
as  Abraham  was  directed  to  do  when  Sarah  ad- 
vised him.  We  may  say  Rebekah  should  have  had 
faith  that  God  would  bring  to  pass  what  he  had 
ordained ;  but  we  cannot  know  her  convictions  of 
the  duty  devolving  on  herself.  She  certainly  did 
not  wait  the  event ;  but  overhearing  the  directions 
of  Isaac,  she  immediately  took  such  measures  as 
deceived  him,  and  obtained  his  blessing  for  Jacob. 

Rebekah  must  have  been  either  perfectly  as- 
sured she  was  working  under  the  righteous  inspi- 
ration of  God,  or  she  was  willing  to  bear  the 
punishment  of  deceiving  her  husband  rather  than 
allow  him  to  sin  by  attempting  to  give  the  bless- 
ing where  God  had  withheld  it.  That  the  result 
was  right  is  certain,  because  Isaac  acknowledged 
it  when,  after  the  deception  was  made  manifest, 
he  said  of  Jacob — "  Yea,  and  he  shall  be  blessed." 

When,  to  avoid  the  murderous  hatred  of  Esau, 
Jacob  fled  from  his  home,  the  Lord  met  him  in  a 
wondrous  vision,  where  the  promise  made  to  Abra- 
ham and  to  Isaac  was  expressly  confirmed  to  this 
cherished  son  of  Rebekah ;  thus  sealing  the  truth 
of  her  belief  and  the  importance  of  her  perse- 
verance ;  and  not  a  word  of  reproof  appears  on 
the  holy  page  which  records  her  history.  She  did 
not  live  to  see  her  son's  triumphant  return,  nor  is 
the  date  of  her  decease  given ;  but  she  was  buried 
in  the  family  sepulchre  at  Macpelah  ;  and  as  Isaac 
had  no  second  wife,  she  was  doubtless  mourned. 
It  has  been  urged  that  because  her  death  was  not 
recorded,  therefore  she  had  sinned  in  regard  to 
her  son.  No  mention  is  made  of  the  death  of 
Deborah,  or  Ruth,  or  Esther,  —  had  they  sinned  ? 

There  are  no  pei'fect  examples  among  mankind ; 
but  in  the  comparison  of  Isaac  and  Rebekah,  the 
wife  is,  morally,  superior  to  her  husband ;  and 
appears  to  have  been  specially  entrusted  by  God 
with  the  agency  of  changing  the  succession  of  her 
sons,  and  thus  building  up  the  house  of  Israel. 
See  Genesis,  chapters  xxvi.  xxvii.  xxviii. 

RHODOPE, 
A  CELEBRATED  Grecian  courtezan,  who  was  fel- 
low-servant with  jEsop  at  the  court  of  the  king 
of  Samos.  She  was  carried  to  Egypt  by  Xanthus, 
and  purchased  by  Charaxes  of  Mytelene,  the  bro- 
ther of  Sappho,  who  married  her.  She  gained  so 
much  money  by  her  charms  that  she  built  one  of 
the  pyramids.  jElian  says  that  one  day,  as  she 
was  bathing,  an  eagle  carried  away  one  of  her 
sandals,  and  dropt  it  near  king  Psammetichus,  at 
Memphis,  who  sought  out  the  owner  and  married 
her.     She  lived  about  B.  C.  610. 

RIZPAH 

Was  daughter  of  Aiah,  concubine  to  king  Saul. 
Saul  having  put  to  death  many  of  the  Gibeonites, 

55 


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SA 


God,  to  punish  this  massacre,  sent  a  famine  which 
lasted  three  years.  To  expiate  this,  David,  who 
was  then  king,  gave  to  the  Gibeonites  two  sons  of 
•Saul  by  Rizpah,  and  five  sons  of  Michal,  the 
daughter  of  Saul,  whom  the  Gibeonites  hanged 
on  the  mountain  near  Gibeah.  Rizpah  spread  a 
sackcloth  ou  the  rock,  and  watched  night  and  day 
to  prevent  ravenous  beasts  and  birds  from  devour- 
ing the  dead  bodies ;  till  David,  pitying  her,  had 
their  bones  brought  and  interred  in  the  tomb  of 
Kish.  Abner,  Saul's  general,  married  Rizpah 
after  Saul's  death,  which  was  so  much  resented 
by  Ishbosheth,  son  of  Saul,  that  Abner  vowed  and 
procured  his  ruin. 

Her  sad  story  has  been  the  theme  of  poets ;  and 
the  picture  of  the  childless  mother,  watching  be- 
side the  bleaching  bones  of  her  murdered  sons,  is 
an  illustration  of  the  truth  and  tenderness  of  wo- 
man's love,  which  every  human  heart  must  feel. 
This  tragedy  occurred  B.  C.  about  1021. 

ROXANA, 

A  Persian  princess  of  great  beauty,  daughter 
of  Darius,  king  of  Persia,  whom  Alexander  the 
Great  took  for  his  wife.  Their  son  Alexander, 
born  after  his  father's  death,  was  murdered  by 
Cassander,  one  of  Alexander's  generals,  323  B.  C, 
and  she  shared  his  fate.  She  had  cruelly  put  to 
death,  after  Alexander's  decease,  her  sister  Sta- 
tira,  whom  the  conqueror  had  also  married. 

RUTH, 

A  MoABiTESS,  widow  of  Mahlon,  an  Israelite, 
and  one  of  the  ancestors  of  our  Saviour,  lived, 
probably,  in  the  days  of  Gideon.  Being  left  a  wi- 
dow, she  accompanied  her  mother-in-law,  Naomi, 
to  Judea,  where  she  married  Boaz,  a  wealthy  He- 
brew and  a  near  relative  of  her  late  husband  — 
and  became  the  ancestress  of  David  and  of  our 
Saviour.     Her  name  signifies  "full,  or  satisfied." 

Her  story,  told  at  length  in  the  eighth  book  of 
the  Old  Testament,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
in  the  Bible.  Poetry  and  painting  have  exhausted 
their  arts  to  illustrate  her  beautiful  character ; 
yet  to  the  truthful  simplicity  of  the  inspired  his- 
torian, the  name  of  Paith  still  owes  its  sweetest 
associations.  Her  example  shows  what  woman 
can  do,  if  she  is  true  to  the  best  impulses  of  her 
nature,  and  faithfully  works  in  her  mission,  and 
waits  the  appointed  time. 

RUT  ILIA, 

A  Roman  lady,  sister  of  that  Pub.  Rutilius  who 
suffered  his  vmjust  banishment  with  so  much  for- 
titude, was  the  wife  of  Marcus  Aurelius  Cotta; 
and  had  a  son,  who  was  a  man  of  great  merit, 
whom  she  tenderly  loved,  but  whose  death  she 
bore  with  resignation. 

Seneca,  during  his  exile,  wrote  to  his  mother 
and  exhorted  her  to  imitate  Rutilia,  who,  he  says, 
followed  her  son  Cotta  into  banishment ;  nor  did 
she  return  to  her  country  till  her  son  came  with 
her.  Yet  she  bore  his  death,  after  his  return, 
with  equal  courage,  for  she  followed  him  to  his 
burial  without  shedding  a  tear.  She  lived  about 
B.  C.  120. 


SAPPHO, 

A  CELEBRATED  Greek  poetess,  was  a  native  of 
Mitylene,  in  the  isle  of  Lesbos,  and  flourished 
about  B.  C.  GIO.  She  married  Cercala,  a  rich  in- 
habitant of  Andros,  by  whom  she  had  a  daughter, 
named  Cleis ;  and  it  was  not,  probably,  till  after 
she  became  a  widow  that  she  rendered  herself 
distinguished  by  her  poetry.  Her  verses  were 
chiefly  of  the  lyric  kind,  and  love  was  the  general 
subject,  which  she  treated  with  so  much  warmth, 
and  with  such  beauty  of  poetical  expression,  as  to 
have  acquired  the  title  of  the  "  Tenth  Muse." 
Her  compositions  were  held  in  the  highest  esteem 
by  her  contemporaries,  Roman  as  well  as  Greek, 
and  no  female  name  has  risen  higher  in  the  cata- 
logue of  poets.  Her  morals  have  been  as  mucli 
depreciated,  as  her  genius  has  been  extolled.  She 
is  represented  by  Ovid  as  far  from  handsome ;  and 
as  she  was  probably  no  longer  young  when  she 
fell  in  love  with  the  beautiful  Phaon,  his  neglect 
is  not  surprising.  Unable  to  bear  her  disappoint- 
pointment,  she  went  to  the  famous  precipice  of 
Leucate,  since  popularly  called  the  Lover's  Leap, 
and  throwing  herself  into  the  sea,  terminated  at 
once  her  life  and  her  love.  To  this  catastrophe 
Ausonius  alludes : 

"  And  the  masculine  Sappho  about  to  perish  with  her  Les- 
bian arrows, 
Threatens  a  leap  from  the  snow-crowned  Leucade." 

Longinus  quotes  this  celebrated  ode  written  by 
Sappho,  of  which  we  give  the  translation,  as  an 
example  of  sublimity : 

"  Blest  as  th'  immortal  gods  is  he. 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while. 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast 
For,  while  I  gazed  in  transport  tost, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost; 

5G 


SA 


SA 


My  bosom  glowed ;  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame: 
O'er  my  dim  eye  a  darkness  Imng, 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung; 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play ; 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away." 

No  less  beautiful  is  the  Hymn  to  Veniis,  of 
which  the  following  is  an  extract  : 

"  O  Venus,  beauty  of  the  skies, 
To  whom  a  thousand  temples  rise, 
Gaily  false  in  gentle  smiles, 
Full  of  love  perplexiiigjwiles  ; 
Oh,  goddess !  from  my  heart  remove 
The  wasting  cares  and  pains  of  love. 

If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  heard 
A  song  in  soft  distress  preferred. 
Propitious  to  my  tuneful  vow. 
Oh,  gentle  goddess!   hear  me  now; 
Descend,  thou  bright,  immortal  guest. 
In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confest. 

Thou  once  didst  leave  almighty  Jove, 
And  all  the  golden  roofs  above. 
The  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew. 
Hovering  in  air  they  lightly  flew; 
■  As  to  my  bower  they  winged  their  way, 
I  saw-  their  quivering  pinions  play. 

The  birds  dismist,  while  you  remain. 
Bore  back  their  empty  car  again; 
Then  you  with  looks  divinely  mild, 
In  every  heavenly  feature  smiled. 
And  asked  what  new  complaints  I  made, 
And  why  I  called  you  to  my  aid." 

Sappho  formed  an  academy  of  females  who  ex- 
celled in  music ;  and  it  was  doubtless  this  academy 
which  drew  on  her  the  hatred  of  the  women  of 
Mitylene.  She  is  said  to  have  been  short  in  sta- 
ture, and  swarthy  in  her  complexion.  Ovid  con- 
firms this  description  in  his  Heroides,  in  the  cele- 
brated epistle  from  Sappho  to  Phaon  : 

"To  me  what  nature  has  in  charms  denied, 
Is  well  by  wit's  more  lasting  flames  supplied. 
Though  short  my  stature,  yet  my  name  extend.'; 
To  heaven  itself,  and  earth's  remotest  ends; 
Brown  as  I  am,  an  Ethiopian  dame 
Inspired  young  Perseus  with  a  generous  flame." 

Translated  by  Pope. 

The  Mitylenes  esteemed  her  so  highly,  and  were 
so  sensible  of  the  glory  they  received  from  her 
having  been  born  among  them,  that  they  paid  her 
sovereign  honours  after  her  death,  and  stamped 
their  money  with  her  image.  The  Romnius  also 
erected  a  noble  monument  to  her  memory.  "  It 
must  be  granted,"  says  Rapin,  "  from  what  is  left 
us  of  Sappho,  that  Longinus  had  great  reason  to 
extol  the  admirable  genius  of  this  woman ;  for 
there  is  in  what  remains  of  her  something  deli- 
cate, harmonious,  and  impassioned  to  the  last  de- 
gree. Catullus  endeavoured  to  imitate  Sappho, 
but  fell  infinitely  short  of  her ;  and  so  have  all 
others  who  have  written  upon  love." 

Besides  the  structure  of  verse  called  Sapphic, 
she  invented  the  iEolic  measure,  composed  elegies, 
epigrams,  and  nine  books  of  lyric  poetry,  of  which 
all  that  remain  are,  an  ode  to  Venus,  and  an  ode 
to  one  of  her  lovers,  quoted  above,  and  some  small 
fragments. 


SARAH,    or   SARAI, 

Wife  of  Abraham,  was  born  in  Uz  of  the  Chal- 
dees,  (the  region  of  fire,  or  where  the  people  were 
fire- worshippers,)  from  which  she  came  out  with 
her  husband.  She  was  ten  years  younger  than 
Abraham,  and  in  some  way  connected  with  him 
by  relationship,  which  permitted  them  to  be  called 
brother  and  sister.  Some  commentators  suppose 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Haran,  Abraham's  brother 
by  a  different  mother,  and  consequently,  the  sister 
of  Lot.  But  Abraham  said  of  her  to  Abimilech. 
"  She  is  indeed  my  sister ;  she  is  the  daughter  of 
my  father,  but  not  the  daughter  of  my  mother ; 
and  she  became  my  Avife."  Such  intermarriages 
had  not,  in  that  age  of  tlie  world,  been  prohibited 
by  God  or  man.  Iler  story  is  told  at  length  in 
Genesis,  chap,  xii.,  xviii.,  xx.,  xxxiii.  None  of 
the  women  of  the  Bible  are  so  prominently  placed 
or  so  distinctly  described  as  Sarah,  whose  name 
was  changed  by  God  so  that  its  meaning  (her  title) 
might  be  ^^  mother  of  nations."  Her  first  name, 
Sarai,  signifies  "princess" — and  her  personal  love- 
liness, and  the  excellences  of  her  character,  justify 
the  appellation.  But  as  the  Bible  is  the  word  of 
divine  truth,  it  describes  no  perfect  men  or  women. 
Sarah's  love  and  devotion  to  her  husband  are 
themes  of  the  apostle's  praise  ;  and  her  maternal 
faithfulness  is  proven  by  the  influence  of  her  cha- 
racter on  Isaac,  and  the  sorrow  with  which  he 
mourned  her  death.  Yet  Sarah  has  been  accused 
of  harshness  towards  the  handmaid  Hagar,  and 
cruelty  in  causing  her  and  her  son  Ishmael  to  be 
sent  away.  But  the  sacred  narrative  warrants  no 
such  inference.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that 
in  the  first  promise,  when  God  said  to  Abram,  "  I 
will  make  of  thee  a  great  nation,"  &c.,  no  mention 
is  made  of  the  mother  of  this  favoured  race. 
Abram  undoubtedly  told  his  beloved  Sarai  of  God's 
promise  ;  but  when  ten  years  passed,  and  she  had 
no  children,  she  might  fear  she  was  not  included 
in  the  divine  prediction.  Regardless  of  self,  where 
the  glory  and  happiness  of  her  adored  husband 
were  concerned,  with  a  disinterestedness  more  than 
heroic,  of  which  the  most  noble-minded  woman 
only  could  have  been  capable,  she  voluntarily  re- 
linquished her  hope  of  the  honour  of  being  the 
mother  of  the  blessed  race  ;  and,  moreover,  with- 
drew her  claim  to  his  sole  love,  (a  harder  trial,) 
and  gave  him  her  favourite  slave  Hagar.  It  was 
Sarai  who  proposed  this  to  Abram,  and  as  there 
was  then  no  law  prohibiting  such  relations,  it  was 
not  considered  sin.  But  it  was  sin,  as  the  event 
showed.  God,  from  the  first,  ordained  that  the 
union  of  the  sexes,  to  be  blessed,  cannot  subsist 
but  in  a  marriage  made  holy  by  uniting,  indisso- 
lubly  and  faithfully,  one  man  with  one  woman. 
This  holy  union  between  Abraham  and  Sarah,  which 
had  withstood  all  temptations  and  endured  all 
trials,  was  now  embittered  to  the  wifie  by  the  in- 
solence and  ingratitude  of  the  concubine. 

That  the  subsequent  conduct  of  Sarah  was  right, 
under  the  circumstances,  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
bore  witness,  when  he  found  Hagar  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  said,  "  Return  to  thy  mistress,  and  sub- 
mit thyself  under  her  hands." 

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So  too,  when  Ilagar  and  her  son  Ishmael  were 
sent  away  —  God  distinctly  testified  to  Abraham 
that  it  should  be  thus ;  that  Sarah  was  right. 
There  are  but  two  blemishes  on  the  bright  perfec- 
tion of  Sarah's  character — her  impatience  for  the 
promised  blessing,  and  her  hasty  falsehood,  told 
from  fear,  when  she  denied  she  had  laughed. 
From  the  first  fault  came  the  troubles  of  her  life 
through  the  connection  of  her  husband  with  Ha- 
gar.  She  died  at  the  great  age  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty-seven  years,  and  "Abraham  came  to 
mourn  for  Sarah  and  to  weep  for  her;"  true  tes- 
timonials of  her  worth  and  his  love.  He  purchased 
for  her  a  sepulchre,  at  a  great  price,  "the  field 
of  Macpelah,  before  Mamre,"  which  became  af- 
terwards the  site  of  Hebron,  an  important  city. 
Sarah's  death  occurred  B.  C.  1860. 

SCRIBONIA, 
The  daughter  of  Scribonius,  was  the  second 
wife  of  Augustus,  after  he  had  divorced  Claudia. 
As  divorces  were  then,  at  Rome,  common  as  mar- 
riages, almost,  Augustus,  in  a  few  years,  divorced 
Scribonia,  to  marry  the  only  woman  he  ever  pro- 
bably loved — the  beautiful  and  magnificent  Livia. 
Scribonia  had  been  twice  married  prior  to  her 
union  with  Augustus,  by  whom  she  had  a  daugh- 
ter, the  infamous  Julia,  an  ofi"spring  who  seemed 
to  inherit  the  vices  of  both  her  parents. 

SELENA 

Was  the  wife  of  Antiochus  X.,  king  of  Syria, 
who  was  put  to  death  by  Tigranes,  king  of  Arme- 
nia. She  was  the  daughter  of  Ptolemy  Physcon, 
king  of  Egypt,  and  according  to  the  custom  of  her 
country,  married  first  her  brother  Lathyrus,  and 
afterwards  her  other  brother,  Gryphus.  At  the 
death  of  Gryphus,  she  married  Antiochus,  by 
whom  she  had  two  sons.  According  to  Appian, 
she  first  married  the  father,  Antiochus  Cyzenicus, 
and  after  his  death  the  son,  Eusebes.  She  lived 
in  the  century  immediately  jjreceding  Christ. 

SEMIRAMIS, 
A  CELEBRATED  queen  of  Assyria,  was  the  wife 
of  Menones,  governor  of  Nineveh,  and  accompa- 
nied him  to  the  siege  of  Bactria,  where  by  her 
advice  and  bravery  she  hastened  the  king's  ope- 
rations, and  took  the  city.  Her  wisdom  and 
beauty  attracted  the  attention  of  Ninus,  king  of 
Assyria,  who  asked  her  of  her  husband,  offering 
him  his  daughter  Sozana  in  her  stead ;  but  Me- 
nones refused  his  consent ;  and  when  Ninus  added 
threats  to  entreaties,  he  hung  himself.  Semiramis 
then  married  Ninus,  about  B.  C.  2200,  and  became 
the  mother  of  Ninyas.  She  acquired  so  great  an 
influence  over  the  king,  that  she  is  said  to  have 
persuaded  him  to  resign  the  crown  for  one  day, 
and  command  that  she  should  be  proclaimed  queen 
and  sole  empress  of  Assyria  for  that  time  ;  when 
one  of  her  first  orders  was  that  Ninus  should  be 
put  to  death,  in  oi'der  that  she  might  retain  pos- 
session of  the  sovereign  authority. 

She  made  Babylon  the  most  magnificent  city  in 
the  world :  she  visited  every  part  of  her  domi- 
nions,   and   left   everywhere  monuments   of  her 


greatness.  She  levelled  mountains,  filled  up  val- 
leys, and  had  water  conveyed  by  immense  aque- 
ducts to  barren  deserts  and  unfruitful  plains. 
She  was  not  less  distinguished  as  a  warrior.  She 
conquered  many  of  the  neighbouring  nations, 
Ethiopia  among  the  rest;  and  she  defeated  the 
king  of  India,  at  the  river  Indus ;  but  pursuing 
him  into  his  own  country,  he  drew  her  into  an 
ambush,  and  put  her  to  flight,  with  the  loss  of  a 
great  number  of  her  troops.  To  prevent  him  from 
pursuing  her  still  farther,  she  destroyed  the  bridge 
over  the  Indus,  as  soon  as  her  troops  had  crossed 
it.  After  exchanging  prisoners  at  Bactria,  she 
returned  home  with  hardly  a  third  of  her  army, 
which,  if  we  believe  Ctesias,  consisted  of  300,000 
foot-soldiers  and  5000  horse,  besides  camels  and 
armed  chariots.  At  her  return,  finding  her  son 
engaged  in  a  conspiracy  against  her,  she  resigned 
the  government  to  him.  Ninyas  is  said,  notwith- 
standing, to  have  killed  his  mother  himself,  in  the 
sixty-second  year  of  her  age,  and  the  twenty-fifth 
of  her  reign. 

SERVILIA, 

A  SISTER  of  the  celebrated  Cato,  who  was  ena- 
moured of  Julius  Ccesar,  though  he  was  one  of  her 
brother's  most  inveterate  enemies.  One  day,  she 
sent  him  a  very  affectionate  letter,  which  was 
given  to  Ca3sar  in  the  senate-house,  while  the 
senate. were  debating  about  punishing  Catiline's 
associates.  Cato,  supposing  that  the  letter  was 
from  one  of  the  conspirators,  insisted  on  its  being 
publicly  read.  Cocsar  then  gave  it  to  Cato,  who 
having  read  it,  returned  it,  saying,  "  Take  it, 
drunkard !"     She  flourished  about  B.  C.  66. 

SHELOMITH, 

Daughter  of  Dibri,  of  the  tribe  of  Dan,  was 
mother  of  that  blasphemer  who  was  stoned  to 
death.  The  Scripture  tells  us  that  Shelomith  had 
this  blasphemer  by  an  Egyptian ;  and  the  rabbins 
say  that  she  was  a  handsome  and  virtuous  woman, 
with  whom  this  Egyptian,  an  overseer  of  the 
Hebrews,  became  enamoured ;  and  that  during 
her  husband's  unexpected  absence,  he  stole  by 
night  into  the  house  and  bed  of  Shelomith.    When 

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the  woman  discovered  the  injur}',  she  complained 
of  it  to  her  husband,  and  proving  with  child,  he 
put  her  away,  and  assailed  the  Egyptian  with 
blows,  Avho  retaliated.  Moses  passing  by,  took 
the  part  of  the  Israelite,  and  killed  the  Egyptian. 
The  brothers  of  Shelomith  called  her  husband  to 
account  for  putting  her  away ;  and  coming  to 
blows,  Moses  again  interfered  ;  but  the  husband 
asking  him  whether  he  would  kill  him,  as  yester- 
day he  had  killed  the  Egyptian,  Moses  fled  to  the 
land  of  Midian.     B.  C.  1570. 

SHIPHRAH   and   PUAH, 

Two  midwives  of  Goshen,  in  Egypt,  celebrated 
in  sacred  history,  and  rewarded  by  the  Almighty 
himself,  for  their  humanity  in  disobeying  the  man- 
date of  the  tyrant  of  Egypt  to  murder  the  Hebrew 
boys  at  their  birth.  They  were  undoubtedly  He- 
brew women.  It  is  worthy  of  remembrance,  that 
when  the  Hebrew  nation  was  crushed  by  the  power 
of  Pharaoh,  the  men  lost  all  courage,  and  yielded 
to  their  oppressor,  however  cruel  might  be  his 
edicts ;  it  was  the  Hebrew  women  who  devised 
means  of  eluding  those  laws. 

SIBYL,    or   SYBIL, 

Is  the  name  by  Avhich  several  prophetic  women 
were  designated,  who  all  belonged  to  the  mythical 
ages  of  ancient  history.  It  was  believed  that  the 
Sibyls  were  maidens  who,  by  direct  inspirations, 
possessed  a  knowledge  of  the  future,  and  of  the 
manner  in  which  evils  might  be  averted,  and  the 
gods  appeased.  Their  number  seems  to  have  been 
very  great.  There  were  Egyptian,  Persian,  Greek, 
Hebrew,  Babylonian,  and  Italian  Sibyls. 

The  most  ancient  Sibyl  was  Herophile,  probably 
the  one  called  Sibylla  Lybica  by  Varro.  The 
Erythrten  Sibjd  was  supposed  by  some  to  be  a 
native  of  Babylon,  and  by  others,  of  Erythraj. 
She  lived  before  the  Trojan  war,  the  cause  and 
issue  of  which  she  is  said  to  have  predicted. 

In  the  time  of  Pausanias,  a  hymn  on  Apollo, 
attributed  to  this  Sibyl,  was  well  known  in  Delos, 
in  which  she  calls  herself  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
Idren  nymphs,  and  a  mortal.  The  Samian  Sibyl 
was  supposed  to  have  been  a  priestess  in  the 
temple  of  Apollo  Smyntheus.  She  S^ent  most  of 
her  life  at  Samoa ;  but,  like  the  other  Sibyls,  is 
described  as  travelling  about,  and  communicating 
to  men  her  inspired  wisdom.  Thus,  we  find  her 
at  Glares,  Delos,  and  Delphi.  She  is  said  to  have 
died  at  Troas,  where  a  monument  was  erected  to 
her  in  a  grove,  sacred  to  Apollo  Smyntheus. 

Cumie,  in  Ionia,  was  also  celebrated  for  its 
Sibyl ;  but  the  Sibyl  of  Cuma;,  in  Campania,  called 
Demo,  has  acquired  more  celebrity  than  any  other. 
In  the  reign  either  of  Tarquinius  Prisons  or  Tar- 
quinius  Superbus,  there  appeared  before  the  king 
a  woman,  either  a  Sibyl  or  sent  by  a  Sibyl,  who 
offered  him  nine  books  for  sale,  which  he  refused 
to  purchase.  The  woman  went  away,  and  burn- 
ing three  of  the  books,  returned  and  asked  the 
same  price  for  the  remaining  six  as  she  had  for 
the  nine.  The  king  again  refused ;  and  the  woman 
burnt  three  more,  and  again  returning,  offered  the 
three  books  at  the  same  price  as  before.     The 


king's  curiosity  was  excited ;  he  purchased  the 
books,  and  the  woman  vanished.  These  three 
were  the  Sibylline  books  which  play  such  a  promi- 
nent part  in  the  history  of  Rome,  They  were 
written  on  palm-leaves,  and  in  verse  or  symbolical 
hieroglyphics.  The  Romans  were  in  the  constant 
habit  of  consulting  them,  and  abiding  by  their  de- 
cisions. This  Sibyl  is  supposed  by  some  to  have 
been  the  Erythrten  Sibyl ;  by  others,  the  Sibyl  from 
Cumce,  in  Ionia ;  and  by  others,  that  she  was  from 
the  Italian  Cumte.  A  book  of  Sibylline  verses 
is  extant,  but  scholars  deem  it  spurious  and  use- 
less. 

SISIGAMBIS,  or  SISYGAMBIS, 
Was  mother  of  Darius,  the  last  king  of  Persia. 
She  was  taken  prisoner  by  Alexander  the  Great, 
at  the  battle  of  Ipsus,  with  the  rest  of  the  royal 
family.  The  conqueror  treated  her  with  the 
greatest  deference,  saluted  her  as  his  own  mother, 
and  often  granted  to  her  what  he  had  denied  to 
the  petitions  of  his  other  favourites  and  ministers. 
When  the  queen  heard  of  Alexander's  death,  she 
committed  suicide,  B.  C.  324,  unwilling  to  survive 
so  generous  an  enemy,  though  she  had  survived 
the  loss  of  her  son  and  of  his  kingdom.  She  had 
before  lost  in  one  day,  her  husband  and  eighty  of 
his  brothers,  whom  Ochus  had  assassinated. 

SOPHONISBA, 
Daughter  of  Asdrubal,  the  celebrated  Cartha- 
ginian general,  a  lady  of  uncommon  beauty  and 
accomplishments,  married  Syphax,  a  Numidian 
prince,  who  was  totally  defeated  by  the  combined 
forces  of  his  rival,  Massinissa,  and  the  Romans. 
On  this  occasion,  Sophonisba  fell  into  the  hands 
of  Massinissa,  who,  captivated  bj'  her  beauty,  mar- 
ried her,  on  the  death  of  Syphax,  which  occurred 
soon  after  at  Rome.  But  this  act  displeased  the 
Romans,  because  Sophonisba  was  a  Carthaginian 
princess ;  and  Massinissa  had  not  asked  their 
consent.  The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  ordered  the 
timid  Numidian  monarch  to  dismiss  Sophonisba ; 
and  the  cowardly  king,  instead  of  resenting  the 
insult,  and  joining  the  Carthaginians  against  the 
Romans,  sent  his  wife  a  cup  of  poison,  advising 
her  to  die  like  the  daughter  of  Asdrubal.  She 
drank  the  poison  with  calmness  and  serenity, 
about  B.  C.  203.  " 

STATIRA, 
Daughter  of  Darius,  king  of  Persia,  and  wife 
of  Alexander  the  Great.  The  conqueror  had  for- 
merly refused  her ;  but  when  she  fell  into  his 
hands  at  the  battle  of  Ipsus,  the  nuptials  were 
celebrated  with  imcommon  splendour.  Nine  thou- 
sand persons  were  present,  to  each  of  whom  Alex- 
ander gave  a  golden  cup  to  be  offered  to  the  gods. 
Statira  had  no  children.  She  was  put  to  death  by 
Roxana,  another  daughter  of  Darius,  and  also  the 
wife  of  Alexander,  after  the  conqueror's  death. 

STRATONICE, 

The  beautiful  daughter  of  Demetrius  PoHorcetes 
and  his  wife  Philla,  married  Seleucus  Nicator,  king 
of  Syria.     His  son  and  heir,  Antiochus  Soter,  fell 

59 


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ill,  and  was  at  the  point  of  death,  when  Erasistra- 
tus,  the  physician,  observing  his  pulse  to  beat  high 
whenever  his  young  step-mother  entered  the  room, 
guessed  the  cause  of  his  illness  to  be  love  for 
Stratonice,  which  Antiochus  then  confessed.  Se- 
leucus,  to  save  his  son,  yielded  up  his  wife,  and 
they  were  married.  Stratonice  became  the  ances- 
tress of  that  impious  race  of  princes  who  so  cru- 
elly persecuted  the  Jews.  Antiochus  died  B.  C. 
291. 

TAMAR,  or  THAMAR, 
Was  daughter-in-law  to  the  patriarch  Judah, 
wife  of  Er  and  Onan.  After  Onan's  death,  Tamar 
lived  with  her  father-in-law,  expecting  to  marry 
his  son  Shelah,  as  had  been  promised  her,  and 
was  the  custom  of  the  time.  But  the  marriage 
not  having  taken  place,  some  years  after,  when 
Judah  went  to  a  sheep-sheai-ing  feast,  Tamar  dis- 
guised herself  as  a  harlot  and  sat  in  a  place  where 
Judah  would  pass — and  this  old  man  yielded  at 
once  to  the  temptation.  When  it  was  told  Judah 
that  his  daughter-in-law  had  been  guilty,  he  im- 
mediately condemned  her  to  be  brought  forth  and 
burned  alive ;  never  remembering  his  own  sin. 
But  when  he  found  that  he  was  the  father  of  the 
child  she  would  soon  bear,  his  conscience  was 
awakened,  and  he  made  that  remarkable  admis- 
sion that  "  she  was  more  just  than  he  had  been." 
This  history  displays  the  gross  manners  of  those 
old  times,  and  how  false  are  all  representations 
of  the  purity  of  pastoral  life.  Tamar  had  twins, 
sons — and  from  one  of  these,  Pharez,  the  line  of 
Judah  is  descended.  These  events  occurred  about 
B.  C.  1727. 

T  A  M  A  R I  S 

Was  a  princess  of  Tarraco,  the  modern  Tarra- 
gon, a  province  in  Spain :  she  lived  about  the  year 
220  B.  C.  After  her  husband's  death,  she  became 
anxious  to  free  the  province  from  the  Roman  yoke, 
and,  in  order  to  succeed  in  her  wishes,  she  fa- 
voured secretly  Hannibal,  to  whom  she  furnished 
men  and  provisions.  When  her  treachery  was 
discovered,  she  lost  both  her  property  and  her 
life.  After  her  death,  the  Romans  made  the  city 
of  Tarraco  the  chief  dcp6t  for  their  arms  in 
Spain. 

TAMYRIS,  or  TOMYRIS, 
Queen  of  the  Scythians,  was  a  contemporary  of 
Gyrus,  who  made  war  against  her.  After  Cyrus 
had  advanced  very  rapidly,  he  pretended  to  fly, 
and  left  his  camp  with  provisions  and  wine  behind 
him.  The  Scythians,  led  by  Spargopises,  the  son 
of  Tamyris,  pursued  until  they  reached  the  camp, 
where  they  stopped  to  regale  themselves.  Cyrus, 
who  was  watching  for  this  opportunity,  rushed 
upon  them  unawares,  and  slew  the  greater  part  of 
the  army  with  its  young  commander. 

Tamyris,  filled  with  rage  and  grief  for  the  loss 
of  her  son  and  the  defeat  of  her  troops,  now  took 
the  field  herself,  and  succeeded,  by  her  wily  ma- 
noeuvres, in  drawing  the  army  of  Cyrus  into  an 
ambush,  and  then  she  fell  upon  them  with  such 
fury,  that,  tliough  he  had  200,000  men  of  battle. 


scarce  one  escaped.  She  afterwards  built  the  city 
of  Tamyris  not  far  from  the  Doran.  Brave  she 
was,  and  living  in  the  era  of  bloody  battles,  her 
character  was  the  reflex  of  her  age  ;  yet  we  think 
her  agency  in  founding  the  city  was  more  to  her 
credit  than  gaining  the  victory  in  war. 

TANAQUIL,  or  CARA  CECILIA, 

Wife  of  Tarquin  the  Elder,  the  fifth  king  of 
Rome,  was  a  native  of  Tarquinia,  in  Etruria.  Her 
husband  was  originally  a  citizen  of  the  same  place, 
and  called  Lucomon  Damaratus.  But  Tanaquil, 
who  was  skilled  in  augury,  and  foresaw  the  future 
eminence  of  her  husband,  persuaded  him  to  go  to 
Rome,  where  he  changed  his  name  to  Lucius  Tar- 
quinius.  Here  he  was  chosen  king,  B.  C.  616. 
He  was  assassinated  B.  C.  577 ;  but  Tanaquil,  by 
keeping  the  event  secret,  adopted  measures  for 
securing  the  succession  of  her  son-in-law,  Servius 
Tullius.  She  was  a  woman  of  such  liberality  and 
powers  of  mind,  that  the  Romans  preserved  her 
girdle  with  great  veneration. 

T  A  R  P  E  I A , 

A  VESTAL  virgin,  daughter  of  Tarpeius,  gover- 
nor of  Rome*  under  Romulus.  When  the  Sabines 
made  war  on  the  Romans,  in  consequence  of  the 
rape  of  the  Sabine  women  by  the  latter,  Tarpeia 
betrayed  the  citadel  of  Rome  to  the  enemy,  for 
which  service  she  requested  the  ornaments  the 
soldiers  wore  on  their  left  arm,  meaning  their  gold 
bracelets.  Pretending  to  misunderstand  her,  they 
threw  their  shields  at  her  as  they  passed,  and  she 
was  crushed  beneath  their  weight.  Fi"om  her 
the  hill  was  called  the  Tarpeian  rock,  from  whence 
traitors  were  precipitated  by  the  Romans. 

TARQUINIA, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  Tarquinius  Priscus,  who  mar- 
ried Servius  Tullius.  When  her  husband  was  mur- 
dered by  his  son-in-law,  Tarquinius  Superhus,  she 
privately  buried  his  body.  This  so  preyed  upon 
her  mind  that  she  died  the  following  night.  Some 
attribute  her  death,  however,  to  Tullia,  wife  of 
young  Tarquin. 

60 


TE 


TR 


TEGHMESSA, 

Daughter  of  Teuthras,  king  of  Phrygia,  was 
taken  captive  by  Ajax,  the  celebrated  Greek  hero, 
by  whom  she  had  a  son,  Erysaces.  She  prevented 
Ajax  from  killing  himself. 

TELESILLA, 

A  xoBLE  poetess  of  Argos,  who  being  advised 
by  the  oracle,  which  she  had  consulted  respecting 
her  health,  to  the  study  of  the  muses,  soon  at- 
tained such  excellence,  as  to  animate  by  her  poe- 
try the  Argive  women  to  repel,  under  her  com- 
mand, Cleomenes,  the  Spartan  king,  and  afterwards 
king  Demaratus,  from  the  siege  of  Pamphiliacum, 
witli  great  loss. 

TERENTIA, 

Wife  of  Cicero.  She  became  the  mother  of  M. 
Cicero,  and  of  Tullia.  Cicero  repudiated  her,  on 
account  of  her  temper,  he  said,  to  marry  his  young, 
beautiful,  and  wealthy  ward,  Publilia.  But  the 
circumstance  that  Cicero  was  then  deeply  in  debt, 
and  wanted  the  fortune  of  his  ward,  explains  his 
motives.  He  was  in  his  sixty-first  year,  when  he 
committed  this  great  wrong,  and  as  he  had  been 
married  thirty  j-ears  to  Terentia,  if  her  temper 
had  been  so  very  troublesome,  he  would,  proba- 
bly, have  parted  with  her  before.  The  transaction 
left  a  stain  upon  his  private  character  which  no 
apologist  has  been  able  to  efface. 

Terentia,  after  her  divorce,  married  Sallust, 
('icei'o's  enemy,  and  he  dying,  she  then  married 
Messala  Corvinus.  She  lived  to  her  one  hundred 
and  third,  or,  according  to  Pliny,  one  hundred  and 
seventeenth  year.  She  seems  to  have  been  a 
woman  of  spirit  and  intelligence. 

THAIS, 

A  CELEBRATED  courtczan  of  Corinth,  mistress 
of  Alexander  the  Great,  who  persiiaded  him  to  set 
Persepolis  on  fire,  in  revenge  for  the  injuries 
Xerxes  had  inflicted  on  her  native  city ;  and  who 
incited  the  conqueror,  when  intoxicated,  to  throw 
the  first  torch  himself.  She  afterwards  became 
the  mistress  and  finally  the  wife  of  Ptolemy,  king 
of  Egypt.  Menander  celebrated  her  charms,  on 
which  account  she  is  called  Menandrea. 

THALESTRIS, 
A  QUEEN  of  the  Amazons,  who,  accompanied  by 
three  hundred  women,  came  thirty-five  days'  jour- 
ney to  meet  Alexander  in  his  Asiatic  conquests,  to 
raise  children  by  a  man  whose  fame  was  so  great, 
and  courage  so  uncommon.  The  story  is,  doubt- 
less, as  fabulous  as  that  a  nation  of  Amazons  ever 
lived. 

THEANO 

Was  wife  of  Metapontus,  king  of  Icaria.  She 
was  childless,  and  as  her  husband  was  very  de- 
sirous of  offspring,  she  obtained  some  children, 
which  she  made  her  husband  believe  were  her 
own.  She  afterwards  became  a  mother,  and  to 
prevent  the  suppositious  children  from  inheriting 
the  kingdom,   she  persuaded   hers  to  kill   them 


while  hunting.     In  the  struggle  her  own  children 
were  slain,  and  Theano  died  of  grief. 

There  were  two  other  women  of  the  same  name ; 
Theano  Locrencis,  a  native  of  Locri,  surnamed 
Melica,  from  the  melody  of  her  songs  and  lyric 
poems  ;  the  second  was  a  poetess  of  Crete,  said 
by  some  to  have  been  the  wife  of  Pythagoras. 

THESSALONICE, 
Daughter  of  Philip  II.,  king  of  Macedon,  and 
sister  of  Alexander  the  Great ;  married  Cassander, 
one  of  Alexander's  generals,  and  bore  him  three 
sons,  Philip  IV.,  Antipater,  and  Alexander  V. 
She  was  murdered  by  her  son  Antipater,  because 
she  favoured  his  brother  Alexander's  claim  to  the 
throne,  although  she  entreated  him  by  the  memory 
of  her  maternal  care  of  him  to  spare  her,  but  in  vain 

THISBE, 
A  BEAUTIFUL  Babylonian  maiden,  whose  tm- 
happy  love  for  Pyramus  has  rendered  her  immor- 
tal. The  parents  of  the  lovers  opposing  their 
union,  they  were  able  to  converse  only  through  a 
hole  in  the  wall  which  separated  their  parents' 
houses.  They  made  an  appointment  to  meet  at 
the  tomb  of  Ninus  without  the  city.  Thisbe  came 
first,  and  frightened  by  the  appearance  of  a  lioness, 
she  fled  to  a  neighbouring  thicket,  dropping  her 
mantle  in  her  flight,  which  was  torn  to  pieces  by 
the  animal.  Pyramus  coming  just  in  time  to  see 
the  torn  mantle  and  the  lioness  in  the  distance, 
concluded  that  Thisbe  had  been  devoured  by  the 
wild  beast.  In  his  despair  he  killed  himself  with 
his  sword.  When  Thisbe  emerged  from  her  hiding- 
place,  and  found  Pyramus  lying  dead,  she  stabbed 
herself  with  the  same  weapon.  They  were  buried 
together. 

THYMELE, 

A  MUSICAL  composer  and  poetess,  mentioned  by 
Martial,  and  reported  to  have  been  the  first  who 
introduced  into  the  scene  a  kind  of  dance,  called 
by  the  Greeks,  from  this  circumstance,  Themelinos. 
From  Thymele  also,  an  altar,  used  in  the  ancient 
theatres,  is  supposed  to  have  taken  its  name. 

TIMOCLEA, 
A  Theban  lady,  sister  to  Theagenes,  who  was 
killed  at  Cheronsea,  B.  C.  374.  One  of  Alexan- 
der's soldiers  off'ered  her  violence,  after  which  she 
led  him  to  a  well,  and  pretending  to  show  him 
immense  treasures  concealed  there,  she  pushed 
him  into  it.  Alexander  commended  her,  and  for- 
bade his  soldiers  to  hurt  the  Theban  women. 

TIM(EA, 

Wife  of  Agis,  king  of  Sparta,  was  seduced  by 
Alcibiades.  Her  son  Leotychides  was  consequently 
refused  the  throne,  though  Agis,  on  his  death-bed, 
declared  him  legitimate. 

TROSINE, 
Wife  of  Tigranes,  king  of  Armenia,  who,  upon 
her  husband's  being  conquered  by  Pompey,  was 
compelled  to  gi-ace  his  entrance  into  Rome,  B.  C 
about  70. 

61 


TU 


VI 


TULLIA, 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Scrvius  Tullius,  king  of  Rome, 
married  Tarquinius  Superbus,  after  she  had  mur- 
dered her  first  husband,  Arunx ;  and  consented  to 
see  TuUius  assassinated,  tliat  slie  miglit  be  raised 
to  the  throne.  She  is  said  to  have  ordered  her 
chariot  to  be  driven  over  tlie  dead  body  of  her 
fatlier,  wliich  had  been  thrown  all  bloody  into  one 
of  the  streets.  Slie  was  afterwards  banished  from 
Rome,  with  her  husband.  Tarquinius  Superbus 
had  been  before  married  to  Tullia's  sister,  whom 
he  mxu'dered,  in  order  to  marry  Tullia. 

TULLIA,  or  TULLIOLA, 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Cicoro,  and  Terentia,  his  wife. 
She  married  Caius  Piso,  and  afterwards  Furius 
Crassippus,  and  lastly  P.  Corn.  Dolabella.  Dola- 
bella  was  turbulent,  and  the  cause  of  much  grief 
to  Tullia,  and  her  father,  by  whom  she  was  ten- 
derly beloved.  Tullia  died  in  childbed,  about 
B.  C.  44,  soon  after  her  divorce  from  Dolabella. 
She  was  about  thirty-two  years  old  at  the  time  of 
her  death,  and  appears  to  have  been  an  admirable 
woman.  She  was  most  affectionately  devoted  to 
her  father ;  and  to  the  usual  graces  of  her  sex 
having  added  the  more  solid  accomplishments  of 
knowledge  and  literature,  was  qualified  to  be  the 
companion  as  well  as  the  delight  of  his  age  ;  and 
she  was  justly  esteemed  not  only  one  of  the  best, 
but  the  most  learned  of  the  Roman  women.  Cice- 
ro's affliction  at  her  death  was  so  great,  though 
philosophers  came  from  all  parts  of  the  world  to 
comfort  him,  that  he  withdrew  for  some  time  from 
all  society,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to  writing 
and  reading,  especially  all  the  works  he  could 
meet  with  on  the  necessity  of  moderating  grief. 

TYMICHA, 
A  Lacedaemonian  lady,  consort  of  Myllias,  a 
native  of  Crotona.  Jamblichus,  in  his  life  of  Py- 
thagoras, places  her  at  the  head  of  his  list,  as  the 
most  celebrated  female  philosopher  of  the  Pytha- 
gorean school.  When  Tymicha  and  her  husband 
were  carried  as  prisoners  before  Dionysius,  the 
tyrant  of  Syracuse,  B.  C.  330,  he  made  them  both 
very  advantageous  offers,  if  they  would  reveal  the 
mysteries  of  Pythagorean  science ;  but  they  re- 
jected them  all  with  scorn  and  detestation.  The 
tyrant  not  succeeding  with  the  husband,  took  the 
wife  apart,  not  doubting,  from  her  situation  at  the 
time,  that  the  threat  of  torture  would  make  her 
divulge  the  secret ;  but  she  instantly  bit  off  her 
tongue,  and  spat  it  in  the  tyrant's  face,  to  show 
him  that  no  pain  could  make  her  violate  her  pledge 
of  secresy. 


V. 

VASHTI, 

The  beautiful  wife  of  Ahasuerus,  (or  Artaxerxes,) 

king  of  Persia,  gained  her  celebrity  by  disobeying 

her  husband.     Ahasuerus,  who  was  then  the  most 

powerful  monarch  of  the  world,  reigning  over  a 


kingdom  stretching  from  "India  to  Ethiopia," 
gave  a  great  feast  to  the  governors  of  his  provinces, 
his  courtiers,  and  the  people  who  were  at  his  pa- 
lace of  Shushan.  This  feast  lasted  seven  days, 
and  every  man  drank  wine  "according  to  liis 
pleasure,"  which  means  they  were  very  gay,  at 
least.  Queen  Vashti  also  gave  a  feast,  at  the 
same  time,  to  the  women  of  her  household.  On 
the  seventh  day,  "when  the  king's  heart  was 
merry  with  wine,"  he  commanded  Vashti  to  be 
brought  before  him  with  the  crown-royal  on  her 
head,  "to  show  the  people  and  the  princes  her 
beauty." 

She  refused  to  come.  The  sacred  histoi-ian  does 
not  inform  us  why  she  refused  ;  the  presumption 
is,  that  the  thing  was  unprecedented,  and  she  con- 
sidered it,  as  it  was,  an  outrage  of  her  modesty 
to  show  her  face  to  these  drunken  men.  Her 
courage  must  have  been  great  as  her  beauty,  thus 
to  have  braved  the  displeasure  of  her  royal  and 
drunken  husband. 

In  his  wrath  the  king  instantly  referred  the 
matter  to  his  "wise  men,"  who  "  knew  law  and 
judgment ;"  for  since  the  days  of  Cyrus  the  Great, 
the  kingdom  of  Persia  had  been,  ostensibly,  gov- 
erned by  established  laws.  But  it  appears  there 
was  no  law  which  reached  Vashti's  case  ;  so  the 
king  was  advised  to  repudiate  his  wife  by  a  royal 
decree,  unjust  because  retrospective,  and  issued 
expressly  for  her  conjugal  disobedience.  The 
speech  of  Memucar,  who  delivered  the  opinion  of 
the  council,  is  curious,  as  showing  the  reasons 
which  have,  visually,  (in  all  countries  more  or 
less,)  influenced  men  in  making  laws  for  the  gov- 
ernment of  women,  namely — what  man  requires 
of  the  sex  for  his  own  pleasure  and  convenience , 
not  that  which  would  be  just  towards  woman,  and 
righteous  in  the  sight  of  God.  See  chap.  i.  of  the 
Book  of  Esther.  What  became  of  Vashti  after  she 
was  repudiated  is  not  known.  These  events  oc- 
curred B.  C.  519. 

V I P  S  A  N I  A, 

Daughter  of  Marcus  Agrippa,  a  celebrated 
Roman  general,  and  mother  of  Drusus.  She  was 
the  only  one  of  Agrippa's  daughters  who  died  a 
natural  death.  She  married  Tiberius,  emperor 
of  Rome,  when  he  was  a  private  man.  He  repu- 
diated her,  and  she  then  married  Asinius  Gallus. 

VIRGINIA, 

Daughter  of  Virginius,  a  citizen  of  Rome,  and 
betrothed  to  Icilius,  was  seen  by  Appius  Claudius, 
a  Roman  decemvir,  as  she  was  going  to  and  re- 
turning from  school.  Captivated  by  her  beauty, 
he  resolved  to  obtain  possession  of  her.  In  order 
to  carry  out  this  determination,  he  suborned  an 
abandoned  favourite  to  claim  her  as  the  daughter 
of  one  of  his  slaves,  who  had  been  placed  for  n 
temporary  period  under  the  care  of  Virginius. 
Though  evidence  was  brought  that  this  story  was 
a  fabrication,  yet  Appius  Claudius,  who  himself 
filled  the  office  of  judge  upon  this  occasion,  de- 
creed the  young  Virginia  to  be  the  property  of  his 
tool.  Virginius,  under  jiretence  of  wishing  to 
take  a  last  farewell  of  his  child,  drew  her  aside 

62 


vo 


XA 


from  the  ■wretches  who  surrounded  her,  and 
plunged  a  knife  into  her  bosom,  while  she  was 
clinging  around  his  neck. 

The  soldiers  and  people,  incensed  against  the 
cause  of  this  sanguinary  catastrophe,  instantly- 
dragged  Claudius  from  the  seat  of  justice,  and  an 
end  was  jjut  to  the  decemviral  power,  B.  C.  450. 

The  popular  tragedy  of  '*  Virginius,"  written  by 
J.  Sheridan  Ivnowles,  is  a  vivid  portraiture  of  these 
events. 

VOLUMNIA, 

A  Roman  matron,  and  mother  of  Coriolanus. 
When  her  son,  incensed  at  his  banishment  from 
Rome,  was  marching  against  it  with  the  Volsci, 
she  went  out  to  meet  him,  accompanied  by  his 
wife  Virgilia,  and  many  other  Roman  matrons, 
and  by  her  entreaties  and  persuasions  induced  him 
to  withdraw  his  army,  though  that  step  was  fatal 
to  his  own  life.  To  show  their  respect  for  the 
patriotism  of  Volumnia,  the  Romans  dedicated  a 
temple  to  Female  Fortune.     She  lived  B.  C.  488. 

In  Shakspeare's  tragedy  of  Coriolanus  the  cha- 
racter of  Volumnia  is  exquisitely  portrayed,  and 
appears  to  have  been  of  a  far  higher  order  of  moral 
developement  than  that  of  her  distinguished  son. 
She  was  forgiving,  self-sacrificing,  patriotic :  he, 
proud,  selfish,  revengeful.  Her  noble  mind  sub- 
dued his  stubborn  will  because,  with  womanly  for- 
titude and  fidelity,  she  firmly  but  lovingly  upheld 


the  right,  and  thus  prevented  the  wrong  he  would 
have  done.  His  physical  strength  was  shown  to 
be  weakness  when  contrasted  with  the  power  of 
truth  which  sustained  her  gentle  spirit.  Thus 
will  moral  suasion  and  the  faith  of  love  finally  tri- 
umph over  physical  strength  and  mental  power. 

XANTIPPE, 

Wife  of  Socrates,  the  Athenian  philosopher, 
was  remarkable  for  the  moroseness  and  violence 
of  her  temper.  It  is  said  that  Socrates  was  aware 
of  her  character,  and  married  her  to  exercise  his 
patience.  She,  however,  loved  her  husband,  and 
mourned  his  death,  which  took  place  about  398 
B.  C,  with  the  deepest  grief.  If  we  take  into  the 
account  this  true  love  she  felt  for  her  husband, 
and  consider  what  she  must  have  suffered  while 
he  was  passing  his  evenings  in  the  society  of  the 
beautiful  and  fascinating  Aspasia,  we  shall  hardly 
wonder  at  her  discontent.  If  his  wife  loved  him, 
it  must  have  been  for  his  mind,  as  he  was  not  en- 
dowed with  attractions  that  win  the  eye  and  fancy 
of  a  woman  ;  and  thus  loving  him,  she  must  have 
keenly  felt  the  discord  between  the  wisdom  of  his 
teachings  and  the  foolishness  of  his  conduct. 
That  he  acknowledged  her  influence  over  him  was 
good,  is  a  sufficient  proof  of  her  true  devotion  to 
him ;  had  he  been  as  true  to  her,  he  would  have 
been  a  wiser  and  a  better  man ;  and  she,  no  doubt, 
a  much  milder  as  well  as  a  happier  woman. 

63 


REMARKS   ON   THE   SECOND   ERA. 


In  this  Era  we  include  the  fifteen  hundred  years  following  the  birth  of  Jesus  Christ.  Had 
an  angel  been  gifted  with  power  to  look  over  the  whole  inhabited  globe  on  the  opening  of  the 
eventful  year  4004  of  the  old  era,  what  would  have  appeared  1  Everywhere  the  spectacle  of 
demoralization,  despair,  and  death.  Rome,  represgiting  the  Gentile  world,  had  trodden  down  witli 
iron  heel  alike  the  civilized  Greek  and  barbarian  Goth,  into  a  passive  state  called  peace !  The 
temple  of  Janus  was  shut;  but  the  flood-gates  of  sin  were  opened  wide  as  those  of  death  ;  and  from 
the  corrupt  hearts  of  wicked  men  such  foul  streams  were  poured  forth  as  threatened  to  overwhelm 
the  race.  The  moral  power  of  woman  vvas  nearly  lost ;  the  last  struggle  of  her  spirit  to  retain  its 
love  of  the  Good,  —  that  inner  wisdom  with  which  she  had  been  gifted  for  the  special  purpose  of 
moulding  the  souls  of  the  young  to  her  standard, — seemed  fast  approaching.  Patriotism,  the  holiest 
emotion  of  the  pagan  mind,  the  proudest  virtue  of  the  Roman  people,  which  had  given  such  won- 
derful power  to  the  men  and  women  of  that  regal  nation  —  patriotism  had  hardly  a  votary  in  the 
Eternal  City. 

The  Jews,  the  chosen  people  of  God,  had  also  touched  the  lowest  point  of  national  degradation — 
subjection  to  a  foreign  power.  Their  religion  had  lost  its  life-giving  faith,  and  become  a  matter  of 
dead  forms  or  vain  pretences,  used  by  the  priests  for  their  own  profit,  and  to  foster  their  own  pride. 
Everywhere  sins  and  crimes  filled  the  world.  There  was  no  faith  in  God  ;  no  hope  in  man ;  no  trust 
in  woman.  The  selfish  passions  were  predominant;  the  evil,  animal  nature,  triumphed;  love  had 
become  lust;  and  the  true  idea  of  marriage,  the  hallowed  union  of  one  man  with  one  woman,  faith- 
ful to  each  other  through  life,  vvas  treated  as  an  idle  jest,  a  mockery  of  words  never  intended  to  be 
made  true.  That  this  degradation  of  woman,  through  the  practice  of  polygamy  or  by  the  licentious- 
ness an  easy  mode  of  divorce  had  made  common,  was  the  real  source  of  the  universal  corruptions 
of  society,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  last  of  God's  inspired  messengers,  the  fervent  Malachi,  thus 
reproves  the  Jewish  men,  and  denounces  their  sin ;  adding  this  emphatic  declaration : — 

"  Therefore  take  heed  to  your  spirit,  and  let  none  deal  treacherously  with  the  wife  of  his  youth. 
For  the  Lord,  the  God  of  Israel,  saith  that  he  hateth  putting  away." 

Yet  not  only  in  Rome  and  throughout  the  Gentile  world  was  this  licentiousness  become  the  rule 
and  fashion  of  society,  but  even  in  Jerusalem,  the  holy  city,  king  Herod  lived  openly  with  his  bro- 
ther's wife,  and  the  people  were  not  troubled  by  the  shame  or  the  sin. 

If  the  angel,  whom  we  have  imagined  as  regarding  the  awful  condition  of  humanity,  had  looked 
around  for  some  barrier  to  stay  this  torrent  of  iniquity,  would  he  have  found  it  in  the  nature  of  man  ! 
No  —  there  was  none  who  had  faith  for  the  office;  not  even  Zacharias,  when  Gabriel  appeared  to 
him  and  announced  the  birth  of  John,  would  believe  the  heavenly  messenger. 

Man's  power  to  sustain  the  Good  and  the  True  being  wlioUy  overborne,  woman  was  called  to  the 
ministry  of  salvation.  That  her  nature  was  of  a  purer  essence,  and  more  in  harmony  with  the  things 
of  heaven  than  man's  was,  we  have  shown,  conclusively  as  we  think,  in  the  General  Preface  and  in 
the  Biographies  of  the  women  of  the  Old  Testament;  but  the  fact  that  the  Saviour  of  the  world, 
the  Son  of  God,  inherited  his  human  nature  entirely  from  his  mother,  can  hardly  be  too  often  pressed 
on  the  attention  of  Christians.  The  Virgin  Mary  was  the  human  agent,  through  whose  motherly 
ministry  the  divine  Saviour  was  nurtured  and  instructed  in  his  human  relations  and  duties.  Women 
were  the  first  believers  in  Christ;  the  first  to  whom  he  revealed  his  spiritual  mission;  the  first  to 
hail  his  resurrection  from  the  tomb.  It  is  worthy  of  note,  that  none  of  the  apostles  saw  the  angels 
at  the  sepulchre;  to  the  women  only  these  heavenly  messengers  revealed  themselves;  as  thougli 
the  veil  of  a  more  earthly  nature  darkened  the  vision  even  of  those  men  chosen  by  the  Saviour  to 
be  his  especial  friends  and  disciples.  But  why,  if  women  were  thus  good,  and  gifted,  and  faithful, 
why  was  not  the  public  ministry  of  the  gospel  committed  to  them  ? 

We  have,  in  the  general  preface,  shown  the  reasons  why  the  government  of  the  world  and  the 

administration  of  the  ritual  laws  were  confided  to  men  rather  than  to  women.     The  same  reasons 

apply  to  the  apostleship  and  to  the  preaching  of  the  gospel.    Where  both  sexes  were  to  be  instructed 

and  reformed,  it  was  necessary  each  should  have  its  distinct  sphere  of  duty  ;  men  were  sent  forth 

E  65 


REMARKS    ON    THE    SECOND    ERA. 

to  preach  the  word  and  organize  the  church  ;  women  were  to  keep  their  homes  sacred  as  the  house 
of  God,  and  instruct  their  children  in  the  true  faith.  The  distinctive  characteristics  of  each  sex 
were  thus  made  to  contribute  their  best  energies  to  the  advancement  of  the  truth.  Yet  throughout 
the  whole  life  of  the  blessed  Redeemer — from  his  manger-cradle  to  his  blood-stained  cross,  we  trace 
the  predominant  sympathy  of  his  nature  with  that  of  woman.  We  trace  this  in  his  example  and 
precepts,  which  were  in  unison  with  her  character;  in  his  tender  love  of  children  ;  in  the  sternness 
with  which  he  rebuked  the  licentious  spirit  of  man  in  regard  to  the  law  of  divorce.  When  the 
Pharisees  told  him  what  Moses  had  permitted — 

"Jesus  answered  and  said  unto  them,  For  the  hardness  of  your  hearts  he  wrote  you  tliis  precept. 

"But  from  the  beginning  of  the  creation  God  made  them  male  and  female. 

"  For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  his  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to  his  wife. 

"And  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh:  so  then  tjiey  are  no  more  twain  but  one  flesh. 

"  What  therefore  God  hath  joined  together,  let  not  man  put  asunder." 

Thus  was  the  true  idea  of  marriage  restored ;  and  it  is  now,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  and  will 
he  till  the  end  of  the  world,  the  keystone  in  the  temple  of  social  improvement,  and  true  civilization. 
Wherever  the  Gospel  is  preached  and  believed,  polygamy  is  anniiiilated.  What  no  law  or  power 
of  man  could  have  done,  the  law  of  God,  re-affirmed  by  Jesus  Christ,  and  baptized  by  the  Holy 
Ghost  into  the  hearts  of  regenerated  men,  effected.  Then  the  Christian  wife  took  the  Eden  seat 
beside  her  husband  ;  his  soul's  companion,  his  best  earthly  friend.  And  soon  she  was  recognised 
and  acknowledged  as  "  the  glory  of  the  man."  How  beautiful  are  the  glimpses  we  gain  of  the 
feminine  character  as  developed  under  the  first  influences  of  the  preached  Gospel !  Besides  the 
host  of  female  friends  whom  St.  Paul  names  with  warm  affection  and  approval,  there  was  the 
"honourable  women"  who  waited  on  his  ministry;  and  Priscilla  who  was  always  an  helper;  and  the 
•'  elect  lady  and  her  children,"  to  whom  the  gentle,  pure-minded  St.  John  wrote  his  epistle  of  love 
and  faith. 

Thanks  be  to  God  that  this  blessed  Gospel,  which  seems  to  have  been  revealed  purposely  for  the 
help  of  woman,  was  not  like  the  Jewish  dispensation,  to  be  confined  to  one  people  !  No  :  it  was  to 
be  preached  throughout  the  world,  and  to  every  creature.  Wherever  this  Gospel  was  made  known, 
women  were  found  ready  to  receive  it.  Queens  became  the  nursing  mothers  of  the  true  Church, 
and  lovely  maidens  martyrs  for  its  truth.  The  empress  Helena  has  been  widely  celebrated  for  her 
agency  in  introducing  Christianity  into  the  Roman  empire.  It  may  not  be  as  well  known  that  many 
queens  and  princesses  have  the  glory  of  converting  their  husbands  to  the  true  faith,  and  thus  securing 
the  success  of  the  Gospel  in  France,  England,  Hungary,  Spain,  Poland,  and  Russia.  In  truth,  it 
was  the  influence  of  women  that  changed  the  worship  of  the  greater  part  of  Europe  from  Paganism 
to  Christianity.  No  wonder  these  honourable  ladies  wer^  zealous  in  the  cause  of  the  religion  which 
gave  their  sex  protection  in  tiiis  life  and  the  promise  of  eternal  happiness  in  the  life  to  come.  The 
zeal  with  which  women — one-half  of  the  human  race — sustained  the  faith  and  labours  of  the  apos- 
tles and  first  missionaries,  was  one  of  the  greatest  human  elements  of  their  success.  Could  this 
simple  teaching  and  believing  have  gone  on  unhindered,  the  whole  world  would  long  ago  have 
received  the  Gospel.  But  truth  was  perverted  by  selfish  men;  monachism  established;  and  the 
woman's  soul,  again  consigned  to  ignorance,  was  bowed  to  the  servile  office  of  ministering  to  the 
passions  and  lusts  of  men. 

Then  came  the  deification  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ;  a  worship,  though  false  to  the  word  of  God,  yet 
of  salutary  influence  over  the  robbers  and  tyrants  who  then  ruled  the  world.  Next,  chivalry  was 
instituted,  partly  from  the  religious  sentiment  towards  woman  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  had 
awakened,  and  partly  from  the  necessities  of  worldly  men.  But  religious  sentiment,  as  a  barrier 
against  vice,  has  never  been  sufficiently  strong  to  control,  though  it  may  for  a  time  check,  the  cor- 
ruptions of  sin.  At  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  every  light  of  hope  was  fading  or  extin- 
guished. The  Christian  world — so  called — was  one  wide  theatre  of  wars,  rapine,  and  superstition. 
France,  beautiful  France,  was  the  focus  of  anarchy  and  misery  such  as  the  world  had  not  witnessed 
since  the  Roman  empire  was  overtiirown.  The  British,  brave  but  brutal  soldiers,  seemed  about  to 
trample  the  sacred  oriflamme  of  St.  Louis  in  the  dust.  Charles  VII.  was  a  king  without  a  country — 
all  he  possessed  was  a  few  provinces  in  the  south  of  France ;  and  even  these  seemed  likely  to  be  soon 
wrested  from  him.  At  this  juncture,  when  the  strength  of  the  warriors  was  overborne,  the  arm 
of  a  simple  country  maiden  interposed,  and  was  the  cause  of  beating  back  the  haughty  foe  to  the 
limits  of  his  own  island  home,  there  to  learn  that  colonization,  not  conquest,  was  to  make  his  glory. 
The  Maid  of  Orleans  is  the  most  marvellous  person,  of  either  sex,  who  lived  from  the  time  of 
the  apostles  to  the  end  of  the  Era  on  which  we  are  now  entering. 

66 


SECOND   EEA. 


FROM  THE   BIRTH  OF  JESUS  CHRIST   TO   THE  YEAR  1500. 


ABASSA, 
A  SISTER  of  Haroun  al  Rascliid,  caliph  of  the 
Saracens,  A.  D.  786,  was  so  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished, that  the  caliph  often  lamented  he  was  her 
brother,  thinking  no  other  husband  could  be  found 
worthy  of  her.  To  sanction,  however,  a  wish  he 
had  of  conversing  at  the  same  time  with  the  two 
most  enlightened  people  he  knew,  he  married  her 
to  his  vizier  Giafar,  the  Barmecide,  on  condition 
that  Giafar  should  not  regard  her  as  his  wife. 
Giafar,  not  obeying  this  injunction,  was  put  to 
death  by  order  of  the  enraged  caliph,  and  Abassa 
was  dismissed  from  liis  court.  She  wandered 
about,  sometimes  reduced  to  the  extreme  of  wretch- 
edness, reciting  her  own  story  in  song,  and  there 
are  still  extant  some  Arabic  verses  composed  by 
her,  which  celebrate  her  misfortunes.  In  the  di- 
van entitled  Juba,  Abassa's  genius  for  poetry  is 
mentioned;  and  a  specimen  of  her  composition, 
in  six  Arabic  lines,  addressed  to  Giafar,  her  hus- 
band, whose  society  she  was  restricted  by  her  bro- 
ther from  enjoying,  is  to  be  found  in  a  book  wi'it- 
ten  by  Ben  Abon  Haydah.  She  left  two  children, 
twins,  whom  Giafar,  before  his  death,  had  sent 
privately  to  Mecca  to  be  educated. 

ABELLA, 
A  FEMALE  wi'iter  born  at  Salerno,  in  Italy,  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  in  1380.  She 
wrote  several  works  on  medicine ;  and,  among 
others,  a  treatise  De  atra  bill,  which  was  very 
highly  esteemed. 

ADELAIDE, 

Daughter  of  Rodolphus,  king  of  Burgundy, 
married  Lotharius  II.,  king  of  Italy,  and  after  his 
death,  Otho  I.,  emperor  of  Germany.  Her  charac- 
ter was  exemplary,  and  she  always  exerted  her 
influence  for  the  good  of  her  subjects.  She  died 
in  999,  aged  sixty-nine. 

ADELAIDE, 

Wife  of  Louis  II.  of  France,  was  mother  of 
Charles  III.,  surnamed  the  Simple,  who  was  king 
in  598. 


ADELAIDE 

Of  Savoy,  daughter  of  Humbert,  count  of  Mau- 
rienne,  was  queen  to  Louis  VI.  of  France,  and 
mother  of  seven  sons  and  a  daughter.  After  the 
king's  death,  she  married  Matthew  of  Montmo- 
renci,  and  died  1154. 

ADELAIDE, 
Wife  of  Frederic,  prince  of  Saxony,  conspired 
with  Lewis,   marquis  of  Thuringia,   against  her 
husband's  life,  and  married  the  murderer  in  1055. 

ADELICIA, 
Of  Louvain,  surnamed  "  The  fair  Maid  of  Bra- 
bant," was  the  second  wife  of  Henry  I.  of  Eng- 
land. Slie  was  descended  from  the  impei-ial  Car- 
lovingian  line,  and  was  remarkable  for  her  profi- 
ciency in  all  feminine  acquirements.  She  was 
very  beautiful,  and  wise  in  conforming  to  the 
tastes  of  the  king,  and  in  afi"ording  all  possible 
encouragement  to  literature  and  the  polite  arts. 
Henry's  death  happened  in  1135,  and  three  years 
afterwards  Adelicia  contracted  a  second  marriage 
with  William  de  Albiui,  who  seems  to  have  been 
"the  husband  of  her  choice,"  by  whom  she  had 
several  children.  She  died  about  1151.  Anne 
Boleyn  and  Catherine  Howard,  the  victim  queens 
of  Henry  VIII.,  were  her  lineal  descendants. 

AFRA, 
A  MARTYR  in  Crete,  during  the  Dioclesian  per- 
secution, which  commenced  A.  D.  303.  She  was 
a  pagan  and  a  courtezan,  but  she  no  sooner  heard 
the  Gospel  preached  than  she  confessed  her  sins 
find  was  baptized.  Her  former  lovers,  enraged  at 
this  change,  denounced  her  as  a  Christian.  She 
was  examined,  avowed  her  faith  with  firmness,  and 
was  burnt.  Her  mother  and  three  servants,  who 
had  shared  her  crimes  and  repentance,  were  ar- 
rested, as  they  watched  by  her  tomb,  and  suffered 
the  same  fate. 

AGATHA, 
A  Sicilian  lady,  was  remarkable  for  her  beauty 
and  talents.     Quintius,  governor  of  Sicily,  fell  in 
love  with  her,  and  made  many  vain  attempts  on 

07 


AG 


AG 


her  virtue.  When  he  found  Agatha  inflexible,  his 
desire  changed  into  resentment,  and  discovering 
that  she  was  a  Christian,  he  determined  to  gratify 
his  revenge.  He  ordered  her  to  be  scourged,  burnt 
with  red-hot  irons,  and  torn  with  sharp  hooks. 
Having  borne  these  torments  with  admirable  forti- 
tude, she  was  laid  naked  on  live  coals  mingled 
with  glass,  and  being  cari'ied  back  to  prison,  she 
expired  there,  in  251. 

AGNES,  St. 

A  Christian  martyr  at  Rome  in  the  Dioclesian 
persecution,  whose  bloody  edicts  appeared  in 
March,  A.  D.  303,  was  only  thirteen  at  the  time  of 
her  glorious  death.  Her  riches  and  beauty  ex- 
cited many  of  the  young  noblemen  of  Rome  to 
seek  her  in  marriage ;  but  Agnes  answered  them 
all,  that  she  had  consecrated  herself  to  a  heavenly 
spouse.  Her  suitors  accused  her  to  the  governor 
as  a  Christian,  not  doubting  that  threats  and  tor- 
ments would  overcome  her  resolution.  The  judge 
at  first  employed  the  mildest  persuasions  and  most 
inviting  promises,  to  which  Agnes  paid  no  atten- 
tion ;  he  then  displayed  before  her  the  instruments 
of  torture,  with  threats  of  immediate  execution, 
and  dragged  her  before  idols,  to  which  she  was 
commanded  to  sacrifice ;  but  Agnes  moved  her 
hand  only  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross.  The  go- 
vernor, highly  exasperated,  ordered  her  to  be  im- 
mediately beheaded ;  and  Agnes  went  cheerfully 
to  the  place  of  execution.  Her  body  was  buried 
at  a  small  distance  from  Rome,  near  the  Nonietan 
road.  A  church  was  built  on  the  spot  in  the  time 
of  Constantino  the  Great. 

AGNES, 
Wife  of  Andrew  III.,  king  of  Hungary,  was  the 
daughter  of  Albert,  emperor  of  Germany.  She 
distinguished  herself  by  her  address  and  political 
abilities  ;  but  appears  to  have  had  more  Machia- 
vellian policy  than  true  greatness  of  mind.  After 
the  death  of  her  father,  she  resided  in  Switzer- 
land, where  her  finesse  was  of  great  service  to  her 
brother,  Albert  II.,  with  whom  the  Swiss  were  at 
wai\     She  died  in  1364. 

AGNESDEMERANIA, 
Daughter  of  the  duke  de  Merania,  married 
Philip  Augustus,  king  of  France,  after  he  was  di- 
vorced by  his  bishops  from  his  wife  Ingeborge, 
sister  of  the  king  of  Denmark.  The  Pope  declared 
this  second  marriage  null,  and  placed  France  un- 
der an  interdict  till  Philip  should  take  back  Inge- 
borge. Philip  was  at  length  obliged  to  do  this, 
and  Agnes  died  of  grief  the  same  year,  1201,  at 
Poissy.  Her  two  children  were  declared  legiti- 
raatc  by  the  Pope. 

AGNES 
Of  France,  the  only  child  that  Louis  VII.,  of 
France,  had  by  his  third  wife,  Alix  de  Champagne, 
was  sent  before  she  was  ten  years  old  to  marry 
Cesar  Alexis,  the  young  son  of  Emmanuel  Com- 
nenus,  emperor  of  Constantinople.  The  marriage 
was  celebrated  with  great  pomp,  1179,  and  the 
next  year  Alexis,  though  then  only  thirteen,  suc- 


ceeded his  father  in  the  government.  But  in  1183 
a  prince  of  the  same  family,  Andronicus,  deposed 
and  murdered  Alexis,  forced  Agnes  to  man-y  him, 
and  ascended  the  throne.  In  1185  Andronicus 
was  deposed  and  killed.  Being  thus  left  a  second 
time  a  widow,  before  she  was  sixteen,  Agnes  sought 
for  a  protector  among  the  Greek  nobility,  and  her 
choice  fell  on  Theodore  Branas,  who  defended  her 
cause  so  well,  that  when  the  crusaders  took  Con- 
stantinople, they  gave  him  the  city  of  Napoli,  and 
that  of  Adrianople,  his  country,  and  of  Didymo- 
ticos.  He  soon  after  married  Agnes,  and  the  rest 
of  her  life,  so  stormy  in  its  commencement,  was 
passed  very  tranqiiilly. 


AGNES   feOREL, 

A  native  of  Fromenteau,  in  Lorraine,  was  maid 
of  honour  to  Isabella  of  Lorraine,  sister-in-law  of 
the  queen  of  Charles  VII.  of  France.  The  king 
became  enamoured  of  her,  and  at  last  abandoned 
the  cares  of  government  for  her  society.  But 
Agnes  roused  him  from  enervating  repose  to  deeds 
of  glory,  and  induced  him  to  attack  the  English, 
who  were  ravaging  France.  She  maintained  her 
influence  over  him  till  her  death,  1450,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-nine.  Some  have  falsely  reported  that 
she  was  poisoned  by  the  orders  of  the  dauphin, 
Louis  XL  From  her  beauty,  she  was  called  the 
fairest  of  the  fair,  and  she  possessed  great  mental 
powers.  She  bore  three  daughters  to  Charles 
VII.,  who  were  openly  acknowledged  by  him. 

She  hei-self  relates,  that  an  astrologer,  whom 
she  had  previously  instructed,  being  admitted  to 
her  presence,  said  before  Charles,  that  unless  the 
stars  were  deceivers,  she  had  inspired  a  lasting 
passion  in  a  great  monarch.  Turning  to  the  king, 
Agnes  said,  "  Sire,  suffer  me  to  fulfil  my  destiny, 
to  retire  from  your  court  to  that  of  the  king  of 
England ;  Henry,  who  is  about  to  add  to  his  son 
the  crown  you  relinquish,  is  doubtless  the  object 
of  this  prediction."  The  severity  of  this  reproof 
effectually  roused  Charles  from  his  indolence  and 
supineness. 

The  tomb  of  Agnes  was  strewed  with  flowers  by 
the  poets  of  France.  Even  Louis,  when  he  camr 
to  the  thi-one,  was  far  from  treating  her  memory 

68 


A I 


AL 


with  disrespect.  The  canons  of  Loches,  from  a 
servile  desire  to  gratify  the  reigning  monarch,  had, 
notwithstanding  her  liberalities  to  their  church, 
proposed  to  destroy  her  mausoleum.  Louis  re- 
proached them  with  their  ingratitude,  ordered 
them  to  fulfil  all  her  injunctions,  and  added  six 
thousand  livres  to  the  charitable  donations  which 
she  had  originally  made. 

Francis  I.  honoured  and  cherished  her  memorj^. 
The  four  lines  made  on  her  by  that  prince,  are 
well  known : 

Oentille  Agnes!  plus  d'honneur  lu  merite. 

La  cause  etaiit  de  France  recouvrer, 
(iue  ce  que  pent  dans  un  cloitre  ouvrer 
Clause  Nonain,  ou  bien  devote  liermite." 

AISHA, 

A  POETESS  of  Spain,  during  the  time  that  the 
Moors  had  possession  of  that  kingdom.  She  was 
a  daughter  of  the  duke  of  Ahmedi,  and  her  poems 
and  orations  were  frequently  read  with  applause 
in  the  royal  academy  of  Corduba.  She  was  a  vir- 
tuous character,  lived  unmarried,  and  left  behind 
her  many  monuments  of  her  genius,  and  a  large 
and  well-selected  library.  She  lived  in  the  twelfth 
century. 

ALDRUDE, 

Countess  de  Bertinoro,  in  Italy,  of  the  illus- 
trious house  of  Frangipani,  is  celebrated,  by  the 
writers  of  her  time,  for  her  beautj',  magnificence, 
courtesy,  and  generosity.  She  was  left  a  widow 
in  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  her  court  became  the 
resort  of  all  the  Italian  chivalry.  When  Ancona 
was  besieged  by  the  imperial  troops,  in  1172,  and 
was  reduced  to  extremity,  the  Anconians  appealed 
for  assistance  to  William  degli  Adelardi,  a  noble 
and  powerful  citizen  of  Ferrara,  and  to  the  coun- 
tess de  Bertinoro,  who  immediately  hastened  to 
their  relief. 

The  combined  forces  reached  Ancona  at  the 
close  of  day,  and  encamped  on  a  height  which 
overlooked  the  tents  of  the  besiegers.  William 
then  assembled  the  forces,  and  having  harangued 
them,  Aldrude  rose,  and  addressed  the  soldiers  as 
follows : 

"  Fortified  and  encouraged  by  the  favour  of 
Heaven,  I  have,  contrary  to  the  customs  of  my 
sex,  determined  to  address  you.  A  plain  exhorta- 
tion, destitute  of  precision  or  ornament,  should  it 
fail  to  flatter  the  ear,  may  yet  serve  to  rouse  the 
mind.  I  solemnly  swear  to  you,  that,  on  the  pre- 
sent occasion,  no  views  of  interest,  no  dreams  of 
ambition,  have  impelled  me  to  sviccour  the  be- 
sieged. Since  the  death  of  my  husband,  I  have 
found  myself,  though  plunged  in  sorrow,  unre- 
sisted mistress  of  his  domains.  The  preservation 
of  my  numerous  possessions,  to  which  my  wishes 
are  limited,  affords  an  occupation  sufficiently  ar- 
duous for  my  sex  and  capacity.  But  the  perils 
which  encompass  the  wretched  Anconians,  the 
prayers  and  tears  of  their  women,  justly  dreading 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  enemy,  who,  governed 
by  brutal  rapacity,  spare  neither  sex  nor  age, 
have  animated  me  to  hasten  to  their  aid. 

"  To  relieve  a  people,  consumed  by  famine,  ex- 


hausted by  resistance,  and  exposed  to  calamities, 
I  have  left  my  dominions,  and  come  hither  with 
my  son,  who,  though  still  a  child,  recalls  to  my 
remembrance  the  great  soul  of  his  father,  by 
whom  the  same  zeal,  the  same  courage,  was  ever 
displayed  for  the  protection  of  the  oppressed. 
And  you,  warriors  of  Lombardy  and  Romagne, 
not  less  illustrious  for  fidelity  to  your  engage- 
ments than  renowned  for  valour  in  the  field ;  you, 
whom  the  same  cause  has  brought  here,  to  obey 
the  orders  and  emulate  the  example  of  William 
Adelardi,  who,  listening  ortly  to  his  generosity 
and  love  of  freedom,  has  scrupled  not  to  engage 
his  possessions,  his  friends,  and  his  vassals,  for 
the  deliverance  of  Ancona.  A  conduct  so  gene- 
rous, so  worthy  of  praise,  requires  no  comment ; 
beneath  our  sense  of  its  magnanimity,  language 
fails.  It  is  by  those  only  who  are  truly  great,  that 
virtue  is  esteemed  more  than  riches  or  honours, 
or  that  virtuous  actions  can  be  duly  appreciated. 
An  enterprise,  so  full  of  glory,  has  already  nearly 
succeeded ;  already  have  you  passed  through  the 
defiles  occupied  by  the  enemy,  and  pitched  your 
tents  in  the  hostile  country.  It  is  now  time  that 
the  seed  which  was  scattered,  should  bring  forth 
its  fruit;  it  is  time  to  make  trial  of  your  strength, 
and  of  that  valour  for  which  you  are  distinguished. 
Corn-age  is  relaxed  by  delay.  Let  the  dawn  of  day 
find  you  under  arms,  that  the  sun  may  illumine 
the  victory  promised  by  the  Most  High  to  your 
pity  for  the  unfortunate." 

The  exhortation  of  the  countess  was  received 
by  the  soldiery  with  unbounded  applause,  mingled 
with  the  sound  of  trumpets  and  the  clashing  of 
arms.  The  enemy,  alarmed  at  the  approach  of  so 
large  a  force,  retreated  during  the  night,  so  that 
the  assailants  had  no  opportunity  of  proving  their 
bravery. 

After  this  bloodless  victory,  the  combined  troops 
remained  encamped  near  Ancona,  till  it  was  no 
longer  endangered  by  the  vicinity  of  its  enemies, 
and  till  an  abundant  supply  of  provisions  was 
brought  into  the  city.  The  Anconians  came  out 
to  thank  their  gallant  deliverers,  to  whom  they 
offered  magnificent  presents. 

Aldi'ude,  with  her  army,  on  her  return  to  her 
dominions,  encountered  parties  of  the  retreating 
enemy,  whom  they  engaged  in  skirmishes,  in  all 
of  which  they  came  off  victorious.  The  time  of 
her  death  is  not  recorded. 

ALICE, 
Queen  of  France,  wife  of  Louis  VII.,  was  the 
third  daughter  of  Thibaut  the  Great,  count  of 
Champagne.  The  princess  received  a  careful 
education  in  the  magnificent  court  of  her  father ; 
and  being  beautiful,  amiable,  intelligent,  and 
imaginative,  Louis  VII.,  on  the  death  of  his  se- 
cond wife,  in  11  GO,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  de- 
manded her  of  her  father.  To  cement  the  union 
more  strongly,  two  daughters  of  the  king  by  his 
first  wife,  Eleanor  of  Guienne,  were  married  to 
the  two  eldest  sons  of  the  count.  In  1165,  she 
had  a  son,  to  the  great  joy  of  Louis,  afterwards 
the  celebrated  Philip  Augustus.  Beloved  by  her 
husband,  whose  ill-health  rendered  him  unequal 

69 


AL 


AM 


to  the  duties  of  his  station,  Alice  not  only  assisted 
him  in  conducting  the  aftairs  of  the  nation,  but 
superintended  the  education  of  her  son. 

Louis  died  in  1180,  having  appointed  Alice  to 
the  regency ;  but  Philip  Augustus  being  married 
to  Isabella  of  Hainault,  niece  to  the  earl  of  Flan- 
ders, this  nobleman  disputed  the  authority  of 
Alice.  Philip,  at  last,  sided  with  the  earl ;  and 
his  mother,  with  her  brothers,  was  obliged  to 
leave  the  court.  She  appealed  to  Henry  II.  of 
England,  who  was  delighted  to  assist  the  mother 
against  the  son,  as  Philip  was  constantly  inciting 
his  sons  to  acts  of  rebellion  against  him.  Philip 
marched  against  them ;  but  Henry,  unwilling  to 
give  him  battle,  commenced  negotiations  with 
him,  and  succeeded  in  reconciling  the  king  to  his 
mother  and  uncles.  Philip  also  agreed  to  pay  her 
a  sum  equal  to  iive  shillings  and  ten  pence  Eng- 
lish per  day,  for  her  maintenance,  and  to  give  up 
her  dowry,  with  the  exception  of  the  fortiiied 
places. 

Alice  again  began  to  take  an  active  part  in  the 
government ;  and  her  son  was  so  well  satisfied 
with  her  conduct,  that,  in  1190,  on  going  to  the 
Holy  Land,  he  confided,  by  the  advice  of  his 
barons,  the  education  of  his  son,  and  the  regency 
of  the  kingdom,  to  Alice  and  her  brother,  the  cai-- 
dinal  archbishop  of  Rheims.  During  the  absence 
of  the  king,  some  ecclesiastical  distm-bances  hap- 
pened, which  were  carried  before  the  pope.  The 
prerogative  of  Philip,  and  the  letters  of  Alice  to 
Rome  concerning  it,  were  full  of  force  and  gran- 
deur. She  remonstrated  upon  the  enormity  of 
taking  advantage  of  an  absence  caused  by  such  a 
motive  ;  and  demanded  that  things  should  at  least 
be  left  in  the  same  situation,  till  the  return  of  her 
son.  By  this  firmness  she  obtained  her  point. 
Philip  returned  in  1192,  and  history  takes  no 
other  notice  of  Alice  afterwards,  than  to  mention 
some  religious  houses  which  she  founded.  She 
died  at  Paris,  in  1205. 

ALICE 
Of  France,  second  daughter  of  Loiiis  VII.  of 
France,  and  of  Alice  of  Champagne,  was  betrothed, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  to  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion, 
second  son  of  Henry  II.  of  England.  She  was 
taken  to  that  country  to  learn  the  language,  where 
her  beauty  made  such  an  impression  that  Henry 
II.,  though  then  an  old  man,  became  one  of  her 
admirers.  He  placed  her  in  the  castle  of  Wood- 
stock, where  his  mistress,  the  celebrated  Rosa- 
mond Clifford,  had  been  murdered,  as  was  then 
reported,  by  his  jealous  wife,  Eleanor  of  Guienne. 
Alice  is  said  to  have  taken  the  place  of  Rosamond ; 
at  any  rate,  Henrj-'s  conduct  to  her  so  irritated 
Richard,  that,  incited  by  his  mother,  he  took  up 
arms  against  his  father.  Henry's  death,  in  1189, 
put  an  end  to  this  unhappy  position  of  affairs ; 
hut  when  Richard  was  urged  by  Philip  Augustus 
of  France  to  fulfil  his  engagement  to  his  sister 
Alice,  Richard  refused,  alleging  that  she  had  had 
a  daughter  by  his  father.  The  subsequent  mar- 
riage of  Richard  with  Berengaria  of  Navarre,  so 
enraged  Philip  Augustus,  that  from  that  time  he 
became  the  relentless  enemy  of  the  English  king. 


Alice  returned  to  France,  and  in  1195  she  married 
William  III.,  count  of  Ponthieu.  She  was  the 
victim  of  the  licentious  passions  of  the  English 
monarch.  Had  she  been  as  happily  married  as 
her  mother,  she  would,  probably,  have  showed  as 
amiable  a  disposition,  and  a  mind  of  like  excel- 
lence. 

ALOARA, 

An  Italian  princess,  daughter  of  a  count  named 
Peter.  She  was  married  to  Pandulph,  surnamed 
Ironhead,  who  styled  himself  prince,  duke,  and 
marquis.  He  was,  by  inheritance,  prince  of 
Capua  and  Benevento,  and  the  most  potent  noble- 
man in  Italy.  He  died  at  Capua,  in  981,  leaving 
five  sons  by  Aloara,  all  of  whom  were  unfortunate, 
and  three  of  them  died  violent  deaths.  Aloara 
began  to  reign  conjointly  with  one  of  her  sons  in 
982,  and  governed  with  wisdom  and  courage. 
She  died  in  992. 

It  is  asserted  that  Aloara  piit  to  death  her 
nephew,  lest  he  shoiild  wrest  the  principality  from 
her  son;  and,  that  St.  Nil  then  predicted  the 
failure  of  her  posterity. 

ALPAIDE 
AVas  the  beautiful  wife  of  Pepin  D'Heristal  of 
France,  after  his  divorce  from  his  first  wife,  Plec- 
trude.  This  union  was  censured  by  Lambert, 
bislioi)  of  Liege ;  and  Alpaide  induced  her  brother 
Dodan  to  miu'der  the  bold  ecclesiastic.  After  her 
husband's  death  she  retired  to  a  convent  near 
Namur,  where  she  died.  She  was  the  mother  of 
Charles  Martel,  who  was  born  in  68G. 

ALPHAIZULI, 

Maria,  a  poetess  of  Seville,  who  lived  in  the 
eighth  century.  She  was  called  the  Arabian  Sap- 
pho, being  of  Moorish  extraction.  Excellent  works 
of  hers  are  in  the  library  of  the  Escurial.  Many 
Spanish  women  of  that  time  cultivated  the  muses 
with  success,  particularly  the  Andalusians. 

AMALASONTHA, 

Datjghtek  of  Theodoric,  king  of  the  Ostrogoths, 
was  mother  of  Athalaric,  by  Eutharic.  She  inhe- 
rited her  father's  possessions,  as  guardian  of  her 
son ;  but  by  endeavouring  to  educate  him  in  the 
manners  and  learning  of  the  more  polished  Ro- 
mans, she  offended  her  nobles,  who  conspired 
against  her,  and  obtained  the  government  of  the 
young  prince.  Athalaric  was  inured,  by  them, 
to  debauchery,  and  he  sunk  under  his  excesses,  at 
the  early  age  of  seventeen,  in  the  year  534.  The 
afflicted  mother  knew  not  how  to  support  herself 
against  her  rebellious  subjects,  but  by  taking  as  her 
husband  and  partner  on  the  throne,  her  cousin 
Theodatus,  who,  to  his  everlasting  infamy,  caused 
her  to  be  strangled  in  a  bath,  534.  For  learning 
or  humanity  she  had  few  equals.  She  received 
and  conversed  with  ambassadors  from  various  na- 
tions without  the  aid  of  an  interjireter. 

The  emperor  of  Constantinople  sent  an  army 
against  the  murderer,  under  the  celebrated  ge- 
neral Beli  sarins,  who  defeated  and  dethroned 
him. 

70 


AM 


AN 


A  M  B  0 1 S  E , 

Frances  d',  daughter  of  Louis  d'Amboise,  is 
celebrated  for  the  improvement  she  introduced  in 
the  manners  and  sentiments  of  the  Bretons.  She 
was  wife  of  Peter  II.,  duke  of  Brittany,  whose 
great  inhumanity  to  her  she  bore  with  Christian 
resignation,  and  wliich  she  opposed  with  a  gentle- 
ness and  moderation  that  gradually  gained  his 
aflFections  and  confidence. 

She  rendered  moderation  and  temperance  fash- 
ionable, not  only  at  court,  but  throughout  the  city 
of  Rennes,  where  she  resided ;  and  when  the 
duke,  desirous  of  profiting  by  this  economy,  pro- 
posed laying  a  new  impost  upon  the  people,  the 
duchess  persuaded  him  against  it.  She  used  all 
her  influence  over  her  husband  for  the  good  of  the 
public,  and  the  advancement  of  religion. 

When  Peter  was  seized  with  his  last  illness,  his 
disorder,  not  being  understood  by  the  physicians, 
was  ascribed  to  magic,  and  it  was  proposed  to 
seek  a  necromancer  to  counteract  the  spell  under 
which  he  suifered ;  but  the  good  sense  of  the 
duchess  led  her  to  reject  this  expedient.  Her 
husband  died  October,  1457.  His  successor  treated 
her  with  indignity,  and  her  father  wished  her  to 
marry  the  prince  of  Savoy,  in  order  to  obtain  a 
protector.  But  the  duchess  determined  to  devote 
herself  to  the  memory  of  her  husband,  and  when 
M.  d'Amboise  attempted  to  force  her  to  yield  to 
his  wishes,  she  took  refuge  in  the  convent  des 
Trots  Maries,  near  Vaunes,  where  she  assumed  the 
Carmelite  habit.     She  died  October  4th,  1485. 

ANACOANA, 
Queen  of  Xiragua  in  the  island  of  St.  Domingo, 
was  cruelly  put  to  death  by  Ovando,  who  owed 
her,  agreeably  to   the  promises  of  Bartholomew 
Columbus,  both  friendship  and  protection. 

ANASTASIA, 

A  Christian  martyr  at  Rome,  in  the  Dioclesian 
persecution.  Her  father,  Prebextal,  was  a  pagan, 
and  her  mother,  Flausta,  a  Christian,  who  in- 
structed her  in  the  principles  of  her  own  religion. 
After  the  death  of  her  mother,  she  was  married  to 
Publius  Patricius,  a  Roman  knight,  who  obtained 
a  rich  patrimony  with  her ;  but  he  no  sooner  dis- 
covered her  to  be  a  Christian,  than  he  treated  her 
harshly,  confined  her,  and  kept  her  almost  in  want 
of  necessaries,  while  he  spent  her  wealth  in  all 
kinds  of  extravagance.  He  died  in  the  course  of 
a  few  years,  and  Anastasia  devoted  herself  to  the 
study  of  the  Scriptures  and  to  works  of  charity, 
spending  her  whole  fortune  in  the  relief  of  the 
poor,  and  the  Christians,  by  whom  the  prisons 
were  then  filled. 

But  she,  and  three  of  her  female  servants,  sis- 
ters, were  soon  arrested  as  Christians,  and  com- 
manded to  saci'ifice  to  idols.  Refusing  to  do  this, 
the  three  sisters  were  put  to  death  on  the  spot, 
and  Anastasia  conducted  to  prison.  She  was  then 
exiled  to  the  island  of  Palmaria ;  but  soon  after- 
wards brought  back  to  Rome  and  burned  alive. 
Her  remains  were  buried  in  a  garden  by  Apol- 
lonia,  a  Christian  woman,  and  a  church  afterwards 


built    on    the    spot.     Anastasia    suifered    about 
A.  D.  303. 

ANASTASIA, 
Saint.  Several  eminently  pious  women  arc 
known  by  that  name.  The  earliest  and  most 
famous  among  them  lived  at  Corinth,  about  the 
time  when  St.  Paul  preached  the  gospel  in  that 
city.  She  heard  the  apostle,  and  was  seized  with 
a  firm  conviction  that  the  doctrines  inculcated  by 
that  eminent  disciple  of  Christ  were  true.  She 
joined  the  Christian  church  without  the  knowledge 
of  her  parents  and  relations.  Although  betrothed 
to  a  Corinthian  whose  interests  made  him  hostile 
to  the  introduction  of  the  new  religion,  she  never- 
theless suffered  neither  persuasion  nor  threats  to 
shake  her  in  her  enthusiasm  for  the  new  faith. 
She  prevailed  even  so  far  upon  her  lover  as  to 
make  him  resolve  to  become  a  Christian.  Finally 
she  was  compelled,  on  account  of  persecution,  to 
conceal  herself  in  a  vault.  But  her  lover,  to  whom 
she  had  declared  her  intention  of  living  the  life 
of  a  virgin  devoted  to  God,  betrayed  her  retreat. 
Every  attempt  to  make  her  recant  proved  fruit- 
less. She  suffered  the  death  of  a  martyr ;  and  her 
lover  died  soon  afterwards,  a  victim  to  remorse 
and  grief.  Petrarch  mentions  her  several  times 
in  his  poems. 

ANGELBERGA,  or  INGELBERGA, 

Empress  of  the  West,  wife  of  Louis  II.,  em- 
peror and  king  of  Italy,  is  supposed  to  have 
been  of  illustrious  birth,  though  that  is  uncer- 
tain. She  was  a  woman  of  courage  and  ability ; 
but  proud,  unfeeling,  and  venal.  The  war  in 
which  her  husband  was  involved  with  the  king  of 
Germany  was  rendered  unfortunate  by  the  pride 
and  rapacity  of  Angelberga.  In  874,  Angelberga 
built,  at  Plaisance,  a  monastery  which  afterwards 
became  one  of  the  most  famous  in  Italy.  Louis 
II.  died  at  Brescia  in  875.  After  his  death,  An- 
gelberga remained  at  the  convent  of  St.  Julia  in 
Brescia,  where  her  treasures  were  deposited.  In 
881,  Charles  the  Fat,  of  France,  caused  Angel- 
berga to  be  taken  and  carried  prisoner  into  Ger- 
many ;  lest  she  should  assist  her  daughter  Her- 
mengard,  who  had  married  Boron  king  of  Provence, 
a  connection  of  Charles,  by  her  wealth  and  poli- 
tical knowledge :  but  the  pope  obtained  her  release. 
It  is  not  known  when  she  died.  She  had  two 
daughters,  Hermengard,  who  survived  her,  and 
Gisela,  abbess  of  St.  Julia,  who  died  before  her 
parents. 

ANNA, 

A  Jewish  prophetess,  the  daughter  of  Phanucl, 
of  the  tribe  of  Asher.  She  had  been  early  mar- 
ried, and  had  lived  seven  years  with  her  husband. 
After  his  death,  she  devoted  herself  to  the  service 
of  God,  and  while  thus  employed,  finding  the  vir- 
gin Mary  with  her  son  in  the  temple,  she  joined 
with  the  venerable  Simeon  in  thanking  God  for 
him,  and  bearing  testimony  to  him  as  the  promised 
Messiah.  It  is  worth  remarking,  that  these  two 
early  testifiers  of  our  Saviour's  mission  being  both 
far  advanced  in  life,  could  not  be  liable  to  the 

71 


AN 


AN 


znost  distant  suspicion  of  collusion  with  Joseph 
and  Mary  in  palming  a  false  Messiah  on  their 
countrymen,  as  they  had  not  the  smallest  probable 
chance  of  living  to  see  him  grow  up  to  maturity, 
and  fulfil  their  propliecies,  and  therefore  could 
liave  no  interest  in  declaring  a  falsehood.  Thus 
we  find  the  advent  of  our  Lord  was  made  known, 
spiritually,  to  woman  as  well  as  to  man.  The 
good  old  Simeon  had  no  clearer  revelation  than 
the  aged  devout  Anna.  Both  were  inspired  ser- 
vants of  the  Most  High ;  but  here  the  character- 
istic piety  of  the  woman  is  shown  to  excel.  Simeon 
dwelt  "in  Jerusalem,"  probably  engaged  in  secu- 
lar pursuits  ;  Anna  "  departed  not  from  the  tem- 
ple, but  served  God  with  fasting  and  prayers  night 
and  day."     See  St.  Luke,  chap.  ii. 

ANNE 

Of  Bohemia,  daughter  of  the  emperor  Charles 
IV.,  was  born  about  1367,  and  was  married  to 
Richard  IL  of  England,  when  she  was  fifteen  years 
of  age.  This  was  just  after  the  insun-ection  of 
Wat  Tyler ;  and  the  executions  of  the  pooi-,  op- 
pressed people  who  had  taken  part  with  him,  had 
been  bloody  and  barbarous  beyond  all  precedent, 
even  in  tliat  bloody  age.  At  the  young  queen's 
earnest  request,  a  general  pardon  was  granted  by 
the  king  ;  this  mediation  obtained  for  Richard's 
bride  the  title  of  "  the  good  queen  Anne."  Never 
did  she  forfeit  the  appellation,  or  lose  the  love  of 
her  subjects. 

She  was  the  first  in  that  illustrious  band  of 
princesses  who  were  "the  nursing  mothers  of  the 
Reformation;"  and  by  her  influence  the  life  of 
Wicklifi'e  was  saved,  when  in  great  danger  at  the 
council  at  Lambeth,  in  1382.  Anne  died  1394; 
she  left  no  children ;  and  from  the  time  of  her 
decease  all  good  angels  seem  to  have  abandoned 
her  always  affectionate,  but  weak  and  unfortunate 
liusband. 


ANNE  BOLEYN, 
Or,  more  properly,  Bui-len,  was  the  daughter 
of  Sir  Thomas  Bullen,  the  representative  of  an 
ancient  and  noble  family  in  Norfolk.  Anne  was 
born  in  1507,  and  in  1514  was  carried  to  France 
by  Mary,  the  sister  of  Henry  VIIL  of  England, 


when  she  went  to  marry  Louis  XII.  After  the 
death  of  Louis,  Mary  returned  to  England,  but 
Anne  remained  in  France,  in  the  service  of  Claude, 
wife  of  Francis  I. ;  and,  after  her  death,  with  the 
duchess  of  Alen9on.  The  beauty  and  accomplish- 
ments of  Anne,  even  at  that  early  age,  attracted 
great  admiration  in  the  French  coui-t. 

She  returned  to  England,  and,  about  152G,  be- 
came maid  of  honour  to  Katharine  of  Arragon, 
wife  of  Henry  VIII.  Here  she  was  receiving  the 
addresses  of  Lord  Percy,  eldest  son  of  the  duke 
of  Northumberland,  when  Henry  fell  violently  in 
love  with  her.  But  Anne  resolutely  resisted  his 
passion,  either  from  principle  or  policy ;  and  at 
length  the  king's  impatience  induced  him  to  set 
on  foot  the  divorce  of  Katharine,  which  was  exe- 
cuted with  great  solemnity.  The  pope,  however, 
would  not  consent  to  this  proceeding ;  so  Henry 
disowned  his  authority  and  threw  off  his  yoke. 

He  married  Anne  privately,  on  the  14th  of  No- 
vember, 1532.  The  marriage  was  made  public 
on  Easter-eve,  1533,  and  Anne  was  crowned  the 
1st  of  June.  Her  daughter  Elizabeth,  afterwards 
queen,  was  born  on  the  7th  of  the  following  Sep- 
tember. Anne  continued  to  be  much  beloved  by 
the  king,  till  1536,  when  the  disappointment  caused 
by  the  birth  of  a  still-born  son,  and  the  charms 
of  one  of  her  maids  of  honour,  Jane  Seymour, 
alienated  his  affections,  and  turned  his  love  to 
hatred. 

He  caused  her,  on  very  slight  grounds,  to  be 
indicted  for  high  treason,  in  allowing  her  brother, 
the  viscovmt  of  Rochford,  and  four  other  persons, 
to  invade  the  king's  conjugal  rights,  and  she  was 
taken  to  the  Tower,  from  which  she  addressed  the 
following  touching  letter  to  the  king : 

"Sir, 

"Your  grace's  displeasure,  and  my  imprison- 
ment, are  things  so  strange  unto  me,  as  what  to 
write,  or  what  to  excuse,  I  am  altogether  ignorant. 
Whereas  you  send  unto  me,  willing  me  to  confess 
a  truth,  and  so  obtain  your  favour,  by  such  an  one 
whom  I  know  to  be  mine  ancient  professed  enemy, 
I  no  sooner  received  this  message  by  him,  than  I 
rightly  conceived  your  meaning ;  and  if,  as  you 
say,  confessing  a  truth  indeed  may  procure  my 
safety,  I  shall  with  all  willingness  and  duty  per- 
form your  command. 

"  But  let  not  your  grace  ever  imagine,  that  your 
poor  wife  will  ever  be  brought  to  acknowledge  a 
fault,  when  not  so  much  as  a  thought  thereof  pre- 
ceded. And,  to  speak  a  truth,  never  prince  had 
wife  more  loyal  in  all  duty,  and  in  all  true  affec- 
tion, than  you  have  ever  found  in  Anne  Boleyn  ; 
with  which  name  and  place  I  could  willingly  have 
contented  myself,  if  God  and  your  grace's  pleasure 
had  been  so  pleased.  Neither  did  I  at  any  time 
so  far  forget  myself  in  my  exaltation  or  received 
queenship,  but  that  I  always  looked  for  such  an 
alteration  as  I  now  find ;  for  the  ground  of  my 
preferment  being  on  no  surer  foundation  than 
your  grace's  fancy,  the  least  alteration  I  knew  was 
fit  and  sufficient  to  draw  that  fancy  to  some  other 
object.  You  have  chosen  me  from  a  low  estate  to 
be  your  queen  and  companion,  far  beyond  my  de- 

72 


AN 


AN 


sert  or  desire.  If  then  you  found  me  worthy  of 
such  honour,  good  your  grace  let  not  any  light 
fancy,  or  bad  counsel  of  mine  enemies,  withdraw 
your  princely  favour  from  me ;  neither  let  that 
stain,  that  unworthy  stain,  of  a  disloyal  heart  to- 
wards your  good  grace,  ever  cast  so  foul  a  blot  on 
your  most  dutiful  wife,  and  the  infant  princess 
your  daughter.  Try  me,  good  king,  but  let  me 
have  a  lawful  trial,  and  let  not  my  sworn  enemies 
sit  as  my  accusers  and  judges ;  yea,  let  me  receive 
an  open  trial,  for  my  truth  shall  fear  no  open 
shame ;  then  shall  you  see  either  mine  innocence 
cleared,  your  suspicions  and  conscience  satisfied, 
the  ignominy  and  slander  of  the  world  stopped, 
or  my  guilt  openly  declared.  So  that  whatsoever 
God  or  you  may  determine  of  me,  your  grace  may 
be  freed  from  an  open  censure  ;  and  mine  offence 
being  so  lawfully  proved,  your  grace  is  at  liberty 
both  before  God  and  man,  not  only  to  execute 
worthy  punishment  on  me  as  an  unlawful  wife, 
but  to  follow  your  affection  already  settled  on  that 
party  for  whose  sake  I  am  now  as  I  am,  whose 
name  I  could  some  good  while  since  have  pointed 
unto,  your  grace  not  being  ignorant  of  my  suspi- 
cions therein. 

"  But,  if  you  have  already  determined  of  me, 
and  that  not  only  my  death,  but  an  infamous  slan- 
der, must  bring  you  the  enjoying  of  your  desired 
happiness,  then  I  desire  of  God  that  he  will  par- 
don your  great  sin  therein,  and  likewise  mine  ene- 
mies, the  instruments  thereof,  and  that  he  will  not 
call  you  to  a  strict  account  for  your  unprincely 
and  cruel  usage  of  me,  at  his  general  judgment- 
seat,  where  both  you  and  myself  must  shortly  ap- 
pear, and  in  whose  judgment  I  doubt  not,  whatso- 
ever the  world  may  think  of  me,  mine  innocence 
shall  be  openly  known  and  sutficiently  cleared. 
My  last  and  only  request  shall  be,  that  myself 
may  only  bear  the  burden  of  your  grace's  displea- 
sure, and  that  it  may  not  touch  the  innocent  souls 
of  those  poor  gentlemen  who,  as  I  understand,  are 
likewise  in  strait  imprisonment  for  my  sake.  If 
ever  I  have  found  favour  in  your  sight,  if  ever  the 
name  of  Anne  Boleyn  hath  been  pleasing  ifi  yom- 
ears,  then  let  me  obtain  this  request,  and  I  will 
so  leave  to  trouble  your  grace  any  fiirther,  with 
mine  earnest  prayers  to  the  Trinity  to  have  your 
grace  in  his  good  keeping,  and  to  direct  you  in 
all  your  actions.  From  my  doleful  prison  in  the 
Tower,  this  sixth  of  May. 

"  Your  most  loyal  and  ever  faithful  wife, 

"Anne  Boleyn." 

This  pathetic  and  eloquent  address  failed  to 
touch  the  heart  of  the  tyrant,  whom  licentious  and 
selfish  gratification  had  steeled  against  her. 

Norris,  Weston,  Brereton,  and  Smeton,  the  four 
gentlemen  who  were  accused  with  her,  were 
brought  to  trial ;  but  no  legal  evidence  could  be 
produced  against  them,  nor  were  they  confronted 
by  the  queen.  Smeton,  by  a  vain  hope  of  life, 
was  induced  to  confess  his  guilt ;  but  even  her 
enemies  despaired  of  gaining  any  advantage  from 
this  confession,  and  he  was  immediately  executed, 
together  with  Weston  and  Brereton.  Norris,  a 
favourite  of  the  king,  was  offered  his  life  if  he 


would  criminate  Anne,  but  he  replied,  that  rather 
than  calumniate  an  innocent  person,  he  would  die 
a  thousand  deaths. 

Anne  and  her  brother  were  tried  by  a  jury  of 
peers,  of  which  their  uncle,  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
one  of  Anne's  most  inveterate  enemies,  was  presi- 
dent. The  sittings  of  this  commission  were  secret, 
and  all  records  of  its  proceedings  were  immediately 
destroyed;  none  of  the  ladies  of  the  queen's 
household  were  examined ;  and  the  queen  was 
unassisted  by  legal  advisers,  but,  notwithstanding 
the  indecent  impatience  of  the  president,  she  de- 
fended herself  with  so  much  clearness  and  presence 
of  mind,  that  she  was  unanimously  believed  guilt- 
less. Judgment  was  however  passed  against  her 
and  her  brother,  and  she  was  sentenced  to  be 
burned  or  beheaded,  according  to  the  king's  plea- 
sure. Not  satisfied  with  annulling  the  marriage, 
Henry  had  her  daughter  Elizabeth  declared  illegi- 
timate. 

The  queen,  hopeless  of  redress,  prepared  to 
submit  without  repining.  In  her  last  message  to 
the  king,  she  acknowledged  obligation  to  him,  for 
having  advanced  her  from  a  private  gentlewoman, 
first  to  the  dignity  of  a  marchioness,  and  after- 
wards to  the  throne ;  and  now,  since  he  could  raise 
her  no  higher  in  this  world,  he  was  sending  her 
to  be  a  saint  in  heaven.  She  earnestly  recom- 
mended her  daughter  to  his  care,  and  renewed  her 
protestations  of  innocence  and  fidelity.  She  made 
the  same  declarations  to  all  who  approached  her, 
and  behaved  not  only  with  serenity,  but  with  her 
usual  cheerfulness.  "  The  executioner,"  said  she 
to  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  "is,  I  hear,  vei-y 
expert;  and  my  neck  (grasping  it  with  her  hand, 
and  laughing  heartily,)  is  very  slender." 

When  brought  to  the  scaffold,  she  assumed  a 
more  humble  tone,  recollecting  the  obstinacy  of 
her  predecessor,  and  its  effects  upon  her  daughter 
Mary ;  maternal  love  triumphed  over  the  just  in- 
dignation of  the  sufferer.  She  said  she  came  to 
die,  as  she  was  sentenced  by  the  law ;  that  she 
would  accuse  no  one,  nor  advert  to  the  ground 
upon  which  she  was  judged.  She  prayed  fervently 
for  the  king,  calling  him  a  most  merciful  and 
gentle  prince,  and  acknowledging  that  he  had 
been  to  her  a  good  and  gracious  sovereign.  She 
added,  that  if  any  one  should  think  proper  to  can- 
vass her  cause,  she  desired  him  to  judge  the  best. 
She  was  beheaded  by  the  executioner  of  Calais, 
who  was  brought  over  for  the  purpose,  as  being 
particularly  exjjert.  Her  body  was  thrown  into  a 
common  elm  chest,  made  to  hold  arrows,  and 
buried  in  the  Tower. 

The  innocence  of  Anne  Boleyn  can  hardly  be 
questioned.  The  tyrant  himself  knew  not  whom 
to  accuse  as  her  lover ;  and  no  proof  was  brought 
against  any  of  the  persons  named.  An  occasional 
levity  and  condescension,  unbecoming  the  rank  to 
which  she  was  elevated,  is  all  that  can  be  charged 
against  her.  Henry's  marriage  to  Jane  Seymour, 
the  very  day  after  Anne's  execution,  shows  clearly 
his  object  in  obtaining  her  death. 

It  was  through  the  influence  of  Anne  Boleyn 
that  the  translation  of  the  Scriptures  was  sanc- 
tioned by  Henry  VIII.     Her  own  private  copy  of 


AN 


AN 


Tindal's  translation  is  still  in  existence.  She  was 
a  woman  of  a  liiglily  cultivated  mind,  and  there 
are  still  extant  some  verses  composed  by  her, 
shortly  before  her  execution,  which  are  touching, 
from  the  grief  and  desolation  they  express.  The 
following  is  an  extract  from  them : 

"  O  Dethe !   rocke  me  on  sleepe, 
Bringe  ine  on  quiet  rest; 
Let  pass  my  very  guiltlesse  goste 

Out  of  my  carefiill  breste. 
Toll  on  the  passinge  bell, 
Ringe  out  the  doleful  knell, 
Let  thesoiintle  my  dethe  tell, 
For  1  must  dye, 
There  is  no  remedy, 
For  now  I  dye. 

•5<-  *  *  *  *  * 

"Farewell  my  pleasures  past, 
Welcum  my  present  payne ! 
I  fele  my  torments  so  increse 
That  lyfe  cannot  remayne. 
Cease  now  the  passinge  bell, 
Rong  is  my  doleful  knell. 
For  the  sounde  my  dethe  doth  tell ; 
Dethe  doth  draw  nye, 
Sounde  my  end  dolefully; 
For  now  I  dye." 

ANNE 

Of  Beaujeau,  eldest  daughter  of  Louis  XI.  of 
France,  born  in  1402,  was  early  distinguished  for 
cenius,  sagacity,  and  penetration,  added  to  an  as- 
pii'ing  temper.  Louis,  in  the  jealous  policy  which 
characterized  him,  married  her  to  Pierre  de  Bour- 
bon, sire  de  Beaujeu,  a  prince  of  slender  fortune, 
moderate  capacity,  and  a  quiet,  unambitious 
nature.  The  friends  of  Anne  observed  on  these 
nuptials,  that  it  was  the  union  of  a  living  with  a 
dead  body.  Pierre,  either  through  indolence,  or 
from  a  discovery  of  the  superior  endowments  of 
his  wife,  left  her  uncontrolled  mistress  of  his 
household,  passing,  himself,  the  greatest  part  of 
his  time  in  retirement,  in  the  Beaujolais. 

On  the  death-bed  of  Louis,  his  jealousy  of  his 
daughter,  then  only  twenty-six,  gave  place  to  con- 
fidence in  her  talents :  having  constituted  her 
husband  lieutenant-general  of  the  kingdom,  he 
liequeathed  the  reins  of  empire,  with  the  title  of 
governess,  to  the  lady  of  Beaujeu,  during  the 
minority  of  her  brother,  Charles  VIIL,  a  youth 
of  fourteen.  Anne  fully  justified,  by  her  capacity, 
the  choice  of  her  father. 

Two  competitors  disputed  the  will  of  the  late 
monarch,  and  the  pretensions  of  Anne  ;  her  hus- 
band's brother,  John,  duke  de  Bourbon,  and  Louis, 
duke  of  Orleans,  presumptive  heir  to  the  crown ; 
but  Anne  conducted  herself  with  such  admirable 
firmness  and  prudence,  that  she  obtained  the  no- 
mination of  the  states-general  in  her  favour.  By 
acts  of  popular  justice,  she  conciliated  the  confi- 
dence of  the  nation ;  and  she  appeased  the  duke 
de  Bourbon  by  bestowing  on  him  the  sword  of  the 
constable  of  France,  which  he  had  long  been  am- 
bitious to  obtain.  But  the  duke  of  Orleans  was 
not  so  easily  satisfied.  He,  too,  was  her  brother- 
in-law,  having  been  married,  against  his  own 
wishes,  by  Louis  XL  to  his  younger  daughter, 
Jeanne,  who  was  somewhat  deformed.  Having 
offended  Anne  by  some  passionate    expressions. 


she  ordered  him  to  be  arrested ;  but  he  fled  to  his 
castle  on  the  Loire,  where,  being  besieged  by 
Anne,  he  was  compelled  to  surrender,  and  seek 
shelter  in  Brittany,  under  the  protection  of 
Francis  IL 

The  union  of  Brittany  with  the  crown  of  France, 
had  long  been  a  favourite  project  of  the  lady  of 
Beaujeu,  and  she  at  first  attempted  to  obtain  pos- 
session of  it  by  force  of  ai-ms.  The  duke  of 
Orleans  commanded  the  Bretons  against  the  forces 
of  Anne,  but  was  taken  prisoner  and  detained  for 
more  than  two  years.  Philip  de  Comines,  the  ce- 
lebrated historian,  also  suffered  an  imprisonment 
of  three  years,  for  carrying  on  a  treasonable  cor- 
respondence with  the  duke  of  Orleans.  Peace 
with  Brittany  was  at  length  concluded,  and  the 
province  was  annexed  to  the  crown  of  France,  by 
the  marriage  of  the  young  duchess,  Anne  of  Brit- 
tany, who  had  succeeded  to  her  father's  domain, 
to  Charles  VIII.  of  France. 

The  lustre  thrown  over  the  regency  of  Anne,  by 
the  acquisition  of  Brittany,  received  some  diminu- 
tion by  the  restoration  of  the  counties  of  Roussillon 
and  Cerdagne  to  the  king  of  Spain.  Anne  became 
duchess  of  Bourbon  in  1488,  by  the  death  of  John, 
her  husband's  elder  brother;  and  though,  before 
this,  Charles  VIIL  had  assumed  the  government, 
she  always  retained  a  rank  in  the  council  of  state. 
Charles  VIIL  dying  without  issue  in  1498,  was 
succeeded  by  the  duke  of  Orleans ;  and  Anne 
dreaded,  and  with  reason,  lest  he  should  revenge 
himself  for  the  severity  she  had  exercised  towards 
him;  but,  saying  "  That  it  became  not  a  king  of 
France  to  revenge  the  quarrels  of  the  duke  of  Or- 
leans," he  continued  to  allow  her  a  place  in  the 
council. 

The  duke  de  Bourbon  died  in  1503;  and  Anne 
survived  him  till  November  14th,  1522.  They  left 
one  child,  Susanne,  heiress  to  the  vast  possessions 
of  the  family  of  Bourbon,  who  married  her  cousin, 
the  celebrated  and  unfortunate  Charles  de  Mont- 
pensier,  constable  of  Bourbon. 

ANNE, 

Of  Bretagne,  or  Brittany,  only  daughter  and 
heiress  of  Francis  II. ,  duke  of  Bretagne,  was  bom 
at  Nantz,  Jan.  26th,  1476.  She  was  carefully 
educated,  and  gave  early  indications  of  great 
beauty  and  intelligence.  When  only  five  years 
old,  she  was  betrothed  to  Edward,  prince  of  Wales, 
sou  of  Edward  IV.,  of  England.  But  his  tragical 
death,  two  years  after,  dissolved  the  contract. 
She  was  next  demanded  in  marriage  by  Louis, 
duke  of  Orleans,  presumptive  heir  to  the  throne 
of  France,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  Bretagne,  to 
avoid  the  displeasure  of  Anne  of  Beaujeu,  govern- 
ess of  France  ;  and  Anne  of  Bretagne,  though  but 
fourteen,  was  supposed  to  favour  his  pretensions. 

The  death  of  her  father,  in  1490,  which  left  her 
an  unprotected  orphan,  and  heiress  of  a  spacious 
dom.ain,  at  the  time  when  the  duke  of  Orleans  was 
detained  a  prisoner  by  Anne  of  Beaujeu,  forced 
her  to  seek  some  other  protector ;  and  she  was 
married  by  proxy  to  Maximilian,  emperor  of  Aus- 
tria. But  Anne  of  Beaujeu,  determined  to  obtain 
possession  of  Bretagne,  and  despairing  of  conquer- 

74 


AN 


AN 


iug  it  by  her  arms,  resolved  to  accomplisli  her 
purpose  by  effecting  a  marriage  between  her  young 
brother,  Charles  VIII.,  of  France,  and  Anne  of 
Bretagne.  Charles  VIII.  had  been  affianced  to 
Margaret,  daughter  of  Maximilian,  by  a  former 
marriage ;  the  princess  had  been  educated  in 
France,  and  had  assumed  the  title  of  queen,  al- 
though, on  account  of  her  youth,  the  marriage 
had  been  delayed.  But  the  lady  of  Beaujeu  scru- 
pled not  to  violate  her  engagements,  and,  sending 
back  Margaret  to  her  father,  she  surrounded  Bre- 
tagne with  the  armies  of  France. 

Anne  of  Bretagne  resisted  for  a  time  this  rough 
courtship;  but,  vanquislied  by  the  persuasion  of 
the  dulve  of  Orleans,  who  had  been  released  from 
captivity  on  condition  of  pleading  the  suit  of 
Charles,  she  yielded  a  reluctant  consent,  and  the 
marriage  was  celebrated,  Dec.  IGth,  1491. 

Anne  soon  became  attached  to  her  husband, 
who  was  an  amiable  though  a  weak  prince,  and  on 
his  death,  in  1498,  she  .abandoned  herself  to  the 
deepest  grief.  She  retired  to  her  hereditary  do- 
mains, where  she  affected  the  rights  of  an  inde- 
pendent sovereign. 

Louis,  duke  of  Orleans,  succeeded  Charles  VIII. 
under  the  title  of  Louis  XII.,  and  soon  renewed 
his  former  suit  to  Anne,  who  had  never  entirely 
lost  the  preference  she  had  once  felt  for  him.  The 
first  use  Louis  made  of  his  regal  power  was  to 
procure  a  divorce  from  the  unfortunate  Jeanne, 
daughter  to  Louis  XL,  who  was  personally  de- 
formed, and  whom  he  had  been  forced  to  marry. 
Jeanne,  with  the  sweetness  and  resignation  that 
marked  her  whole  life,  submitted  to  the  sentence, 
and  retired  to  a  convent.  Soon  after,  Louis  mar- 
ried Anne  at  Nantes. 

Anne  retained  great  influence  over  her  husband 
throughout  her  whole  life,  by  her  beauty,  amia- 
bility, and  the  piu-ity  of  her  manners.  She  was  a 
liberal  rewarder  of  merit,  and  patroness  of  learn- 
ing and  literary  men.  Her  piety  was  fervent  and 
sincere,  though  rather  supei-stitious ;  but  she  was 
proud,  her  determination  sometimes  amounted  to 
obstinacy,  and,  when  she  thought  herself  justly 
offended,  she  knew  not  how  to  forgive.  She  re- 
tained her  attachment  to  Bretagne  while  queen  of 
France,  and  sometimes  exercised  her  influence 
over  the  king  in  a  manner  detrimental  to  the  inte- 
rests of  her  adopted  country.  Louis  XII.  was 
sensible  that  he  frequently  yielded  too  much  to 
her,  but  her  many  noble  and  lovely  qualities  en- 
deared her  to  him. 

Anne  died,  January  9th,  1514,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-seven,  and  Louis  mourned  her  loss  with  the 
most  sincere  sorrow. 

ANNE, 

Of  Cleves,  daughter  of  .lohn  III.,  duke  of  Cleves, 
was  the  fourth  wife  of  Henry  VIII.,  of  England. 
He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  from  her  portrait 
painted  by  Holbein,  but  as  the  painter  had  flat- 
tered her,  Henry  soon  became  disgusted  with  her, 
and  obtained  a  divorce  from  her.  Anne  yielded 
without  a  struggle,  or  without  apparent  concern. 
She  passed  nearly  all  the  rest  of  her  life  in  Eng- 
land as  a  private  personage,  and  died  1557. 


ANNE, 
Of  Cyprus,  married,  in  1431,  Louis,  duke  of  Sa- 
voy, and  showed  herself  able,  active,  and  discri- 
minating, at  the  head  of  public  affairs.     She  died 
in  1462. 

ANNE, 

Of  Hungary,  daughter  of  Ladislaus  VI.,  mar- 
ried Ferdinand  of  Austria,  and  placed  him  on  the 
throne  of  Bohemia.     She  died  in  1547. 

ANNE, 

Of  Russia,  daiighter  of  Jaraslaus,  married 
Henry  I.,  of  France,  in  1044;  after  his  death,  she 
married  Raoul,  who  was  allied  to  her  first  hus- 
band ;  in  consequence  of  which  she  was  excom- 
municated, and  at  last  repudiated,  when  she  re- 
turned to  Russia. 

ANNE, 
Duchess  of  the  Viennois,  after  the  death  of  her 
brother,  John  I.,  defended  her  rights  with  great 
courage  and  success  against  the  claims  of  Robert, 
duke  of  Burgundy.     She  died  in  1296. 

ANNE, 
Of  Warwick,  was  born  at  AYarwick  Castle,  in 
1454.  She  was  almost  entirely  educated  at  Ca- 
lais, though  she  was  often  brought  to  England 
with  her  older  sister,  Isabel,  and  seems  to  have 
been  a  favourite  companion,  from  her  childhood, 
of  the  duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards  Richard  III., 
who  was  two  years  older  than  herself.  In  August, 
1470,  Anne  was  married,  at  Angers,  France,  to 
Edward  of  Lancaster,  son  of  Henry  VI.,  and  Mar- 
garet of  Anjou,  and  rightful  heir  of  the  English 
throne.  She  was  very  much  attached  to  him,  and, 
when  he  was  barbarously  murdered  after  the  fatal 
battle  of  Tewksbiiry,  in  1471,  she  mourned  him 
bitterly.  She  disguised  herself  as  a  cook-maid,  in 
a  mean  house  in  London,  to  elude  the  search  of 
Gloucester,  who  was  miich  attached  to  her.  She 
was,  however,  discovered  by  him,  and,  after  a  reso- 
lute resistance,  forced  to  marry  him  in  1473. 
There  are  strong  proofs  that  Anne  never  consented 
to  this  marriage.  Her  son  Edward  was  born  at 
Middleham  Castle,  1474.  By  a  series  of  crimes, 
Richard  obtained  the  throne  of  England,  and  was 
crowned,  with  his  consort,  July  5th,  1483.  In 
1484,  Anne's  only  son  died,  and  from  this  time  her 
health  declined.  There  were  rumoixrs  that  the  king 
intended  to  divorce  her,  but  her  death,  in  1485, 
spared  him  that  sin.  She  had  suffered  all  her 
life  from  the  crimes  of  others,  and  yet  her  sor- 
rows and  calamities  seem  to  have  been  borne  with 
great  meekness,  and  till  the  death  of  her  son, 
with  fortitude. 

A  N  T  0  N I N  7\ , 

The  infamous  wife  of  Belisarius,  the  general  of 
the  emperor  Justinian's  army,  and  one  of  the 
greatest  commanders  of  his  age.  She  repeatedly 
dishonoured  her  husband  by  her  infidelities,  and 
persecuted  Photius,  her  own  son,  with  the  utmost 
virulence,  because  he  discovered  her  intrigues,  and 

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revealed  them  to  his  step-father.  In  the  language 
of  Gibbon,  "  She  was,  in  the  various  situations  of 
fortune,  the  companion,  the  enemy,  the  servant, 
and  the  favourite,  of  the  empress  Theodora,  a 
woman  as  wicked  and  worthless  as  herself."  She 
lived  in  the  sixth  century. 

APOLLONIA,  ST., 
A  MARTYR  at  Alexandria,  A.  D.  248.  In  her 
old  age,  she  was  threatened  with  death  if  she  did 
not  join  with  her  persecutors  in  pronouncing  cer- 
tain profane  words.  After  beating  her,  and 
knocking  out  her  teeth,  they  brought  her  to  the 
fire,  which  they  had  lighted  without  the  city. 
Begging  a  short  respite,  she  was  set  free,  and  im- 
mediately threw  herself  into  the  fire,  and  was 
consumed. 


ARC,    JOAN    OF, 

Generally  called  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  was 
born  in  1410,  at  the  little  village  of  Domremy,  in 
Lorraine.  Her  fatlier  was  named  Jacques  d'Arc, 
and  his  wife,  Isabella  Romee ;  Isabella  had  al- 
ready four  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls,  when 
Joan  was  born,  and  baptized  Sibylla  Jeanne.  She 
was  piously  brought  up  by  her  mother,  and  was 
often  accustomed  to  nurse  the  sick,  assist  the 
poor,  receive  travellers,  and  take  care  of  her 
father's  flock  of  sheep ;  but  she  was  generally 
employed  in  sewing  or  spinning.  She  also  spent 
a  great  deal  of  time  in  a  chestnut  grove,  near  her 
father's  cottage.  She  was  noted,  even  when  a 
child,  for  the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  her  pru- 
dence, her  industry,  and  her  devotion. 

During  that  period  of  anarchy  in  France,  when 
the  supreme  power,  which  had  fallen  from  the 
hands  of  a  monarch  deprived  of  his  reason,  was 
disputed  for  by  the  rival  houses  of  Orleans  and 
Burgundy,  the  contending  parties  carried  on  war 
more  by  murder  and  massacre  than  by  regular 
battles.  When  an  army  was  wanted,  both  had  re- 
course to  the  English,  and  these  conquei-ing  stran- 
gers made  the  unfortunate  French  feel  still  deeper 
the  horrors  and  ravages  of  war.  At  first,  the 
popular  feeling  was  undecided  ;  but  when,  on  the 
death  of  Charles  VI.,  the  crown  fell  to  a  young 
prince  who  adopted  the  vVrmagnac  side,  whilst  the 


house  of  Burgundy  had  sworn  allegiance  to  a  fo- 
reigner (Henry  V.)  as  king  of  France,  then,  in- 
deed, the  wishes  and  interests  of  all  the  French 
were  in  favour  of  the  Armagnacs,  or  the  truly  pa- 
triotic party.  Piemote  as  was  the  village  of  Dom- 
remy, it  was  still  interested  in  the  issue  of  the 
sti'uggle.  It  was  decidedly  Armagnac,  and  was 
strengthened  in  this  sentiment  by  the  rivalry  of  a 
neighbouring  village  which  adopted  Burgundian 
colours. 

Political  and  party  interests  were  thus  forced 
upon  the  enthusiastic  mind  of  Joan,  and  mingled 
with  the  pious  legends  which  she  had  caiight  from 
the  traditions  of  the  Virgin.  A  prophecy  was 
current,  that  a  virgin  should  rid  France  of  its  ene- 
mies ;  and  this  prediction  seems  to  have  been  real- 
ized by  its  effect  upon  the  mind  of  Joan.  The 
girl,  by  her  own  account,  was  about  thirteen  when 
a  supernatural  visiCin  first  appeared  to  her.  She 
describes  it  as  a  great  light,  accompanied  by  a 
voice  telling  her  to  be  devout  and  good,  and  pro- 
mising her  the  protection  of  heaven.  Joan  re- 
sponded by  a  vow  of  eternal  chastity.  In  this 
there  appears  nothing  beyond  the  effect  of  imagi- 
nation. From  that  time,  the  voice  or  voices  con- 
tinued to  haunt  Joan,  and  to  echo  the  enthusiastic 
and  restless  wishes  of  her  own  heart.  We  shall 
not  lay  much  stress  on  her  declarations  made  be- 
fore those  who  were  appointed  by  the  king  to  in- 
quire into  the  credibility  of  her  mission.  Her  own 
simple  and  early  account  was,  that  '  voices'  were 
her  visitors  and  advisers  ;  and  that  they  prompted 
her  to  quit  her  native  place,  take  up  arms,  drive 
the  foe  before  her,  and  procure  for  the  young  king 
his  coronation  at  Rheims.  These  voices,  however, 
had  not  influence  enough  to  induce  her  to  set  out 
upon  the  hazardous  mission,  until  a  band  of  Bur- 
gundians,  traversing  and  plundering  the  country, 
had  compelled  Joan,  together  with  her  parents,  to 
take  refuge  in  a  neighbouring  town ;  when  they 
returned  to  their  village,  after  the  departure  of 
the  marauders,  they  found  the  church  of  Domremy 
in  ashes.  Such  incidents  were  well  calculated  to 
arouse  the  indignation  and  excite  the  enthusiasm 
of  Joan.  Her  voices  returned,  and  incessantly 
directed  her  to  set  out  for  France ;  but  to  com- 
mence by  making  application  to  De  Baudricourt, 
commander  at  Vaucouleurs.  Her  parents,  who 
were  acquainted  with  Joan's  martial  propensities, 
attempted  to  foi'ce  her  into  a  marriage ;  but  she 
contrived  to  avoid  this  by  paying  a  visit  to  an 
uncle,  in  whose  company  she  made  her  appear- 
ance before  the  governor  of  Vaucouleurs,  in  May, 
1428.  De  Baudricourt  at  first  refused  to  see  her, 
and,  upon  granting  an  interview,  treated  her  pre- 
tensions with  contempt.  She  then  returned  to  lier 
uncle's  abode,  where  she  continued  to  announce 
her  project,  and  to  insist  that  the  prophecy,  that 
'  France,  lost  by  a  woman  (Isabel  of  Bavaria), 
should  be  saved  by  a  virgin  from  the  frontiers  of 
Lorraine,'  alluded  to  her.  She  it  was,  she  asserted, 
who  could  save  France,  and  not  '  either  kings,  or 
dukes,  nor  yet  the  king  of  Scotland's  daughter' — 
an  expression  which  proves  how  well-informed  she 
was  as  to  the  political  events  and  rumours  of  tlie 
day. 

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The  fortunes  of  the  dauphin  Charles  at  this 
time  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb ;  Orleans,  almost 
his  last  bulwark,  was  besieged  and  closely  pressed, 
and  the  loss  of  the  'battle  of  Herrings'  seemed  to 
take  away  all  hope  of  saving  the  city  from  the 
English.  In  this  crisis,  when  all  human  support 
seemed  unavailing,  Baudricourt  no  longer  despised 
the  supernatural  aid  promised  by  the  damsel  of 
Domremy,  and  gave  permission  to  John  of  Metz 
and  Bertram  of  Poulengy,  two  gentlemen  who  had 
become  converts  to  the  truth  of  her  divine  mission, 
to  conduct  Joan  of  Arc  to  the  dauphin.  They  pur- 
chased a  horse  for  her,  and,  at  her  own  desire, 
furnished  her  with  male  habits,  and  other  neces- 
sary equipments.  Thus  provided,  and  accompa- 
nied by  a  respectable  escort,  Joan  set  out  from 
Vaucouleurs  on  the  13th  of  February.  1429.  Her 
progress,  through  regions  attached  to  the  Burgun- 
dian  interest,  was  perilous,  but  she  safely  arrived 
at  Fierbois,  a  place  within  five  or  six  leagues  of 
Chinon,  where  the  dauphin  then  held  his  court. 
At  Fierbois  was  a  celebrated  church  dedicated  to 
St.  Catherine,  and  here  she  spent  her  time  in  de- 
votion, whilst  a  messenger  was  despatched  to  the 
dauphin  to  announce  her  approach.  She  was 
commanded  to  proceed,  and  reached  Chinon  on 
the  eleventh  day  after  her  departure  from  Vau- 
couleurs. 

Charles,  though  he  desired,  still  feared  to  accept 
the  proffered  aid,  because  he  knew  that  the  instant 
cry  of  his  enemies  would  be,  that  he  had  put  his 
faith  in  sorcery,  and  had  leagued  himself  with  the 
infernal  powers.  In  consequence  of  this,  Joan 
encountered  every  species  of  distrust.  She  was 
not  even  admitted  to  the  dauphin's  presence  with- 
out difficulty,  and  was  required  to  recognize 
Charles  amidst  all  his  court ;  this  Joan  happily 
was  able  to  do,  as  well  as  to  gain  the  good  opinion 
of  the  young  monarch  by  the  simplicity  of  her  de- 
meanour. Nevertheless,  the  pi'ince  proceeded  to 
take  every  precaution  before  he  openly  trusted 
her.  He  first  handed  her  over  to  a  commission  of 
ecclesiastics,  to  be  examined ;  then  sent  her  for 
the  same  purpose  to  Poictiers,  a  great  law-school, 
that  the  doctors  of  both  faculties  might  solemnly 
decide  whether  Joan's  mission  was  from  heaven  or 
from  the  devil ;  for  none  believed  it  to  be  merely 
human.  The  greatest  guarantee  against  sorcery 
was  considered  to  be  the  chastity  of  the  young 
girl,  it  being  an  axiom,  that  the  devil  would  not  or 
could  not  take  part  with  a  virgin ;  and  no  pains 
were  spared  to  ascertain  her  true  character  in  this 
respect.  In  short,  the  utmost  incredulity  could 
not  have  laboured  harder  to  find  out  imposture, 
than  did  the  credulity  of  that  day  to  establish  its 
grounds  of  belief.  Joan  was  frequently  asked  to 
do  miracles,  but  her  only  reply  was,  '  Bring  me  to 
Orleans,  and  you  shall  see.  The  siege  shall  be 
raised,  and  the  daupliin  crowned  king  at  Rheims.' 

They  at  length  granted  her  request,  and  she 
received  the  rank  of  a  military  commander.  A 
suit  of  armour  was  made  for  her,  and  she  sent  to 
Fierbois  for  a  sword,  which  she  said  would  be 
found  buried  in  a  certain  spot  within  the  church. 
It  was  found  there,  and  conveyed  to  her.  The 
circumstance  became  afterwards  one  of  the  alleged 


proofs  of  Tier  sorcery  or  imposture.  Her  ha^nng 
passed  some  time  at  Fierbois  amongst  the  eccle- 
siastics of  the  place  must  have  led,  in  some  way 
or  other,  to  her  knowledge  of  the  deposit.  Strong 
in  the  conviction  of  her  mission,  it  was  Joan's  de- 
sire to  enter  Orleans  from  the  north,  and  through 
all  the  fortifications  of  the  English.  Dunois,  how- 
ever, and  the  other  leaders,  at  length  overruled 
her,  and  induced  her  to  abandon  the  little  com- 
pany of  pious  companions  which  she  had  raised, 
and  to  enter  the  beleaguered  city  by  water,  as  the 
least  perilous  path.  She  succeeded  in  carrying 
with  her  a  convoy  of  provisions  to  the  besieged. 
The  entry  of  Joan  of  Arc  into  Orleans,  at  the  end 
of  April,  was  itself  a  triumph.  The  hearts  of  the 
besieged  were  raised  from  despair  to  a  fanatical 
confidence  of  success  ;  and  the  English,  who  in 
every  encounter  had  defeated  the  French,  felt 
their  courage  paralyzed  by  the  coming  of  this 
simple  girl.  Joan  announced  her  arrival  to  the 
foe  by  a  herald,  bearing  a  summons  to  the  English 
generals  to  be  gone  from  the  land,  or  she,  the 
Pucelle,  would  slay  them.  The  indignation  of  the 
English  was  increased  by  their  terror;  they  de- 
tained the  herald,  and  threatened  to  burn  him,  as 
a  specimen  of  the  treatment  which  they  reserved 
for  his  mistress.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  Eng- 
lish, either  from  being  under  the  influence  of  ter- 
ror, or  through  some  unaccountable  want  of  pre- 
caution, allowed  the  armed  force  raised  and  left 
behind  by  Joan,  to  reach  Orleans  unmolested,  tra- 
versing their  entrenchments.  Such  being  the  state 
of  feeling  on  both  sides,  Joan's  ardour  impelled 
her  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Under  her  banner, 
and  cheered  by  her  presence,  the  besieged  marched 
to  the  attack  of  the  English  forts  one  after  an- 
other. The  first  carried  was  that  of  St.  Loup,  to 
the  east  of  Orleans.  It  was  valiantly  defended  by 
the  English,  who,  when  attacked,  fought  despe- 
rately ;  but  the  soldiers  of  the  Pucelle  were  invin- 
cible. On  the  following  day,  the  Gth  of  May,  Joan, 
after  another  summons  to  the  English,  signed 
"  Jhesus  Maria  and  Jehanne  la  Pucelle,"  renewed 
the  attack  upon  the  other  forts.  The  French 
being  compelled  to  make  a  momentary  retreat,  the 
English  took  courage,  and  pursued  their  enemies  : 
whereupon .  Joan,  throwing  herself  into  a  boat, 
crossed  the  river,  and  her  appearance  was  suffi- 
cient to  frighten  the  English  from  the  open  field. 
Behind  their  ramparts  they  were  still,  however, 
formidable ;  and  the  attack  led  by  Joan  against 
the  works  to  the  south  of  the  city  is  the  most  me- 
morable achievement  of  the  siege.  After  cheering 
on  her  people  for  some  time,  she  had  seized  a 
scaling-ladder,  when  an  English  arrow  struck  her 
between  the  breast  and  shoulder,  and  threw  her 
into  the  fosse.  When  her  followers  took  her  aside, 
she  showed  at  fii*st  some  feminine  weakness,  and 
wept ;  but  seeing  that  her  standard  was  in  danger, 
she  forgot  her  wound,  and  ran  back  to  seize  it. 
The  French  at  the  same  time  pressed  hard  upon 
the  enemy,  whose  strong  hold  was  carried  by  as- 
sault. The  English  commander,  Gladesdall,  or 
Glacidas,  as  Joan  called  him,  perished  with  his 
bra,vest  soldiers  in  the  Loire.  The  English  now 
determined  to  raise  the  siege,  and  Sunday  being 

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the  day  of  their  departure,  Joan  forbade  her  sol- 
diers to  molest  their  retreat.  Thus  in  one  week 
from  her  arrival  at  Orleans  was  the  beleaguered 
city  relieved  of  its  dreadful  foe,  and  the  Pucelle, 
henceforth  called  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  had  re- 
deemed the  most  incredible  and  important  of  her 
promises. 

No  sooner  was  Orleans  freed  from  the  enemy, 
than  Joan  returned  to  the  court,  to  entreat  Charles 
to  place  forces  at  her  disposal,  that  she  might  re- 
duce the  towns  between  the  Loire  and  Rheims, 
where  she  proposed  to  have  him  speedily  crowned. 
Her  projects  were  opposed  by  the  ministers  and 
warriors  of  the  court,  who  considered  it  more  po- 
litic to  drive  the  English  from  Normandy  than  to 
harass  the  Burgundians,  or  to  make  sacrifices  for 
the  idle  ceremony  of  a  coronation ;  but  her  earnest 
solicitations  prevailed,  and  early  in  June  she  at- 
tacked the  English  at  Jargeau.  They  made  a 
desperate  resistance,  and  drove  the  French  before 
them,  till  the  appearance  of  Joan  chilled  the  stout 
hearts  of  the  English  soldiers.  One  of  the  Poles 
was  killed,  and  another,  with  Suffolk  the  com- 
mander of  the  town,  was  taken  prisoner.  This 
success  was  followed  by  a  victory  at  Patay,  in 
which  the  English  were  beaten  by  a  charge  of 
Joan,  and  the  gallant  Talbot  himself  taken  pri- 
soner. No  force  seemed  able  to  withstand  the 
Maid  of  Orleans.  The  strong  town  of  Troyes, 
which  might  have  repulsed  the  weak  and  starving 
army  of  the  French,  was  terrified  into  surrender 
by  the  sight  of  her  banner ;  and  Rheims  itself  fol- 
lowed the  example.  In  the  middle  of  July,  only 
three  months  after  Joan  had  come  to  the  relief  of 
the  sinking  party  of  Charles,  this  prince  was 
crowned  in  the  cathedral  consecrated  to  this  cere- 
mony, in  the  midst  of  the  dominions  of  his  ene- 
mies. Well  might  an  age  even  more  advanced 
than  the  fifteenth  century  believe,  that  superhu- 
man interference  manifested  itself  in  the  deeds  of 
Joan. 

Some  historians  relate  that,  immediately  after 
the  coronation,  the  Maid  of  Orleans  expressed  to 
the  king  her  wish  to  retire  to  her  family  at  Dom- 
remy  ;  but  there  is  little  proof  of  such  a  resolution 
on  her  part.  In  September  of  the  same  year,  we 
find  her  holding  a  command  in  the  royal  army, 
which  had  taken  possession  of  St.  Denis,  where 
she  hung  up  her  arms  in  the  cathedral.  Soon 
after,  the  French  generals  compelled  her  to  join 
in  an  attack  upon  Paris,  in  which  they  were  re- 
pulsed with  great  loss,  and  Joan  herself  was 
pierced  through  the  thigh  with  an  arrow.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  a  force  in  which  she  sei-ved  had 
suffered  defeat.  Charles  immediately  retired  once 
more  to  the  Loire,  and  there  are  few  records  of 
.Joan's  exploits  during  the  winter.  About  this 
time  a  royal  edict  was  issued,  ennobling  her  family, 
and  the  district  of  Domremy  was  declared  free 
from  all  tax  or  tribute.  In  the  ensuing  spring, 
the  English  and  Burgundians  formed  the  siege  of 
Compiegne ;  and  Joan  threw  herself  into  the  town 
to  preserve  it,  as  she  had  before  saved  Orleans, 
from  their  assaults.  She  had  not  been  many  hours 
in  it  when  she  headed  a  sally  against  the  Burgun- 
dian  quarters,  in  which  she  was  taken  by  some 


oiScers,  who  gave  her  up  to  the  Burgundian  com- 
mander, John  of  Luxemburg.  Her  capture  ap- 
pears, from  the  records  of  the  Parisian  parliament, 
to  have  taken  jilace  on  the  23d  of  May,  1430. 

As  soon  as  Joan  was  conveyed  to  John  of  Lux- 
emburg's fortress  at  Beaurevoir,  near  Cambray, 
cries  of  vengeance  were  heard  among  the  Anglican 
partizans  in  France.  The  English  themselves 
were  not  foremost  in  this  unworthy  zeal.  Joan, 
after  having  made  a  vain  attempt  to  escape  by 
leaping  from  the  top  of  the  donjon  at  Beaurevoir, 
was  at  length  handed  over  to  the  English  parti- 
zans, and  conducted  to  Rouen.  The  University 
of  Paris  called  loudly  for  the  trial  of  Joan,  and 
several  letters  are  extant,  in  which  that  body  re- 
proaches the  bishop  of  Beauvais  and  the  English 
with  their  tardiness  in  delivering  up  the  Pucelle 
to  justice. 

The  zeal  of  the  University  was  at  length  satis- 
fied by  letters  patent  from  the  king  of  England 
and  France,  authorizing  the  trial  of  the  Pucelle, 
but  stating  in  plain  terms  that  it  was  at  the  de- 
mand of  public  opinion,  and  at  the  especial  re- 
quest of  the  bishop  of  Beauvais  and  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Paris, — expressions  which,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  delay  in  issuing  the  letters,  sufii- 
ciently  prove  the  reluctance  of  the  English  council 
to  sanction  the  extreme  measure  of  vengeance. 
After  several  months'  interrogatories,  the  judges 
who  conducted  the  trial  drew  from  her  confessions 
the  articles  of  accusation :  these  asserted  that 
Joan  pretended  to  have  had  visions  from  the  time 
when  she  was  thirteen  years  old :  to  have  been 
visited  by  the  archangels  Gabriel  and  Michael,  the 
saints  Catharine  and  Margaret,  and  to  have  been 
accompanied  by  these  celestial  beings  to  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Dauphin  Charles ;  that  she  pretended 
to  know  St.  Michael  from  St.  Gabriel,  and  St. 
Catharine  from  St.  Margaret ;  that  she  pretended 
to  reveal  the  future  ;  and  had  assumed  male  attire 
by  the  order  of  God.  Upon  these  charges  her  ac- 
cusers wished  to  convict  her  of  sorcery.  More- 
over, they  drew  from  her  answers,  that  she  de- 
clined to  submit  to  the  ordinances  of  the  church 
whenever  her  voices  told  her  the  contrary.  This 
was  declared  to  be  heresy  and  schism,  and  to 
merit  the  punishment  of  fire. 

These  articles  were  dispatched  to  the  University 
of  Paris,  and  all  the  faculties  agreed  in  condemn- 
ing such  acts  and  opinions,  as  impious,  diabolical, 
and  heretical.  This  judgment  came  back  to  Rouen, 
but  it  appears  that  many  of  the  assessors  were  \in- 
willing  that  Joan  should  be  condemned ;  and  even 
the  English  in  authority  seemed  to  think  impri- 
sonment a  sufficient  punishment.  The  truth  is, 
that  Joan  was  threatened  with  the  stake  unless 
she  submitted  to  the  church,  as  the  phrase  then 
was,  that  is,  acknowledged  her  visions  to  be  false, 
forswore  male  habits  and  arms,  and  owned  herself 
to  have  been  wrong.  Every  means  were  used  to 
induce  her  to  submit,  but  in  vain.  At  length  she 
was  brought  forth  on  a  public  scaffold  at  Rouen, 
and  the  bishop  of  Beauvais  proceeded  to  read  the 
sentence  of  condemnation,  which  was  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  burning  at  the  stake.  Whilst  it  was 
reading,  every  exhortation  was  used,  and  Joan's 


AR 


AR 


courage  foi*  once  failing,  she  gave  utterance  to 
words  of  contrition,  and  expressed  her  willingness 
to  submit,  and  save  herself  from  the  flames.  A 
written  form  of  confession  was  instantly  produced, 
and  read  to  her,  and  Joan,  not  knowing  how  to 
write,  signed  it  with  a  cross.  Her  sentence  was 
commuted  to  perpetual  imprisonment,  '  to  the 
bread  of  grief  and  the  water  of  anguish.'  She 
was  borne  back  from  the  scaffold  to  pi-ison  ;  whilst 
those  who  had  come  to  see  the  sight  displayed  the 
usual  disappointment  of  unfeeling  crowds,  and 
even  threw  stones  in  their  anger. 

When  brought  back  to  her  prison,  Joan  submit- 
ted to  all  that  had  been  required  of  her,  and  as- 
sumed her  female  dress  ;  but  when  two  days  had 
elapsed,  and  when,  in  tlie  solitude  of  her  prison, 
the  young  heroine  recalled  this  last  scene  of  weak- 
ness, forming  such  a  contrast  with  the  glorious 
feats  of  her  life,  remorse  and  shame  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  and  her  religious  enthusiasm  returned 
in  all  its  ancient  force.  She  heard  her  voices  re- 
proaching her,  and  under  this  impulse  she  seized 
the  male  attire,  which  had  been  perfidiously  left 
within  her  reach,  put  it  on,  and  avowed  her  altered 
mind,  her  resumed  belief,  her  late  visions,  and  her 
resolve  no  longer  to  belie  the  powei'ful  impulses 
under  which  she  had  acted.  '  What  I  resolved,' 
said  she,  '  I  resolved  against  truth.  Let  me  suffer 
my  sentence  at  once,  rather  than  endure  what  I 
suffer  in  prison.' 

The  bishop  of  Beauvais  knew  that  if  Joan  were 
once  out  of  the  power  of  the  court  that  tried  her, 
the  chapter  of  Rouen,  who  were  somewhat  favour- 
ably disposed,  would  not  again  give  her  up  to  pun- 
ishment; and  fears  were  entertained  that  she 
might  ultimately  be  released,  and  gain  new  con- 
verts. It  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  make  away 
with  her  at  once,  and  the  crime  of  relapse  was 
considered  sufficient.  A  pile  of  wood  was  pre- 
pared in  the  old  market  at  Rouen,  and  scaffolds 
placed  round  it  for  the  judges  and  ecclesiastics : 
.Joan  was  brought  out  on  the  last  day  of  May, 
1431 ;  she  wept  piteously,  and  showed  the  same 
weakness  as  when  she  first  beheld  the  stake.  But 
now  no  mercy  was  shown.  They  placed  on  her 
head  the  cap  used  to  mark  the  victims  of  the  Inqui- 
sition, and  the  fire  soon  consumed  the  unfortunate 
Joan  of  Arc.  When  the  pile  had  bui-ned  out,  all 
the  ashes  were  gathered  and  thrown  into  the  Seine. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  to  what  party  most  disgrace 
attaches  on  account  of  this  barbarous  murder  : 
whether  to  the  Burgundians,  who  sold  the  Maid 
of  Orleans ;  the  English,  who  permitted  her  exe- 
cution ;  the  French,  of  that  party  who  brought  it 
about  and  perpetrated  it ;  or  the  French,  of  the 
opposite  side,  who  made  so  few  efforts  to  rescue 
her  to  whom  they  owed  their  liberation  and  their 
national  existence.  The  story  of  the  Maid  of  Or- 
leans is,  throughout,  disgraceful  to  every  one, 
friend  and  foe ;  it  forms  one  of  the  greatest  blots 
and  one  of  the  most  curious  enigmas  in  historic 
record.  It  has  sometimes  been  suggested  that  she 
was  merely  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  priests ;  but 
this  supposition  will  hardly  satisfy  those  who  read 
with  attention  the  history  of  Joan  of  Arc. 


No  scrutiny  has  ever  detected  imposture  or  ar- 
tifice in  her.  Enthusiasm  possessed  her,  yet  it 
was  the  lofty  sentiment  of  patriotic  zeal ;  not  a 
particle  of  selfish  ambition  shadowed  her  bright 
path  of  victory  and  fame.  She  seemed  totally 
devoid  of  vanity,  and  showed  in  all  her  actions  as 
much  good  sense,  prudence,  firmness,  and  resolu- 
tion, as  exalted  religious  zeal  and  knowledge  of 
the  art  of  war.  Her  purity  of  life  and  manners 
was  never  doubted.  Dm-ing  all  the  time  she  was 
with  the  army,  she  retired,  as  soon  as  night  came, 
to  the  part  of  the  camp  allotted  to  females.  She 
confessed  and  communed  often,  and  would  never 
allow  a  profane  word  to  be  uttei-ed  in  her  pre- 
sence. She  always  tried  to  avoid  the  great  defer- 
ence paid  to  her ;  and  when,  at  one  time,  a  crowd 
of  women  pressed  around  her,  offering  her  different 
objects  to  touch  and  bless,  she  said  laughingly  to 
them,  "  Touch  them  yourselves  ;  it  will  do  just  as 
well."  And  yet  she  would  never  allow  the  slight- 
est familiarity  from  any  one.  Not  the  least  re- 
markable part  of  her  character  was  the  influence 
she  invariably  acquired  over  all  with  whom  she 
was  brought  into  contact.  Her  personal  attrac- 
tions were  very  great. 

The  works  on  the  subject  of  Joan  of  Arc  are 
very  numerous.  M.  Chaussard  enumerates  up- 
wards of  four  hundred,  either  expressly  devoted 
to  her  life  or  including  her  history.  Her  adven- 
tures form  the  subject  of  Voltaire's  poem  of  La 
Pucelle,  and  of  a  tragedy  by  Schiller ;  but  perhaps 
the  best  production  of  the  kind  is  Mr.  Southey's 
poem  bearing  her  name. 

ARCHIDAMIA, 

The  daughter  of  king  Eleonymas  of  Sparta, 
was  famed  for  her  patriotism  and  her  courage. 
AVhen  Pyrrhus  marched  against  Lacedemon,  it 
was  resolved  by  the  Senate  that  all  the  women 
should  be  sent  out  of  tJie  city  ;  but  Sparta's  women 
would  not  listen  to  this  proposition.  Sword  in 
hand,  they  entered  with  this  leader  Archidamia, 
the  senate  chamber,  and  administered  to  the  city 
fathers  a  severe  reproof  for  their  want  of  confi- 
dence in  woman's  patriotism,  and  declared  that 
they  would  not  leave  the  city,  nor  survive  its  fall, 
if  that  should  take  i^lace. 

ARIADNE, 

Daughter  of  Leo  I.,  married  to  Zeno,  who  suc- 
ceeded as  emperor  of  the  East,  474.  She  was  so 
disgiisted  with  the  intemperance  of  her  husband, 
and  so  much  in  love  with  Anastasius,  a  man  of 
obscure  origin,  that  she  shut  Zeno,  when  intoxi- 
cated, into  a  sepulchre,  where  he  was  left  to  die ; 
and  Anastasius  was  placed  on  the  throne.  Sli(> 
died  in  515. 

ARIOSTA    LIPPA, 

Concubine  of  Opizzon,  Marquis  of  Este  and 
Fen'ara,  confirmed  in  such  a  manner  by  her  faith- 
fulness and  political  skill,  the  impressions  that 
her  beauty  had  made  upon  the  heart  of  this  Mar- 
quis, that  at  last  he  made  her  his  lawful  wife,  in 
1352.     He  died  in  the  same  year,  and  left  to  her 

79 


AR 


AY 


the  admiuistration  of  his  domiuinns,  in  which  she 
acquitted  herself  very  well,  during  the  minority 
of  her  eleven  children.  From  her  came  all  the 
house  of  Este,  which  still  subsists  in  the  branch 
of  the  Dukes  of  Modena  and  of  Rliegio.  The 
author  from  whom  I  borrow  this,  observes,  that 
Lippa  Ariosta  did  more  honour  to  her  family, 
which  is  one  of  the  noblest  in  Ferrara,  than  she 
had  taken  from  it. 

ARLOTTA, 
A  BEAUTIFUL  woman  of  Falaise,  daughter  of  a 
tanner.  She  was  se-en,  standing  at  her  door,  by 
Robert  duke  of  Normandy,  as  he  passed  through 
the  street ;  and  he  made  her  his  mistress.  She 
had  by  him  AVilliam  the  Conqueror,  who  was  born 
1044.  After  Robert's  death,  she  married  Herluin, 
a  Norman  gentleman,  by  whom  she  had  three 
children,  for  whom  William  honourably  provided. 

ARRIA, 

Wife  of  Caecinna  P»tus,  a  consul  under  Clau- 
<lius,  emperor  of  Rome  in  41,  is  immortalized  for 
her  heroism  and  conjugal  affection.  Her  son  and 
liusband  were  both  dangerously  ill  at  the  same 
time  ;  the  former  died ;  and  she,  thinking  that  in 
his  weak  state,  Psetus  could  not  survive  a  know- 
ledge of  the  fatal  event,  fulfilled  every  mournful 
duty  to  her  child  in  secret ;  but  when  she  entered 
the  chamber  of  her  husband,  concealed  so  effec- 
tually her  anguish,  that  till  his  recovery  Pretus 
had  no  suspicion  of  his  loss. 

Soon  after,  Psetus  joined  with  Scribonius  in 
exciting  a  revolt  against  Claudius  in  Illyria.  They 
were  unsuccessful,  and  Paetus  \vas  carried  a  pri- 
soner to  Rome,  by  sea.  Arria,  not  being  allowed  to 
accompany  him,  hired  a  small  bark,  and  followed 
him.  On  her  arrival  at  Rome,  she  was  met  by  the 
widow  of  Scribonius,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  I  speak  to  thee  !"  replied  Arria,  indignantly ; 
•'  to  thee,  who  hast  been  witness  of  thy  husband's 
death,  and  yet  survivest!" 

She  had  herself  determined  that,  if  all  her  endea- 
vours to  save  Pootus  failed,  she  would  die  with  him. 
Thraseus,  her  son-in-law,  in  vain  combated  her  re- 
solution. "  Were  I,"  said  he,  "  in  the  situation  of 
Protus,  would  you  have  your  daughter  die  with  me?" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  she,  "  had  she  lived  with 
you  as  long  and  as  happily  as  I  with  Pastus." 

Her  husband  was  at  length  condemned  to  die, 
whether  by  his  own  hands  or  not  is  uncertain  ;  if 
it  were  not  so,  he  wished  to  avoid  the  punishment 
allotted  to  him,  by  a  voluntary  death ;  but  at  the 
moment  wanted  courage.  Seeing  his  hesitation, 
Arria  seized  the  dagger,  plunged  it  first  into  her 
own  breast,  and  then  presenting  it  to  her  husband, 
said,  with  a  smile,  "  It  is  not  painful,  Ptetus." 

The  wife  of  Thraseus,  and  her  daughter,  who 
married  Heloidius  Priscus,  inherited  the  senti- 
ments and  the  fate  of  Arria. 

Martial  wrote  a  beautiful  epigram  on  the  subject 
of  Arria's  death,  of  wliich  this  is  the  translation : 

•'  When  to  Iier  husband  Arria  gave  the  steel. 
Which  from  her  chaste,  her  bleeding  breast  she  drew; 

She  said—'  My  Patus,  this  I  do  not  feel, 

But,  oh!  the  wound  that  must  be  given  by  you!" 


ATTENDULI, 

Margaret  de,  a  sister  of  the  great  Sforza, 
founder  of  the  house  of  Sforza,  dukes  of  Milan, 
was  born  about  1375,  at  Catignola,  a  small  town 
in  Italy.  Her  father  was  a  day  labourer ;  but  after 
her  brother  James,  under  the  name  of  Sforza,  had 
made  himself  distinguished  by  his  valour  and  skill, 
he  sent  for  her  to  share  his  honours.  She  had 
married  Michael  de  Catignola. 

She  seems  to  have  shared  her  brother's  heroic 
spirit ;  when  James,  count  de  la  Marche,  came  to 
espouse  Joanna  II.,  queen  of  Naples,  Sforza,  then 
grand  constable  of  Naples,  was  sent  to  meet  him  : 
but  that  prince  threw  him,  his  relations,  and  all 
his  suite,  into  prison,  'thinking  by  this  means  to 
attain,  more  easily,  the  tyrannic  power  he  after- 
Avards  assumed.  When  the  news  of  Sforza's  arrest 
arrived,  Margaret,  with  her  husband,  and  other 
relations  who  had  served  with  honour  in  his 
troops,  were  at  Tricarico.  They  assembled  an 
army,  of  which  Margaret  took  the  command. 
The  ill  treatment  Joanna  experienced  from  her 
new  husband,  soon  made  the  revolt  general,  and 
James  was  at  length  besieged  in  a  castle,  where 
the  conditions  proposed  to  him  were,  to  be  con- 
tented with  the  title  of  lieutenant-general  of  the 
kingdom,  and  give  Sforza  his  liberty.  Knowing 
the  value  of  his  hostage,  James  sent  deputies  to 
Margaret,  menacing  her  brother  with  instant 
death,  if  Tricarico  were  not  given  up  to  him. 
Anxious  for  her  brother,  but  indignant  at  the  pro- 
position, she  immediately  imprisoned  the  deputies, 
whose  families,  alarmed  for  their  safety,  ceased 
not  to  intercede,  until  the  coimt  consented  to  set 
Sforza  and  his  friends  at  liberty,  and  to  reinstate 
him  in  his  former  situation. 

AYESHA, 

The  second,  and  most  beloved  of  all  Mahomet's 
wives,  was  the  daughter  of  Abubeker,  the  first 
caliph,  and  the  successor  of  Mahomet.  She  was 
the  only  one  of  all  his  wives  who  had  never  been 
married  to  any  other  man ;  but  she  was  only  nine 
when  she  was  espoused  by  him.  She  had  no 
children ;  but  his  affection  for  her  continued  till 
death ;  and  he  expired  in  her  arms.  After  his 
death,  she  was  regarded  with  great  veneration  by 
the  Mussulmen,  as  being  filled  with  an  extraordi- 
nary portion  of  Mahomet's  spirit.  They  gave  her 
the  title  of  "  Mother  of  the  Faithful,"  and  con- 
sulted her  on  important  occasions.  Ayesha  en- 
tertained a  strong  aversion  for  the  caliph  Othman ; 
and  she  had  actually  formed  a  plot  to  dethrone 
him,  witli  the  intention  of  placing  in  his  stead  her 
favourite  Telha,  when  Othman  was  assassinated, 
by  another  enemy,  in  a  sedition. 

The  succession  of  Ali  was  also  strongly  opposed 
by  Ayesha.  Joined  by  Telha  and  Zobier,  at 
Mecca,  she  r.aised  a  revolt,  under  pretence  of 
avenging  the  murder  of  Othman;  an  army  was 
levied,  which  marched  towards  Bassora,  while 
Ayesha,  at  its  head,  was  borne  in  a  litter  on  a 
camel  of  great  strength.  On  arriving  at  a  village 
called  Jowab,  she  was  saluted  with  the  loud  bark- 
ing of  the  dogs  of  the  place,  which,  reminding  her 

80 


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BE 


of  a  prediction  of  tlie  prophet,  in  -whicli  the  dogs 
of  Jowab  were  mentioned,  so  intimidated  her,  that 
she  declared  her  resolution  not  to  advance  a  step ; 
and  it  was  not  till  a  number  of  persons  had  been 
suborned  to  swear  that  the  village  had  been 
wrongly  named  to  her,  and  till  the  artifice  had 
been  employed  of  terrifying  her  with  a  report  of 
All's  being  in  the  rear,  that  she  was  prevailed  on 
to  proceed. 

When  the  revolters  reached  Bassora,  they  were 
met  by  a  party  of  the  inhabitants,  whom  they  de- 
feated. A  number  of  people  then  came  from  the 
city,  to  know  their  intentions,  on  which  Ayesha 
made  a  long  speech,  in  a  voice,  so  loud  and  shrill 
from  passion,  that  she  could  not  be  understood. 
One  of  the  Arabs  replied  to  her,  saying,  "  0,  mo- 
ther of  the  faithful,  the  murdei-ing  of  Othman  was 
a  thing  of  less  moment  than  thy  leaving  home  on 
this  cursed  camel.  God  has  bestowed  on  thee  a 
veil  and  a  protection ;  but  thou  hast  rent  the  veil, 
and  set  the  protection  at  nought." 

She  was  refused  admittance  into  the  city.  In 
the  end,  however,  her  troops  gained  possession. 
Ali  assembled  an  army,  and  marched  against  her. 
Ayesha  violently  opposed  all  pacific  counsels,  and 
resolved  to  proceed  to  the  utmost  extremity.  A 
fierce  battle  ensued,  in  which  Telha  and  Zobier 
were  slain.  The  combat  raged  about  Ayesha's 
camel,  and  an  Arabian  writer  says,  that  the  hands 
of  seventy  men,  who  successively  held  its  bridle, 
were  cut  off,  and  that  her  litter  was  stuck  so  full 
of  darts,  as  to  resemble  a  porcupine.  The  camel, 
from  which  this  day's  tight  takes  its  name,  was 
at  length  hamstrung,  and  Ayesha  became  a  cap- 
tive. Ali  treated  her  with  great  respect,  and  sent 
her  to  Medina,  on  condition  that  she  should  live 
peaceably  at  home,  and  not  intermeddle  with  state 
affairs. 

Her  resentment  afterwards  appeared  in  her  re- 
fusal to  suffer  Hassan,  the  unfortunate  son  of  Ali, 
to  be  buried  near  the  tomb  of  the  prophet,  which 
was  her  property.  She  seems  to  have  regained 
her  influence  in  the  reign  of  the  caliph  Moawiyah. 
She  died  in  the  fifty-eighth  year  of  the  Hegira, 
A.  D.  677,  aged  sixty-seven ;  having  constantly 
experienced  a  high  degree  of  respect  from  the 
followers  of  Mahomet,  except  at  the  time  of  her 
imprudent  expedition  against  Ali. 


B. 


BARBARA, 

Wife  of  the  emperor  Sigismond,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Herman,  Count  of  Cilia,  in  Hungary.  Si- 
gismond had  been  taken  by  the  Hungarians,  and 
placed  under  the  guard  of  two  young  gentlemen, 
whose  father  he  had  put  to  death.  While  they  had 
him  in  custody,  he  persuaded  their  mother  to  let 
him  escape.  This  favour  was  not  granted  without 
a  great  many  excuses  for  the  death  of  her  husband, 
and  a  great  many  promises.  He  promised,  among 
other  things,  to  marry  the  daughter  of  the  Count 
of  Cilia,  a  near  relation  of  that  widow;  which 
promise  he  performed.  He  had  the  most  extra- 
E 


ordinary  wife  of  her  that  ever  was  seen.  She  had 
no  manner  of  shame  for  her  abandoned  life.  This 
is  not  the  thing  in  which  her  great  singularity 
consisted ;  for  there  are  but  too  many  princesses 
who  are  above  being  concerned  at  any  imputations 
on  account  of  their  lewdness.  What  was  extraor- 
dinary in  her  was  Atheism,  a  thing  which  there  is 
scarce  any  instance  of  amongst  women. 

The  Bohemians,  notwithstanding,  gave  her  a 
magnificent  funeral  at  Prague,  and  buried  her  in 
the  tomb  of  their  kings,  as  we  are  assured  by 
Bonfinius  in  the  VII.  Book  of  the  III.  Decade. 
Prateolus  has  not  omitted  her  in  his  alphabetical 
catalogue  of  heretics. 

BARBE    DE    VERRUE, 

A  French  improvisatrice,  was  an  illegitimate 
child  born  of  obscure  parents.  The  count  de  Ver- 
rue  adopted  her  after  she  became  famous  and  gave 
her  his  name.  She  was  called  a  troubadouresse,  or 
female  troubadour;  and  she  travelled  through 
towns  and  cities  singing  her  own  verses,  by  means 
of  which  she  acquired  a  considerable  fortune. 
She  sung  the  stories  of  Griselidis  ;  of  William  with 
the  Falcon ;  of  Ancassin  and  Nicolette ;  and  a 
poem  entitled.  The  Gallic  Orpheus  or  Angelinde 
and  Cyndorix,  which  related  to  the  civilization  of 
the  Gauls.  Barbe  lived  to  a  very  advanced  age, 
travelled  a  great  deal,  and,  although  not  beauti- 
ful, had  many  admirers.  She  lived  in  the  thir- 
teenth century. 

BASINE,  or  BASIN, 

Was  the  wife  of  Basin,  king  of  Thuringia.  Chil- 
deric,  king  of  France,  driven  from  his  dominions 
by  his  people,  sought  an  asylum  with  the  king  of 
Thuringia ;  and  during  his  residence  at  that  court, 
Basine  conceived  a  strong  attachment  for  him. 
Childeric  was  at  length  restored  to  his  kingdom  : 
and  a  short  time  after,  he  beheld  with  surprise 
the  queen  of  Thuringia  present  herself  before 
him.  "  Had  I  known  a  more  valiant  hero  than 
yom-self,"  said  she  to  Childeric,  "I  should  have 
fled  over  the  seas  to  his  arms."  Childeric  received 
her  gladly,  and  married  her.  She  became  the 
mother,  in  467,  of  the  great  Clovis,  the  first  Chris- 
tian king  of  France. 

BEATRICE, 
Daughter  of  the  count  of  Burgundy,  married 
the  emperor  Frederick  in  1156.  It  is  asserted  by 
some  historians  that  she  was  insulted  by  the  Mi- 
lanese, and  that  the  emperor  revenged  her  wrongs 
by  the  destruction  of  Milan,  and  the  ignominious 
punishment  of  the  inhabitants. 

BEATRICE, 
Of  Provence,  daughter  of  Raymond  Berenger, 
count  of  Provence,  married,  in  1245,  Charles,  son 
of  Louis  VIII.  of  France,  who  was  afterwards 
crowned  king  of  Naples  and  Sicily.  She  died  at 
Nocisa. 

BEATRICE    PORTINARI 
Is  celebrated  as  the  beloved  of  Dante,  the  Italian 
poet.     She  was  born  at  Florence,  and  was  very 

81 


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beautiful.  The  death  of  her  noble  father,  Folco 
Portinari,  in  1289,  is  said  to  have  hastened  her 
own.  The  history  of  Beatrice  may  be  considered 
as  an  affection  of  Dante — in  that  lies  its  sole  inte- 
rest. All  that  can  be  authenticated  of  her  is  that 
she  was  a  beautiful  and  virtuous  woman.  She 
died  in  1290,  aged  twenty-four.  And  yet  she  still 
lives  in  Dante's  immortal  poem,  of  which  her  me- 
mory was  the  inspiration.  He  says,  in  the  con- 
clusion of  his  Rime,  (his  miscellaneous  poems  on 
the  subject  of  his  early  love) — "I  beheld  a  mar- 
vellous vision,  which  has  caused  me  to  cease  from 
writing  in  praise  of  my  blessed  Beatrice,  until  I 
can  celebrate  her  more  worthily ;  which  that  I 
may  do,  I  devote  my  whole  soul  to  study,  as  she 
knoweth  well ;  in  so  much,  that  if  it  please  the 
Great  Disposer  of  all  events  to  prolong  my  life  for 
a  few  years  iipon  this  earth,  I  hope  hereafter  to 
sing  of  my  Beatrice  what  never  yet  was  said  or 
«ung  of  any  woman." 

It  was  in  this  transport  of  enthusiasm  that 
Dante  conceived  the  idea  of  the  "  Divina  Comme- 
dia,"  his  great  poem,  of  which  his  Beatrice  was 
destined  to  be  the  heroine.  Thus  to  the  inspira- 
tion of  a  young,  lovely,  and  noble-minded  woman, 
we  owe  one  of  the  grandest  efforts  of  human  ge- 
nius. 

BEAUFORT, 

Joan,  queen  of  Scotland,  was  the  eldest  daiigh- 
ter  of  John  Beaufort,  earl  of  Somerset,  (son  of 
John  of  Gaunt,)  and  of  Margaret,  daughter  of 
the  earl  of  Kent. 

She  was  seen  by  James,  sometimes  called  the 
Royal  Poet,  son  of  Robert  III.,  king  of  Scotland, 
while  he  was  detained  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower  of 
London,  and  he  fell  passionately  in  love  with  her. 
On  his  release,  in  1423,  after  nineteen  years'  cap- 
tivity, he  married  Joan,  and  went  with  her  to 
Edinburgh,  where  they  were  crowned.  May  22d, 
1  424.  In  1430,  .loan  became  the  motlier  of  James, 
afterwards  James  II.  of  Scotland. 

She  possessed  a  great  deal  of  influence,  which 
i-he  always  exercised  on  the  side  of  mercy  and 
pontleness.  In  1437,  the  queen  received  informa- 
tion of  a  conspiracy  formed  against  the  life  of  her 


husband,  and  hastened  to  Roxburgh,  where  he 
then  was,  to  warn  him  of  his  danger.  The  king 
immediately  toolc  refuge  with  his  wife  in  the  Do- 
minican abbey  near  Perth  ;  but  the  conspirators, 
having  bribed  a  domestic,  foimd  their  way  into 
the  room.  The  queen  threw  herself  between  them 
and  her  husband,  but  in  vain ;  after  receiving  two 
wounds,  she  was  torn  from  the  arms  of  James  I., 
who  was  murdered,  Feb.  21st,  1437. 

Joan  married  a  second  time,  James  Stewart, 
called  the  Black  Knight,  son  to  the  lord  of  Lome, 
to  whom  she  bore  a  son,  afterwards  earl  of  Athol. 
She  died  in  1446,  and  was  buried  at  Perth,  near 
the  body  of  the  king,  her  first  husband. 

BEAUFORT, 

Margaret,  countess  of  Richmond  and  Derby, 
was  the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  John  Beau- 
fort, duke  of  Somerset  (grandson  to  John  of 
Gaunt,  duke  of  Lancaster),  by  Margaret  Beau- 
champ,  his  wife.  She  was  born  at  Bletshoe  in 
Bedfordshire,  in  1441.  While  very  young  she 
was  mai-ried  to  Edmund  Tudor,  earl  of  Richmond, 
by  whom  she  had  a  son  named  Henry,  who  was 
afterwards  king  of  England,  by  the  title  of  Henry 
VII.  On  the  3d  of  November,  1456,  the  earl  of 
Richmond  died,  leaving  Margaret  a  very  young 
widow,  and  his  son,  and  heir,  Henry,  not  above 
fifteen  weeks  old.  Her  second  husband  was  Sir 
Henry  Stafford,  knight,  second  son  to  the  duke  of 
Buckingham,  by  whom  she  had  no  issue.  And 
soon  after  the  death  of  Sir  Henry  Stafford,  which 
happened  about  1482,  she  married  Thomas,  lord 
Stanley,  afterwards  earl  of  Derby,  who  died  in 
1504.  After  spending  a  life  in  successive  acts  of 
beneficence,  she  paid  the  great  debt  of  nature  on 
the  29th  of  June,  1509,  in  the  first  year  of  the 
reign  of  her  grandson  Henry  VlII.  She  was 
buried  in  AVestminster  Abbey,  where  a  monument 
was  erected  to  her  memory.  It  is  of  black  marble, 
with  her  effigy  in  gilt  copper ;  and  the  head  is 
encircled  with  a  coronet.  She  founded  and  en- 
dowed the  colleges  of  Christ  and  St.  John's,  at 
Cambridge. 

BELLEVILLE, 

Jane  de,  wife  of  Oliver  III.,  lord  of  Clisson. 
Philip  de  Valois,  king  of  France,  having  caused 
her  husband  to  be  beheaded,  in  1343,  on  unau- 
thenticated  suspicion  of  correspondence  with  Eng- 
land, Jane  sent  her  son,  a  boy  of  twelve,  secretly 
to  London,  for  safety,  sold  her  jewels,  armed  three 
vessels,  and  attacked  all  the  French  she  met.  She 
made  descents  in  Normandy,  took  their  castles, 
and  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Europe  might 
be  seen,  with  a  sword  in  one  hand,  and  a  flambeau 
in  the  other,  enforcing  and  commanding  acts  of 
the  greateslj  cruelty. 

BERENGARIA 

Of  Navarre,  was  daughter  of  Sancho  the  Wise, 
king  of  Naples,  and  married  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion 
soon  after  he  ascended  the  throne  of  England. 
Richard  had  been  betroth^,  when  only  seven 
years  of  age,  to  Alice,  daughter  of  Louis  VII.,  who 
was  three  years  old.    Alice  was  sent  to  the  English 


BE 


BE 


court,  when  a  girl  of  thirteen,  for  her  education. 
The  father  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  Henry  II., 
fell  in  love  with  this  betrothed  of  his  son ;  and 
had  prevented  the  marriage  from  being  solemn- 
ized. But  Richard,  after  he  ascended  the  throne, 
was  still  trammelled  by  this  engagement  to  Alice, 
while  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  Berengaria. 
At  length  these  obstacles  were  overcome.  "It 
was  in  the  joyous  month  of  May,  1191,"  to  quote 
an  old  writer,  "  in  the  flourishing  and  spacious 
isle  of  Cyprus,  celebrated  as  the  very  abode  of  the 
goddess  of  love,  did  king  Richard  solemnly  take 
to  wife  his  beloved  lady  Berengaria." 

This  fair  queen  accompanied  her  husband  on 
his  warlike  expedition  to  the  Holy  Land.  In  the 
autumn  of  the  same  year  Richard  concluded  his 
peace  with  Saladin,  and  set  out  on  his  return  to 
England.  But  he  sent  Berengaria  by  sea,  while 
he,  disguised  as  a  Templar,  intended  to  go  by 
land.  He  was  taken  prisoner,  and  kept  in  durance, 
by  Leopold  of  Austria,  nearly  five  years.  Ri- 
chard's profligate  companions  seem  to  have  es- 
tranged his  thoughts  from  his  gentle,  loving  wife, 
and  for  nearly  two  years  after  his  return  from 
captivity,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  indulgence  of 
his  baser  passions ;  but  finally  his  conscience  was 
awakened,  he  sought  his  ever-faithful  wife,  and 
she,  woman-like,  forgave  him.  From  that  time 
tJiey  were  never  partetl,  till  his  death,  which  oc- 
curred in  1190.  She  survived  him  many  years, 
founded  an  abbey  at  Espan,  and  devoted  herself 
to  works  of  piety  and  mercy.  "From  her  early 
youth  to  her  grave,  Berengaria  manifested  devoted 
love  to  Richard :  uncomplainingly  when  deserted 
by  him,  forgiving  when  he  returned,  and  faithful 
to  his  memory  unto  death,"  says  her  accomplished 
biographer,  Miss  Strickland. 

BERENICE, 

Daughter  of  Herod  Agrippa  I. ,  King  of  Judea, 
grandson  of  Herod  the  Great,  was  the  sister  of 
Herod  Agrippa  II.,  before  whom  Paul  preached, 
and  married  her  uncle,  Herod,  king  of  Chalcis. 
After  her  husband's  death,  she  was  accused  of 
incest  with  her  brother  Agrippa ;  an  accusation 
which  seems  to  have  determined  her  to  engage  in 
a  second  marriage.  She  signified  to  Polemon, 
king  of  Cilicia,  her  willingness  to  become  his  wife, 
if  he  would  embrace  Judaism.  Polemon,  induced 
by  her  wealth,  consented ;  but  Berenice  soon  de- 
serted him,  and  he  returned  to  his  former  faith. 

Scrupiilous  in  all  religious  observances,  she 
made  a  journey  to  Jerusalem,  where  she  spent 
thirty  days  in  fasting  and  prayer.  AVhile  thus 
engaged,  she  suff'ered  a  thousand  indignities  from 
the  Roman  soldiers.  She  also  went  barefoot  to 
the  Roman  governor  to  intercede  for  her  people, 
but  he  treated  her  with  open  neglect. 

Berenice  then  resolved  to  apply  to  Vespasian, 
emperor  of  Rome,  or  his  son  Titus,  to  avoid  being 
involved  in  the  ruin  of  her  nation.  She  accord- 
ingly went,  with  her  brother,  to  Rome,  and  soon 
gained  Vespasian  by  her  liberality,  and  Titus  by 
her  beauty.  Titus  even  wished  to  marry  her ; 
but  the  murmurs  of  the  Roman  people  prevented 
him;  he  was  even  obliged  to  banish  her,  with  a 


promise  of  recalling  her  when  the  tumult  should 
be  appeased.  Some  historians  assert  that  Bere- 
nice returned  and  was  again  banished. 

She  is  mentioned  in  the  25th  chapter  of  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  as  coming  with  her  brother 
Agrippa  to  Cesarea,  to  salute  Festus. 

BERNERS,  or  BARNES, 
Juliana,  a  sister  of  Richard,  lord  Berners,  is 
supposed  to  have  been  born  about  1388,  and  was 
a  native  of  Essex.  She  was  prioress  of  Sopewell 
nunnery,  and  wrote  "  The  Boke  of  Hawkyng  and 
Huniyng,'^  which  was  one  of  the  first  works  that 
issued  from  the  English  press.  She  is  represented 
as  having  been  beautiful,  high-spirited,  and  fond 
of  all  active  exercises.  She  lived  to  an  advanced 
age,  and  was  highly  respected  and  admired.  The 
indelicacies  that  are  found  in  her  book,  must  be 
imputed  to  the  barbarism  of  the  times. 

BE  R  SAL  A, 

Ann,  daughter  and  principal  heiress  of  Wolfard 
de  Borselle,  and  of  Charlotte  de  Bourbon-Mont- 
pensier,  who  were  married  June  the  17th,  1468, 
was  wife  of  Philip  of  Burgundy,  son  of  Anthony 
of  Burgundy,  lord  of  Bevres,  one  of  the  illegitimate 
sons  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  Philip  the  Good. 
She  brought  to  him,  for  her  dowry,  the  lordship 
of  Vere,  that  of  Flushing,  and  some  others,  and 
had  by  him  one  son  and  two  daughters. 

Erasmus  had  a  particular  esteem  for  her.  He 
thus  writes  to  a  friend : — "  We  came  to  Anne, 
princess  of  Vere.  Why  should  I  say  any  thing  to 
you  of  this  lady's  complaisance,  benignity,  or 
liberality  ?  I  know  the  embellishments  of  rheto- 
ricians are  suspected,  especially  by  those  who  are 
not  unskilled  in  those  arts.  But,  believe  me,  I 
am  so  far  here  from  enlarging,  that  it  is  above  the 
reach  of  our  art.  Never  did  nature  produce  any 
thing  more  modest,  more  wise,  or  more  obliging. 
She  was  so  generous  to  me  —  she  loaded  me  with 
so  many  benefits,  without  my  seeking  them !  It 
has  happened  to  me,  my  Battus,  with  regard  to 
her,  as  it  often  used  to  happen  with  regard  to  you, 
that  I  begin  to  love  and  admire  most  when  I  am 
absent.  Good  God,  what  candour,  what  complai- 
sance in  the  largest  fortune,  what  evenness  of 
mind  in  the  greatest  injuries,  what  cheerfulness 
in  such  great  cares,  what  constancy  of  mind,  what 
innocence  of  life,  what  encouragement  of  learned 
men,  what  aff'ability  to  all!" 

BERTHA, 

Daughtek  of  Cherebert,  king  of  Paris.  She 
married  Ethelbert,  king  of  Kent,  who  succeeded 
to  the  throne  about  the  year  560.  Ethelbert  was 
a  pagan,  but  Bertha  was  a  Christian,  and  in  the 
marriage  treaty  had  stipulated  for  the  free  exer- 
cise of  her  religion,  and  taken  with  her  a  French 
bishop.  By  her  influence  Christianity  was  intro- 
duced into  England ;  for  so  exemplary  in  every 
respect  were  her  life  and  conduct,  that  she  inspired 
the  king  and  his  court  with  a  high  respect  for  her 
person,  and  the  religion  by  which  she  was  influ- 
enced. The  Pope  taking  advantage  of  this,  sent 
forty  monks,  among  whom  was  St.  Augustine,  to 

83 


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preach  the  gospel.  Under  the  protection  of  the 
queen  they  soon  foun,d  means  of  communication 
with  the  king,  -who  finally  submitted  to  public 
baptism.  Christianity  proved  the  means  of  pro- 
moting knowledge  and  civilization  in  England; 
and  this  convert  king  enacted  a  body  of  laws  which 
was  the  first  written  code  promulgated  by  the 
northern  conquerors.  Thus  was  the  influence  of 
this  pious  queen  Bertha  the  means  of  redeeming 
England  from  paganism ;  and  moreover  to  her 
belongs  the  glory  of  planting  the  first  Christian 
Ch\irch  in  Canterbury. 

BERTHA,  or  BERTRADE, 
Wife  of  Pepin  and  mother  of  Charlemagne, 
emperor  of  France,  was  a  woman  of  great  natural 
excellencies,  both  of  mind  and  heart.  Charle- 
magne always  showed  her  most  profound  respect 
and  veneration,  and  there  was  never  the  slightest 
(lifiBculty  between  them,  excepting  when  he  di- 
vorced the  daughter  of  Didier,  king  of  the  Lom- 
bards, whom  he  had  married  by  her  advice,  to 
espouse  Emergarde.     Bertha  died  in  783. 

BERTHA, 

Widow  of  Eudes,  count  de  Blois,  married  Robert 
the  Pious,  king  of  France.  She  was  a  relation 
of  his,  and  he  had  been  godfather  to  one  of  her 
children.  These  obstacles,  then  very  powerful, 
did  not  prevent  the  king  from  marrying  her.  A 
council  assembled  at  Rome  in  998,  and  ordered 
Robert  to  repudiate  Bertha,  which  he  refusing  to 
do,  the  terrible  sentence  of  excommunication  was 
pronounced  against  him,  and  he  was  at  length 
obliged  to  yield.  Bertha  retired  to  an  abbey  and 
devoted  herself  to  pious  works.  Her  title  of  queen 
was  always  given  to  her,  and  the  king  continued 
to  show  her  constant  proofs  of  affection  and  respect. 

BERTRADE, 

Daughter  of  the  count  of  Montfort,  married 
the  count  of  Anjou,  from  whom  she  was  divorced 
to  imite  herself  to  Philip  I.,  king  of  France,  1092. 
This  union  was  opposed  by  the  clergy,  but  the 
love  of  the  monarch  triumphed  over  his  respect 
for  religion.  Bertrade  was  ambitious,  and  not 
always  faithful  to  her  husband.  After  the  king's 
lieath,  she  pretended  sanctity,  and  was  buried  in 
;i  convent  which  she  herself  founded. 

EIGNE, 
Grace  de  la,  a  French  poetess  of  Bayeux,  ac- 
companied king  John  to  England,  after  the  battle 
of  Poictiers,  and  died  in  1374. 

BLANCHE 

Of  Castile,  queen  of  France,  was  the  daughter 
of  Alphonso  IX.,  king  of  Castile,  and  of  Eleanor, 
daughter  of  Henry  I.  of  England.  In  1200,  she 
Avas  married  to  Louis  VIII.  of  France  ;  and  became 
the  mother  of  nine  sons  and  two  daughters,  whom 
she  educated  with  great  care,  and  in  such  senti- 
ments of  piety,  that  two  of  them,  Louis  IX.  and 
Elizabeth,  have  been  beatified  by  the  church  of 
Rome. 

On  the  death  of  her  husband,  in  1266,  he  showed 


his  esteem  for  her  by  leaving  her  sole  regent 
during  the  minority  of  his  son,  Louis  IX.,  then 
only  twelve  years  old ;  and  Blanche  justified  by 
her  conduct  in  the  trying  circumstances  in  which 
she  was  placed,  the  confidence  of  her  husband. 
The  princes  and  nobles,  pretending  that  the  re- 
gency was  unjustly  granted  to  a  woman,  confede- 
rated against  her;  but  by  her  prudence  and 
courage,  opposing  some  in  arms,  and  gaining  over 
others  with  presents  and  condescension,  Blanche 
finally  triumphed.  She  made  use  of  the  romantic 
passion  of  the  young  count  of  Champagne  to  obtain 
information  of  the  projects  of  the  malcontents ; 
but  her  reputation  was  endangered  by  the  favour 
she  showed  him,  as  well  as  by  the  familiar  inter- 
course to  which  she  admitted  the  gallant  cardinal 
Romani. 

In  educating  Louis,  she  was  charged  with  put- 
ting him  too  much  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy ;  but 
she  proved  an  excellent  guardian  of  his  virtue, 
and  inspired  him  with  a  lasting  respect  for  herself. 
In  1234,  she  married  him  to  Margaret,  daughter 
of  the  count  de  Provence ;  and  in  1235,  Louis 
having  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one,  Blanche 
surrendered  to  him  the  sovereign  authority.  But 
even  after  this  she  retained  great  ascendency  over 
the  young  king,  of  which  she  sometimes  made  an 
improper  use.  Becoming  jealous  of  Margaret, 
wife  of  Louis,  she  endeavoured  to  sow  dissensions 
between  them,  and,  failing  in  this,  to  separate 
them ;  and  these  disturbances  caused  Louis  great 
uneasiness. 

When,  in  1248,  Louis  undertook  a  crusade  to 
the  Holy  Laud,  he  determined  to  take  his  queen 
with  him,  and  leave  his  mother  regent;  and  in 
this  second  regency  she  showed  the  same  vigour 
and  prudence  as  in  the  first.  The  kingdom  was 
suffering  so  much  from  the  domination  of  the 
priesthood,  that  vigorous  measui-es  had  become 
necessary ;  and  notwithstanding  her  strong  reli- 
gious feelings,  she  exerted  her  utmost  power 
against  the  tyi'anny  of  the  priests  and  in  favour 
of  the  people ;  and  as  usual,  Blanche  was  suc- 
cessful. 

The  unfortunate  defeat  and  imprisonment  of  her 
son  in  the  East,  so  affected  her  spirits,  that  she 

84 


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died,  in  1252,  to  his  great  grief,  and  the  regret 
of  the  whole  kingdom.  She  was  bm-ied  in  the 
abbey  of  Maubisson.  She  was  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  characters  of  her  time,  being  equally 
distinguished  for  her  personal  and  mental  endow- 
ments. 

We  may  observe  here  that  among  the  sovereigns 
of  France,  those  most  beloved  by  the  people,  and 
who  thought  most  of  the  good  of  their  subjects  — 
Louis  IX.,  Louis  XII.,  and  Henry  IV. — were  edu- 
cated by  their  mothers.  Blanche  had  attended  in 
so  careful  a  manner  to  the  infancy  and  childhood 
of  her  son,  that  she  performed  for  him  many  of 
the  offices  usually  entrusted  to  inferiors.  His 
attachment  to  her  was  ardent,  and  all  her  precepts 
were  laws.  She  said  to  him  one  day,  as  she  was 
tenderly  caressing  him,  "  My  son,  you  know  how 
very  fondly  I  love  you ;  and  yet  I  would  rather 
see  you  dead  than  sullied  by  the  commission  of  a 
crime."  Such  a  woman  was  worthy  of  Shak- 
speare's  panegyi-ic,  which  he  has  so  warmly  be- 
stowed on  Blanche  in  his  "  King  .John." 

BLANCHE, 

A  NATIVE  of  Padua,  was  celebrated  for  her  reso- 
luticn.  On  the  death  of  her  husband,  at  the  siege 
of  Bassano,  Acciolin,  the  general  of  the  enemy, 
offered  violence  to  her  person,  when  she  threw 
herself  into  her  husband's  tomb,  and  was  ci'ushed 
by  the  falling  of  the  stone  that  covered  the  en- 
ti'ance,  1253 

BLANCHE  DE  BOURBON, 
Second  daughter  of  Pierre  de  Bourbon,  a  noble- 
man of  France,  married  Pedro,  king  of  Castile,  in 
1352.  She  was  cruelly  treated  by  her  husband, 
who  was  attached  to  Maria  Padilla,  and  was  at 
last  imprisoned  and  murdered,  in  1361,  aged 
eighteen.  Her  misfortunes  were  avenged  by  Du 
Guesclin  at  the  head  of  a  French  army.  Her 
beauty  and  virtues  made  her  a  great  favourite, 
not  only  with  the  mother  of  Pedro,  but  the  whole 
Spanish  nation. 

BOADICEA, 
A  British  queen  in  the  time  of  Nero,  wife  to 
Prasutagas,  king  of  the  Iceni,  that  is,  Norfolk, 
Suffolk,  Cambridge,  and  Huntingdonshire.  Pra- 
sutagas, in  order  to  secure  the  friendship  and  pro- 
tection of  Nero  to  his  wife  and  family,  left  the 
emperor  and  his  daughters  co-heirs.  The  Roman 
officers,  availing  themselves  of  a  privilege  so  re- 
plete with  mischief,  seized  upon  all  his  effects  in 
their  master's  name.  Boadicea  strongly  remon- 
strated against  these  iinjust  proceedings,  and  being 
a  woman  of  high  spirit,  she  resented  her  ill  usage 
in  such  terms,  that  the  officers,  in  revenge,  caused 
her  to  be  publicly  scourged,  and  violated  her 
daughters.  Boadicea  assembled  the  Britons,  and 
standing  on  a  rising  ground,  her  loose  robes  and 
long  fair  hair  floating  in  the  wind,  a  spear  in  her 
hand,  her  majestic  features  animated  with  a  desire 
for  vengeance,  she  reminded  her  people,  in  a  strain 
of  pathetic  eloquence,  of  the  wrongs  they  had  en- 
dured from  the  invaders,  and  exhoi'ted  them  to 
instant  revolt.     While  speaking,  she  permitted  a 


hare,  which  she  had  kept  concealed  about  her 
person,  to  escape  among  the  crowd.  The  Britons, 
exulting,  hailed  the  omen,  and  the  public  indigna- 
tion was  such,  that  all  the  island,  excepting  Lon- 
don, agreed  to  rise  in  rebellion. 

Boadicea  put  herself  at  the  head  of  the  popular 
army,  and  earnestly  exhorted  them  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  absence  of  the  Roman  general, 
Paulinus,  then  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  by  putting  their 
foreign  oppressors  to  the  sword.  The  Britons 
readily  embraced  the  proposal,  and  so  violent  was 
the  rage  of  the  exasperated  people,  that  not  a  single 
Roman  of  any  age  or  either  sex,  within  their  reach, 
escaped ;  no  less  than  seventy  thousand  perished. 

Paulinus,  suddenly  returning,  marched  against 
the  revolted  Britons,  who  had  an  army  of  one 
hundred  thousand,  or,  according  to  Dion  Cassius, 
two  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  strong,  under 
the  conduct  of  Boadicea  and  her  general,  Venu- 
tius.  The  noble  person  of  Boadicea,  large,  fair, 
and  dignified,  with  her  undaunted  courage,  had 
gained  for  her  the  entire  confidence  of  the  people, 
and  they  were  impatient  for  the  engagement  with 
Paulinus,  whose  army  consisted  of  only  ten  thou- 
sand men.  The  Roman  general  was  in  doubt 
whether  he  should  march  with  this  small  force 
against  his  numerous  enemies,  or  shut  himself  up 
in  the  town  and  wait  for  them.  At  first  he  chose 
the  latter,  and  stayed  in  London,  but  soon  altered 
his  resolution,  and  determined  to  meet  the  Britons 
in  the  open  field.  The  place  he  pitched  upon  for 
the  decisive  battle  was  a  narrow  tract  of  ground, 
facing  a  large  plain,  supposed  to  be  Salisbury 
plain,  and  his  rear  was  secured  by  a  forest.  The 
Britons,  exulting  in  their  numbers,  and  secure  of 
victory,  had  brought  their  wives  and  children  in 
wagons,  and  placed  them  around  their  entrench- 
ments. Boadicea  in  her  chariot,  accompanied  by 
her  two  daughters,  rode  among  the  several  squad- 
rons of  her  army,  addressing  them  to  the  following 
effect :  "It will  not  be  the  first  time,  Britons,  that 
you  have  been  victorious  under  the  conduct  of 
your  queen.  For  my  part,  I  come  not  here  as  one 
descended  of  royal  blood,  not  to  fight  for  empire 
or  riches,  but  as  one  of  the  common  people,  to 
avenge  the  loss  of  their  liberty,  the  wrongs  of  my- 
self and  children.  The  wickedness  of  the  Romans 
is  at  its  height,  and  the  gods  have  already  begun 
to  punish  them,  so  that  instead  of  being  able  to 
withstand  the  attack  of  a  victorious  army,  the 
very  shouts  of  so  many  thousands  will  put  them 
to  flight.  And,  if  you,  Britons,  would  but  consi- 
der the  number  of  our  forces,  or  the  motives  of 
the  war,  you  will  resolve  to  conquer  or  to  die.  Is 
it  not  much  better  to  fall  honourably  in  defence 
of  liberty,  than  be  again  exposed  to  the  outrages 
of  the  Romans  ?  Such,  at  least,  is  my  resolution  ; 
as  for  you  men,  you  may,  if  you  please,  live  and 
be  slaves !" 

Paulinus  was  no  less  assiduous  in  preparing  his 
troops  for  the  encounter.  The  Britons  expected 
his  soldiers  to  be  daunted  at  their  number ;  but 
when  they  saw  them  advance,  sword  in  hand, 
without  showing  the  least  fear,  they  fell  into  dis- 
order, and  precipitately  fled:  the  baggage  and 
wagons  in  which  their  families  were  placed,  ob- 

85 


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BR 


structing  their  fliglit,  a  total  defeat  and  dreadful 
carnage  ensued.  Eighty  thousand  Britons  were 
left  on  the  field.  Boadicea  escaped  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy,  but,  unable  to  survive 
this  terrible  disappointment,  she  fell  a  victim 
either  to  despair  or  poison.  The  battle  was  fought 
in  the  year  61 


BORGIA, 

LucREZiA,  sister  of  Cesare  Borgia,  and  daughter 
of  Rodriguez  Borgia,  afterwards  Pope  Alexander 
v.,  was  married  in  1493,  to  Giovanni  Sforza,  lord 
of  Pessaro,  with  whom  she  lived  four  years,  when 
her  father  being  pope,  dissolved  the  marriage,  and 
gave  her  to  Alfonso,  duke  of  Bisceglia,  natural 
son  of  Alfonso  II.,  duke  of  Naples.  On  this  occa- 
sion she  was  created  duchess  of  Spoleto  and  of 
Sermoneta.  She  had  one  son  by  Alfonso,  who 
died  young.  In  June,  1500,  Alfonso  was  stabbed 
by  assassins,  supposed  to  have  been  employed  by 
the  infamous  Cesare  Borgia,  so  that  he  died  two 
months  after  at  the  pontifical  palace,  to  wliich  he 
had  been  carried  at  the  time.  Lucrezia  has  never 
been  accused  of  any  participation  in  this  murder, 
or  in  any  of  her  brother's  atrocious  deeds.  She 
then  retired  to  Nepi,  but  was  recalled  to  Rome  by 
her  father.  Towards  the  end  of  1501,  she  married 
Alfonso  d'Este,  son  of  Ercole,  duke  of  Ferrara, 
and  made  her  entrance  into  Ferrara  with  great 
pomp,  on  the  second  of  February,  1502. 

She  had  three  sons  by  Alfonso,  who  intrusted 
her  with  the  government  when  he  was  absent  in 
the  field,  in  which  capacity  she  gained  general 
approbation.  She  was  also  the  patroness  of  lite- 
rature, and  her  behaviour  after  she  became  duch- 
ess of  Ferrara  affords  no  grounds  for  censure. 
Her  conduct  while  living  at  Rome  with  her  father 
has  been  the  subject  of  much  obloquy,  which 
seems  to  rest  chiefly  on  her  living  in  a  flagitious 
court  among  profligate  scenes.  No  individual 
charge  can  be  substantiated  against  her.  On  the 
contrary,  she  is  mentioned  by  cotemporary  poets 
and  historians  in  the  highest  terms ;  and  so  many 
different  writers  would  not  have  lavished  such 
high  praise  on  a  person  profligate  and  base  as  she 
has  been  represented.  Many  of  the  reports  about 
her  were  circulated  by  the  Neapolitans,  the  natu- 


ral enemies  of  her  family.  She  died  at  Ferrara, 
in  1523.  In  the  Ambrosian  Library  there  is  a 
collection  of  letters  written  by  her,  and  a  poetical 
effusion.  A  curiosity  which  might  be  viewed  with 
equal  interest,  is  to  be  foiind  there — a  tress  of  her 
beautiful  hair,  folded  in  a  piece  of  parchment. 

BORE,    or   BORA, 

Cathaf.ine  von,  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of 
fortune,  was  a  nun  in  the  convent  of  Nimptschen, 
in  Germany,  two  leagues  from  AVittemberg.  She 
left  the  convent,  with  eight  others,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  reformation  by  Lutlier.  Leo- 
nard Koppe,  senator  of  Torgau,  is  said  to  have  first 
animated  them  to  this  resolution,  which  they  put 
in  practice  on  a  Good  Friday.  Luther  undertook 
th«  defence  of  these  nuns  and  Leonard  Koppe,  and 
published  a  justification  of  their  conduct. 

Luther,  who  admired  Catharine  on  account  of 
her  heroism,  in  addition  to  her  excellent  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart,  gained  her  consent  and  married 
her.  Catharine  was  then  twenty-six,  and  added 
to  the  charms  of  youth,  much  sprightliness  of 
mind.  The  reformei",  many  years  older  than  his 
wife,  was  as  affectionately  beloved  by  her  as  if  he 
had  been  in  the  flower  of  his  youth.  She  brought 
him  a  son;  and  he  writes  on  this  occasion,  "that 
he  would  not  change  his  condition  for  that  of 
Croesus."  The  character  of  his  wife  was  excel- 
lently adapted  to  make  him  happy.  Modest  and 
gentle,  decent  in  her  attire,  and  economical  in  the 
house,  she  had  the  hospitality  of  the  German  no- 
blesse without  their  pride.  On  the  15th  February. 
1546,  she  became  a  widow,  and  although  several 
fail-  ofl'ers  were  made  to  her,  she  lived  for  many 
years  in  great  poverty,  and  sometimes  in  actual 
distress  ;  Martin  Luther  left  little  or  no  property, 
and  she  was  compelled  to  keep  a  boarding-house 
for  students,  in  order  to  support  herself  and  chil- 
dren. She  died  on  the  20th  of  December,  1552, 
in  consequence  of  a  cold  she  had  contracted  from 
a  fall  in  the  water,  while  moving  from  Wittemberg 
to  Torgau. 

She  left  three  sons,  Paul,  Martin,  and  John, 
and  two  daughters. 

BRAGELONGNE, 

Agnes  de,  a  French  poetess,  lived  in  the  12th 
century,  in  the  reign  of  Philip  Augustus.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  the  count  de  Tonnerre,  and 
was  married  when  very  young  to  the  count  de 
Plancy,  and  after  his  death,  to  Henri  de  Craon, 
whom  she  had  long  loved,  and  to  whom  much  of 
her  poetry  is  addressed.  The  poem  of  "  Gabrielle 
de  Vcrgy"  which  is  only  a  romance  versified,  is 
attributed  to  this  writer. 

BRIDGET,    or   BRIGIT, 

And  by  contraction,  St.  Bride,  a  saint  of  the 
Romish  church,  and  the  patroness  of  Ireland,  lived 
in  the  end  of  the  fifth  century.  She  was  born  at 
Fochard,  in  Ulster,  soon  after  Ireland  was  con- 
verted, and  she  took  the  veil  in  her  youth  from 
the  hands  of  St.  Mel,  a  nephew  and  disciple  of 
St.  Patrick.  She  built  herself  a  cell  under  a  large 
oak,  thence  called  Kill-dare,  or  the  cell  of  the  oak, 

86 


BR 


BR 


and  being  joined  by  several  women,  they  formed 
themselves  into  a  religious  community,  which 
branched  out  in,to  several  other  nunneries  through- 
out Ireland,  all  of  which  acknowledged  her  as 
their  foundi-ess.  She  is  commemorated  in  the 
Roman  martyrology  on  the  first  of  February. 

BRUNEHAUT, 

Younger  daughter  of  Athanagilde,  king  of  the 
Visigoths  of  Spain,  married,  in  565,  Siegbei-t,  the 
Fraukish  king  of  Metz  or  Austrasia.  Siegbert 
had  resolved  to  have  but  one  wife,  and  to  choose 
her  from  a  royal  family ;  his  choice  fell  on  Brune- 
haut,  who  fully  justified  his  preference.  She  was 
beautiful,  elegant  in  her  deportment,  modest  and 
dignified  in  her  conduct,  and  conversed  not  only 
agreeably,  but  with  a  great  deal  of  wisdom.  Her 
husband  soon  became  exceedingly  attached  to  her. 

Her  elder  sister,  Galsuinda,  had  married  Chil- 
peric,  Siegbert's  brother,  and  king  of  Normandy. 
Galsuinda  was  murdered,  through  the  instigation 
of  Fredegonde,  Chilperic's  mistress,  who  then  in- 
duced Chilperic  to  marry  her.  Brunehaut,  to 
avenge  her  sister's  death,  persuaded  Siegbert  to 
make  war  upon  his  brother ;  and  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  wresting  Chilperic's  territories  from 
him,  and  besieging  him  in  Tournai,  when  two 
assassins,  hired  by  Fredegonde,  murdered  Sieg- 
bert in  his  camp,  in  575. 

As  soon  as  Brunehaut  heard  of  this  misfortune, 
she  hastened  to  save  her  son,  the  little  Childebert, 
heir  to  the  kingdom  of  Austrasia.  She  hid  him 
in  a  basket,  which  was  let  down  out  of  a  window 
of  the  palace  she  occupied  in  Paris,  and  confided 
him  to  a  servant  of  the  Austrasian  duke  Gonde- 
bald,  who  carried  him  behind  him  on  horseback 
to  Metz,  where  he  was  proclaimed  king,  on  Christ- 
mas day,  575.  When  Chilperic  and  Fredegonde 
arrived  at  Paris,  they  found  only  Brunehaut,  with 
her  two  daughters  and  the  royal  treasure.  Her 
property  was  taken  from  her,  her  daughters  were 
exiled  to  Meaux,  and  she  was  sent  to  Rouen. 

But  during  the  few  days  that  Brunehaut,  then 
a  beautiful  widow  of  twenty-eight,  had  remained 
at  Paris,  she  had  inspired  Merovous,  Chilperic's 
second  son  by  his  first  wife  Andowere,  with  a 
violent  passion,  so  that  soon  after  she  had  reached 
Rouen,  he  abandoned  the  troops  his  father  had 
placed  under  his  charge,  and  hastened  to  join 
her.  They  were  married  by  the  bishop  of  Rouen, 
although  it  was  contrary  to  the  canons  of  the 
church  to  unite  a  nephew  and  aunt.  Chilperic, 
furious  at  this  step,  came  with  great  haste  to 
separate  them ;  but  they  took  refuge  in  a  little 
church,  and  the  king,  not  daring  to  violate  this 
asylum,  was  at  last  obliged  to  promise,  with  an 
oath,  that  he  would  leave  them  together.  "  Since 
God  allows  them  to  be  united,"  said  he,  "  I  swear 
never  to  separate  them." 

Reassured  by  this  solemn  promise,  Meroveus 
and  Brunehaut  left  their  asj'lum,  and  gave  them- 
Belves  up  to  Chilperic.  At  first  he  treated  them 
kindly  ;  but  in  a  few  days  he  returned  to  Soissons, 
taking  his  son  with  him  as  a  prisoner,  and  leaving 
Brunehaut  under  a  strong  guard  at  Rouen.  Me- 
roveus, after  having  dragged  out  a  miserable  ex- 


istence as  a  prisoner,  for  thirteen  months ;  and 
having  in  vain  attempted  to  escape  to  join  Brune- 
haut, who  does  not  seem  to  have  made  any  great 
efi'ort  to  come  to  his  assistance,  was  killed  by  one 
of  his  servants,  some  say  by  his  own  request,  and 
others,  by  oi'der  of  Fredegonde. 

Meanwhile,  Childebert  had  demanded  and  ob- 
tained from  the  king  of  Normandy  his  mother's 
release ;  and  Brunehaut  returned  to  her  son's 
court,  where  she  commenced  that  struggle,  which 
afterwards  proved  fatal  to  her,  against  the  nobles 
of  Austrasia.  At  one  time,  her  own  party,  and 
that  of  the  nobles,  were  drawn  up  in  battle  array 
against  each  other,  when  she,  seeing  that  the 
combat  would  be  a  bloody  one,  and  that  her  own 
side  was  the  weakest,  boldly  rushed  between  them, 
calling  to  them  to  desist.  "  Woman,  retire  !"  ex- 
claimed one  of  the  dukes,  "You  have  reigned 
long  enough  under  the  name  of  your  husband;  let 
that  suffice  you.  Your  son  is  now  our  king ;  Aus- 
trasia is  under  our  guardianship,  not  yours.  Re- 
tire, directly,  or  our  horses'  feet  shall  trample 
yovi  to  the  earth." 

But  the  intrepid  Brunehaut,  unmoved  by  this 
savage  address,  persisted,  and  at  last  succeeded  in 
preventing  the  combat.  Although  obliged  to  yield 
to  her  turbulent  subjects  for  a  short  time,  Brune- 
haut soon  regained  her  authority,  which  she  used 
with  great  cruelty.  In  her  anger,  she  spared  no 
one,  but  put  to  death  or  exiled  all  persons  of 
rank  who  fell  in  her  power.  She  also  raised  an 
army,  which  she  sent  against  Clotaire,  the  young 
son  of  Fredegonde ;  but  she  was  defeated,  and 
Fredegonde  took  advantage  of  the  intestine  com- 
motion in  Austrasia,  to  regain  all  that  her  husband 
had  lost. 

Childebert  died  in  50G,  and  the  kingdom  was 
divided  between  Theodebert  and  Theodoric.  Bru- 
nehaut remained  with  Theodebert,  to  whom  Aus- 
trasia had  fallen ;  and  on  the  death  of  Fredegonde. 
in  597,  she  bent  all  her  energies  towards  the  reco- 
very of  those  dominions  that  her  rival  had  obtained 
from  her,  and  she  partially  succeeded.  She 
treated  with  the  utmost  cruelty  all  the  relations 
of  Fredegonde  who  fell  in  her  power,  and  every 
one  who  resisted  her  authority. 

But  the  day  of  retribution  came  at  last ;  a  mur- 
der, committed  in  599,  upon  Wintrion,  duke  of 
Champagne,  roused  against  her  all  the  powerful 
men  of  her  nation.  They  seized  her,  and,  carrj-- 
ing  her  across  the  frontiers,  abandoned  her  alone 
in  the  midst  of  an  uncultivated  part  of  the  coun- 
try. A  beggar,  whom  she  met,  conducted  her  to 
Theodoric,  her  otlier  grandson,  king  of  Burgundy, 
by  whom  she  was  but  too  well  received. 

Here  she  attempted,  by  surrounding  him  with 
infamous  women  of  all  classes,  to  prevent  him 
from  taking  a  wife,  who  might  interfere  with  her 
authority ;  and  she  drove  away,  with  insults,  St. 
Colomban,  abb^  of  Luxeuil,  and  St.  Didier,  bishop 
of  Vienne,  who  had  addressed  remonstrances  both 
to  her  and  Theodoric  on  their  mode  of  life.  St. 
Didier,  after  an  exile  of  three  years,  retui-ned  to 
his  church,  and,  displaying  the  same  zeal  in  the 
performance  of  his  duty,  she  had  him  stoned. 

To  raise  her  favourite,  Protadius,  to  the  dignity 

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of  mayor  of  the  palace,  she  procured  the  death  of 
Bertoald,  who  held  that  position,  by  sending  him 
■with  a  handful  of  men  against  a  large  army,  where 
he  was  killed  after  making  a  bi-ave  resistance.  In 
612,  she  armed  her  grandsons  against  each  other. 
Theodebert  was  pursued  by  Theodoric  to  Cologne, 
and  there  assassinated.  His  children,  one  of 
whom  was  an  infant,  were  slain  by  order  of  Bru- 
nehaut.  Theodoric  died  in  613,  and  Brunehaut, 
betrayed  by  her  subjects,  and  abandoned  by  her 
nobles,  fell  into  the  hands  of  Clotaire,  son  of  Frede- 
gonde.  He  loaded  her  with  insults,  accused  her 
of  having  caused  the  death  of  ten  kings,  or  sons 
of  kings,  and  gave  her  up  to  the  vengeance  of  his 
infuriated  soldiery.  This  queen,  then  eighty  years 
old,  was  carried  naked  on  a  litter  for  three  days, 
and  then  bound  by  one  arm  and  one  leg  to  the  tail 
of  an  unbroken  colt,  who  dragged  her  over  rocks 
and  stones  till  she  was  nothing  but  a  shapeless 
mass.     Her  remains  were  then  burnt. 


BRUNORO, 

Bona  Lombardi,  was  born  in  1417,  in  Sacco,  a 
little  ^'illage  in  Vattellina.  Her  parents  were  ob- 
scure peasants,  of  whom  we  have  but  little  in- 
formation. The  father,  Gabriel  Lombardi,  a  pri- 
vate soldier,  died  while  she  was  an  infant;  and 
her  mother  not  surviving  him  long,  the  little  girl 
was  left  to  the  charge  of  an  aunt,  a  hard-working 
countrywoman,  and  an  uncle,  an  humble  curate. 

Bona,  in  her  simple  peasant  station,  exhibited 
intelligence,  decision  of  character,  and  personal 
beauty,  which  raised  her  to  a  certain  consideration 
in  the  estimation  of  her  companions ;  and  the 
neighbourhood  boasted  of  the  beauty  of  Bona, 
when  an  incident  occurred  which  was  to  raise  her 
to  a  most  unexpected  rank.  In  the  war  between 
the  duke  of  Milan  and  the  Venetians,  the  latter 
had  been  routed  and  driven  from  Vattellina. 
Piccinino,  the  Milanese  general,  upon  departing 
to  follow  up  his  advantages,  left  Captain  Brunoro, 
a  Parmesan  gentleman,  to  maintain  a  camp  in 
Morbegno,  as  a  central  position  to  maintain  the 
conquered  country.  One  day,  after  a  hunting 
party,  he  stopped  to  repose  himself,  in  a  grove 
where  many  of  the  peasants  were  assembled  for 
some  rustic  festival ;  he  was  greatly  struck  with 


the  loveliness  of  a  girl  of  about  fifteen.  Upon 
entering  into  conversation  with  her,  he  was  sur- 
prised at  the  ingenuity  and  spu-ited  tone  of  her 
replies.  Speaking  of  the  adventure  on  his  return 
home,  every  body  told  him  that  Bona  Lombardi 
had  acknowledged  claims  to  admiration.  Brunoro, 
remaining  through  the  summer  in  that  district, 
found  many  opportunities  of  seeing  the  fair  pea- 
sant; becoming  acquainted  with  her  worth  and 
character,  he  at  last  determined  to  make  her  the 
companion  of  his  life ;  their  marriage  was  not 
declared  at  first,  but,  to  prevent  a  separation, 
however  temporary.  Bona  was  induced  to  put  on 
the  ch'ess  of  an  officer.  Her  husband  delighted  in 
teaching  her  horsemanship,  together  with  all  mili- 
tary exercises.  She  accompanied  him  in  battle, 
fought  by  his  side,  and,  regardless  of  her  own 
safety,  seemed  to  be  merely  an  added  arm  to 
shield  and  assist  Brunoro.  As  was  usual  in  those 
times,  among  the  condottieri,  Brunoro  adopted 
diflFerent  lords,  and  fought  sometimes  in  parties  to 
which,  at  others,  he  was  opposed.  In  these  vicis- 
situdes, he  incurred  the  anger  of  the  king  of  Na- 
ples, who,  seizing  him  by  means  of  an  ambuscade, 
plunged  him  into  a  dungeon,  where  he  would  pro- 
bably have  finished  his  days,  but  for  the  untiring 
and  well-planned  efforts  of  his  wife.  To  eflFect  his 
release,  she  spared  no  means ;  supplications, 
threats,  money,  all  were  employed,  andj  at  last, 
with  good  success.  She  had  the  happiness  of  re- 
covering her  husband. 

Bona  was  not  only  gifted  with  the  feminine 
qualities  of  domestic  affection  and  a  well-balanced 
intellect ;  in  the  hottest  battles,  her  bravery  and 
power  of  managing  her  troops  were  quite  remai-k- 
able ;  of  these  feats  there  are  many  instances  re- 
corded. We  will  mention  but  one.  In  the  course 
of  the  Milanese  war,  the  Venetians  had  been,  on 
one  occasion,  signally  discomfited  in  an  attack 
upon  the  castle  of  Povoze,  in  Brescia.  Brunoro 
himself  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  into  the 
castle.  Bona  arrived  with  a  little  band  of  fresh 
soldiers ;  she  rallied  the  routed  forces,  inspired 
them  with  new  courage,  led  them  on  herself,  took 
the  castle,  and  liberated  her  husband,  with  the 
other  prisoners.  She  was,  however,  destined  to 
lose  her  husband  without  possibility  of  recovering 
him ;  he  died  in  1468.  When  this  inti-epid 
heroine,  victor  in  battles,  and,  rising  above  all 
adversity,  was  bowed  by  a  sorrow  resulting  from 
affection,  she  declared  she  could  not  sui-vive  Bru- 
noro. She  caused  a  tomb  to  be  made,  in  which 
their  remains  could  be  united ;  and,  after  seeing 
the  work  completed,  she  gradually  sank  into  a 
languid  state,  which  terminated  in  her  death. 


BUCHAN, 

Countess  of,  sister  of  the  earl  of  Fife,  crowned 
Robert  Bruce,  king  of  Scotland,  at  Scone,  March 
29th,  1306,  in  place  of  her  brother,  whose  duty  it 
was,  but  whose  fears  prevented  him  from  per- 
forming it.  She  was  taken  prisoner  by  Edward  I. 
of  England,  and,  for  six  years,  confined  in  a 
wooden  cage,  in  one  of  the  towers  of  Berwick 
castle. 


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CALPHURNIA, 

Wife  of  the  celebrated  philosopher  Pliny  the 
Elder,  who  was  killed,  in  79,  in  consequence  of 
approaching  too  near  to  Mount  Vesuvius,  when  it 
was  in  a  state  of  ei'uption,  must  have  been  a  wo- 
man of  superior  character,  by  the  manner  in 
which  her  husband  spoke  of  her,  and  the  strong 
affection  he  seems  to  have  borne  her ;  in  a  letter 
to  her  aunt  HispuUa,  he  says : 

"As  you  are  an  example  of  every  virtue,  and 
as  you  tenderly  loved  your  excellent  brother, 
whose  daughter  (to  whom  you  supplied  the  place 
of  both  parents)  you  considered  as  your  own,  I 
doubt  not  but  you  will  rejoice  to  learn,  that  she 
proves  worthy  of  her  father,  worthy  of  you,  and 
worthy  of  her  grandfather.  She  has  great  talents ; 
she  is  an  admirable  economist;  and  she  loves  me 
with  an  entire  affection :  a  sure  sign  of  her  chas- 
tity. To  these  qualities,  she  unites  a  taste  for 
literature,  inspired  by  her  tenderness  for  me.  She 
has  collected  my  works,  which  she  reads  perpe- 
tually, and  even  learns  to  repeat.  When  I  am  to 
speak  in  public,  she  places  herself  as  near  to  me 
as  possible,  under  the  cover  of  her  veil,  and  lis- 
tens with  delight  to  the  praises  bestowed  upon  me. 
She  sings  my  verses,  and,  untaiight,  adapts  them 
to  her  lute :  love  is  her  only  instructor." 

In  a  letter  to  Calplmrnia,  Pliny  writes:  "My 
eager  desire  to  see  you  is  incredible.  Love  is  its 
first  spring ;  the  next,  that  we  have  been  so  sel- 
dom separated.  I  pass  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  in  thinking  of  you.  In  the  day  also,  at 
those  hours  in  which  I  have  been  accustomed  to 
see  you,  my  feet  carry  me  spontaneously  to  your 
apartment,  whence  I  constantly  return  out  of  hu- 
mour and  dejected,  as  if  you  had  refused  to  admit 
me.  There  is  one  part  of  the  day  only  that  affords 
I'elief  to  my  disquiet ;  the  time  dedicated  to  pleading 
the  causes  of  my  friends.  Judge  what  a  life  mine 
must  be,  when  labour  is  my  rest,  and  when  cares 
and  perplexities  are  my  only  comforts.     Adieu." 

CAPILLANA, 

A  Peruvian  princess,  who,  having  become  a  wi- 
dow very  young,  retired  from  court  to  the  country, 
about  the  time  that  Pizarro  appeared  on  the  coast. 
Capillana  received  kindly  the  persons  he  had  sent 
to  reconnoitre,  and  expressed  a  desire  to  see  the 
general.  Pizarro  came,  and  an  attachment  soon 
sprang  up  between  them.  He  endeavoured  to  con- 
vert Capillana  to  the  Christian  faith,  but  for  some 
time  without  success ;  however,  while  studying 
the  Spanish  language,  she  became  a  Christian. 
On  the  death  of  Pizarro,  in  1541,  she  retired  again 
to  her  residence  in  the  country.  In  the  library 
of  the  Dominicans  of  Peru,  a  manuscript  of  hers 
is  preserved,  in  which  are  painted,  by  her,  ancient 
Peruvian  monuments,  with  a  short  historical  ex- 
planation in  Castilian.  There  is  also  a  representa- 
tion of  many  of  their  plants,  with  curious  disserta- 
tions on  their  properties. 

CARTISMANDUA, 

Queen  of  the  Brigantes,  in  Britain,  is  known  in 
history  for  treacherously   betraying   Caractacus, 


who  had  taken  refuge  in  her  dominions,  to  the  Ro- 
mans, and  for  discarding  her  husband  Venusius 
to  marry  his  armour-bearer  Velocatus.  When  her 
subjects  revolted  against  her,  she  solicited  aid 
from  the  Romans,  who  thus  obtained  possession 
of  the  whole  country.  But  she  at  last  met  with 
the  reward  of  her  perfidies  ;  being  taken  prisoner 
by  Corbred  I.,  king  of  Scots,  and  buried  alive, 
about  the  year  57. 

CASTRO, 

Inez  de,  who  was  descended  from  the  royal  line 
of  Castile,  became  first  the  mistress  of  Pedro,  son 
of  Alphonso  IV.,  king  of  Portugal,  and  after  the 
death  of  his  wife  Constance,  in  1344,  he  married 
her.  As  Pedro  rejected  all  proposals  for  a  new 
marriage,  his  secret  was  suspected,  and  the  king 
was  persuaded,  by  those  who  dreaded  the  influ- 
ence of  Inez  and  her  family,  that  this  marriage  I 
would  be  injurious  to  the  interests  of  Pedro's 
eldest  son.  He  was  induced  to  order  Inez  to  be 
put  to  death ;  and,  while  Pedro  was  absent  on  a 
hunting  expedition,  Alphonso  went  to  Coimbra, 
where  Inez  was  living  in  the  convent  of  St.  Clara, 
with  her  children.  Inez,  alarmed,  threw  herself 
with  her  little  ones  at  the  king's  feet,  and  sued  for 
mercy.  Alphonso  was  so  touched  by  her  prayers 
that  he  went  away,  but  he  was  again  persuaded  to 
order  her  assassination.  She  was  killed  in  1355, 
and  buried  in  the  convent.  Pedro  took  up  arms 
against  his  father,  but  was  at  length  reconciled  to 
him.  After  Alphonso's  death,  Pedro,  then  king 
of  Portugal,  executed  summary  vengeance  on  two 
of  the  murderers  of  Inez  ;  and  two  years  after,  in 
1362,  he  declared  before  an  assembly  of  the  chief 
men  of  the  kingdom,  that  the  pope  had  consented 
to  his  union  with  Inez,  and  that  he  had  been  mar- 
ried to  her.  The  papal  dociiment  was  exhibited 
in  public.  The  body  of  Inez  was  disinterred, 
placed  on  a  throne,  with  a  diadem  on  her  head 
and  the  royal  robes  wrapt  around  her,  and  the  no- 
bility were  required  to  approach  and  kiss  the  hem 
of  her  garment.  The  body  was  then  carried  in 
great  pomp  from  Coimbra  to  Alcoba9a,  where  a  mo- 
nument of  white  marble  was  erected,  on  which  was 
placed  her  statue,  with  a  royal  crown  on  her  head. 

Mrs.  Hemans  has  described  this  scene  with  great 
pathos  and  touching  beauty.    Her  poem  ends  thus  : 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight^ 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow. 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  aisle 

In  dark  procession  go; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown. 

And  all  the  rich  array. 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down, 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay  ! 
And  tearlessly  and  firmly 

Kinc  Pedro  led  the  train, — 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe, 

When  they  lower'd  the  dust  again. 
'T  is  hush'd  at  last  the  tomb  above. 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart : 
Who  call'd  thee  strong  as  Death,  O  Love  ? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 

CATHARINE  OF  ARRAGON, 

Queen  of  Englajid,  was  the  daughter  of  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella,  king  and  queen  of  Spain.  She 
was  born  in  1483,  and,  in  November,  1501,  was 

89 


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married  to  Arthur,  prince  of  Wales,  son  to  Henry 
VII.,  of  England.  He  died  April  2d,  1502,  and 
his  widow  was  then  betrothed  to  his  brother 
Henry,  then  only  eleven  years  old,  as  Henry  VII. 
was  unwilling  to  return  the  dowry  of  Catharine. 
In  his  fifteenth  year  the  prince  publicly  protested 
against  the  marriage ;  but,  overpowei-ed  by  the 
solicitations  of  his  council,  he  at  length  agreed  to 
ratify  it,  and  gave  his  hand  to  Catharine,  June 
3d,  1505,  immediately  after  his  accession  to  the 
throne ;  having  first  obtained  a  dispensation  from 
the  pope,  to  enable  him  to  marry  his  brother's 
widow. 

The  queen,  by  her  sweetness  of  manners,  good 
sense,  and  superior  endowments,  contrived  to  re- 
tain the  affections  of  this  fickle  and  capricious 
monarch  for  nearly  twenty  years.  She  was  de- 
voted to  literature,  and  was  the  patroness  of  lite- 
rary men.  She  bore  several  children,  but  all, 
excepting  a  daughter,  afterwards  queen  Mary, 
died  in  their  iiifancy.  Scruples,  real  or  pretended, 
at  length  arose  in  the  mind  of  Henry  concerning 
the  legality  of  their  union,  and  they  were  power- 
fully enforced  by  bis  passion  for  Anne  Boleyn. 
In  1527,  he  resolved  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  Ca- 
tharine on  the  grounds  of  the  nullity  of  their  mar- 
riage, as  contrary  to  the  Divine  Laws.  Pope 
Clement  VII.  seemed  at  first  disposed  to  listen  to 
his  application,  but  overawed  by  Charles  V.,  em- 
peror of  Germany  and  nephew  to  Catharine,  he 
caused  the  negotiation  to  be  so  protracted,  that 
Henry  became  very  impatient.  Catharine  con- 
ducted herself  with  gentleness,  yet  firmness,  in 
this  trying  emergency,  and  could  not  be  induced 
to  consent  to  an  act  which  would  stain  her  with 
the  imputation  of  incest,  and  render  her  daughter 
illegitimate. 

Being  cited  before  the  papal  legates,  Wolsey 
and  Campeggio,  who  had  opened  their  court  at 
London,  in  May  1529,  to  try  the  validity  of  the 
king's  marriage,  she  rose,  and  kneeling  before  her 
husband,  reminded  him,  in  a  pathetic  yet  resolute 
speech,  of  her  lonely  and  unprotected  state,  and 
of  her  constant  devotion  to  him,  in  proof  of  which 
she  appealed  to  his  own  heart ;  then  protesting 
against  the  proceedings  of  the  court,  she  rose  and 
withdrew,  nor  could  she  ever  be  induced  to  appear 
again.  She  was  declared  contumacious,  although 
she  appealed  to  Rome.  The  pope's  subtei-fuges 
and  delays  induced  Henry  to  take  the  matter  in 
his  own  hands :  he  threw  oif  his  submission  to  the 
court  of  Rome,  declared  himself  head  of  the 
Church  of  England,  had  his  marriage  formally 
annulled  by  archbishop  Cranmer,  and  in  1532 
married  Anne  Boleyn. 

Catharine  took  up  her  abode  at  Ampthill  in 
Bedfordshire,  and  afterwards  at  Kimbolton-castle 
in  Huntingdonshire.  She  persisted  in  retaining 
the  title  of  queen,  and  in  demanding  the  honours 
of  royalty  from  her  attendants ;  but  in  other  re- 
spects employing  herself  chiefly  in  her  religious 
duties,  and  bearing  her  lot  with  resignation.  She 
died  in  January,  1536.  The  following  letter, 
which  she  wrote  to  the  king  on  her  death-bed, 
drew  tears  from  her  husband,  who  always  spoke 
in  the  highest  terms  of  his  injured  consort. 


"  My  King  and  Dearest  Spouse, — 

"  Insomuch  as  already  the  hour  of  my  death 
approacheth,  the  love  and  affection  I  bear  you 
causeth  me  to  conjure  you  to  have  a  care  of  the 
eternal  salvation  of  your  soul,  which  you  ought  to 
prefer  before  mortal  things,  or  all  worldly  bless- 
ings. It  is  for  this  immortal  spirit  you  must  ne- 
glect the  care  of  your  body,  for  the  love  of  which 
you  have  thrown  me  headlong  into  many  calamities, 
and  your  own  self  into  infinite  distm-bances.  But 
I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,  humbly  beseech- 
ing Almighty  God  he  will  in  heaven  confirm  the 
pardon  I  on  earth  give  you.  I  recommend  unto 
you  our  most  dear  Mary,  your  daughter  and  mine, 
praying  you  to  be  a  better  father  to  her  than  you 
have  been  a  husband  to  me.  Remember  also  the 
three  poor  maids,  companions  of  my  retirement, 
as  likewise  all  the  rest  of  my  servants,  giving  them 
a  whole  year's  wages  besides  what  is  their  due, 
that  so  they  may  be  a  little  recompensed  for  the  good 
service  they  have  done  me  ;  protesting  unto  you, 
in  the  conclusion  of  this  my  letter  and  life,  that 
my  eyes  love  you,  and  desire  to  see  you  more  than 
any  thing  mortal." 

By  her  will  she  appointed  her  body  to  be  pri- 
vately interred  in  a  convent  of  observant  friars 
who  had  suffered  in  her  cause ;  five  hundred 
masses  were  to  be  performed  for  her  soul ;  and  a 
pilgrimage  undertaken,  to  our  lady  of  Walsingham, 
by  a  person  who,  on  his  way,  was  to  distribute 
twenty  nobles  to  the  poor.  She  bequeathed  con- 
siderable legacies  to  her  servants,  and  requested 
that  her  robes  might  be  converted  into  ornaments 
for  the  church,  in  which  her  remains  were  to  be 
deposited.  The  king  religiously  performed  her 
injunctions,  excepting  that  which  respected  the 
disposal  of  her  body,  resenting,  probably,  the  op- 
position which  the  convent  had  given  to  his  divorce. 
The  corpse  was  interred  in  the  abbey  church  at 
Peterburgh,  with  the  honours  due  to  the  birth  of 
Catharine. 

It  is  recorded  by  lord  Herbert,  in  his  history 
of  Henry  VIII.,  that,  from  respect  to  the  memory 
of  Catharine,  Henry  not  only  spared  this  chui'ch 
at  the  general  dissolution  of  religious  houses,  but 
advanced  it  to  be  a  cathedral. 

CATHARINE  SFORZA, 

Natural  daughter  of  Galeas  Sforza,  duke  of 
Milan,  in  1466  acquired  celebrity  for  her  courage 
and  presence  of  mind.  She  married  Jerome 
Riario,  prince  of  Forli,  who  was  some  time  after 
assassinated  by  Francis  Del  Orsa,  who  had  revolted 
against  him.  Catharine,  with  her  children,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  Orsa,  but  contrived  to  escape 
to  Rimini,  which  still  continued  faithful  to  her. 
wliich  she  defended  with  such  determined  bravery 
against  her  enemies,  who  threatened  to  put  her 
children  to  death  if  she  did  not  surrender,  that  at 
last  she  restored  herself  to  sovereign  power.  She 
then  married  John  de  Medicis,  a  man  of  noble 
family,  but  not  particularly  distinguished  for  ta- 
lents or  courage.  Catharine  still  had  to  sustain 
herself;  and,  in  1500,  ably  defended  Forli  against 
Ca3sar  Borgia,  duke  Valentino,  the  illegitimate 
son  of  pope  Alexander  VI.     Being  obliged  to  sur- 

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render,  slie  was  confined  in  the  castle  of  San  An- 
gelo,  but  soon  set  at  liberty,  though  never  restored 
to  her  dominions.  She  died  soon  after.  She  is 
pi'aised  by  a  French  historian  for  her  talents,  cou- 
rage, military  powers,  and  her  beauty. 

Sforza,  Isabella,  of  the  same  family  as  the 
preceding,  was  distinguished  in  the  sixteenth 
century  for  her  learning.  Her  letters  possessed 
gFeat  merit.  One  of  them  is  a  letter  of  consola- 
tion, written  to  Bonna  Sforza,  widow  of  the  king 
of  Poland ;  and  one  was  in  vindication  of  poetry. 

CATHARINE, 

Daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  and  Isa- 
bella of  Bavaria,  married  Henry  V.  of  England, 
and  after  his  death,  Owen  Tudor,  a  Welshman,  by 
whom  she  had  Edmund,  the  father  of  Henry  VII. 
She  died  in  1438.  She  was  celebrated  for  her 
beauty. 

CATHARINE,    ST., 

Was  born  at  Sienna,  in  1347.  The  monks  re- 
late of  this  saint,  that  she  became  a  nun  of  St. 
Dominic  at  the  age  of  seven,  that  she  saw  num- 
berless visions,  and  wrought  many  miracles  while 
quite  young,  and  that  she  conversed  face  to  face 
with  Christ,  and  was  actually  married  to  him. 
Her  influence  was  so  great  that  she  reconciled 
pope  Gregoi-y  XI.  to  the  people  of  Avignon,  in 

1376,  after  he  had  excommunicated  them ;  and  in 

1377,  she  prevailed  on  him  to  re-establish  the 
pontifical  seat  at  Rome,  seventy  years  after  Cle- 
ment V.  had  removed  it  to  France.  She  died 
April  30th,  1380,  aged  thirty-three,  and  was 
canonized  by  Pius  II.,  in  1461.  Her  works  con- 
sist of  letters,  poems,  and  devotional  jjieces. 

CATHAI^INE,  ST., 
Was  a  noble  virgin  of  Alexandi-ia.  Having  been 
instructed  in  literature  and  the  sciences,  she  was 
afterwards  converted  to  Christianity,  and  by  order 
of  the  emperor  Maximinian  she  disputed  with  fifty 
heathen  philosophers,  who,  being  reduced  to 
silence  by  her  arguments  and  her  eloquence,  were 
all  to  a  man  converted,  and  suffered  martyrdom 


in  consequence.  From  this  circumstance,  and  her 
great  learning,  she  is  considered  in  the  Romish 
church  as  the  pati-on  saint  of  philosophy,  litera- 
ture, and  schools.  She  was  afterwards  condemned 
to  sufler  death,  and  the  emperor  ordered  her  to 
be  crushed  between  wheels  of  iron,  armed  with 
sharp  blades ;  the  wheels,  however,  were  marvel- 
lously broken  asunder,  as  the  monks  declare,  and, 
all  other  means  of  death  being  rendered  abortive, 
she  was  beheaded  in  the  year  310,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen.  Her  body  being  afterwards  discovered 
on  Moixnt  Sinai,  gave  rise  to  the  order  of  the 
Knights  of  St.  Catharine. 

CATHARINE   OF   VALOIS, 

SuRNAMED  the  Fair,  was  the  youngest  child  of 
Charles  VI.  and  Isabeau  of  Bavaria.  She  was 
born  October  27th,  1401,  at  the  Hotel  de  St.  Paul, 
Paris,  during  her  father's  interval  of  insanity. 
She  was  entirely  neglected  by  her  mother,  who 
joined  with  the  king's  brother,  the  duke  of  Or- 
leans, in  pilfering  the  revenues  of  the  household. 
On  the  recovery  of  Charles,  Isabeau  fled  with  the 
duke  of  Orleans  to  Milan,  followed  by  her  children, 
who  were  pursued  and  brought  back  by  the  duke 
of  Burgundy.  Catharine  was  educated  in  the 
convent  at  Poissy,  where  her  sister  Marie  was 
cofisecrated,  and  was  married  to  Hem-y  V.  of 
England,  June  3,  1420.  Henry  V.  had  previously 
conquered  nearly  the  whole  of  France,  and  received 
with  his  bride  the  promise  of  the  regency  of 
France,  as  the  king  was  again  insane,  and  on  the 
death  of  Charles  VI.  the  sovereignty  of  that  coun- 
try, to  the  exclusion  of  Catharine's  brother  and 
three  older  sisters.  Catharine  was  crowned  in 
1421,  and  her  son,  afterwards  Henry  VI.,  was 
born  at  AVindsor  in  the  same  year,  during  the 
absence  of  Henry  V.  in  France.  The  queen  joined 
her  husband  at  Paris  in  1422,  leaving  her  infant 
son  in  England,  and  was  with  him,  when  he  died,  at 
the  Castle  of  Vincennes,  in  August  1422.  Some 
years  afterwards  Catharine  married  Owen  Tudor, 
an  ofiicer  of  Welsh  extraction,  who  was  clerk  of 
the  queen's  wardrobe.  This  marriage  was  kept 
concealed  sevei-al  years,  and  Catharine,  who  was 
a  devoted  mother,  seems  to  have  lived  very  hap- 
pily with  her  husband.  The  guardians  of  her  son, 
the  j'oung  Hemy  VI.,  at  length  suspected  it,  and 
exhibited  such  violent  resentment,  that  Catharine 
either  took  refuge,  during  the  summer  of  1436,  in 
the  abbey  of  Bermondsey,  or  was  sent  there  under 
some  restraint.  Her  children  (she  had  four  by 
Owen  Tudor)  were  torn  from  her,  which  cruelty 
probably  hastened  the  death  of  the  poor  queen. 
She  was  ill  during  the  summer  and  autumn,  and 
died  January,  1437.  The  nuns,  who  piously  at- 
tended her,  declared  she  was  a  sincere  penitent. 
She  had  disregarded  the  injunctions  of  her  royal 
husband,  Henry  V.,  in  choosing  AVindsor  as  the 
birth-place  of  the  heir  of  England  ;  and  she  had 
never  believed  the  prediction,  that  "  Henry  of 
Windsor  shall  lose  all  that  Henry  of  Monmouth 
had  gained."  But  during  her  illness  she  became 
fearful  of  the  result,  and  sorely  repented  her  dis- 
obedience of  her  husband. 

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CATHARINE,  ST., 
A  SAINT  of  the  Romish  church  canonized  by 
pope  Clement  VII.  She  was  born  at  Bologna  in 
1413,  and  admitted  a  nun  at  Ferrara,  in  1432. 
She  was  afterwards  abbess  of  a  convent  at  Bo- 
logna, where  she  died  in  1463.  She  wrote  a  book 
of  "Revelations,'"  and  several  pieces  in  Latin  and 
Italian, 

CERETA, 
Laura,  an  Italian  lady,  born  at  Brescia,  emi- 
nent for  her  knowledge  of  philosophy  and  the 
learned  languages.  She  became  a  widow  early  in 
life,  and  then  devoted  herself  entirely  to  literary 
labours.  Her  Latin  letters  appeared  at  Padua  in 
1680.  She  died  in  1498,  aged  twenty-nine.  Her 
husband's  name  was  Pedro  Serini. 

CHRODIELDE, 
A  NUN  of  the  convent  founded  by  Radegonde  at 
Poitiers,  was  the  cause  of  the  temporary  disj^er- 
sion  of  this  powerful  community.  Soon  after 
Radegonde' s  death,  which  occurred  in  590,  Chro- 
dielde,  who  pretended  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  the  late  king  Cheribert,  induced  many  of  the 
nuns  to  take  an  oath,  that  as  soon  as  she  succeeded 
in  forcing  the  abbess  Leubovdre  to  leave  the  con- 
vent, by  accusing  her  of  several  crimes,  they  would 
place  her  at  their  head.  She  then,  with  more  than 
forty  nuns,  among  whom  was  Basine,  daughter  of 
Chilperic,  went  to  Tours,  where  she  wished  to 
place  her  companions  under  the  care  of  Gregory, 
bishop  of  Tours,  while  she  went  to  lay  her  com- 
plaint before  Gentran,  king  of  Burgundy.  Gre- 
gory advised  her  to  return,  but  in  vain ;  and 
Chrodielde  went  to  make  her  petition  to  the  king, 
who  promised  to  examine  into  the  cause  of  her 
dissatisfaction.  Chrodielde  would  not  return  to 
the  cloister,  but  went  with  her  companions  into 
the  cathedral  of  St.  Hilary,  while  the  bishops, 
whom  the  king  had  sent,  were  investigating  the 
affair.  Here  she  collected  around  her  for  her  de- 
fence, thieves,  murderers,  and  criminals  of  all 
kinds,  who  drove  away  with  violence  the  bishops 
who  came  to  disperse  them.     Childebert,  king  of 


France,  sent  orders  that  these  disturbances  should 
be  repressed  by  force  if  necessary;  but  Chro- 
dielde, at  the  head  of  her  banditti,  made  such  a 
valiant  resistance,  that  it  was  with  difiBculty  the 
king's  orders  were  executed.  The  abbess  of  St. 
Rixdegonde  was  tried  by  the  tribunal  of  bishops, 
on  the  charges  of  severity,  ill-treatment,  and  sa- 
crilege, which  Chrodielde  had  preferred  against 
her,  and  found  entirely  innocent  of  everything  but 
too  great  indulgence.  Chrodielde  and  her  followers 
were  excommunicated  on  account  of  their  violent 
conduct,  and  their  attack  on  the  convent,  and  on 
the  abbess  Leubov^re,  and  the  nuns,  whom  they 
had  maltreated  and  wounded,  even  in  their  orato- 
ries. Leubov^re  they  had  drawn  through  the 
streets  by  the  hair,  and  afterwards  imprisoned. 

LARA, 

A  NATIVE  of  Assisi,  in  Italy,  of  respectable  pa- 
rentage, early  devoted  herself  to  a  religious  and 
recluse  life.  Her  example  was  followed  by  her 
sister  Agnes,  and  other  female  friends.  She  ob- 
tained from  St.  Francis  d' Assisi  the  church  of 
Damain,  and  became  abbess  of  a  new  order  of 
nuns,  which  she  there  established.  She  died  in 
1193,  aged  one  hundi-ed,  and  was  canonized  by 
Alexander  IV. 

CLELIA, 

A  YOUNG  Roman  girl,  whose  courage  and  pa- 
triotism entitle  her  to  a  place  among  the  distin- 
guished of  her  sex.  She  was  one  of  ten  vii'gins 
who  were  sent  as  hostages  by  the  Roman  senate 
to  Porsena.  The  young  Clelia  hated  the  enemies 
of  her  people,  and  resolved  not  to  live  among 
them.  One  day  while  walking  near  the  Tiber  with 
her  companions,  she  persuaded  them  to  throw 
themselves  with  her  in  the  river,  swim  to  the 
opposite  shore,  and  then  return  to  Rome.  Her 
eloquence  prevailed  upon  them,  and  they  all  reach- 
ed their  home  in  safety,  although  they  had  to  ac- 
complish the  feat  amidst  a  shower  of  arrows  that 
were  poured  upon  them  by  the  enemy.  But  the 
consul,  Publicola,  did  not  approve  of  the  bold 
deed,  and  sent  the  poor  maidens  back  to  king  Por- 
sena's  camp.  Porsena  was  moved  by  the  courage 
of  the  girls  and  the  generosity  of  the  Romans, 
and  gave  them  their  liberty ;  and  to  Clelia  in  ad- 
dition, as  a  mai'k  of  his  particular  esteem,  a  noble 
charger  splendidly  caparisoned.  Rome  then  erect- 
ed, in  the  Via  Sacra,  an  equestrian  statue  in  honour 
of  the  fair  heroine,  wliich  Plutarch  mentions  in 
his  wi'i tings. 

CLOTILDE, 
Wife  of  Clovis,  king  of  France,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Chilperic,  third  son  of  Gandive,  king  of 
Burgundy.  Gandive  dying  in  470,  left  his  king- 
dom to  his  four  sons,  who  were  for  three  years 
engaged  in  a  constant  contest  to  obtain  the  entire 
control  of  the  country.  At  length  the  two  elder 
princes  succeeded.  Chilperic  and  Godemar  were 
murdered,  Chilperic's  wife  was  drowned,  his  two 
sons  killed,  his  eldest  daughter  placed  in  a  con- 
vent, and  Clotilde,  still  very  young,  confined  in  a 
castle.     Clovis,   hearing  of  her  beauty,  virtues, 

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and  misfortunes,  and  besides  wishing  to  have  an 
excuse  for  extending  his  dominions,  sent  to  de- 
mand her  in  marriage  of  her  uncle,  who  was 
afraid  to  refuse  the  alliance,  though  he  foresaw 
the  disasters  it  might  bring  on  his  country.  Clo- 
tilde  was  married  to  Clovis  in  493,  at  Soissons. 
She  then  devoted  her  whole  life  to  the  fulfilment 
of  two  great  designs ;  one  was  to  convert  her 
husband,  still  a  pagan,  to  the  Christian  faith  ;  and 
the  other  to  revenge  on  her  uncle  Gondebaud,  the 
deaths  of  her  father,  mother,  and  brothers.  She 
at  length  succeeded  in  the  first  object,  and  Clovis 
was  baptized  in  496,  together  with  his  sister 
Alboflede  and  three  thousand  warriors,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  a  victory  he  obtained  through  the  inter- 
cession of  the  god  of  Clotilde,  as  he  thought. 
Clovis  next  turned  his  arms  against  Gondebaud, 
and  conquered  him,  but  left  him  in  possession  of 
his  kingdom.  Clovis  died  in  511,  and  Clotilde 
retired  to  Tours,  but  used  all  her  influence  to  in- 
duce her  three  sons  to  revenge  her  injuries  still 
more  effectually ;  and  in  a  battle  with  the  Bur- 
gundians  her  eldest  and  best-beloved  son  Chlodo- 
mir  was  slain.  He  left  three  young  sons,  of  whom 
Clotilde  took  charge,  intending  to  educate  them, 
and  put  them  in  possession  of  their  father's  in- 
heritance. She  brought  them  with  her  to  Paris, 
when  her  two  remaining  sons  obtained  possession 
of  them,  and  sent  to  her  to  know  whether  they 
should  place  them  in  a  monastery  or  put  them  to 
death.  Overcome  by  distress,  Clotilde  exclaimed, 
•'  Let  them  perish  by  the  sword  rather  than  live 
ignominiously  in  a  cloister."  The  two  elder  chil- 
dren were  killed,  but  the  younger  one  was  saved, 
and  died  a  priest.  After  this  catastrophe,  Clo- 
tilde again  retired  to  Tours,  where  she  passed  her 
time  in  acts  of  devotion.  She  died  in  545.  She 
was  bui'ied  at  Paris,  by  the  side  of  her  husband 
and  St.  Genevieve,  and  was  canonized  after  her 
death. 

CLOTILDE, 

The  unfortunate  queen  of  the  Goths,  was  daugh- 
ter of  Clovis  and  Clotilde  of  France.  She  married 
Amalaric,  who  was  an  Arian,  while  she  was  a 
pious  Catholic.  She  was  so  persecuted  by  her 
subjects  for  her  faith,  that  her  life  was  in  danger, 
while  her  bigoted  husband  united  with  her  foes  in 
abusing  her.  She  at  last  applied  to  her  three 
brothers,  who  then  governed  the  divided  kingdom 
of  the  Franks,  sending  to  Chilperic,  king  of  Paris, 
her  eldest  brother,  a  handkerchief  saturated  with 
the  blood  drawn  from  her  by  the  blows  of  her 
barbarous  husband.  Her  brothers  took  up  arms 
to  revenge  her  cause,  and  in  this  bloody  war  the 
cruel  Amalaric  was  slain.  Clotilde  returned  to 
her  native  France,  and  died  soon  after,  about  535. 
She  was  a  pious  and  amiable  woman. 


COLONNA, 
ViTTOEiA,  daughter  of  Fabricio,  duke  of  Pa- 
liano,  was  born  at  Marino  in  1490,  and  married  in 
1507,  Francesco,  Marquis  of  Pescara.  Her  poems 
have  often  been  published,  and  are  highly  and 
deservedly  admired.  Her  husband  died  in  1525, 
and  she  determined  to  spend  the  remainder  of  her 


life  in  religious  seclusion,  although  various  pro- 
posals of  marriage  were  made  to  her.  Her  beauty, 
talents,  and  virtue,  were  extolled  by  her  contem- 
poraries, among  others  by  Michael  Angelo  and 
Ariosto.  She  died  in  1547,  at  Rome.  She  was 
affianced  to  the  Marquis  of  Pescara  in  childhood, 
and  as  they  grew  up  a  very  tender  afi"ection  in- 
creased with  their  years.  Congenial  in  tastes,  of 
the  same  age,  their  union  was  the  model  of  a 
happy  marriage.  Circumstances  showed  whose 
mind  was  of  the  firmer  texture  and  higher  tone. 
Francesco  having  exhibited  extraordinary  valour 
and  generalship  at  the  battle  of  Pavia,  was  thought 
of  importance  enough  to  be  bribed  ;  a  negotiation 
was  set  on  foot  to  offer  him  the  crown  of  Naples, 
if  he  would  betray  the  sovereign  to  whom  he  had 
sworn  fealty.  The  lure  was  powerful,  and  Fran- 
cesco lent  a  willing  ear  to  these  propositions, 
when  Vittoria  came  to  the  aid  of  his  yielding  vir- 
tue. She  sent  him  that  remarkable  letter,  where, 
among  other  things,  she  says,  "Your  virtue  may 
raise  you  above  the  glory  of  being  king.  The  sort 
of  honour  that  goes  down  to  our  children  with 
real  lustre  is  derived  from  our  deeds  and  qualities, 
not  from  power  or  titles.  For  myself,  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  the  wife  of  a  king,  but  of  a  general 
who  can  make  himself  superior  to  the  greatest 
king,  not  only  by  courage,  but  by  magnanimity, 
and  superiority  to  any  less  elevated  motive  than 
duty." 

C  0  M  N  E  N  U  S , 

Anna,  daughter  to  the  Greek  emperor  Alexius 
Comnenus,  floiu-ished  about  1118,  and  wrote  fifteen 
books  on  the  life  and  actions  of  her  father,  which 
she  called  "  The  Alexiad."  Eight  of  these  books 
were  published  by  Hosschelius  in  1610,  and  the 
whole  of  them  with  a  Latin  version  in  1651 ;  to 
another  edition  of  which,  in  1670,  the  learned 
Charles  du  Fresne  added  historical  and  philolo- 
gical notes. 

The  authors  of  the  "Journal  des  Savans,"  for 
1675,  have  spoken  as  follows  of  this  learned  and 
accomplished  lady.  "The  elegance  with  which 
Anna  Comnenus  has  described  the  life  and  actions 
of  her  father,  and  the  strong  and  eloquent  manner 

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with  Tvhich  she  has  set  them  off,  are  so  much 
above  the  ordinary  understanding  of  women,  that 
one  is  almost  ready  to  doubt  whether  she  was  in- 
deed the  author  of  those  books.  It  is  certain  that 
we  cannot  read  her  descriptions  of  countries, 
towns,  rivers,  mountains,  battles,  sieges,  her  re- 
flections upon  particular  events,  the  judgments 
she  passes  on  human  actions,  and  the  digressions 
she  makes  on  many  occasions,  without  perceiving 
that  she  must  have  been  very  well  skilled  in 
grammar,  rhetoric,  philosophy,  mathematics,  phy- 
sic and  divinity ;  all  of  which  is  very  uncommon 
in  any  of  that  sex." 

CONSTANCE, 

Daughter  of  Conan,  duke  of  Brittany,  wife  of 
Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  son  of  Henry  II.,  king  of 
England.  She  was  contracted  to  him  while  they 
were  both  in  the  cradle,  and,  by  her  right,  Geoffrey 
became  duke  of  Brittany.  By  him  she  had  two 
children,  Eleanor,  called  the  Maid  of  Brittany, 
and  Arthur,  who  was  born  after  the  death  of  his 
father.  She  afterwards  married  Ralph  Blunde- 
ville,  earl  of  Chester,  who  suspected  her  of  an 
intrigue  with  John  of  England,  his  most  bitter 
enemy.  He  obtained  a  divorce,  and  Constance 
married  Guy,  brother  of  the  viscount  de  Thouars. 
She  had  by  him  a  daughter,  Alix,  whom  the  Bre- 
tons, on  the  refusal  of  John  to  set  free  her  elder 
sister,  elected  for  their  sovereign.  The  king  of 
France,  and  Richard  Canir  de  Lion,  king  of  Eng- 
land, both  claimed  Brittany  as  a  fief.  Constance, 
to  keep  it  in  her  own  name,  fomented  divisions 
between  the  sovereigns.  On  the  death  of  Richard, 
it  was  found  that  he  had  left  the  kingdom  to  his 
brother  John,  instead  of  his  nephew  Arthur,  to 
whom  it  rightfully  belonged.  Constance  resented 
this  injustice,  and  being  a  woman  of  judgment  and 
courage,  might  have  reinstated  her  son  in  his 
rights,  if  she  had  not  died  before  she  had  an 
opportunity  of  asserting  his  claims.  She  died  in 
1202.  Her  eldest  daughter  was  kept  all  her  life 
in  prison. 

CONTARINI, 

Gabriello  Catterixa,  of  Agolfio.  No  exact 
date  of  her  birth  is  to  be  procured ;  that  she  lived 
towai-ds  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  is  indubi- 
table. She  possessed  a  very  fertile  vein  of  poetic 
fancy.  Her  poetry  manifests  natural  facility  in 
composing,  as  well  as  considerable  erudition.  She 
was  distinguished  for  her  pleasing  manners  and 
solid  virtues.  Her  works  are,  "  Life  of  St.  Fran- 
cesco," a  poem  ;  "  Life  of  St.  Waldo,"  a  poem ;  five 
odes,  seven  canzonets,  and  some  occasional  poems. 

COPPOLI, 

Elena  or  Cecilia,  of  Perugia,  born  1425,  died 
1500.  This  learned  woman  was  the  daughter  of 
Francesco  Coppoli.  In  the  twenty-seventh  year 
of  her  age  she  entered  the  religious  house  of  Santa 
Lucia,  and  became  a  member  of  the  sisterhood. 
She  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  famous  Por- 
cellio,  who  addressed  many  Latin  poems  to  her. 
She  was  not  only  mistress  of  the  Greek  and  Latin, 
but  well  acquainted  with  elegant  literature.     She 


has  left  some  Latin  poems,  "Ascetic  Letters,"  a 
manuscript  life  of  a  certain  sister  Eustachia  of 
]\Iessina,  and  a  "  History  of  the  Monastery  of  St. 
Lucia." 

CORDAUD, 

Isabella  de,  a  beautiful,  rich,  and  accom- 
plished lady,  mistress  of  the  Latin,  Greek,  and 
Hebrew  languages,  took  her  degree  in  theology, 
with  the  title  of  doctor. 


CORNANO, 

Caterina,  queen  of  Cyprus.  At  the  court  of 
James  IV.,  king  of  Cyprus,  resided  a  Venetian 
gentleman,  exiled  for  some  youthful  indiscretions. 
He  found  especial  favour  with  his  adopted  monarch, 
and  rose  to  an  intimate  intercourse  with  him. 
One  day,  happening  to  stoop,  he  let  fall  a  minia- 
ture, which  represented  so  beautiful  a  face  that 
the  king  eagerly  inquired  about  the  original.  After 
stimulating  his  curiosity  by  affecting  a  discreet 
reserve,  he  acknowledged  it  to  be  the  likeness  of 
his  niece.  In  subsequent  conversations  he  artfully 
praised  this  young  lady,  and  so  wrought  upon  the 
sovereign  that  he  resolved  to  take  her  for  his  wife. 
This  honourable  proposal  being  transmitted  to 
Venice,  she  was  adopted  by  the  state,  and  sent  as 
a  daughter  of  the  republic — a  mode  often  adopted 
by  that  oligarchy  for  forming  alliances  with  foreign 
powers.  The  fine  climate  and  rich  soil  of  Cyprus 
—  an  island  so  favoured  by  nature,'  that  the  an- 
cients dedicated  it  to  the  queen  of  beauty  and 
love — had  made  it  always  a  coveted  spot  of  earth. 
After  the  dominion  of  the  Ptolemies,  it  was  go- 
verned successively  by  the  Arabs,  the  Comneni, 
and  the  Templars.  In  1192,  it  fell  into  the  pos- 
session of  Guy  de  Lusignan.  Fourteen  kings  of 
that  house  kept  the  dominion  for  240  years,  until 
the  accession  of  John  III.,  a  weak  man,  who  re- 
signed all  power  to  his  wife  Elena,  a  woman  of 
haughty  disposition,  and  an  object  of  public  dis- 
like. This  king  had  two  children,  a  daughter, 
Carlotta,  married  to  John  of  Portugal,  and  resid- 
ing in  the  island,  and  a  son  who  was  illegitimate, 
James.  Elena,  that  there  might  be  no  danger  of 
his  riv.alling  her  daughter  in  the  succession,  had 

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obliged  him  to  take  monastic  vows ;  and  lie  was 
subsequently  made  archbishop  of  the  kingdom ; 
but  he  entertaining  ambitious  views,  obtained  a 
dispensation,  resigned  his  ecclesiastical  dignity, 
and  upon  the  death  of  his  father  openly  oifered 
himself  as  heir  and  claimant  to  the  throne.  Car- 
lotta  had  lost  her  husband.  She  maintained  an 
opposition  to  her  natural  brother  with  various 
success,  but  the  people  had  imbibed  so  thorough 
a  disgust  of  her  mother's  domination,  that  she  met 
with  obstacles  everywhere,  and  James  obtained 
triumphant  success.  He  had  been  for  some  years 
peaceably  possessed  of  the  crown,  when  he  mar- 
ried the  beautiful  Venetian.  His  wedded  felicity 
was  of  short  duration  ;  he  died,  leaving  the  queen 
in  a  state  of  pregnancy.  Venice  stepped  in  to 
support  her  claims  to  a  regency,  which  she  ob- 
tained without  much  difficulty.  She  gave  birth  to 
a  son,  who  lived  but  two  years.  Here  Carlotta 
appears  again  on  the  scene  ;  she  raised  troops  and 
began  a  war,  but  the  Venetian  republic  had  deter- 
mined upon  the  fate  of  Cyprus.  Her  power  easily 
defeated  the  pretender  Carlotta,  and  when  Cath- 
erine was  proclaimed  qiieen,  as  easily  procured 
her  abdication  in  favour  of  the  state  of  Venice. 
After  various  forms,  and  overpowering  some  op- 
position, Cyprus  was  annexed  to  the  republic  of 
Venice,  in  1489,  the  20th  of  June.  Catherine  re- 
turned to  her  country  and  family,  where  she  passed 
so  obscure  a  life  that  no  historian  has  taken  the 
pains  to  note  the  period  of  her  death. 

Her  name  remains  in  the  archives  of  Venice, 
because  through  her  means  a  kingdom  was  ac- 
quired. Her  features  enjoy  immortality,  for  she 
was  painted  by  Titian. 

CUNEGONDE, 

Daughter  of  Ligefroi,  count  of  Luxembourg, 
married  the  emperor  Henry  II.  of  Germany,  by 
whom  she  had  no  children.  She  has  been  accused 
by  some  historians  of  incontinence,  while  others 
regard  her  as  ill-treated  by  her  husband,  after 
whose  death,  in  1024,  she  retired  to  a  monastery. 


D. 

D'ANDALO,  or  BRANCALEONE  GALEANA. 

Nothing  is  known  of  the  early  youth  of  this 
lady,  but  that  she  belonged  to  the  noble  house  of 
Saviolo  of  Bologna.  She  lived  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  a  melancholy  epoch  for  Italy,  divided, 
and  torn  to  pieces  by  factions  and  princely  dema- 
gogues. In  1251  her  husband,  Brancaleone  D'An- 
dalo,  was  selected  by  the  upper  council  of  Bologna 
to  go  to  Rome,  where  the  imbecile  administration 
wished  to  confer  on  him  the  dignity  of  Senator, 
and  to  obtain  the  advantage  of  his  services  in  ap- 
peasing their  dissensions.  He  declined  going 
until  they  sent  hostages  to  Bologna.  Galeana 
remained  at  Bologna  to  receive  these  noble  Ro- 
mans, and  upon  their  ai-rival  wi'ote  to  her  husband 
a  very  elegant  Latin  letter,  describing  them  and 
their  reception.  She  then  proceeded  to  Rome, 
where  she  found  D'Andalo  precipitated  from  his 


honours — the  caprice  of  popular  favour  had  turned 
—  he  was  in  a  dungeon  and  his  life  menaced. 
Struck  with  horror,  she  sunk  not  under  this  blow, 
but  courageously  presented  herself  to  the  council, 
and  with  a  manly  eloquence  did  this  Bolognese 
matron  appeal  to  the  public  faith ;  and  solemnly 
one  by  one  call  upon  the  weak  and  perfidious  indi- 
■s^iduals  who  had  invited  her  husband  to  this  snare. 
The  good  cause  triumphed;  Galeana  had  the  feli- 
city of  returning  home  with  D'Andalo,  endeared 
to  him  by  her  virtuous  exertions.  She  died  in 
1274. 

DANTI, 

Theodora,  an  Italian  artist,  was  born  at  Peni- 
gia,  in  1498,  and  died  there  in  1573.  She  painted 
small  pictures  in  the  manner  of  Pietro  Peiiigino, 
in  an  excellent  style.  She  also  excelled  in  mathe- 
matics, in  which  science  she  instructed  one  of  her 
nephews,  who,  with  his  aunt,  acquired  great  re- 
putation for  learning. 

DESMOND, 

Catharine  Fitzgerald,  countess  of,  who  at- 
tained the  age  of  one  hundred  and  forty-five  years, 
was  daughter  of  the  house  of  Drumana,  in  the 
county  of  Waterford,  Ireland,  and  second  wife  of 
James,  twelfth  earl  of  Desmond,  to  whom  she  was 
married  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  (1461),  and 
being  on  that  occasion  presented  at  court,  she 
danced  with  the  duke  of  Gloucester,  afterwards 
Richard  III.  The  beauty  and  vivacity  of  lady 
Desmond  rendered  her  an  object  of  attraction  to 
a  very  advanced  age,  and  she  had  passed  her  hun- 
dredth year  before  she  could  refrain  from  dancing, 
or  mingling  in  gay  assemblies.  She  resided  at 
Inchiquin,  in  Munster,  and  held  her  jointure  as 
dowager  from  many  successive  earls  of  Desmond, 
till  the  family  being  by  an  attainder  deprived  of 
the  estate,  she  was  reduced  to  poverty.  Although 
then  one  hundred  and  forty,  she  went  to  London, 
laid  her  case  before  James  I.,  and  obtained  relief. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  well  acquainted  with  this 
lady,  and  mentions  her  as  a  prodigy.  Lord  Bacon 
informs  us  that  she  had  three  new  sets  of  natural 

95 


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teeth.  It  is  uncertain  in  -what  year  she  died ; 
but  she  was  not  living  in  1617,  -when  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  published  his  history. 

DERVORGILLE, 

Lady,  was  widow  of  John  de  Baliol,  of  Bar- 
nard's castle,  in  the  county  of  Durham,  a  man  of 
opulence  and  power  in  the  thirteenth  century,  on 
whom  devolved  the  duty  of  carrying  on  her  hus- 
band's design  of  founding  the  college  called  Baliol 
College,  in  Oxford.  Her  husband  left  no  wi-itten 
deed  for  the  purpose ;  but  his  widow  in  the  most 
honourable  and  liberal  manner  fulfilled  his  desire. 

DODANE, 
Duchess  de  Septimanie,  was  the  wife  of  Ber- 
nard, duke  de  Septimanie,  son  of  William  of  Aqui- 
taine,  whom  she  maiTied,  in  the  palace  of  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  in  June,  824.  She  became  the  mother 
of  two  sons,  William  and  Bernard,  for  whom  she 
wrote,  in  841,  a  book  in  Latin,  called,  The  Aolvice 
of  a  Mother  to  her  Sons.  Some  fragments  of  this 
work  still  remain,  and  do  honour  to  the  good 
sense  and  religious  feeling  of  the  writer.  Dodane 
died  in  842. 

DOETE  DE  TROYES, 
Was  born  in  that  city  in  1220,  and  died  in  12G5. 
She  accomj^anied  her  brother  Sherry,  surnamed 
the  Valiant,  to  the  coronation  of  Conrad,  emperor 
of  Germany,  at  Mayence,  where  she  was  much 
admired  for  her  wit  and  beauty.  She  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  emperor,  but  he  found  her  virtue 
invincible.    She  wrote  poetry  with  ease  and  grace. 

DORCAS,    or   TABITHA, 

(The  first  was  her  name  in  Greek,  the  second 
in  Syriac)  signifies  a  roe,  or  gazelle,  and  was  the 
name,  probably,  given  to  indicate  some  peculiar 
characteristic  of  this  amiable  woman.  Dorcas 
lived  in  Joppa,  now  called  Jaffa,  a  sea-port  upon 
the  eastern  coast  of  the  Mediterranean  sea,  about 
forty-five  miles  north-west  of  Jerusalem.  Dorcas 
had  eai'ly  become  a  convert  to  the  Christian  reli- 
gion, and  must  have  been  a  most  zealous  disciple, 
as  she  "was  full  of  good  works  and  alms-deeds, 
which  she  did."  She  was  not  satisfied  with  advo- 
cating the  right  way,  or  giving  in  charity ;  she 
worked  icith  her  own  hands  in  the  good  cause  —  she 
made  garments  for  the  poor;  she  relieved  the  sick, 
and  she  comforted  those  who  mourned.  We  feel 
sure  she  must  have  done  all  these  deeds  of  love, 
because,  when  she  died,  the  "widows"  were 
"weeping,  and  showing  the  coats  and  garments 
Dorcas  had  made."  Peter,  the  apostle,  was  jour- 
neying in  the  country  near  Joppa  when  Dorcas 
died.  The  disciples  sent  for  him  to  come  and 
comfort  them  in  this  gi-eat  afiliction ;  he  went, 
and  prayed,  and  raised  the  dead  Dorcas  to  life. 

This  was  the  first  miracle  of  raising  the  dead  to 
life  performed  by  the  apostles.  A  woman  was  thus 
distinguished  for  her  "good  works."  And  her 
name  has  since  been,  and  will  ever  continue  to 
be,  synonymous  with  the  holiest  deeds  of  woman's 
charity,  till  time  shall  be  no  more.  Every  "  Dor- 
cas Society  "  is  a  monument  to  the  sweet  and  happy 


memory  of  this  pious  woman,  who  did  her  humble 
alms-deeds  more  than  1800  years  ago.  See  Acts, 
chap,  ix.,  ver.  36  to  43. 

DOUVRE, 

Isabella  de,  of  Bayeux,  in  France,  was  mistress 
to  Robert  the  Bastard,  son  of  Henry  I.  of  England, 
by  whom  she  had  Richard,  bishop  of  Bayeux.  She 
died  at  Bayeux,  at  an  advanced  age,  in  1166. 

DRAHOMIRA, 

Wife  of  duke  Wratislaw  of  Bohemia.  She  was 
a  pagan  when,  in  907,  the  duke  chose  her  for  his 
wife,  but  with  the  condition  that  she  should  be- 
come a  Christian.  She  complied,  yet  adhered  in 
secret  to  her  idolatrous  practices.  She  had  two 
sons,  Winzeslaus  and  Boleslaus  —  the  former  be- 
came a  devoted  Christian,  and  the  latter  adhered 
to  the  idolatry  of  his  mother.  When  the  duke 
died,  she  seized  upon  the  reins  of  government, 
and  endeavoured  to  re-establish  idolatry,  by  per- 
secuting her  Christian  subjects,  and  by  favouring 
the  pretensions  of  her  son  Boleslaus,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  elder  brother,  Winzeslaus.  She 
caused  the  assassination  of  her  pious  mother-in- 
law,  Ludmilea.  The  Christians  became  at  last 
tired  of  her  wicked  conduct,  and  rose  in  rebellion 
against  her.  Her  adherents  were  defeated,  and 
Winzeslaus  was  proclaimed  duke.  But  she  induced 
Boleslaus  to  assassinate  him  at  a  feast  given  by 
her.  Shortly  after  this  horrible  act,  she  was 
killed  by  her  horses,  which  ran  away,  and  dragged 
her  body,  so  that  she  died  with  excruciating 
sufi"ering. 

DRUSILLA    LIVIA, 

Daughter  of  Germanicus  and  Agrippina,  was 
notorious  for  her  licentiousness.  She  openly  mar- 
ried her  brother  Caligula,  who  was  so  tenderly 
attachetl  to  her,  that  in  a  dangerous  illness  he 
made  her  heiress  of  all  his  possessions,  and  com- 
manded that  she  should  succeed  him  in  the  Roman 
empire.  She  died  in  38,  in  the  twenty-third  year 
of  her  life,  and  was  deified  by  her  brother,  who 
built  temples  to  her  honour.  She  was  very  beau- 
tiful. 

DRUSILLA, 

The  third  daughter  of  Herod  Agrippa,  the  go- 
vernor of  Abilene,  was  married  to  Azisus,  king  of 
the  Emessenians,  whom  she  abandoned  that  she 
might  marry  Claudius  Felix,  governor  of  Judea, 
in  53,  by  whom  she  had  a  son  named  Agrippa. 
She  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  of  her 
age.  One  day  Felix  and  Drusilla,  who  was  a 
Jewess,  sent  for  Paul,  and  desired  him  to  explain 
the  Christian  religion.  The  apostle,  with  his  usual 
boldness,  spoke  on  justice,  chastity,  and  the  last 
judgment. 

DUYN, 

Marguerite  de,  abbess  of  the  convent  of  La 
Chartreuse  de  Poletin,  on  the  confines  of  Dau- 
phiny  and  Savoy,  lived  at  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  During  her  life  she  was  considered 
a  saint,  and  she  wrote  several  meditations  in  Latin, 

96 


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remarkable  only  for  the  correctness  and  propriety 
of  the  language.  She  also  wrote  her  own  language 
with  ease,  and  her  works  show  a  cultivation  of 
mind  uncommon  in  those  days. 


E. 

EANFLED, 
Daughter  of  Edwin,  king  of  Northunjbria  and 
Ethelburga,  was  the  first  individual  who  received 
the  sacrament  of  baptism  in  that  kingdom.     She 
afterwards  married  Osmy,  king  of  Mercia. 

EBBA, 
Abbess  of  the  monastery  of  Coldingham  in  Ire- 
land, is  celebrated  for  her  resolution  and  courage. 
The  Danes  having  ravaged  the  country  with  fire 
and  sword,  were  approaching  Coldingham,  when 
Ebba  persuaded  her  nujis  to  disfigure  themselves 
by  cutting  ofi"  their  noses  and  upper  lips,  that 
they  might  be  preserved  from  the  brutality  of  the 
soldiery.  Her  example  was  followed  by  all  the 
sisterhood.  The  barbarians,  enraged  at  finding 
them  in  this  state,  set  fire  to  the  monastery,  and 
consumed  the  inmates  in  the  flames. 

E  D  E  S  I A 

Of  Alexandria,  wife  of  the  philosopher  Hermias. 
She  lived  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century. 
Though  at  an  early  period  of  her  life  a  convert  to 
Christianity,  she  escaped  persecution  on  account 
of  her  faith,  in  consequence  of  the  high  respect 
she  commanded  for  her  virtuous  and  exemplary 
life.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  removed 
to  Athens  to  her  relations. 

The  Fathers  of  the  church  mention  her  in  their 
wi'itings  as  ha^'ing  been  instrumental,  by  her  ex- 
emplary conduct,  in  doing  away  many  prejudices 
entertained  against  the  followers  of  Christ,  and 
in  causing  numbers  to  join  the  church. 

EDITHA, 

Daughter  of  Earl  Godwin,  and  wife  of  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor,  was  an  amiable  and  very 
learned  lady.  Ingulphus,  the  Saxon  historian, 
aflarms  that  the  queen  frequently  interrupted  him 
and  his  school-fellows  in  her  walks,  and  question- 
ed them,  with  much  closeness,  on  their  progress 
in  Latin.  Ingulphus  was  then  a  scholar  at  West- 
minster monastery,  near  Edith's  palace.  She  was 
also  skilful  in  needle-woi-k,  and  kind  to  the  poor. 
Her  character  is  very  interesting,  and  her  heart- 
trials  must  have  been  severe. 

ELEANOR 
Of  Aquitaine,  succeeded  her  father,  William  X., 
in  1137,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  in  the  fine  duchy 
which  at  that  time  comprised  Gascony,  Saintonge, 
and  the  Comte  de  Poitou.  She  married  the  same 
year  Louis  VII.,  king  of  France,  and  went  with 
him  to  the  Holy  Land.  She  soon  gave  him  cause 
for  jealousy,  from  her  intimacy  with  her  uncle, 
Raymond  count  of  Poitiers,  and  with  Saladin ; 
G 


and  after  many  bitter  quarrels,  they  were  divorced 
under  pretence  of  consanguinity,  in  1152. 

Six  weeks  afterwards,  Eleanor  married  Henry 
II.,  duke  of  Normandy,  afterwards  king  of  Eng- 
land, to  whom  she  brought  in  dowry  Poitou  and 
Guienne.  Thence  arose  those  wars  that  ravaged 
France  for  three  hundred  years,  in  which  more 
than  three  millions  of  Frenchmen  lost  their  lives. 

Eleanor  had  four  sons  and  a  daughter  by  her 
second  husband.  In  1162,  she  gave  Guienne  to 
her  second  son,  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  who  did 
homage  for  it  to  the  king  of  France.  She  died  in 
1204.  She  was  very  jealous  of  her  second  hus- 
band, and  showed  the  greatest  animosity  to  all 
whom  she  regarded  as  rivals.  She  is  accused  of 
having  compelled  one  of  his  mistresses,  Rosamond 
Clifford,  generally  called  the  Fair  Rosamond,  to 
drink  poison ;  but  the  story  has  been  shown  to  be 
untrue  by  later  researches.  She  incited  her  sons 
to  rebel  against  their  father,  and  was  in  conse- 
quence thrown  into  prison,  where  she  was  kept 
for  sixteen  years.  She  was  in  her  youth  remark- 
ably beautiful ;  and,  in  the  later  years  of  her 
varied  life,  showed  evidences  of  a  naturally  noble 
disposition.  As  soon  as  she  was  liberated  from 
her  prison,  which  was  done  by  order  of  her  son 
Richard  on  his  accession  to  the  throne,  he  placed 
her  at  the  head  of  the  government.  No  doubt  she 
bitterly  felt  the  utter  neglect  she  had  suffered 
during  her  imprisonment ;  yet  she  did  not,  when 
she  had  obtained  power,  use  it  to  punish  her  ene- 
mies, but  rather  devoted  herself  to  deeds  of  mercy 
and  piety,  going  from  city  to  city,  setting  free  all 
persons  confined  for  violating  the  game-laws, 
which,  in  the  latter  part  of  king  Henry's  life,  were 
cruelly  enforced;  and  when  she  released  these 
prisoners,  it  was  on  condition  that  they  prayed 
for  the  soul  of  her  late  husband.  Miss  Strickland 
thus  closes  her  interesting  biography  of  this  beau- 
tiful but  unfortunate  queen  of  England: — "Elea- 
nor of  Aquitaine  is  among  the  very  few  women 
who  have  atoned  for  an  ill-spent  youth  by  a  wise 
and  benevolent  old  age.  As  a  sovereign  she  ranks 
among  the  greatest  of  female  rulers." 

ELEANOR 

Of  England,  surnamed  the  Saint,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Berenger,  the  fifth  count  of  Provence.  In 
the  year  1236,  she  became  the  wife  of  king  Henry 
III.  of  England,  and  afterward  the  mother  of 
Edward  I.  After  the  death  of  her  husband  she 
entered  the  nunnery  at  Ambresbury,  and  lived 
there  in  the  odour  of  sanctity.  Her  prayers  were 
reputed  to  have  the  power  of  producing  miracles. 

ELGIVA, 

A  BEAUTIFUL  English  princess,  who  married 
Edwy,  king  of  England,  soon  after  he  ascended 
the  throne,  in  955.  She  was  within  the  degree  of 
kindred  prohibited  by  the  canon  law;  and  the 
savage  Dunstan,  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  ex- 
cited a  disaffection  against  the  king  in  conse- 
quence. This  party  seized  the  queen,  and  by  the 
order  of  archbishop  Odo,  branded  her  in  the  face 
with  a  red-hot  iron,  hoping  to  destroy  her  beauty, 
and  carried  her  into  Ireland  to  remain  there  in 

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exile ;  while  Edwy  consented  to  a  divorce.  Elgiva, 
having  completely  recovered  from  her  ■wounds, 
was  hastening  to  the  arms  of  her  husband,  when 
s<he  fell  into  the  hands  of  her  enemies,  and  was 
barbarously  murdered. 

ELISABETH, 
Wife  of  Zacharias,  and  the  mother  of  John  the 
Baptist.  St.  Luke  says  that  she  was  of  the 
daughters  of  Aaron,  of  the  race  of  priests.  Her 
ready  faith,  and  rejoicing  acknowledgment  of  the 
"  Lord,"  show  the  warm  soul  of  a  pious  woman. 
"Elisabeth  was  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost;"  that 
is,  inspired  to  understand  that  her  young  cousin, 
Mary  the  virgin,  would  become  the  mother  of  the 
Messiah.  Thus  was  the  Saviour  foretold,  wel- 
comed and  adored  by  a  woman,  before  he  had 
taken  the  form  of  humanity.  This  tender  sensi- 
bility to  divine  truth,  when  mysteriously  mani- 
fested, has  never  been  thus  fully  understood,  and 
fondly  cherished,  by  any  man.  Do  not  these  ex- 
amples show,  conclusively,  that  the  nature  of 
woman  is  most  in  harmony  with  heavenly  things  ? 
See  St.  Luke,  chap.  i. 

ELISABETH 

Of  York,  daughter  of  Edward  IV.  of  England 
and  Elisabeth  Woodville,  was  born  February  11th, 
1466.  When  about  ten  years  old,  she  was  be- 
trothed to  Charles,  eldest  son  of  Louis  XL  of 
France ;  but  when  the  time  for  the  marriage  ap- 
proached, the  contract  was  broken  by  Louis  XI. 
demanding  the  heiress  of  Burgundy  in  marriage 
for  the  dauphin.  This  so  enraged  her  father,  that 
the  agitation  is  said  to  have  caused  his  death. 
After  the  decease  of  Edward,  Elisabeth  shared  her 
mother's  trials,  and  her  grief  and  resentment  at 
the  murder  of  her  two  young  brothers  by  Richard 

III.  She  remained  with  her  mother  for  some  time 
in  sanctuary,  to  escape  the  cruelty  of  the  king, 
her  iincle ;  and  while  there,  was  betrothed  to 
Henry  of  Richmond.  But  in  March,  1483,  they 
were  obliged  to  surrender  themselves ;  Elisabeth 
was  separated  fi*om  her  mother,  and  forced  to  ac- 
Ivnowledge  herself  the  illegitimate  child  of  Edward 

IV.  On  the  death  of  Anne,  the  queen  of  Richard 
III.,  it  was  rumoured  that  he  intended  to  marry 
his  niece,  Elisabeth,  which  caused  so  much  excite- 
ment in  the  public  mind,  that  Richard  was  obliged 
to  disavow  the  report.  Elisabeth  herself  showed 
such  an  aversion  to  her  uncle,  that  she  was  con- 
fined in  the  castle  of  Sheriff  Hatton,  in  Yorkshire. 
After  the  battle  of  Bosworth,  August  22,  1485,  in 
which  Richard  III.  was  slain,  Henry  of  Richmond 
was  declared  king,  under  the  title  of  Henry  VII. 
of  England ;  and  on  January  18,  1486,  he  was 
married  to  the  princess  Elisabeth, — thuS  uniting 
the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster.  Elisabeth  was 
the  mother  of  several  children ;  the  eldest  of  whom, 
Arthur,  prince  of  Wales,  married,  in  1501,  Katha- 
rine of  Arragon,  afterwards  the  wife  of  his  younger 
brother,  Henry  VIII.,  Arthur  dying  five  months 
after  his  marriage.  Elisabeth  died,  February  11, 
1503,  a  few  days  after  the  birth  of  a  daughter. 
She  was  a  gentle,  pious,  and  well-beloved  prin- 
cess, and  deeply  lamented  by  her  husband,  al- 


though his  natural  reserve  led  him  often  to  be 
accused  of  coldness  towards  her.  She  was  very 
beautiful. 

ELPIS, 
A  LADY  of  one  of  the  most  considerable  families 
of  Messina,  was  the  first  wife  of  the  celebrated 
Boethius,  and  was  born  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
fifth  century.  Like  her  husband,  she  was  devoted 
to  science,  and  shared  his  literary  labours  with 
him.  She  united  all  the  accomplishments  of  the 
head  and  the  heart.  Her  two  sons,  Patritius  and 
Hypatius,  were  raised  to  the  consular  dignity, 
which  Boethius  had  also  several  times  enjoyed. 
Elpis  died  before  the  misfortunes  of  her  husband 
fell  upon  him. 

EMMA, 

AViFE  of  Lothaire,  king  of  France,  was  the 
daughter  of  Otho,  emperor  of  Germany,  and  of  his 
wife  Adelaide.  In  984,  Lothaire  having  taken 
Verdun,  left  his  wife  there  to  guard  it,  who,  the 
next  year,  was  attacked  by  a  large  army.  She 
repulsed  them  at  first,  and  gave  her  husband  time 
to  come  to  her  aid.  Lothaire  died  in  986.  Some 
writers  have  accused  Emma  and  the  bishop  Alde- 
beron  of  having  poisoned  him,  that  they  might 
continue  their  guilty  intercourse ;  but  the  charge 
has  never  been  proved. 

EMMA, 

Daughter  of  Richard  II.,  duke  of  Normandy, 
married  Ethelred,  king  of  England,  with  whom 
she  fled,  on  the  invasion  of  the  Danes.  She  after- 
wards married  Canute  ;  and  when  her  son  Edward, 
called  the  Confessor,  ascended  the  throne,  she 
reigned  conjointly  with  him.  Her  enemy,  the 
earl  of  Kent,  opposed  her ;  and  when  she  appealed 
for  assistance  to  her  relation,  the  bishop  of  Win- 
chester, she  was  accused  of  criminal  intercourse 
with  that  prelate  ;  a  charge  from  which  she  extri- 
cated herself  by  walking  barefoot  and  unhurt  over 
nine  red-hot  ploughshares,  after  the  manner  of 
the  times.  She  passed  the  night  previous  to  her 
trial  in  prayer,  before  the  tomb  of  St.  Swithin ; 
and  the  next  day,  she  appeared  plainly  dressed, 
her  feet  and  legs  bare  to  the  knee,  and  underwent 
the  ordeal,  in  the  presence  of  the  king,  her  son, 
Edward  the  Confessor,  the  nobility,  clergy,  and 
people,  in  the  cathedral  church  at  Winchester. 
Her  innocence  proved  so  miraculous  a  preserva- 
tion that,  walking  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven, 
she  did  not  even  perceive  the  least  reflection  from 
the  heated  irons,  (if  the  old  chronicle  be  true,) 
but  inquired,  after  having  passed  over  them,  when 
they  designed  to  bring  her  to  the  test. 

The  king,  struck  with  the  miracle,  fell  on  his 
knees  before  his  mother,  and  implored  her  pardon ; 
while,  to  expiate  the  injury  done  to  her  and  her 
relation,  the  reverend  prelate,  he  devoutly  laid 
bare  his  shoulders  before  the  bishop,  whom  he 
ordered  to  inflict  on  him  the  discipline  of  the 
scourge. 

Emma,  however,  stripped  by  Edward  of  the  im- 
mense treasures  she  had  amassed,  spent  the  last 
ten  years  of  her  life  in  misery,  in  a  kind  of  prison 
or  convent  at  Winchester,  where  she  died  in  1502. 

98 


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ERMENGARDE,  or  HERMENGARDE. 

The  life  of  this  queen  is  but  a  relation  of  her 
misfortunes.  She  is  not  the  only  woman  to  whom 
misery  has  been  a  monument — to  whom  the  tran- 
quillity of  private  life  would  have  been  oblivion — 
and  to  whom  the  gifts  of  fortune  have  brought 
sorrow  and  celebrity.  The  precise  date  of  her 
birth  is  not  known.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Desiderio  or  Didier,  as  he  is  generally  named  by 
English  writers,  king  of  the  Lombards,  and  his 
queen  Ansa.  Desiderio  was  born  at  Brescia  of 
noble  race,  and  had  succeeded  to  the  throne  of 
Lombardy  by  the  testament  of  Astolfo,  the  last 
monarch  of  the  dynasty  of  Alboinus.  Desiderio 
was  a  renowned  general,  and  also  a  zealous  de- 
fender of  the  Christian  church,  which  at  that  time 
was  not  so  firmly  established  as  to  need  no  sup- 
port from  the  temporal  powers. 

Charlemagne  ascended  the  throne  of  France  in 
768 ;  two  years  after,  his  mother  Bertrade,  making 
a  journey  into  Italy,  was  struck  by  the  flourishing 
state  of  Desiderio's  kingdom,  as  well  as  by  the 
beauty  and  attractive  charms  of  his  daughter  Er- 
mengarde.  She  then  formed  the  plan  of  a  double 
marriage  with  this  family,  allotting  Ermengarde 
to  Charlemagne,  and  her  own  Ciola  to  Adelchi  son 
of  Desiderio.  This  scheme  was  opposed  by  the 
existing  Pope,  Stephen  III.,  who  used  many  argu- 
ments to  dissuade  France  from  the  connection. 
The  influence  of  Bertrade,  however,  prevailed, 
and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  taking  home  with 
her  the  young  princess,  for  whom  she  cherished 
so  warm  an  afi"ection. 

At  first  everything  was  done  to  bring  pleasure 
and  happiness  to  the  young  queen ;  the  particular 
friendship  subsisting  between  her  and  her  mother- 
in-law  has  been  commemorated  by  Manzoni  in 
beautiful  and  touching  poetry.  A  terrible  reverse, 
however,  awaited  her.  Charlemagne,  from  causes 
impossible  now  to  ascertain,  repudiated  her,  and 
sent  her  ignominiously  back  to  her  family.  His 
mother  and  his  nearest  kinsmen  remonstrated,  and 
entreated  him  to  revoke  this  cruel  mandate,  but 
in  vain.  After  a  year  of  deceptive  happiness, 
Ilermengarde  returned  to  the  court  of  Lombardy. 


Her  father  and  brother  received  her  with  the 
utmost  tenderness.  Unfortunately  their  just  in- 
dignation at  the  unmerited  disgrace  of  the  young 
princess,  induced  them  to  attempt  a  fruitless  ven- 
geance against  one  too  decidedly  superior  in  power 
for  any  petty  sovereign  to  cope  with.  A  plan  was 
set  on  foot  to  bring  forward  another  claimant  to 
the  throne  of  France,  to  the  succession  of  which, 
in  modern  days  of  direct  inheritance,  Charlemagne 
would  not  be  considered  wholly  eligible.  For  this 
purpose  armies  were  raised  and  secret  alliances 
courted. 

In  the  mean  time  Ermengarde  received  intelli- 
gence that  her  faithless  husband  had  just  united 
himself  to  the  young  and  lovely  Ildegarde.  This 
was  to  her  a  death-blow.  She  retired  to  a  mon- 
astery founded  by  her  parents,  and  of  which  her 
sister  Anoperge  was  abbess.  Here  her  existence 
was  soon  terminated.  She  died  in  773.  The 
chroniclers  of  that  day  recount  that  Adelard,  a 
cousin  of  Charlemagne,  was  so  disgusted  with  the 
unlawful  marriage  of  his  sovereign  that  he  became 
a  monk,  by  way  of  expiation,  and  carried  to  such 
a  degree  his  devotion  and  austere  piety  that  he 
obtained  the  honours  of  canonization.  Desiderio, 
and  his  son  Adelchi,  after  much  inefl'ectual  valour, 
were  obliged  to  succumb  to  the  genius  and  armies 
of  Charlemagne,  who,  taking  possession  of  their 
states,  obliged  them  to  retire  into  a  monastery  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives. 

EPONINA, 

Wife  of  Julius  Sabinus,  a  Roman  general  na- 
tive of  Langres,  has  been  called  the  heroine  of 
conjugal  affection.  During  the  struggles  of  Otho, 
Vitellius,  and  Vespasian,  for  the  sovereignty  of 
Rome,  Sabinus,  who  pretended  to  trace  his  lineage 
to  Julius  Coesar  by  casting  an  imputation  on  the 
chastity  of  his  grandmother,  put  in  his  claim  to 
the  throne.  Being  defeated,  and  an  immense 
reward  ofi'ered  for  his  head,  he  assembled  his  few 
faithful  friends,  and  acknowledging  his  gratitude 
towards  them,  he  expressed  his  resolution  of  not 
surviving  his  misfortunes,  but  of  setting  his  house 
on  fire  and  perishing  in  the  flames.  They  remon- 
strated in  vain,  and  at  length  were  obliged  to 
leave  him,  in  order  to  preserve  their  own  lives. 
To  a  freedman  of  the  name  of  Martial,  he  alone 
imparted  his  real  intention,  which  was  to  conceal 
himself  in  a  subterranean  cavern,  which  had  com- 
munication with  his  house.  The  superb  mansion 
of  Sabinus  was  then  set  on  fire,  and  the  report  of 
his  death,  with  the  attendant  circumstances,  was 
sent  immediately  to  Vespasian,  and  soon  reached 
Eponina's  ears.  Frantic  with  grief,  she  resolved 
to  put  an  end  to  her  life  also.  For  three  days  she 
refused  every  kind  of  nourishment,  when  Martial, 
hearing  of  her  violent  sorrow,  contrived  to  disclose 
to  her  the  truth,  but  advised  her  to  continue  the 
semblance  of  grief  lest  suspicions  should  arise ; 
but  at  night  he  conducted  her  to  the  cavern,  which 
she  left  before  daybreak. 

Frequent  were  the  •  xcuses  which  Eponina  made 
to  her  friends  for  her  absences  from  Rome  ;  and 
after  a  time,  she  not  only  visited  her  husband  in 
the  evening,  but  passed  whole  days  with  him  in 

99 


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the  cavern.  At  length  her  apprehensions  were 
excited  by  her  situation ;  but  by  rubbing  a  poi- 
sonous ointment  upon  herself,  she  produced  a 
swelling  in  her  legs  and  arms,  so  that  her  com- 
plaint was  thought  to  be  a  dropsy  ;  she  then  retired 
to  the  cave,  and  without  any  medical  assistance, 
she  gave  birth  to  a  boy.  For  nearly  nine  years 
she  continued  to  visit  her  husband  in  his  solitude, 
and  during  that  period  twice  became  a  mother. 
At  length  her  frequent  absences  were  noticed,  she 
was  watched,  and  her  secret  discovered. 

Loaded  with  chains,  Sabinus  was  brought  before 
Vespasian,  and  condemned  to  die.  Eponina  threw 
herself  at  the  feet  of  the  emperor,  and  implored 
him  to  spare  her  husband ;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
she  presented  her  two  children  to  him,  who  joined 
in  the  solicitation,  with  tears  and  entreaties. 
Vespasian,  however,  remained  inflexible,  and 
Eponina,  rising  with  an  air  of  dignity,  said,  "Be 
assured  that  I  know  how  to  contemn  life ;  with 
Sabinus  I  have  existed  nine  years  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  and  with  him  I  am  resolved  to  die." 
She  perished  with  her  husband  about  seventy- 
eight  years  after  the  Christian  era. 

ESTHER, 
A  Jewess,  mistress  to  Casimir  III.,  king  of  Po- 
land in   the  fourteenth  century,  from  whom  she 
obtained  great  privileges  for  her  nation. 

ETIIELBURGA, 

Daughter  of  Ethelbert,  king  of  Kent,  married 
Edwin,  king  of  Northumbria.  He  was  a  very 
brave  and  warlike  prince,  but  a  pagan  when  she 
married  him.  However,  she  won  him  to  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  as  her  mother  Bertha  had  won  her 
father  Ethelbert.  Thus  was  Christianity  planted 
in  England  by  the  faith  and  influence  of  woman. 

ETHELDREDA,  ST., 
Was  a  daughter  of  Anna,  king  of  the  East  An- 
gles, and  Hereswitha  his  queen,  and  was  born 
about  630,  at  Ixming,  a  small  village  in  Suffolk. 
In  673,  she  founded  the  church  and  convent  of 
Ely.  Of  this  monastery  she  was  constituted 
abbess.  The  convent,  with  its  inhabitants,  was 
destroyed  by  the  Danes  in  870. 

ETHELFLEDA,  or  ELFLEDA, 
Eldest  daughter  of  Alfred  the  Great,  and  sister 
of  Edward  I.,  king  of  the  West-Saxons,  was  wife 
to  Etheldred,  earl  of  Mercia.  After  the  birth  of 
her  first  child,  having  suffered  severely  in  child- 
birth, she  made  a  vow  of  chastity,  and  devoted 
herself  to  arms.  She  retained  a  cordial  friend- 
ship for  her  husband,  with  whom  she  united  in 
acts  of  munificence  and  valour.  They  assisted  Al- 
fred in  his  wars  against  the  Danes,  whom  they 
prevented  the  Welsh  from  succouring.  Not  less 
pious  than  valiant,  they  restored  cities,  founded 
abbeys,  and  protected  the  bones  of  departed 
saints. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  in  912,  Ethel- 
fleda  assumed  the  government  of  Mercia;  and, 
emulating  her  father  and  brother,  commanded  ar- 
mies,  fortified  towns,  and  prevented  the  Danes 


from  re-settling  in  Mercia.  Then  carrying  her 
victorious  arms  into  Wales,  she  compelled  the 
Welsh,  after  several  victories,  to  become  her  tribu- 
taries. In  918,  she  took  Derby  from  the  Danes; 
and  in  920,  Leicester,  York,  &c.  Having  become 
famed  for  her  spirit  and  courage,  the  titles  of 
lady  and  queen  were  judged  inadequate  to  her 
merit ;  to  these  she  received,  in  addition,  those  of 
lord  and  king. 

Her  courage  and  activity  were  employed  in  the 
service  of  her  country  till  her  death,  in  922,  at 
Tamworth,  in  Staffordshire,  where  she  was  carry- 
ing on  a  war  with  the  Danes.  She  left  one  daugh- 
ter, Elswina. 

Ethelfleda  was  deeply  regi-etted  by  the  whole 
kingdom,  especially  by  her  brother  Edward,  to 
whom  she  proved  equally  serviceable  in  the  cabi- 
net and  the  field.  Ingulphus,  the  historian,  speaks 
of  the  courage  and  masculine  virtues  of  this  prin- 
cess. 

EUDOCIA, 

Whose  name  was  originally  Athenais,  was  the 
daughter  of  Leontius,  an  Athenian  sophist  and 
philosopher.  She  was  born  about  893,  and  very 
carefully  educated  by  her  father.  Her  progress 
in  every  branch  of  learning  was  uncommon  and 
rapid.  Her  father,  proud  of  her  great  beauty 
and  attainments,  persuaded  himself  that  the  merit 
of  Athenais  would  be  a  suflicient  dowry.  With 
this  conviction,  he  divided,  on  his  death-bed,  his 
estate  between  his  two  sons,  bequeathing  his 
daughter  only  one  hundred  pieces  of  gold. 

Less  sanguine  in  the  power  of  her  charms,  Athe- 
nais appealed  at  first  to  the  equity  and  affection 
of  her  brothers  ;  finding  this  in  vain,  she  took  re- 
fuge with  an  aunt  of  hers,  and  commenced  a  legal 
process  against  her  brothers.  In  the  progress  of 
the  suit,  Athenais  was  carried,  by  her  aunts,  to 
Constantinople.  Theodosius  II.  at  this  time  di- 
vided with  his  sister  Pulcheria  the  care  of  the  em- 
pire ;  and  to  Pulcheria  the  aunts  of  Athenais  ap- 
pealed for  justice.  The  beauty  and  intellect  of 
the  young  Greek  interested  Pulcheria,  who  con- 
trived that  her  brother  should  see  her  and  hear 
her  converse,  without  being  himself  seen.  Her 
slender  and  graceful  figure,  the  regularity  of  her 
features,  her  fair  complexion,  golden  hair,  large 
blue  eyes,  and  musical  voice,  completely  enrap- 
tured the  young  king.  He  had  her  instructed  in 
the  principles  of  the  Greek  church,  which  she  em- 
braced, and  was  baptized,  in  421,  by  the  name  of 
Eudocia.  She  was  then  married  to  the  emperor 
amid  the  acclamations  of  the  capital,  and  after 
the  birth  of  a  daughter,  received  the  surname  of 
Augusta. 

Amidst  the  luxuries  of  a  court,  the  empress 
continued  to  preserve  her  studious  habits.  She 
composed  a  poetical  paraphrase  of  the  first  eight 
books  of  the  New  Testament ;  also  of  the  prophe- 
cies of  Daniel  and  Zachariah ;  to  these  she  added 
a  canto  of  the  verses  of  Homer,  applied  to  the 
life  and  miracles  of  Christ ;  the  legend  of  St.  Cy- 
prian ;  and  a  panegyric  on  the  Persian  victories 
of  Theodosius. 

"  Her  writings,"  says  Gibbon,  "  which  were  ap- 

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plauded  by  a  servile  and  superstitious  age,  have 
not  been  disdained  by  the  candour  of  impartial 
criticism." 

After  the  birth  of  her  daughter,  Eudocia  re- 
quested permission  to  discharge  her  grateful  vows, 
by  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem.  In  her  progress 
through  the  East,  she  pronounced,  from  a  throne 
of  gold  and  gems,  an  eloquent  oration  to  the  Se- 
nate of  Antioch,  to  whom  she  declared  her  inten- 
tion of  enlarging  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  assist- 
ing in  the  restoration  of  the  public  baths.  For 
this  purpose  she  allotted  two  hundred  pounds  of 
gold.  Her  alms  and  munificence  in  the  Holy  Land 
exceeded  that  of  the  great  Helena.  She  returned 
to  Constantinople,  covered  with  honours  and  laden 
with  pious  relics. 

Ambition  now  awoke  in  the  heart  of  Eudocia ; 
aspiring  to  the  government  of  the  empire,  she 
contended  for  power  with  the  princess,  her  bene- 
factress, whom  she  sought  to  supplant  in  the  con- 
fidence of  the  emperor.  But,  in  445,  an  unlucky 
accident  exposed  her  to  the  emperor's  jealousy. 
He  had  given  her  an  apple  of  extraordinary  size, 
which  she  sent  to  Paulinus,  whom  she  esteemed 
on  account  of  his  learning.  Paulinus,  not  know- 
ing whence  it  came,  presented  it  to  the  emperor, 
who  soon  after  asked  the  empress  what  she  had 
done  with  it.  She,  fearing  his  anger,  told  him 
she  had  eaten  it.  This  made  the  emperor  suspect 
that  there  was  too  great  an  intimacy  between  her 
and  Paulinus,  and,  producing  the  apple,  he  con- 
victed her  of  falsehood 

The  influence  of  Pulcheria  triumphed  over  that 
of  the  empress,  who  found  herself  unable  to  pro- 
tect her  most  faithful  adherents :  she  witnessed 
the  disgrace  of  Cyrus,  the  praetorian  prefect, 
which  was  followed  by  the  execution  of  Paulinus, 
whose  great  personal  beauty  and  intimacy  with 
the  empress,  had  excited  the  jealousy  of  Theo- 
dosius. 

Perceiving  that  her  husband's  affections  were 
irretrievably  alienated,  Eudocia  requested  permis- 
sion to  retire  to  Jerusalem,  and  consecrate  the  rest 
of  her  life  to  solitude  and  religion  ;  but  the  ven- 
geance of  Pulcheria,  or  the  jealousy  of  Theodo- 
sius,  pursued  her  even  in  her  retreat.  Stripped 
of  the  honours  due  to  her  rank,  the  empress  was 
disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  surrounding  nations. 
This  treatment  irritated  and  exasperated  her,  and 
led  her  to  commit  acts  unworthy  her  profession  as 
a  Christian  or  a  philosophei*.  But  the  death  of 
the  emperor,  the  misfortunes  of  her  daughter,  and 
the  approach  of  age,  gradually  calmed  her  pas- 
sions, and  she  passed  the  latter  part  of  her  life  in 
building  churches,  and  relieving  the  poor. 

Some  writers  assert  that  she  was  reconciled  to 
Theodosius,  and  returned  to  Constantinople  during 
his  life  ;  others,  that  she  was  not  recalled  till  after 
his  death.  However  this  may  be,  she  died  at  Je- 
rusalem, about  460,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  so- 
lemnly protesting  her  innocence  with  her  dying 
breath.  In  her  last  moments,  she  displayed  great 
composure  and  piety. 

During  her  power,  magnanimously  forgetting 
the  barbarity  of  her  brothers,  she  promoted  them 
to  the  rank  of  consuls   and   prefects :  observing 


their  confusion  on  being  summoned  to  the  imperial 
presence,  she  said,  "Had  you  not  compelled  me 
to  visit  Constantinople,  I  should  never  have  had  it 
in  my  power  to  bestow  on  you  these  marks  of  sis- 
terly affection." 

EUDOCIA,  or  EUDOXIA, 

SuRNAMED  Macrembolitissa,  widow  of  Constan- 
tine  Ducas,  caused  herself  to  be  proclaimed  em- 
press with  her  three  sons,  on  the  death  of  her 
husband,  in  1067.  Romanus  Diogenes,  one  of  the 
greatest  generals  of  the  empire,  attempted  to  de- 
prive her  of  the  crown ;  and  Eudoxia  had  him 
condemned  to  death,  but  happening  to  see  him, 
she  was  so  charmed  by  his  beauty,  that  she  par- 
doned him,  and  made  him  commander  of  the  troops 
of  the  East.  He  there  efi'aced  by  his  valour  his 
former  delinquency,  and  slie  resolved  to  marry 
him.  But  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  a  deed,  then 
in  the  hands  of  the  Patriarch  Xiphilinus,  by  which 
she  had  promised  Constantine  Ducas  never  to 
marry  again.  She  did  this  by  pretending  that  she 
wished  to  espouse  a  brother  of  the  Patriarch,  and 
gave  her  hand  to  Romanus  in  1068.  Three  years 
after,  her  son  INIichael  caused  himself  to  be  pro- 
claimed emperor,  and  shut  her  up  in  a  convent. 

She  had  displayed  the  qualities  of  a  great  sove- 
reign on  the  throne  ;  in  a  convent,  she  manifested 
the  devotion  of  a  recluse.  She  cultivated  litera- 
ture successfully.  There  was  a  manuscript  in  her 
writing  in  the  French  king's  library,  on  the  gene- 
alogies of  the  gods,  and  of  the  heroes  and  hero- 
ines of  antiquity,  showing  a  vast  extent  of  reading. 

E  UP  HE  MIA, 
Flavia  ^Elia  Marcia,  was  married  to  the  em- 
peror Justin  I.  in  518.  She  was  originally  a 
slave,  of  what  country  is  not  known ;  but  she  was 
mistress  to  Justin  before  he  married  her.  She 
died  before  the  emperor,  about  the  year  523, 
without  children.  She  owed  her  elevation  to  her 
fidelity,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition. 

EUSEBIA, 

AuRELiA,  the  wife  of  Constantius,  emperor  of 
the  East,  was  a  woman  of  genius  and  erudition, 
but  strongly  addicted  to  the  Arian  heresy ;  in 
support  of  which  she  exerted  her  influence  over 
her  husband,  which  was  considerable.  Few  of 
the  empresses  had  been  so  beautiful  or  so  chaste. 
She  prevailed  on  Constantius  to  give  his  sister 
Helena  to  Julian,  and  to  name  him  Ciesar.  Many 
virtues  are  allowed  her  by  historians ;  among 
others,  those  of  compassion  and  humanity.  She 
left  no  children,  and  died  in  360,  much  regretted 
by  her  husband. 

EUSEBIA, 

Abbess  of  St.  Cyr,  or  St.  Saviour,  at  Marseilles, 
is  said  by  French  writers  to  have  cut  off  her  nose, 
like  the  abbess  of  Coldingham  in  England,  to  se- 
cure herself  from  ravishers,  and  her  nuns  are  said 
to  have  followed  her  example.  This  took  place 
in  731,  when  the  Saracens  invaded  Provence.  The 
catastrophe  of  the  tale  in  both  countries  is,  that 
the  ladies  were  murdered  by  the  disappointed  sa- 

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vages.  These  tales  may  not  be  wholly  true,  yet 
that  they  were  considered  probable,  shows  the 
awful  condition  of  society  in  those  dark  ages. 

EUSTACHIUM, 

Daughter  of  Paula,  a  Roman  lady  of  ancient 
family,  was  learned  in  Greek  and  Hebrew,  as  well 
as  in  the  Latin  language,  so  that  she  could  read 
Hebrew  psalms  fluently,  and  comment  ably  upon 
them.  She  was  many  years  a  disciple  of  St.  Je- 
rome, and  followed  him  in  his  journeys  to  different 
places.  He  speaks  of  her  in  high  terms  in  his 
epistles,  and  in  the  life  of  St.  Paula.  She  lived 
in  a  monastery  at  Bethlehem,  till  she  was  forced 
from  it  by  a  kind  of  persecution  said  to  have  been 
excited  by  the  Pelagians.     She  died  about  419. 


F. 


FALCONBERG, 
Mary,  countess  of,  the  third  daughter  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  was  a  lady  of  great  beauty,  and  greater 
spirit ;  she  was  the  second  wife  of  Thomas,  lord 
viscount  Falconberg.  Bishop  Burnet,  who  calls 
her  a  wise  and  worthy  woman,  says,  that  "  she 
was  more  likely  to  have  maintained  the  post  of 
protector  than  either  of  her  brothers."  There 
was  a  common  saying  about  her,  "  that  those  who 
wore  breeches  deserved  petticoats  better ;  but  if 
those  in  petticoats  had  been  in  breeches,  they  would 
have  held  faster."  After  her  brother,  Richard 
Cromwell,  was  deposed,  who,  as  she  well  knew, 
was  never  formed  to  reign,  she  exerted  herself  in 
behalf  of  Chai-les  II.,  and  is  said  to  have  had  a 
great  and  successful  hand  in  his  restoration.  It 
is  certain  that  her  husband  was  sent  to  the  Tower 
by  the  commission  of  safety  a  little  while  before 
that  event  took  place,  and  that  he  stood  very  high 
in  the  king's  favour.  She  died  March  14th,  1712, 
much  respected  for  her  munificence  and  charity. 

FALCONIA, 
Proba,  a  Roman  poetess,  flourished  in  the 
reign  of  Theodosius ;  she  was  a  native  of  Horta, 
or  Hortanum,  in  Etruria.  There  is  still  extant 
by  her,  a  cento  from  Virgil,  giving  the  sacred 
history  from  the  creation  to  the  deluge ;  and 
"  The  History  of  Christ,''  in  verses  selected  from 
that  poet,  introduced  by  a  few  lines  of  her  own. 
She  has  sometimes  been  confounded  with  Anicia 
Faltonia  Proba,  the  mother  of  three  consuls,  and 
with  Valeria  Proba,  wife  of  Adelsius,  the  procon- 
sul.    She  lived  about  438. 

FANNIA, 
Daughter  of  Paetus  Thrasea,  and  grand-daugh- 
ter of  Arria,  was  the  wife  of  Helvidius,  who  was 
twice  banished  by  Domitian,  emperor  of  Rome,  in 
81,  and  who  was  accompanied  each  time  into 
exile  by  his  devoted  wife.  Fannia  being  accused 
of  having  furnished  Senecio  with  materials  for 
writing  the  life  of  Helvidius,  boldly  avowed  the 
fact,  but  used  the  greatest  precaution  to  prevent 
her  mother  from  being  involved  in  the  transaction. 


She  was  as  gentle  as  magnanimous,  and  fell  a  vic- 
tim to  the  unremitting  tenderness  with  which  she 
watched  over  a  young  vestal,  Junia,  who  had  been 
entrusted  to  her  care,  when  ill,  by  the  high  priest. 

FATIMEH, 

The  only  daughter  of  Mahomet,  and  mother  of 
all  Mahommedan  dynasties,  was  born  at  Mecca. 
In  the  year  623,  she  married  her  cousin  Ali,  who 
afterwards  became  Caliph.  Turkish  writers  assert 
that  the  archangels  Michael  and  Gabriel  acted  as 
guardians  to  the  bride,  and  that  70,000  angels 
joined  the  procession.  One  of  her  descendants 
founded  the  dynasty  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Fathemir  Caliphs  who  reigned  in  Africa  and  Syria. 
Fatimeh  died  a  few  months  after  her  father. 


FAUSTINA, 
Annia  Galeria,  called  the  elder  Faustina,  was 
the  daughter  of  Annius  Verus,  prefect  of  Rome, 
and  wife  of  the  emperor  Titus  Antoninus  Pius. 
Her  beauty  and  wit  were  of  the  highest  order,  but 
her  conduct  has  been  represented  as  dissolute  in 
the  extreme.  Still  the  emperor  built  temples  and 
struck  coins  to  her  honour ;  yet  it  is  reported 
even  when  he  discovered  her  debaucheries  he 
favoured  without  resenting  them.  Such  a  course 
of  conduct  in  a  man  represented  as  the  wisest  of 
sovereigns,  and  a  model  of  private  and  domestic 
virtues,  is  hardly  credible.  That  he  loved  her 
with  constancy  and  confidence  during  her  life,  and 
raised  temples  to  her  virtues,  and  altars  to  her 
divinity  after  her  death,  are  matters  of  history. 
There  is  a  beautiful  medal  of  his  reign  still  extant, 
representing  Antoninus  Pius  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  reverse  Faustina  ascending  to  heaven,  with  a 
lighted  torch,  under  the  figure  of  Diana.  Surely 
Antoninus  must  himself  have  had  faith  in  the  vir- 
tues of  his  wife.  But  she  was  beautiful  and 
witty :  such  women  will  be  envied  and  slandered, 
as  well  as  loved  and  praised.  She  died  in  141,  at 
the  age  of  about  thirty-seven. 

FAUSTINA,   ANNIA, 
Daughter  of  the  former,  and  wife  of  the  em- 
peror Marcus  Aurelius,  surpassed  her  mother  in 

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the  dissoluteness  of  her  manners.  Without  being 
as  regularly  handsome,  she  was  attractive,  lively, 
and  witty ;  daughter  of  a  prince,  who,  though  he 
deeply  regretted  crimes,  was  very  unwilling  to 
punish  them,  and  wife  to  a  philosopher  who  held 
it  a  duty  to  pardon  all  offences,  she  met  with  no 
restraints  to  her  inclinations :  yet  even  she  had 
her  temples  and  her  pi-iests.  Marcus,  in  his  Me- 
ditations, thanks  the  gods  for  a  wife  so  tract- 
able, so  loving,  and  so  unaifected.  She  attended 
him  into  Asia,  where  he  went  to  suppress  the  re- 
volt of  Cassius,  and  there  died,  near  mount 
Laurus,  in  175.  There  was  a  third  Faustina, 
grand-daughter  of  this  one,  who  was  the  third 
wife  of  Heliogabalus,  but  was  soon  neglected  by 
him.  She  was  very  unlike  her  female  ancestors, 
except  in  beauty. 

FAUSTINA, 

Flavia  Maximiana,  was  the  second  wife  of 
Constantine  the  Great.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Maximian  Hercules,  and  sister  to  Maxentius. 
Her  father  having  received  the  title  of  Augustus 
in  306,  took  her  into  Gaul,  where  he  gave  her  in 
marriage  to  the  emperor  Constantine.  She  was 
for  a  long  time  a  most  exemplary  wife  and  mother, 
and  a  strenuous  advocate  with  the  emperor  for  all 
acts  of  indulgence  and  liberality  to  the  people. 
She  even  sacrificed  her  father's  life  to  her  husband, 
by  discovering  to  Constantine  a  plot  for  his  de- 
struction. She  has  been  accused  of  staining  the 
last  years  of  her  life  by  the  commission  of  many 
crimes ;  among  others,  that  of  causing  the  death 
of  Crispus,  the  son  of  Constantine  by  a  former 
wife,  by  false  accusations ;  and,  it  is  said,  that 
the  emperor  revenged  his  honour,  and  his  son's 
death,  by  causing  her  to  be  suffocated  in  a  warm 
bath,  in  327.  The  truth  of  these  latter  circum- 
stances has  been  much  doubted. 

FELICITAS, 

An  illustrious  Roman  lady,  who  lived  in  162, 
during  the  persecution  carried  on  against  the 
Christians  by  the  emperor  Marcus  Aurelius,  was 
a  devout  Christian.  She  had  also  brought  up  her 
seven  sons  in  the  same  faith.  They  were  seized, 
and  Felicitas  was  threatened  with  her  own  death 
and  that  of  all  her  family,  if  she  did  not  give  up 
her  religion  ;  but  she  was  inflexible,  and  the  sons 
also  remaining  steadfast,  they  all  suffered  cruel 
deaths,  the  mother  being  executed  last. 

FIDELIS,  CASSANDRA, 
A  Venetian  lady,  died  in  1558,  aged  100.  De- 
scended from  ancestors  who  had  changed  their 
residence  from  Milan  to  Venice,  and  had  uniformly 
added  to  the  respectability  of  their  rank  by  their 
uncommon  learning,  she  began  at  an  early  age  to 
prosecute  her  studies  with  great  diligence,  and 
acquired  such  a  knowledge  of  the  learned  lan- 
guages, that  she  may  with  justice  be  enumerated 
among  the  first  scholars  of  the  age.  The  letters 
which  occasionally  passed  between  Cassandra  and 
Politian,  demonstrate  their  mutual  esteem,  if  in- 
deed such  an  expression  be  sufficient  to  charac- 
terize the  feelings  of  Politian,  who  expresses,  in 


language  unusually  florid,  his  high  admiration  of 
her  extraordinary  acquirements,  and  his  expecta- 
tion of  the  benefits  which  the  cause  of  letters 
would  derive  from  her  labours  and  example.  In 
the  year  1491,  the  Florentine  scholar  made  a  visit 
to  Venice,  when  the  favourable  opinion  he  had 
formed  of  her  writings  was  confirmed  by  a  per- 
sonal interview. 

"  Yesterday,"  says  he,  wi-iting  to  his  great  pa- 
tron, Lorenzo  de  Medicis,  "I  paid  a  visit  to  the 
celebrated  Cassandra,  to  whom  I  presented  your 
respects.  She  is,  indeed,  Lorenzo,  a  surprising 
woman,  as  well  from  her  acquirements  in  her  own 
language,  as  in  the  Latin ;  and,  in  my  opinion, 
she  may  be  called  handsome.  I  left  her,  aston- 
ished at  her  talents.  She  is  much  devoted  to  your 
interests,  and  speaks  of  you  with  great  esteem. 
She  even  avows  her  intention  of  visiting  you  at 
Florence,  so  that  you  may  prepare  yourself  to 
give  her  a  proper  reception." 

From  a  letter  written  by  this  lady,  many  years 
afterwards,  to  Leo  X.,  we  learn  that  an  epistolary 
correspondence  had  subsisted  between  her  and  Lo- 
renzo de  Medicis ;  and  it  is  with  concern  we  find, 
that  the  remembrance  of  this  intercourse  was 
revived,  in  order  to  induce  the  pontiff  to  bestow 
upon  her  some  pecuniary  assistance,  she  being 
then  a  widow,  with  a  numerous  train  of  depend- 
ants. She  lived,  however,  to  a  more  advanced 
period,  and  her  literary  acquirements,  and  the 
reputation  of  her  early  associates,  threw  a  lustre 
upon  her  declining  years ;  and,  as  her  memory 
remained  unimpaired  to  the  last,  she  was  resorted 
to  from  all  parts  of  Italy  as  a  living  monument 
of  those  happier  days,  to  which  the  Italians  never 
reverted  without  regret.  The  letters  and  orations 
of  this  lady  were  published  at  Pavia,  in  1636, 
with  some  account  of  her  life.  She  wrote  a  volume 
of  Latin  poems  also,  on  various  subjects. 

She  is  thus  spoken  of  by  M.  Thomas,  in  his 
"Essay  on  Women."  "One  of  the  learned  wo- 
men in  Italy,  who  wi'ote  equally  well  in  the  three 
languages  of  Homer,  Virgil,  and  Dante,  in  verse 
and  in  prose,  who  possessed  all  the  philosophy  of 
her  own  and  the  preceding  ages,  who,  by  her 
graces,  embellished  even  theology  ;  sustained  the- 
ses with  eclat,  and  many  times  gave  public  lessons 
at  Padua ;  who  joined  to  her  various  knowledge, 
agreeable  talents,  particularly  music,  and  exalted 
her  talents  by  her  virtue.  She  received  homage 
from  sovereign  pontiffs  and  kings  ;  and,  that  eve- 
rything relating  to  her  might  be  singular,  lived 
more  than  a  century." 

FLORE    DE    ROSE, 

Was  a  French  poetess  of  the  13th  century. 
Very  few  of  her  writings  are  now  extant. 

FLORINE, 
Daughter  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  was  be- 
trothed to  Suenon,  king  of  Denmark,  and  accom- 
panied this  prince  to  the  first  crusade,  in  1097. 
She  was  to  have  married  him  immediately  after 
the  conquest  of  Jerusalem.  But  they  were  both 
killed  in  a  battle,  with  all  their  companions.  Not 
one  was  left  to  bury  the  slain. 

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FREDEGONDE, 

A  WOMAN  of  low  birth,  but  of  great  beauty,  in 
the  service  of  the  queen  Andowere,  wife  of  Chil- 
peric,  king  of  Normandy,  resolved  to  make  herself 
a  favourite  of  the  king.  To  effect  this,  she  in- 
duced Andowere,  who  had  just  given  birth,  in  the 
absence  of  Chilperic,  to  her  fourth  child,  a  daugh- 
ter, to  have  it  baptized  before  its  father's  return, 
and  to  officiate  herself  as  godmother.  The  queen 
did  so,  not  aware  that  by  placing  herself  in  that 
relation  to  her  child,  she,  by  the  laws  of  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  church,  contracted  a  spiritual  rela- 
tionship with  the  child's  father  that  was  incom- 
patible with  marriage ;  and  the  bishop,  probably 
bribed  by  Fredegonde,  did  not  make  the  least  ob- 
jection. On  Chilperic's  return,  Fredegonde  ap- 
prised him  of  this  inconsiderate  act  of  his  wife, 
and  the  king,  struck  by  her  beauty,  willingly 
consented  to  place  Andowere  in  a  convent,  giving 
her  an  estate  near  Mans,  and  took  Fredegonde 
for  a  mistress. 

Chilperic,  not  long  after,  married  Galswintha, 
eldest  sister  of  Brunehaut,  queen  of  Austrasia, 
and  Fredegonde  was  dismissed.  But  the  gentle 
Galswintha  soon  died,  strangled,  it  is  said,  in  her 
bed,  by  order  of  the  king,  who  was  instigated  by 
Fredegonde.  Fredegonde  then  persuaded  Chil- 
peric to  marry  her,  and  from  that  time  her  ascend- 
ency over  him  ceased  only  with  his  life. 

Brunehaut  urged  her  husband,  Siegbert,  who 
was  the  brother  of  Chilperic,  to  avenge  her  sister's 
murder,  and  a  war  ensued,  closed  by  a  treaty,  by 
which  Chilperic  gave  up  five  important  cities, 
in  order  to  preserve  his  kingdom.  This  treaty 
wounded  the  pride  of  Fredegonde,  and  at  her  in- 
«5tigation,  Chilperic  again  took  up  arms,  but  was 
unsuccessful ;  and  the  Normans,  alarmed  by  the 
threats  of  Siegbert,  who  was  approaching  Paris, 
offered  to  renounce  their  allegiance  to  Chilperic, 
and  recognise  him  as  their  king.  This  announce- 
ment plunged  Chilperic  into  a  stupor,  from  which 
nothing  could  arouse  him ;  but  Fredegonde,  whom 
danger  only  stimulated  to  greater  activity,  sent 
two  emissaries,  devoted  to  her  service,  to  Sieg- 
bert's  camp,  armed  with  poisoned  daggers,  with 
orders  to  approach  him,  and  while  saluting  him 
as  king,  to  kill  him.  She  promised  them  great 
wealth  and  honours,  if  they  escaped,  and  if  they 
died,  to  obtain  their  everlasting  salvation.  They 
succeeded  in  killing  Siegbert,  while,  carried  on  a 
buckler,  he  was  receiving  the  homage  of  the  people 
as  king  of  Normandy ;  but  in  the  struggle  that 
ensued,  they  were  slain. 

The  murder  of  Siegbert,  and  the  dispersion  of 
his  army,  restored  the  kingdom  to  Chilperic  and 
Fredegonde.  No  sooner  was  the  queen  firmly 
seated  on  her  throne,  than  she  resumed  her  plans 
which  had  been  interrupted  by  these  disturbances. 
These  were  to  accomplish  the  destruction  of  the 
two  remaining  sons  of  Andowere  and  Chilperic, 
Merovaeus  and  Clovis ;  and  she  had  Merovaeus, 
who  had  married  Brunehaut,  assassinated.  But 
these  projects  were  interrupted  for  a  short  time 
by  a  plague,  which  ravaged  France  in  580,  of 
which  one  of  the  three  sons  of  Chilperic  died,  and 


which  attacked  the  other  two.  In  great  terror, 
Fredegonde  induced  Chilperic  to  relieve  the  people 
from  the  heavy  taxation  to  which  he  had  sub- 
jected them,  hoping  to  avert  the  wrath  of  God ; 
but  her  two  sons  died,  and  Fredegonde  became 
more  ferocious  than  ever.  Clovis,  Andowere's 
youngest  son,  was  still  living ;  and  the  idea  that 
it  was  for  him,  and  not  for  her  own  children,  that 
she  had  struggled,  caused  her  transports  of  rage. 
She  exposed  him  to  the  plague ;  but  he  recovered, 
and  denounced  Fredegonde  with  so  much  bitter- 
ness, that,  alarmed,  she  had  him  assassinated, 
under  pretext  that  he  had  caused  the  death  of  his 
brothers.  She  implicated  Andowere  in  the  same 
crime,  and  made  her  suffer  a  cruel  death  ;  and  the 
only  daughter  of  the  unhappy  queen  was  shut  up 
in  a  convent. 

In  584,  another  child  of  Fredegonde  died,  and 
Chilperic  was  assassinated  on  his  retm-n  from 
hunting.  This  act  was  said  to  have  been  com- 
mitted by  orders  of  Fredegonde,  because  the  king 
had  discovered  an  intrigue  she  was  carrying  on 
with  Landerick,  one  of  the  most  powerful  noble- 
men in  Normandy.  She  then  took  refuge  in  Paris, 
with  an  infant  son,  Clotaire,  the  only  one  of  five 
children  that  remained  to  her,  and  placed  herself 
under  the  protection  of  Gonthramn,  king  of  Bur- 
gundy, who  sent  her  to  Rueil,  a  royal  domain  near 
Rouen,  retaining  her  son  under  his  protection. 

Furious  at  this  exile,  and  the  loss  of  her  power, 
which  she  attributed  to  Brunehaut,  she  sent  an 
emissary  to  Austrasia  to  assassinate  her ;  but  his 
design  was  discovered,  and  Brunehaut  sent  him 
back  with  contempt.  Fredegonde  was  so  exaspe- 
rated at  his  failure,  that  she  had  his  hands  and 
feet  cut  off.  She  also  sent  two  men  to  assassinate 
Brunehaut's  son,  Childebert,  who  had  succeeded 
his  father,  Siegbert,  in  the  kingdom,  and  another 
one  to  murder  Gonthramn ;  but  both  attempts 
were  discovered  and  frustrated. 

Gonthramn  died  in  595,  and  Fredegonde,  freed 
from  a  yoke  which  she  had  long  worn  with  impa- 
tience, raised  an  army  in  the  south  of  Normandy, 
and  invaded  the  Soissonnais,  assisted  by  Lande- 
rick. She  put  to  flight  the  young  Theobert, 
son  of  Childebert,  whom  his  father  had  made  king 
of  Soissons,  and  the  ancient  capital  of  the  kingdom 
of  Chilperic  was  restored  to  his  son.  An  army  of 
Austrasians,  Burgimdians,  and  Franks,  came  to 
dispossess  her;  but  the  queen,  hearing  of  their 
approach,  raised  an  army,  and  at  their  head,  with 
her  son  Clotaire  in  her  arms,  she  rode  all  night, 
and  arriving  at  daybreak  at  the  enemy's  camp, 
she  awoke  the  Austrasians  with  her  trumpets, 
and  attacking  them  so  suddenly,  put  them  to 
flight.  They  rallied,  however,  and  a  bloody  battle 
ensued,  in  which  the  Normans  were  victorious ; 
but  so  many  on  both  sides  were  slain,  tEat  the 
people  compelled  Brunehaut  and  Fredegonde  to 
make  peace. 

Childebert  died  in  596,  and  Fredegonde,  with 
her  usual  activity,  seized  the  favourable  moment 
to  recover  Paris  from  Brunehaut,  left  regent  on 
her  son's  death.  This  caused  another  battle  be- 
tween the  rival  queens,  in  which  Fredegonde  was 
again  victorious  ;  but  while  she  was  preparing  to 

104 


GA 


HE 


profit  by  her  victory,  she  died  suddenly  in  597, 
leaving  her  son  Clotaire,  then  only  thirteen,  under 
the  care  of  Landerick,  mayor  of  the  palace.  She 
was  buried  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Vincent,  since 
St.  Germain-des-Pres.  Half  of  the  cruelties  com- 
mitted by  this  woman,  whose  ambition  and  intel- 
lect seem  to  have  been  equalled  only  by  her  crimes, 
have  not  been  related.  She  tortured  and  murdered 
without  the  slightest  remorse  all  who  opposed  her 
will.  The  only  womanly  aifection  she  exhibited 
was  her  love  for  her  children ;  but  this,  corrupted 
by  her  wicked  heart,  was  the  cause  of  many  of 
her  crimes. 

FRITIGILA, 

Queen  of  the  Marcomans,  lived  in  396.  Being 
instructed  in  Christianity  by  the  wi'itings  of  Am- 
brose, she  embraced  it  herself,  and  induced  her 
husband  and  the  whole  nation  to  do  the  same. 
By  her  persuasion,  they  entered  into  a  durable 
alliance  with  the  Romans ;  so  that,  in  the  various 
irruptions  of  the  barbarians  on  the  empire,  the 
Marcomans  are  never  mentioned  by  historians, 
though  only  separated  by  the  Danube. 


G. 

GABRIELLE  de  BOURBON, 
Daughter  of  count  de  Montpensier,  married, 
in  1485,  Louis  de  la  Tremouille,  a  man  who  filled 
with  honour  the  highest  offices  of  the  state.  He 
was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Pavia  in  1525.  Her 
son  Charles,  count  of  Talmond,  was  also  killed  at 
the  battle  of  Marignan  in  1515 ;  and  she  died  in 
1516.  Her  virtues  were  very  great;  and  some 
published  treatises  remain  as  proofs  of  her  devoted 
piety.  She  passed  her  time  chiefly  in  solitude  ; 
for  she  had  formed  a  resolution  to  withdraw  from 
the  court,  whenever  her  husband's  duties,  as  an 
officer  in  the  king's  army,  compelled  him  to  be 
absent.  Charitable,  as  well  as  magnificent  in  her 
tastes,  no  person  in  want  ever  left  her  unsatisfied. 
She  employed  an  hour  or  two  daily  with  her 
needle ;  the  rest  of  her  time  was  spent  in  reading, 
writing,  in  her  devotional  duties,  or  in  instructing 
the  young  girls  by  whom  she  liked  to  surround 
herself.  She  also  took  great  care  of  the  education 
of  her  son,  who  amply  repaid  all  her  trouble.  She 
died  of  grief  at  his  loss.  Her  works  are  a  "  Con- 
templation of  the  Nativity  and  Passion  of  Jesus 
Christ;"  "  The  Instruction  of  Young  Girls  ;"  and 
two  other  religious  works. 

GALERIA, 
Wife  of  Vitellius,  emperor  of  Rome  in  69,  dis- 
tinguished herself  in  a  vicious  age,  by  exemplary 
wisdom  and  modesty.    After  the  tragical  death  of 
her  husband,  she  passed  her  days  in  retirement. 

GAMBARA, 
Veronica,  an   Italian   lady,  born   at  Brescia. 
She  married  the  lord  of  Correggio,  and  after  his 
death  devoted  herself  to  literature  and  the  educa- 
tion of  her  two  sons.    She  died  in  1550,  aged  sixty- 


five.  The  best  edition  of  her  poems  and  her  letters 
is  that  of  Brescia,  in  1759.  She  was  born  in  1485  ; 
her  father,  count  Gian  Francesco  Gambara,  was 
of  one  of  the  most  distinguished  Italian  families. 
Very  early  she  manifested  a  particular  love  for 
poetry,  and  her  parents  took  pleasure  in  cultivating 
her  literary  taste.  Her  marriage  with  the  lord 
Correggio  was  one  of  strong  mutual  attachment. 
Her  husband,  who  was  devoted  to  her,  delighted 
in  the  homage  everywhere  paid  to  her  talents  and 
charms.  In  1515,  she  accompanied  him  to  Bo- 
logna, where  a  court  was  held  by  the  pope,  Leo  X., 
to  do  honour  to  Francis  I.,  of  France.  That  gal- 
lant monarch  was  frequently  heard  to  repeat  that 
he  had  never  known  a  lady  so  every  way  accom- 
plished as  Veronica.  Her  domestic  happiness  was 
of  short  duration ;  death  snatched  away  Correggio 
from  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  this  world  could 
afford.  The  grief  of  Veronica  was  excessive.  She 
had  her  whole  house  hung  with  black ;  and  though 
very  young  at  the  time  of  her  widowhood,  never 
wore  anything  but  black  during  the  remainder  of 
her  life.  On  the  door  of  her  palace  she  caused  to 
be  inscribed  the  following  lines  from  Virgil : — 

Ille  meos  primus  qui  me  sibi  junxit  amores 
Abstulit :  ille  habeat  secum,  servet  que  sepulchro. 

All  this  has  an  air  of  ostentation  which  seldom 
accompanies  real  sensibility ;  but  the  subsequent 
conduct  of  the  lady  was  entirely  consistent  with 
her  first  demonstrations.  She  turned  a  deaf  ear 
to  many  suitors  who  sought  her  hand,  and  devoted 
herself  to  the  education  of  her  two  sons,  and  the 
administration  of  their  property.  Her  labours 
were  crowned  with  remarkable  success ;  the  one 
becoming  a  distinguished  general,  highly  valued 
by  his  sovereign  ;  the  other  a  cardinal,  eminent  for 
piety  and  learning.  Her  leisure,  in  the  meantime, 
was  employed  in  the  study,  not  only  of  elegant 
literature,  but  of  theology  and  philosophy.  Her 
brother  Uberto,  being  made  governor  of  Bologna, 
in  1528,  by  Clement  VII.,  she  removed  her  resi- 
dence to  that  city,  where  she  frequently  enter- 
tained at  her  house  the  eminent  literati  of  the 
day ;    among  whom   may  be   mentioned   Bembo, 

105 


OE 


GO 


Capello,    Mauri,    and   ]\Iolza.      She   enjoyed   the  i 
highest  esteem  among  her  contemporaries ;   and 
appears  to  have  been  as  remarkable  for  her  virtues 
as  for  her  knowledge. 

Her  works  consist  of  a  collection  of  elegant 
letters,  and  many  poems,  some  of  which  are  on 
religious  subjects. 

GENEVIEVE,  ST., 

The  patroness  of  the  city  of  Paris,  was  born  in 
423,  at  Manterre,  and  died  January  3,  501.  Five 
years  after  her  death,  Clovis  erected  the  church 
of  St.  Genevieve,  where  her  relics  were  presei'ved 
with  great  care. 

St.  Germain,  bishop  of  Auxerre,  observing  her 
disposition  to  sanctity,  when  she  was  quite  young, 
advised  her  to  take  the  vow  of  perpetual  virginity, 
which  she  did.  After  the  death  of  her  parents, 
Genevieve  went  to  Paris ;  and  when  the  city  was 
about  to  be  deserted,  in  consequence  of  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Huns  imder  Attila,  she  assured  the 
inhabitants  of  entire  safety  if  they  would  seek  it 
by  prayers.  Attila  went  to  Orleans  and  returned 
without  touching  Paris  ;  and  this  event  established 
Genevieve's  reputation.  In  a  time  of  famine,  she 
went  along  the  Seine,  and  returned  with  twelve 
large  vessels  loaded  with  grain,  which  she  distri- 
buted gratuitously  among  the  sufferers.  This 
increased  her  authority,  so  that  Merovoeus  and 
Chilperic,  kings  of  France,  paid  her  the  highest 
respect.  From  her  fifteenth  to  her  fiftieth  year, 
she  ate  nothing  but  barley-bread,  excepting  now 
and  then  a  few  beans ;  after  her  fiftieth  year,  she 
allowed  herself  milk  and  fish. 

GENEVIEVE, 

Duchess  of  Brabant,  was  born  in  the  year  700. 
She  was  married  to  Siegfreid,  and  shortly  after 
her  marriage  (732)  her  husband  was  called  to  the 
field  by  his  sovereign,  Charles  Martel,  whom  he 
joined  with  his  soldiers.  He  left  his  wife  in  the 
care  of  Golo,  the  captain  in  his  castle.  When 
Golo,  who  loved  Genevieve,  saw  that  she  repulsed 
him,  he  wrote  to  the  duke  that  Genevieve  had 
been  unfaithful,  and  would  shortly  become  the 
mother  of  an  illegitimate  child.  Siegfried,  who 
put  full  confidence  in  Golo,  ordered  him  to  have 
the  mother  and  child  killed.  But  the  servants  to 
whose  hands  the  wicked  man  confided  that  deed 
had  compassion  upon  the  poor  innocent  woman, 
and  left  her  in  the  woods,  where  a  doe  supplied 
her  with  milk  for  the  child.  The  animal  accom- 
panied her  for  five  years,  till  one  day,  on  the  Gth 
of  January,  757,  pursued  by  Siegfried,  she  fled  to 
the  cave,  where  the  husband  found  both  his  wife 
and  child.  An  explanation  took  place,  and  she 
became  again  the  cherished  wife  of  his  bosom. 

GERBERGE, 

Wife  of  Louis  IV.,  of  France,  was  the  daughter 
of  Henry,  who  became  king  of  Germany  in  918. 
She  married  first  Gislebert,  duke  of  Lorraine,  who 
was  drowned  in  the  Rhine.  In  940,  Gerberge 
married  Louis  IV.  Five  years  after,  her  husband 
was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Normans.  Hugh  the 
Great,  duke  of  the  Franks,  wished  to  obtain  pos- 


session of  him ;  but  the  duke  of  Normandy  con- 
sented to  give  him  up  only  on  condition  that  Louis' 
two  sons  should  become  hostages  for  their  father. 
Hugh  sent  to  demand  them  of  Gerberge,  but  she 
refused,  well  knowing  that  the  race  of  Charle- 
magne would  be  entirely  destroyed,  if  the  father 
and  children  were  all  prisoners.  She  only  sent 
the  youngest  son  with  a  bishop  ;  so  Louis  not  being 
set  free,  Gerberge  sent  to  demand  aid  from  her 
brother  Otho,  king  of  Germany.  Louis  was  at 
length  liberated  by  Otho's  assistance,  and  he  con- 
fided to  Gerberge  the  defence  of  the  town  of 
Rheims,  in  which  she  shut  herself  up  with  her 
troops.  In  954,  Louis  died,  and  Gerberge  exerted 
herself  efi"ectually  to  have  her  eldest  son,  Lothaire, 
although  hardly  twelve,  placed  on  his  father's 
throne.  She,  together  with  her  brother,  Bruno, 
duke  of  Lorraine,  were  appointed  regents.  She 
marched,  with  her  young  son,  at  the  head  of  an 
army,  and  besieged  Poictiers ;  and,  in  960,  she 
retook  the  city  and  fortress  of  Dijon,  which  had 
been  treacherously  given  up  to  Robert  of  Treves, 
and  had  the  traitor  beheaded  in  the  presence  of 
the  whole  army. 

GISELLE, 

Sister  of  Charlemagne,  emperor  of  France, 
sympathized  with  that  great  monarch  and  his 
eldest  daughter,  Rotrude,  in  the  protection  and 
encoui-agement  they  afforded  to  learned  and  scien- 
tific men.  She  induced  the  celebrated  Alcuin  to 
compose  several  works ;  Alcuin  dedicated  to  Gi- 
selle and  Rotrude  his  Commentary  on  St.  John. 
Giselle  died  about  the  year  810.  She  was  abbess 
of  Chelles  at  her  death. 

GOD  IV  A, 
The  name  of  a  beautiful  lady,  sister  of  Therald 
de  Burgenhall,  sheriff  of  Lincolnshire,  and  wife 
of  Leofric,  earl  of  Leicester,  who  was  the  eldest 
son  of  Algar,  the  great  earl  of  Mercia.  This  lady, 
having  an  extraordinary  affection  for  Coventry, 
solicited  her  husband  to  release  the  inhabitants  of 
that  city  from  a  grievous  tax  laid  on  them.  He 
consented,  on  condition  that  she  would  ride  naked 
through  the  streets  of  Coventry  in  noon-day.  This 
she  did,  first  enjoining  every  one  to  keep  within 
their  houses,  the  doors  and  windows  of  which 
were  to  be  closely  shut.  She  then  partially  veiled 
herself  with  her  flowing  hair,  mounted  her  palfrey, 
and  made  the  circuit  of  the  city.  Leofric  kept  his 
promise,  and  the  city  of  Coventry  was  relieved 
from  the  oppression.  This  adventure  was  painted 
in  one  of  the  windows  of  Trinity-church,  in  Co- 
ventry, with  these  lines, 

"  1,  Luric,  for  the  love  of  thee, 
Do  make  Coventry  toll-free." 

GONZAGA, 
Barba  von,  duchess  of  Wurtemburg,  was  the 
daughter  of  Louis  III.,  duke  of  Mantua.  She 
married  the  duke  of  Wurtemburg,  Eberhard  with 
the  beard,  in  the  year  1474.  A  devoted  student 
herself,  she  became  the  patroness  of  learning  and 
literary  men  in  her  husband's  domain.  Through 
her  influence  was  the  university  of  Zuliengen  es- 

106 


GO 


GIT 


tablished.     She  died,  1505,  mourned  by  her  sub- 
jects, and  by  the  whole  literary  world. 

GONZAGA, 

Cecilia  de,  an  Italian  lady  of  high  birth,  gave 
proofs,  even  when  a  child,  of  a  remarkable  fond- 
ness for  learning.  Her  father,  John  Francis  Gon- 
zaga,  lord  of  Mantua,  procured  the  best  masters 
to  instruct  her,  and  at  the  age  of  eight  she  is  said 
to  have  known  Greek.  She  was  religious  and  cha- 
ritable as  well  as  learned,  gave  marriage  portions 
to  poor  young  women,  and  repaired  and  beautified 
convents  and  churches ;  in  order  to  do  this,  she 
was  obliged  to  use  the  greatest  self-denial  in  her 
personal  expenses.  Her  father,  for  a  long  time, 
resisted  her  desire  of  taking  the  veil,  but  he  at 
length  yielded  to  her  entreaties,  and  she  passed 
all  the  latter  part  of  her  life  in  the  cloister.  She 
was  born  about  1422. 

GONZAGA, 

Eleonora,  daughter  of  Francis  II.,  marquis  of 
Mantua,  was  united,  when  very  young,  to  the  duke 
of  Urbino.  She  was  celebrated  for  her  devotion 
to  her  husband,  who  was  deposed  by  pope  Leo  X., 
in  favour  of  Lorenzo  de  Medicis.  The  duke  would 
have  sunk  under  this  misfortune,  but  for  the 
strength  of  mind  and  tenderness  of  his  wife.  On 
the  death  of  Lorenzo,  in  1492,  the  dukedom  was 
restored  to  its  rightful  owner.  Two  sons  and 
three  daughters  were  the  fruit  of  this  union. 
Eleonora,  by  the  chastity  and  severity  of  her 
manners,  reformed  the  morals  of  her  court 

GONZAGA, 
Isabella  de,  wife  to  Guido  Ubaldo  de  Monte- 
feltro,  duke  d' Urbino,  was  aunt  to  Eleonora  Gon- 
zaga,  who  married  the  successor  of  her  husband. 
This  lady  is  celebrated  for  her  conjugal  fidelity 
and  attachment.  Her  husband,  who  was  sick  and 
infirm,  was  driven  from  his  dominions  by  Cisesar 
Borgia.  In  his  distress,  he  implored  the  assist- 
ance of  Louis  XII.,  of  France;  but  he  dared  not 
comply  with  this  request,  lest  he  should  draw  on 
himself  the  resentment  of  the  house  of  Borgia. 
The  duke  then  intimated  to  the  king  of  France, 
that,  in  consequence  of  his  infirm  health,  he  was 
willing  to  enter  into  holy  orders,  and  divorce  Isa- 
bella, whom  a  ceremony  only  made  his  wife.  The 
duchess  was  powerfully  solicited,  in  consequence 
of  this  declaration  of  her  husband,  to  make  an- 
other choice,  but  she  resolutely  refused.  She  de- 
voted herself  to  the  duke  in  his  adversity  with  the 
tenderest  afi'ection.  After  his  death,  she  aban- 
doned herself  to  an  excessive  and  unfeigned  sor- 
row. She  had  been  married  twenty  years,  and 
devoted  the  rest  of  her  life  to  the  memory  of  her 
husband. 

GOZZADINI, 
Betisia,  born  in  Bologna,  in  1209,  of  a  noble 
family.  She  manifested  from  infancy  a  love  for 
study,  and  a  disinclination  for  ordinary  girlish  oc- 
cupations ;  feeling  the  futility  of  the  instruction 
given  to  young  ladies,  she  prevailed  upon  her 
parents  to  allow  her  to  devote  herself  to  the  ac- 


quirement of  learning  and  science.  In  order  to 
enjoy  the  advantage  of  the  university,  she  put  on 
man's  apparel,  and  followed  every  course ;  as  a 
student,  she  soon  took  the  highest  standing  in  her 
college,  and  at  the  gaining  of  her  degree,  received 
the  laurel  crown.  She  afterwards  studied  law, 
and  obtained  the  title  of  Dr.,  and  the  privilege  of 
wearing  the  professional  robe.  Her  eloquence 
was  very  much  esteemed  as  well  as  her  learning 
and  piety.  She  lost  her  life  from  an  inundation 
caused  by  an  overflow  of  the  waters  of  the  Idio, 
which  overwhelmed  a  villa  on  its  banks,  where 
she  was  visiting.     This  accident  happened  in  1261. 

GUERCHEVILLE, 

Antoinette  de  Pons,  marchioness  of,  is  re- 
markable for  her  spirited  answer  to  Henry  IV.  of 
France.  "If,"  said  she,  "  I  am  not  noble  enough 
to  be  your  wife,  I  am  too  much  so  to  be  your  mis- 
tress." When  Henry  IV.  married  Mary  de  Medi- 
cis, he  made  this  lady  dame  d'honneur  to  that 
princess.  "Since,"  said  he,  "your  are  really 
dame  d'honneur,  be  so  to  the  queen,  my  wife." 

On  one  occasion,  having  hunted  purposely  near 
her  chateau,  Henry  sent  word  to  Madam  de  Guer- 
cheville  that  he  would  sup  and  lodge  at  her  house  ; 
she  replied  that  all  possible  attention  should  be 
paid  to  his  accommodation.  Henry,  delighted  at 
this  answer,  hastened  to  the  chateau,  where  he 
was  received  by  his  hostess,  elegantly  attired,  and 
surrounded  by  all  her  household.  Having  lighted 
the  king  herself  to  his  room,  she  bowed  and 
retired.  When  supper  was  served  up,  Henry  sent 
for  the  lady,  but  was  told  that  she  had  just  driven 
from  the  house,  leaving  this  message  for  him: — 
"  A  king,  wherever  he  is,  should  always  be  mas- 
ter.    As  to  myself,  I  also  choose  to  be  free." 

GUILLELMA, 

A  woman  of  Bohemia,  who,  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  founded,  in  Italy,  a  sect  which  united 
enthusiasm  with  lewdness.  After  being  respected 
during  her  life  as  a  saint,  her  body  was,  when 
dead,  taken  from  her  grave,  and  burnt. 

107 


GU 


HE 


GUILLET, 

Pernette  du,  a  poetess  of  Lyons,  and  a  con- 
temporary of  Louise  Labb6,  was  illusti-ious  for  lier 
virtue,  grace,  beauty,  and  learning.  She  sang 
and  played  exquisitely,  understood  several  lan- 
guages, and  wrote  in  Latin  with  facility. 

In  Pernette  du  Guillet,  it  is  said,  "  all  that  is 
lovely  in  woman  was  united." 


H. 
HACHETTE,   JEANNE, 

Or  Jeanne  Foucqtjet,  a  heroine  of  Beauvais,  in 
Picardy,  France,  who  successfully  headed  a  body 
of  women  in  an  assault  upon  the  Burgundians, 
who  be.sieged  her  native  place  in  1470.  When  the 
Burgundians  ascended  their  ladders  to  plant  their 
standards  on  the  walls,  Jeanne,  with  a  battle-axe, 
drove  several  of  them  back,  seized  their  flag, 
which  she  deposited  in  a  church,  after  the  battle. 
Louis  XI.  of  France  recompensed  her  for  her 
bravery ;  she  afterwards  married  Collin  Pillon, 
and  she  and  her  descendants  were  exempted  from 
taxation.  In  commemoration  of  her  intrepid  con- 
duct, there  is  an  annual  procession  at  Beauvais, 
on  the  tenth  of  July,  in  which  the  women  march 
at  the  head  of  the  men. 


HELENA, 
The  empress,  mother  of  Constantine,  and  one 
of  the  saints  of  the  Roman  Catholic  communion, 
owed  her  elevation  to  her  beauty.  She  was  of  ob- 
scure origin,  born  at  the  little  village  of  Drepanum, 
in  Bithynia,  where  we  hear  of  her  first  as  a  host- 
ess of  an  inn.  Constantius  Chlorus  saw  her,  fell 
in  love  with  her,  and  married  her ;  but,  on  being 
associated  with  Dioclesian  in  the  empire,  divorced 
her  to  marry  Theodora,  daughter  of  Maximilian 
Hercules.  The  accession  of  her  son  to  the  empire 
drew  her  again  from  obscurity ;  she  obtained  the 
title  of  Augusta,  and  was  received  at  court  with 
all  the  honours  due  the  mother  of  an  emperor. 
Her  many  virtues  riveted  the  afifection  of  her  son 


to  her,  yet  she  did  not  hesitate  to  admonish  him 
when  she  disapproved  his  conduct. 

When  Constantine  embraced  Christianity,  she 
also  was  converted  ;  and  when  nearly  eighty,  went 
on  a  journey  to  the  Holy  Land,  where  she  is  said 
to  have  assisted  at  the  discovery  of  the  true  cross 
of  Christ,  reported  by  zealous  devotees  to  have 
been  accompanied  by  many  miracles.  She  died 
soon  after,  in  the  year  328,  at  the  age  of  eighty. 
Helena  left  proofs,  wherever  she  went,  of  a  truly 
Christian  liberality ;  she  relieved  the  poor,  orphans, 
and  widows  ;  built  churches,  and  showed  herself, 
in  all  respects,  worthy  the  confidence  of  her  son, 
who  gave  her  unlimited  permission  to  draw  on  his 
treasures.  At  her  deatli,  he  paid  her  the  highest 
honours,  had  her  body  sent  to  Rome  to  be  depo- 
sited in  the  tomb  of  the  emperors,  and  raised  her 
native  village  to  the  rank  of  a  city,  with  the  name 
of  Helenpolis.  She  showed  her  prudence  and 
political  wisdom  by  the  influence  she  always 
retained  over  her  son,  and  by  the  care  she  took  to 
prevent  all  interference  of  the  half-brothers  of 
Constantine,  sons  of  Constantius  Chlorus  and  The- 
odora, who,  being  brought  into  notice,  after  her 
death,  by  the  injvidicious  liberality  of  the  emperor, 
were  massacred  by  their  nephews  as  soon  as  they 
succeeded  their  father  in  the  empire. 

HELENA, 

Daughter  of  Constantine  the  Great  and  of 
Fausta,  was  given  in  marriage,  by  her  brother 
Constantius,  to  her  cousin  Julian,  when  he  made 
him  CiEsar  at  Milan,  in  355.  She  followed  her 
husband  to  his  government  of  Gaul,  and  died  in 
359,  at  Vienna. 

HELENA, 

Wife  and  sister  of  Monobasus,  king  of  Adiabena, 
and  mother  of  Irates,  the  successor  of  Monobasus, 
floui'ished  about  the  year  50.  Though  Irates  was 
one  of  the  younger  sons  of  the  king,  yet,  being 
his  favoui-ite,  he  left  the  crown  to  him  at  his  death. 
In  order  to  secure  the  throne  to  him,  the  principal 
ofiicers  of  the  state  proposed  to  put  those  of  his 
brothers  to  death  who  were  inimical  to  him  ;  but 
Helen  would  not  consent  to  this.  Helen  and 
Irates  were  both  converts  to  the  Jewish  faith. 
When  Helen  saw  that  her  son  was  in  peaceable 
possession  of  the  throne,  she  went  to  Jerusalem  to 
worship  and  sacrifice  there.  When  she  arrived  in 
that  city,  there  was  a  great  famine  prevailing 
there,  which  she  immediately  exerted  herself 
eff'ectually  to  relieve,  by  sending  to  different  places 
for  provisions,  and  distributing  them  among  the 
poor.  After  the  death  of  Irates,  Helen  returned 
to  Adiabena,  where  she  found  that  her  son  Mono- 
basus had  succeeded  to  the  throne ;  but  she  did 
not  long  survive  her  favourite  son  Irates. 

HELOISE, 
Rendered  famous  by  her  unfortunate  passion 
for  Abelard,  was  born  about  1101  or  1102.  Her 
parents  are  unknown,  but  she  lived  with  her 
uncle,  Fulbert,  a  canon  of  the  cathedral  of  Paris. 
Her  childhood  was  passed  in  the  convent  of  Ar- 
genteuil,  but  as  soon  as  she  was  old  enough,  she 

108 


HE 


HE 


returned  to  her  uncle,  who  taught  her  to  speak 
and  write  in  Latin,  then  the  language  used  in 
literary  and  polite  society.  She  is  also  said  to 
have  understood  Greek  and  Hebrew.  To  this 
education,  very  uncommon  at  that  time,  Heloise 
added  great  beauty,  and  refinement  and  dignity 
of  manner  ;  so  that  her  fame  soon  spread  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  cloister,  throughout  the  whole 
kingdom. 

Just  at  this  time,  Pierre  Abelard,  who  had  al- 
ready made  himself  very  celebrated  as  a  rhetori- 
cian, came  to  found  a  new  school  in  that  art  at 
Paris,  where  the  originality  of  his  principles,  his 
eloquence,  and  his  great  physical  strength  and 
beauty,  made  a  deep  sensation.  Here  he  saw 
Heloise,  and  commenced  an  acquaintance  with 
her  by  letter ;  but,  impatient  to  know  her  more 
intimately,  he  proposed  to  Fulbert  that  he  should 
receive  him  into  his  house,  which  was  near  Abe- 
lard's  school.  Fulbert  was  avaricious,  and  also 
desirous  of  having  his  niece  more  thoroughly  in- 
structed, and  these  two  motives  induced  him  to 
consent  to  Abelard's  proposal,  and  to  request  him 
to  give  lessons  in  his  art  to  Heloise.  He  even 
gave  Abelard  permission  to  use  j)hysical  punish- 
ment towards  his  niece,  if  she  should  prove  re- 
bellious. 

"I  cannot,"  says  Abelard,  "cease  to  be  as- 
tonished at  the  simplicity  of  Fulbert ;  I  was  as 
much  surprised  as  if  he  had  placed  a  lamb  in  the 
power  of  a  hungry  wolf.  Heloise  and  I,  under 
pretext  of  study,  gave  ourselves  up  wholly  to  love ; 
and  the  solitude  that  love  seeks,  our  studies  pro- 
cured for  us.  Books  were  open  before  us ;  but 
we  spoke  oftener  of  love  than  philosophy,  and 
kisses  came  more  readily  from  our  lips  than  words." 

The  canon  was  the  last  to  perceive  this  intimacy, 
although  he  was  often  told  of  it,  and  heard  daily 
the  songs  that  Abelard  composed  for  Heloise  sung 
through  the  streets.  When  he  did  discover  the 
truth,  he  was  deeply  incensed,  and  sent  Abelard 
from  the  house.  But  he  contrived  to  return,  and 
carry  off  Heloise  to  Palais,  in  Brittany,  his  native 
country.  Here  she  gave  birth  to  a  son,  surnamed 
Astrolabe  from  his  beauty,  who  passed  his  life  in 
the  obscurity  of  a  monastery. 


The  flight  of  Heloise  enraged  Fulbert  to  the 
highest  degree ;  but  he  was  afraid  to  act  openly 
against  Abelard,  lest  his  niece,  whom  he  still 
loved,  might  be  made  to  suffer  in  retaliation.  At 
length  Abelard,  taking  compassion  on  his  grief, 
sent  to  him,  implored  his  forgiveness,  and  offered 
to  marry  Heloise,  if  the  union  might  be  kept  se- 
cret, so  that  his  reputation  as  a  religious  man 
should  not  suffer.  Fulbert  consented  to  this,  and 
Abelard  went  to  Heloise  for  that  purpose ;  but 
Heloise,  unwilling  to  diminish  the  future  fame  of 
Abelard,  by  a  marriage,  which  must  be  a  restraint 
upon  him,  refused  at  first  to  listen  to  him.  She 
quoted  the  precepts  and  the  example  of  all  learned 
men,  sacred  and  profane,  to  prove  to  him  that  he 
ought  to  remain  free  and  untrammelled.  She  also 
warned  him  that  her  uncle's  reconciliation  was  too 
easily  obtained,  and  that  it  was  but  a  feint  to  en- 
trap him  more  surely.  But  Abelard  was  resolute, 
and  Heloise  returned  to  Paris,  where  they  were 
soon  after  married. 

Fulbert  did  not  keep  his  promise  of  secresy,  but 
spoke  openly  of  the  marriage,  which  when  Heloise 
heard  she  indignantly  denied,  protesting  that  it 
had  never  taken  place.  This  made  her  uncle  treat 
her  so  cruelly,  that  Abelard,  either  to  protect  her 
from  his  violence,  or  to  prove  that  the  announce- 
ment of  the  marriage  was  false,  took  her  himself 
to  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  where  she  did  not 
immediately  take  the  veil,  but  put  on  the  dress  of 
a  novice.  Not  long  after  he  ordered  her  to  take 
the  veil,  which  she  did,  although  the  nuns,  touched 
by  her  youth  and  beauty,  endeavoured  to  prevent 
her  from  making  the  sacrifice. 

Twelve  years  passed  without  Heloise  ever  hear- 
ing mentioned  the  name  of  the  one  she  so  devo- 
tedly loved.  She  had  become  prioress  of  Argen- 
teuil, and  lived  a  life  of  complete  retirement.  But 
her  too  great  kindness  and  indulgence  to  the  nuns 
under  her  control,  gave  rise  to  some  disorders, 
which,  althovigh  she  was  perfectly  blameless,  yet 
caused  her  to  be  forced  by  Ligur,  abbot  of  St. 
Denis,  to  leave  her  retreat,  with  her  companions. 
Abelard,  hearing  of  her  homeless  situation,  left 
Brittany,  where  he  was  living  in  charge  of  the 
monastery  of  St.  Gildas-de-Ruys,  and  went  to 
place  Heloise  and  her  followers  in  the  little  ora- 
tory of  the  Paraclete,  which  had  been  founded 
by  him.  Here  Heloise  exerted  herself  to  the  ut- 
most to  build  up  a  convent ;  and  though  their  life 
at  first  was  a  painful  one,  yet,  by  the  end  of  a 
year  their  wealth  was  so  much  increased  by  the 
munificence  of  pious  persons  about  them,  that  they 
became  very  comfortable. 

Heloise  had  the  rare  charm  of  attaching  every 
one  who  approached  her  to  herself.  Bishops  called 
her  daughter,  priests,  sister,  and  laymen,  mother. 
Every  one  reverenced  her  for  her  piety,  her  wis- 
dom, her  patience,  and  her  incomparable  sweet- 
ness. She  rarely  appeared  in  public,  but  devoted 
herself  almost  wholly  to  prayer  and  meditation. 

She  happened,  one  day,  to  see  a  letter  that 
Abelard  had  written,  giving  an  account  of  his  life. 
She  read  it  many  times  with  tears,  and  at  length 
wi-ote  to  her  lover  that  well-known,  eloquent,  and 
passionate  letter.    His  reply  was  severe  but  kind ; 

109 


HE 


HI 


and  these  two  letters  were  followed  by  several 
others. 

In  April,  1142,  Heloise  having  heard  a  report 
of  Abelard's  death,  wrote  to  demand  his  body, 
that  it  might  be  buried  at  the  Paraclete,  accord- 
ing to  a  wish  that  he  had  himself  expressed  in 
writing.  He  was  buried  in  a  chapel  built  by  his 
order,  and  for  more  than  twenty  years,  Heloise 
went  every  night  to  weep  over  his  tomb.  She 
died  May  17th,  1164,  aged  sixty-three,  and  was 
placed  in  the  same  tomb. 

In  1497,  from  religious  motives,  the  tomb  was 
opened,  and  the  bones  of  Abelard  and  Heloise 
were  removed.  In  1800,  by  order  of  Lucien  Bo- 
naparte, these  hallowed  remains  were  carried 
to  the  Museum  of  French  Monuments.  And  in 
1815,  when  this  Museum  was  destroyed,  the 
tomb  was  taken  to  Pfere-le-Chaise,  where  it  still 
remains. 

In  reviewing  this  melancholy  story,  where  ge- 
nius was  dethroned  by  passion,  we  cannot  but 
consider  the  noble-hearted,  though  erring  Heloise, 
a  victim  to  the  vanity  of  the  selfish  Abelard.  He 
does  not  pretend  to  have  loved  her  passionately ; 
he  formed  the  plan  of  a  cold-blooded  seduction, 
merely  for  a  passing  amusement.  Perhaps  he 
considered  the  affair  a  studj'  of  mental  philosophy, 
and  watched  to  analyze  the  manifestations  of  the 
tender  passion  in  the  young,  warm  heart  of  the 
innocent,  beautiful,  gifted  pupil  confided  to  his 
instruction.  He  had  no  tenderness  or  truth  of 
love  in  his  soul.  Heloise,  on  the  contrary,  was 
affected  with  the  most  devoted,  the  most  unselfish 
affection.  It  needs  only  to  compare  their  letters 
to  see  this  —  those  of  Abelard,  cold,  hard,  calcu- 
lating. The  ill-regulated,  but  ardent  and  sincere 
effusions  of  Heloise,  have  been  too  frequetly  quoted 
to  need  a  repetition  here.  The  very  arrangement 
of  their  correspondence  marks  the  difference.  He 
divides  and  subdivides  his  letters ;  he  answers 
methodically,  and  by  chapters ;  he  addresses  them 
"  To  the  Spouse  of  Christ"  —  "  Heloissse  dilectis- 
sima  sorori  sute  in  Christo  —  Abailardus;"  "To 
his  dear  sister  in  Christ — Abelard."  The  tone  of 
Heloise  is  thus : 

"  Domino  sue — Tmo  patri ;  conjugi  suo,  imo  fratei ; 
Ancilla  sua  imo  filia;  ipsius  uxor,  imo  soror." 

Heloisscc,  Epist.  4. 

And  after  their  separation,  the  better-tempered 
soul  of  Heloise  rises  wonderfully  above  that  of  her 
master.  He  abandoned  his  intellectual  weapons, 
and  sank  into  a  mere  monk ;  his  admirers,  who 
could  not  comprehend  the  metamorphosis,  clus- 
tered around  him ;  they  forced  some  sparks  of 
former  animation  to  appear.  Arnold  of  Brescia 
persuaded  him  to  encounter  St.  Bernard  in  a 
logical  duel.  Time  and  place  were  chosen.  The 
king,  the  counts  of  Champagne  and  Nerus,  bishops, 
ecclesiastics  of  highest  rank,  a  concourse  of  cele- 
brities, crowded  to  the  arena.  St.  Bernard  came 
with  repugnance ;  he  dreaded  the  powerful  elo- 
quence that  had  so  often  disarmed  him ;  he  was 
saved  by  the  pusillanimity  of  his  rival.  Abelard 
was  mute.  After  this  signal  defeat,  there  is  no- 
thing more  to  relate  of  him ;  he  died,  in  inglorious 
repose,  in  the  abbey  of  Clury. 


In  the  mean  time,  Heloise  had  taken  the  veil, 
not  from  a  vocation,  but  to  gratify  the  caprice  of 
her  husband,  in  a  very  different  career.  As  Abe- 
lard subsided  into  a  sluggish  monk,  she  rose  into 
something  superior  to  a  mere  formalized  recluse. 
She  sought  means  of  improving  the  minds  and 
morals  of  all  within  her  influence.  She  founded 
a  great  college  of  theology,  Greek  and  Hebrew. 
She  delivered  lectures  on  these  subjects  with  such 
success,  as  to  arouse  a  spirit  of  study  and  inves- 
tigation through  an  extended  sphere ;  crowds 
flocked  to  hear  her ;  and  similar  institutions,  for 
the  advancement  of  learning,  grew  up  around  her. 
Heloise  was  declared  by  the  pope,  head  of  her 
order. 

HERODIAS, 

Daughter  of  Aristobulus  and  Berenice,  sister 
to  king  Agrippa,  and  grand-daughter  to  Herod 
the  Great,  married  first  her  uncle,  Herod  Philip, 
by  whom  she  had  Salome.  She  left  Herod  Philip 
to  marry  his  brother,  Herod  Antipas,  tetrarch  of 
Galilee,  and  it  was  for  censuring  this  incestuous 
marriage  that  Antipas  ordered  John  the  Baptist 
to  be  imprisoned.  Some  time  after,  Herodias 
suggested  to  her  daughter  Salome  to  ask,  as  a 
reward  for  her  dancing,  the  head  of  John  the 
Baptist,  who  was  accordingly  beheaded.  Hero- 
dias, mortified  to  see  her  husband  tetrarch  only, 
while  her  brother  Agrippa  was  king,  persuaded 
Antipas  to  visit  Rome,  and  endeavour  to  obtain 
the  royal  title.  But  Agrippa  sent  word  to  the 
emperor,  that  Antipas  had  arms  for  seventy  thou- 
sand men  in  his  arsenals ;  and  Antipas,  unable  to 
deny  the  charge,  was  banished  to  Lyons.  Cali- 
gula was  willing  to  pardon  Herodias,  as  the  sister 
of  Agrippa;  but  she  chose  rather  to  accompany 
her  husband,  than  to  owe  anything  to  her  bro- 
ther's fortune.  The  time  or  the  manner  of  her 
death  is  not  known ;  but  she  has  left  the  inef- 
faceable memory  of  her  sin  and  Herod's  crime  as 
a  warning  to  the  world,  to  beware  of  placing  a 
man  in  office  who  sets  at  defiance  the  laws  of 
God,  or  who  is  united  to  a  wicked  woman. 

HILDA,    ST., 

Princess  of  Scotland,  was  learned  in  Scripture, 
and  composed  many  religious  works.  She  opposed 
strenuously  the  tonsure  of  the  priests,  probably 
supposing  it  a  heathenish  custom.  She  built  the 
convent  of  St.  Fare,  of  which  she  became  abbess, 
and  died  there  in  685. 

HILDEGARDIS, 

A  FAMOUS  abbess  of  the  order  of  St.  Benedict, 
at  Spanheim,  in  Germany,  whose  prophecies  are 
supposed  to  relate  to  the  reformation,  and  the  de- 
struction of  the  Roman  see ;  they  had  great  influ- 
ence at  the  time  of  the  reformation.  She  lived  in 
1146.  The  books  in  which  these  prophecies  are 
contained,  appear  to  have  been  wi'itten  by  a  zeal- 
ous, godly,  and  understanding  woman,  shocked  at 
the  crimes  which  she  saw  prevailing  around  her. 
She  also  wrote  a  poem  on  medicine,  and  a  book 
of  Latin  poems.  Her  good  works  and  her  piety 
were  long  remembered. 

110 


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HY 


HILTRUDIS, 

Daughter  of  Charles  Martel,  was  born  in  the 
year  728.  After  the  death  of  her  father,  when 
she  saw  that  her  brothers,  Pepin  and  Carlman, 
treated  the  rest  of  the  family  with  great  cruelty,  she 
fled  to  her  aunt,  the  duchess  of  Bavaria.  Her  cou- 
sin Odillo,  enchanted  with  her  courage  and  beauty, 
married  her,  and  made  her  duchess  of  Bavaria. 

Five  years  afterwards,  Odillo  declared  war 
against  the  Franks,  but  fell,  badly  wounded,  a 
prisoner  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  Hiltrudis 
disguised  herself  as  a  knight,  and  followed  her 
husband  to  the  court  of  her  brothers,  where  she 
arrived  just  in  time  to  assist  at  the  baptism  of 
Charlemagne,  whom  she  presented  with  costly 
jewels.  She  was  recognised  by  her  brothers,  and, 
reconciled  to  them,  obtained  the  liberty  of  her 
husband.  She  died  in  the  year  759,  and  was 
buried  in  Osterhofer,  by  the  side  of  Odillo. 

HROSWITHA, 

(Helena  V.  Rossen,)  a  nun  of  the  Benedictine 
order,  was  born  in  Saxony,  and  died  at  Gander- 
shein,  in  984.  She  is  known  as  a  religious  poetess 
through  her  "  Comaedia  Sacrae  VI.,"  edited  by 
Schurzfleisch.  These  plays  were  vn-itten  by  her 
to  suppress  the  reading  of  Terence,  then  a  very 
popular  author  among  the  literary  clergy  of  the 
age.  She  also  composed  a  poetic  narrative  of  the 
deeds  performed  by  Otho  the  Great,  to  whom  she 
was  related,  and  a  number  of  elegies.  She  wrote 
in  Latin  altogether.  Her  works  were  printed  in 
Nuremberg,  in  1501. 

HYPASIA, 

A  MOST  beautiful,  learned,  and  virtuous  lady  of 
antiquity,  was  the  daughter  of  Theon,  who  governed 
the  Platonic  school  at  Alexandi-ia,  in  Egypt,  where 
she  was  born  and  educated  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  fourth  century.  Theon  was  famous  for  his 
extensive  knowledge  and  learning,  but  principally 
for  being  the  father  of  Hypasia,  whom,  on  account 
of  her  extraordinary  genius,  he  educated  not  only 
in  all  the  qualifications  belonging  to  her  sex,  but 
likewise  in  the  most  abstruse  sciences.  She  made 
astonishing  progress  in  every  branch  of  learning. 
Socrates,  the  ecclesiastical  historian,  a  witness  of 
undoubted  veracity,  at  least  when  he  speaks  in 
favour  of  a  heathen  philosopher,  tells  us  that 
Hypasia  "  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  learning,  as 
very  far  to  exceed  all  the  philosophers  of  her 
time:"  to  which  Nicephorus  adds,  "  Or  those  of 
other  times."  Philostorgius,  a  third  historian  of 
the  same  stamp,  affirms  that  she  surpassed  her 
father  in  astronomy ;  and  Suidas,  who  mentions 
two  books  of  her  writing,  one  "  On  the  Astronomi- 
cal Canon  of  Diophantus"  and  another  "  On  the 
Conies  of  Apollonius,"  avers  that  she  understood 
all  other  parts  of  philosophy. 

She  succeeded  her  father  in  the  government  of 
the  Alexandrian  school,  teaching  out  of  the  chair 
where  Ammonius,  Hierocles,  and  many  other  cele- 
brated philosophers  had  taught;  and  this  at  a 
time  when  men  of  immense  learning  abounded  at 
Alexandria,  and  in  other  parts  of  the  Roman  em- 


pire. Her  fame  was  so  extensive,  and  her  worth 
so  universally  acknowledged,  that  she  had  a 
crowded  auditory.  One  cannot  represent  to  him- 
self without  pleasure  the  flower  of  all  the  youth 
in  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  sitting  at  the  feet  of 
a  very  beautiful  woman,  for  such  we  are  assured 
Hypasia  was,  all  eagerly  imbibing  instruction  from 
her  mouth,  and  many  doubtless  love  from  her 
eyes  ;  yet  Suidas,  who  speaks  of  her  marriage  to 
Isidorus,  relates  at  the  same  time  that  she  died  a 
maid. 

Her  scholars  were  as  eminent  as  they  were  nu- 
merous. One  of  them  was  the  celebrated  Synesius, 
afterwards  bishop  of  Ptolemais.  This  ancient 
Christian  Platonist  everywhere  bears  the  strongest 
testimony  to  the  learning  and  virtue  of  his  instruc- 
tress ;  and  never  mentions  her  without  the  pro- 
foundest  respect,  and  in  terms  of  affection  coming 
little  short  of  adoration.  In  a  letter  to  his  brother 
Euoptius,  he  says,  "  Salute  the  most  honoured 
and  the  most  beloved  of  God,  the  Philosopher  ; 
and  that  happy  society,  which  enjoys  the  blessing 
of  her  divine  voice."  In  another,  he  mentions 
one  Egyptius,  who  "sucked  in  the  seeds  of  wis- 
dom from  Hypasia."  In  another  he  says,  "  I  sup- 
pose these  letters  will  be  delivered  by  Peter, 
which  he  will  receive  from  that  sacred  hand." 
The  famous  silver  astrolabe,  which  he  presented 
to  Peonius,  he  owns  to  have  been  perfected  by  the 
directions  of  Hypasia.  In  a  long  epistle  to  her, 
he  tells  her  his  reasons  for  writing  the  two  books 
he  sends  her ;  and  asks  her  opinion  of  one,  resolv- 
ing not  to  publish  it  without  her  approbation. 

Never  was  a  woman  more  caressed  by  the  pub- 
lic, and  never  had  a  woman  a  more  unspotted 
character.  She  was  considered  an  oracle  of  wis- 
dom, and  was  consulted  by  the  magistrates  in  all 
important  cases.  This  frequently  drew  her  among 
the  greatest  concourse  of  men,  without  causing 
the  least  censure  of  her  manners. 

"  On  account  of  the  confidence  and  authority," 
says  Socrates,  "which  she  had  acquired  by  her 
learning,  she  sometimes  came  to  the  judges  with 
singular  modesty.  Nor  was  she  anything  abashed 
to  appear  thus  among  a  crowd  of  men;  for  all 
persons,  by  reason  of  her  extraordinary  discretion, 
did  at  the  same  time  both  reverence  and  admire 
her."  This  is  also  confirmed  by  other  writers, 
and  Damascus  and  Suidas  relate,  that  the  govern- 
ors and  magistrates  of  Alexandria  regularly  visited 
and  paid  their  court  to  her ;  and,  when  Nicepolus 
wished  to  pay  the  princess  Eudocia  the  highest 
compliment,  he  called  her  "another  Hypasia." 

While  Hypasia  thus  reigned  the  brightest  orna- 
ment of  Alexandria,  Orestes  was  governor  of  the 
same  place,  under  the  emperor  Theodosius,  and 
Cyril  bishop  or  patriarch.  Orestes  admired  Hy- 
pasia, and  as  a  wise  governor,  frequently  consulted 
her.  This  created  an  intimacy  between  them 
highly  displeasing  to  Cyril,  who  had  a  great  aver- 
sion to  Orestes,  and  who  disapproved  of  Hypasia, 
as  she  was  a  heathen.  The  life  of  Orestes  nearly 
fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  fury  of  a  Christian  mob, 
supposed  to  have  been  incited  by  Cyril  on  account 
of  this  intimacy ;  and,  afterwards,  it  being  reported 
that  Hypasia  prevented  a  reconciliation  between 

111 


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Cyril  and  Orestes,  some  men,  headed  by  one 
Peter,  a  lecturer,  entered  into  a  conspiracy  against 
her,  waylaid  her,  and  dragged  her  to  the  church 
called  Cfesais,  where,  stripping  her  naked,  they 
killed  her  with  tiles,  tore  her  to  pieces,  and  carry- 
ing her  limbs  to  a  place  called  Cinaron,  there 
burnt  them  to  ashes. 

This  happened  in  March,  about  the  year  415  ;  in 
the  tenth  year  of  Honorius'  and  the  sixth  of  Theo- 
dosius'  consulship.  The  weak  and  trifling  emperor 
was  roused  from  his  usual  indifference  by  such  an 
awful  crime,  and  threatened  the  assassins  of  this 
incomparable  woman  with  a  merited  punishment ; 
but  at  the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  whom  Orestes 
had  con-upted,  was  induced  to  suffer  them  to 
escape,  by  which  means,  it  is  added,  he  drew  ven- 
geance on  himself  and  family.  There  are  few 
recorded  crimes  of  wicked  men  so  utterly  fiend- 
like as  the  unprovoked  murder  of  the  lovely, 
learned,  and  virtuous  Hypasia. 


I. 

ICASIA, 

Spouse  of  Theophilus,  emperor  of  Constantino- 
ple, in  829.  He  having  assembled  the  most  beau- 
tiful young  women  of  the  empire,  for  the  purpose 
of  choosing  a  wife,  fixed  upon  Icasia,  and  gave 
orders  for  her  coronation ;  but  on  her  answering 
some  questions  he  proposed  to  her,  in  a  manner 
at  once  learned  and  acute,  he  changed  his  mind. 
Icasia,  therefore,  retired  to  a  monastery,  where 
she  composed  many  works.  The  emperor  had  the 
same  taste,  probably,  for  foolish,  flippant  women, 
as  characterized  Charles  II.,  king  of  England. 

INGEBORGE,  or  INGELBURGA, 
Wife  of  Philip  Augustus,  king  of  France,  was 
born  in  1175,  and  was  tlie  daughter  of  AValdemar, 
king  of  Denmark,  and  of  his  wife  Sophia,  a  Rus- 
sian princess.  In  1193,  she  was  selected,  from 
motives  of  policy,  by  Philip  Augustus,  then  a 
widower  of  twenty-eight,  as  his  wife.  She  is  re- 
presented as  very  beautiful  and  discreet,  but  the 
king,  almost  from  the  first  interview,  conceived  a 
strong  aversion  to  her,  and  on  a  frivolous  pretext 
of  Ingeborge's  just  discovered  relationship  to  his 
first  wife,  he  assembled  the  nobles  of  the  kingdom 
at  Compi^gne,  November  5th,  1193,  who  declared 
the  marriage  null  and  void.  Ingeborge  was  pre- 
sent on  this  occasion,  but  having  no  counsellor, 
and  not  understanding  the  language,  knew  nothing 
of  the  business  that  the  nobles  were  transacting, 
till  she  was  informed  of  their  decision  by  her 
interpreter,  when  she  burst  into  tears,  and  ap- 
pealed to  Rome.  She  was  taken  to  an  abbey, 
where  she  was  kept  in  confinement,  and  almost 
without  the  necessaries  of  life.  The  pope,  urged 
by  the  king  of  Denmark  as  well  as  by  Ingeborge, 
refused  to  sanction  the  divorce ;  but  Philip  Au- 
gustus imprisoned  the  legates,  and  married  Agnes, 
daughter  of  Berthod,  duke  of  Merania,  a  descend- 
ant of  the  emperor  Charlemagne.  Ingeborge  ap- 
pealed in  vain  to  pope  Celestine  III. ;   but,  on  his 


death,  he  was  succeeded  by  Innocent  III.,  who 
immediately  took  very  severe  measures,  and  in 
1199  Philip  Augustus  was  excommunicated,  and 
his  kingdom  declared  under  an  inderdict.  All 
the  churches  were  closed,  no  baptisms,  mar- 
riages, or  burials  were  allowed  to  be  performed, 
the  dying  were  refused  the  benefit  of  the  priest's 
services,  and  all  the  religious  duties  were  sus- 
pended. In  those  days  of  superstition,  this  ter- 
rible sentence  fell  with  tenfold  weight  on  the 
people ;  and  moved  by  their  distress,  after  having 
resisted  the  papal  authority  for  eight  months, 
Philip  at  length  sent  Agnes  to  the  royal  castle  of 
St.  Leger,  and  allowed  Ingeborge  to  return  to 
him.  But  she  still  complained,  and  justly,  that 
she  had  only  exchanged  one  prison  for  another, 
and  was  treated  with  no  respect.  Meanwhile 
there  was  a  solemn  assembly  held  at  Soissons  to 
give  a  final  judgment  on  the  demand  the  king 
made  for  a  legal  separation.  The  king  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  lawyers,  who  vied  with  each 
other  in  urging  the  justice  of  his  claim.  Ingeborge 
was  alone  and  defenceless ;  after  waiting  a  few 
moments  for  her  advocate,  the  judges  were  about 
to  pronounce  their  decision,  when  a  young  and 
unknown  lawyer  came  forwai'd  and  argued  her 
cause  so  eloquently,  that  the  judges  dared  not 
utter  the  wished- for  sentence.  The  king,  leaving 
the  assembly,  went  to  the  abbey  where  Ingeborge 
had  taken  refuge,  and  taking  her  behind  him,  on 
horseback,  left  the  city  without  any  of  his  usual 
train.  When  this  was  told  to  Agnes  de  Merania, 
it  affected  her  so  deeply  that  she  died  a  few  days 
after. 

Philip  Augustus,  still  more  irritated  against  his 
queen,  confined  her  in  the  tower  of  the  castle  of 
Etampcs,  where  no  one  was  allowed  to  converse 
with  her  without  his  permission ;  her  food  was 
insufficient  and  coarse,  her  clothes  hung  about 
her  in  rags,  and  the  servants  who  attended  her 
were  so  brutal,  that  they  were  accused  of  wishing 
to  cause  her  death  by  their  ill-treatment.  Philip 
endeavoured  to  induce  his  wife  to  take  the  veil, 
but  in  vain;  and  in  1213,  after  a  separation  of 
twenty  years,  he  allowed  her  to  reside  under  the 
same  roof  with  him,  where  the  sweetness  of  her 
temper,  the  goodness  and  purity  of  her  soul,  at 
length  conquered  his  aversion.  After  the  death 
of  Philip,  in  1223,  Ingeborge  was  treated  with 
the  greatest  respect  by  his  successor ;  while  she 
devoted  herself  chiefly  to  her  religious  duties. 
She  died  in  1236. 

I  N  G  0  N  D  E ,  or  I N  G  U  N  D I S , 

Daughteb  of  Siegbert  I.,  king  of  Austrasia,  or 
Lorraine,  and  of  his  wife,  the  famous  Brunehaut, 
was  married  about  570,  to  Brunechilde,  or  Er- 
menegild,  second  son  of  Leovigild,  one  of  the 
Gothic  kings  of  Spain.  She  was  received  with 
great  pomp  and  tenderness  by  her  husband  and 
his  grandmother  Gosuinda.  But  the  old  queen 
had  an  aversion  to  Catholicism,  and  attempted,  at 
first  by  persuasions  and  afterwards  by  threats  to 
convert  Ingonde  to  Arianism,  and  to  have  her  re- 
baptized,  but  Ingonde  resolutely  refused  to  con- 
sent.    Gosuinda,  enraged  at  her  firmness,  seized 

112 


IN 


IS 


her  by  the  hair,  threw  her  down,  stamped  upon 
her,  and  had  her  plunged  by  force  into  the  bap- 
tistry. Ingonde,  however,  at  length,  by  her 
patience  and  piety,  converted  her  husband  to  her 
own  faith,  which,  -when  his  father  heard  of  it, 
made  him  so  furious,  that  he  had  his  son  taken 
prisoner  and  beheaded.  Ingonde  fled,  but  was 
captured  and  talien  to  Sicily,  where  she  died, 
about  585.     She  was  venerated  as  a  martyr. 

INGRIDA, 

A  NUN  of  the  convent  of  St.  Brigitta,  in  Wad- 
stena,  Sweden,  who  lived  in  1498,  wrote  an  epistle 
to  her  lover,  which  is  considered  the  most  elegant 
and  correct  specimen  of  the  Swedish  language  of 
that  period,  and  indeed  superior  to  any  that  ap- 
peared for  a  long  time  after.  This  composition, 
full  of  eloquence  and  genuine  passion,  in  which 
the  sentiments  of  love  and  mystical  devotion  are 
intermingled,  places  Ingrida  by  the  side  of  the 
more  celebrated  Heloise. 

IRENE, 

Empress  of  Constantinople,  was  an  Athenian 
orphan,  distinguished  only  by  her  accomplish- 
ments, when,  in  769,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  she 
was  married  to  Leo  IV.,  emperor  of  Constanti- 
nople. She  was  banished  by  her  husband  on  ac- 
count of  her  attachment  to  image  worship,  of 
which  the  Greek  church  disapproved.  On  the 
death  of  Leo,  in  780,  she  returned  to  Constanti- 
nople, and  was  associated  in  the  government  with 
her  son,  Constantino  VI.,  then  only  ten  years  of 
age.  Artful  and  cruel,  Irene  deposed  her  son,  in 
797,  and  caused  his  eyes  to  be  put  out,  and  then 
reigned  alone.  On  this  occasion,  she  entered  Con- 
stantinople in  state,  with  a  splendid  retinue.  She 
made  Charlemagne,  then  emperor  of  the  West,  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  in  order  to  preserve  her 
Italian  dominions  from  his  grasp,  and  the  marriage 
treaty  was  actually  concluded,  when  Nicephorus, 
chancellor  of  the  empire,  conspired  against  her, 
seized  her  in  her  bed,  and  banished  her  to  a  nun- 
nery in  the  island  of  Lesbos.  She  was  here  so 
reduced,  as  to  be  forced  to  earn  a  scanty  subsist- 
ence by  her  distaflf,  and  died  the  same  year,  802. 
During  her  reign,  she  had  submitted  to  be  tribu- 
tary to  the  Saracens.  She  governed  under  the 
direction  of  two  ambitious  eunuchs,  who  were  per- 
petually plotting  against  each  other. 

IRGE, 

A  Japanese  princess,  born  858,  whose  writings 
are  said  still  to  be  in  great  repute  in  Japan. 

ISABELLA, 

Of  Arragon,  daughter  of  Alphonso,  duke  of 
Calabria,  married,  in  1480,  John  Galeazzo  Sforza, 
duke  of  Milan,  who,  yet  in  his  minority,  was  un- 
der the  protection  of  his  uncle,  Louis  Sforza. 
When  Isabella  arrived  at  Milan,  her  beauty  in- 
spired the  protector  with  a  passion  for  her  that 
proved  fatal  to  her  happiness.  The  lovers  having 
been  married  only  by  proxy,  Louis  contrived  to 
keep  them  apart,  while  he  attempted  to  supplant 
the  bridegroom.  But  Isabella  repulsed  him  with 
H 


i      J' 

disdain,  and  exhorted  her  husband  to  throw  off 
the  yoke  of  his  uncle,  and  assert  his  rights. 

The  protector,  artful  and  politic,  attempted,  by 
negotiation,  to  annul  the  marriage,  in  his  own 
favour ;  but  Alphonso  threatened  to  arm  Europe 
in  his  son-in-law's  cause,  and  Louis  was  at  length 
obliged  to  restore  to  his  nephew  his  betrothed 
bride.  His  love  for  Isabella  was  now  turned  to 
hatred ;  and  he  endeavoured  in  every  way  to  em- 
bitter her  life.  He  married  Alphonsina,  daughter 
of  the  duke  of  Ferrara,  a  woman  as  haughty  and 
ambitious  as  Isabella.  Compelled  to  reside  under 
the  same  roof  with  her  rival,  and  to  see  her  sta- 
tion and  privileges  usurped,  Isabella  found  her 
position  so  insupportable,  that  she  wrote  to  her 
father  and  grandfather,  Ferdinand,  king  of  Na- 
ples, protesting  that  if  no  means  for  her  deliver- 
ance were  devised,  she  would  escape  from  her  suf- 
ferings by  relinqiiishing  her  life. 

These  princes,  however,  could  not  redress  her 
grievances ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  her  husband 
died  of  a  slow  poison,  recommending  his  wife  and 
children  to  his  cousin,  Charles  VIII. ,  of  France, 
who  was  passing  through  Pavia.  Hardly  had  Ga- 
leazzo expired,  than  the  party  of  Louis,  saluting 
him  duke,  ordered  the  bells  to  be  set  ringing. 
During  this  indecent  and  insulting  display  of  joy, 
Isabella  immured  herself  and  her  children,  thus 
deprived  at  once  of  their  father  and  their  inherit- 
ance, in  a  dark  chamber. 

The  French  ha\dng  taken  Milan,  Isabella  fled  to 
Naples ;  but  that  city  was  at  length  compelled  to 
surrender  to  the  invaders.  Isabella's  only  son 
was  carried  captive  to  France,  where  it  was  in- 
tended to  compel  him  to  become  a  monk,  and 
where  he  died  by  a  fall  from  his  horse.  Louis 
Sforza  was  also  taken  prisoner  and  carried  to 
France,  where  he  died. 

Isabella  retired  to  a  town  in  Naples,  which  had 
been  assigned  to  her  as  a  dower,  and  where  she 
still  maintained  an  air  of  state  and  grandeur. 
Her  daughter.  Bona  Sforza,  married  Sigismund, 
king  of  Poland.  Some  time  previous  to  her  death, 
Isabella  made  a  journey  of  devotion  to  Rome, 
where  she  walked  to  the  Vatican,  attended  by  a 
train  of  ladies,  dressed  in  bridal  ornaments.     Her 

113 


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IS 


reputation  in  her  youth  was  unblemished,  but  in 
her  later  years,  she  gave  occasion  for  censure,  by 
admitting  the  attentions  of  Prosper  Colonna.  She 
died  Feb.  11th,  1524. 


^^'^, 


ISABELLA, 

Of  Castile,  the  celebrated  queen  of  Spain, 
daughter  of  John  II.,  was  boi-n  in  1451,  and  mar- 
ried, in  1469,  Ferdinand  V.,  king  of  Arragon. 
After  the  death  of  her  brother,  Henry  IV.,  in 
1474,  she  ascended  the  throne  of  Castile,  to  the 
exclusion  of  her  elder  sister,  Joanna,  who  had  the 
rightful  claim  to  the  crown.  During  the  lifetime 
of  her  brother,  Isabella  had  gained  the  favour  of 
the  estates  of  the  kingdom  to  such  a  degree  that 
the  majority,  on  his  death,  declared  for  her. 
From  the  others,  the  victorious  arms  of  her  hus- 
band extorted  acquiescence,  in  the  battle  of  Toro, 
in  1476.  After  the  kingdoms  of  Arragon  and  Cas- 
tile were  thus  united,  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  as- 
sumed the  royal  title  of  Spain. 

With  the  graces  and  charms  of  her  sex,  Isabella 
united  the  courage  of  a  hero,  and  the  sagacity  of 
a  statesman  and  legislator.  She  was  always  pre- 
sent at  the  transaction  of  state  aifairs,  and  her 
name  was  placed  beside  that  of  her  husband  in 
public  ordinances.  The  conquest  of  Granada, 
after  which  the  Moors  were  entirely  expelled  from 
Spain,  and  the  discovery  of  America,  were,  in  a 
great  degree,  her  work.  In  all  her  undertakings, 
the  wise  cardinal  Ximenes  was  her  assistant. 

She  has  been  accused  of  severity,  pride,  and 
unbounded  ambition ;  but  these  faults  sometimes 
promoted  the  welfare  of  the  kingdom,  as  well  as 
her  virtues  and  talents.  A  spirit  like  hers  was 
necessai-y  to  humble  the  haughtiness  of  the  nobles 
without  exciting  their  hostility,  to  conquer  Gra- 
nada without  letting  loose  the  hordes  of  Afi-ica  on 
Europe,  and  to  restrain  the  vices  of  her  subjects, 
who  had  become  corrupt  by  reason  of  the  bad  ad- 
ministration of  the  laws.  By  the  introduction  of 
a  strict  ceremonial,  which  subsists  till  the  present 
day  at  the  Spanish  court,  she  succeeded  in  check- 
ing the  haughtiness  of  the  numerous  nobles  about 
the  person  of  the  king,  and  in  depriving  them  of 
their  pernicious  influence  over  him.     Private  war- 


fare, which  had  formerly  prevailed  to  tlie  destruc- 
tion of  public  tranquillity,  she  checked,  and  intro- 
duced a  vigorous  administration  of  justice.  In 
1492,  pope  Alexander  VI.  confirmed  to  the  royal 
pair  the  title  of  Catholic  king,  already  conferred 
on  them  by  Innocent  VIII.  The  zeal  for  the  Ro- 
man Catholic  religion,  which  procured  them  this 
title,  gave  rise  to  the  Inquisition,  which  was  intro- 
duced into  Spain  in  1480,  at  the  suggestion  of 
their  confessor,  Torquemada.  Isabella  died  in 
1504,  having  extorted  from  her  husband  (of  whom 
she  was  very  jealous)  an  oath  that  he  would  never 
marry  again. 

ISABELLA    OF    FRANCE, 

Youngest  child  of  Louis  VIII.  and  Blanche  of 
Castile,  was  born  in  1224.  She  was  early  cele- 
brated for  her  beauty,  learning,  and  piety.  She 
refused  every  offer  of  marriage,  even  the  son  of 
the  emperor  Ferdinand,  and  declared  her  inten- 
tion to  devote  herself  wholly  to  religion.  The 
pope,  at  her  mother's  request,  wrote  to  dissuade 
her  from  doing  this ;  but  her  answer  to  his  letter 
was  so  full  of  humility,  piety,  and  reason,  that 
both  he  and  Blanche  were  obliged  to  yield.  She 
founded  the  monastery  of  Longchamp  about  1260, 
though  she  never  withdrew  entirely  from  the 
world,  or  joined  any  religious  order.  Towards 
the  end  of  her  life  she  observed  the  most  rigorous 
silence,  to  expiate  for  the  idle  words  she  had 
spoken  in  her  youth.  She  died,  February  12th, 
1269,  at  the  age  of  forty-five.  For  several  ages, 
it  was  believed  that  miracles  were  performed  at 
her  tomb. 

ISABELLA, 

Daughter  of  Philip  the  Fair,  king  of  France, 
was  born  in  1295.  She  married,  in  1.308,  Edward, 
afterwards  Edward  II.  of  England.  She  was  very 
beautiful ;  but  her  licentiousness  disgraced  her, 
and  embittered  the  last  years  of  her  husband's 
life.  By  her  intrigues  she  induced  his  abdication 
and  the  accession  of  their  son  Edward  III.,  then  a 
boy.  She  sought  to  secure  the  sovereign  power  in 
her  hands,  and  those  of  her  infamous  favourite, 
Roger  Mortimer.  She  did  not  effect  this  till  after 
the  wicked  murder  of  her  husband,  the  deposed 
Edward  II.,  which  was  attributed  to  her  instiga- 
tions. Soon  afterwards  her  son,  Edward  III., 
joined  with  his  indignant  barons  in  an  attack  on 
Nottingham  castle,  where  she  and  Mortimer  had 
taken  up  their  abode.  The  crafty  queen  was  over- 
come ;  her  paramour  seized  and  executed ;  and 
she  confined  for  the  remainder  of  her  life,  twenty- 
eight  years,  at  Castle  Rising.  She  died  in  1358, 
aged  sixty-three  years. 

"Since  the  days  of  the  fair  and  false  Elfrida 
of  Saxon  celebrity,  no  queen  of  England  has  left 
so  dark  a  stain  on  the  annals  of  female  royalty  as 
the  consort  of  Edward  II.,  Isabella  of  France," 
says  Miss  Strickland. 

SABELLA    OF    VALOIS, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France, 
and  Isabella  of  Bavaria.     She  was  born  in  the 
Louvre  palace  at  Paris,  November  9th,  1387.     In 

114 


IS 


IS 


October,  1396,  Isabella  became  the  second  wife 
of  Richard  II.  of  England,  though  she  was  then 
only  eight  years  old.  After  Richard  was  dethroned 
and  murdered  by  Henry  of  Bolingbroke,  after- 
wards Henry  IV.,  in  1400,  and  Isabella  remained 
in  England  for  two  years,  treated  with  great  re- 
spect as  queen-dowager,  but  steadily  refusing  the 
hand  of  Henry's  eldest  son,  who  had  fallen  very 
much  in  love  with  her.  In  1402,  Isabella  return- 
ed to  Paris,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  married 
her  cousin,  the  celebrated  archduke  of  Orleans, 
who,  though  some  years  younger  than  herself,  she 
dearly  loved.  She  died  at  Blois,  September  13th, 
1410,  leaving  an  infant  daughter  only  a  few  hours 
old. 

ISABELLA    OF    LORRAINE, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Charles  II.  of  Lorraine, 
was  married  in  1420,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  to 
Ren^,  duke  d'Anjou,  brother-in-law  of  Charles  VI. 
of  France,  then  about  fourteen.  She  united  to 
great  beauty,  intellect,  generosity,  and  courage. 
When  her  husband  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  duke 
of  Burgundy,  in  1429,  she  assembled  the  nobles 
of  Lorraine,  placed  her  four  children  under  their 
protection,  and  raised  an  army  to  rescue  her  hus- 
band. While  he  was  still  a  prisoner,  the  kingdom 
of  Sicily,  by  the  death  of  Charles  I.,  became  his; 
and  Rene  sent  Isabella  to  claim  it.  She  went 
there,  and  by  her  wise  and  skilful  government 
acqviired  great  popularity.  In  1437,  Rend  joined 
her ;  but  in  less  than  five  years  he  was  forced  to 
return  with  his  family  to  France,  by  his  victorious 
rival,  Alphonso  of  Arragon.  In  1444,  Isabella's 
youngest  daughter,  Margaret  of  Anjou,  married 
Henry  VI.  of  England  ;  and  the  misfortunes  of  this 
beloved  child  so  preyed  \ipon  the  mother,  that  they 
are  supposed  to  have  caused  her  death.  She  died 
at  the  castle  d' Angers,  February  28th,  1452,  at 
the  age  of  forty-four.  Her  husband's  grief  at  her 
loss  nearly  proved  fatal  to  him ;  and  though  he 
married  again,  he  never  ceased  to  regret  her. 

Among  the  illustrious  females  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  Isabella  of  Lorraine  must  ever  hold  a 
distinguished  place.  Her  commanding  talents,  her 
personal  endowments,  her  courage  and  conjugal 
tenderness,  all  unite  to  form  a  character  of  the 
most  lovely  and  perfect  type  of  womanhood.  She 
was  the  contemporary  of  Joan  of  Arc ;  she  was 
the  patroness  of  Agnes  Sorel,  and  seems  to  have 
possessed  the  true  heart  of  the  heroine  and  the 
cultivated  intellect  of  the  poetess.  Her  daughter, 
Margaret  of  Anjou,  "  inhei-ited  from  this  illus- 
trious parent  those  energies  which  the  sternest 
shocks  of  adversity  were  unable  to  subdue,"  says 
Miss  Strickland ;  she  also  describes  Isabella  as 
the  "  tenderest  and  most  courageous  of  conjugal 
heroines;"  a  title  most  appropriate  to  her  deeds 
of  daring,  all  done  for  the  sake  of  her  husband. 

ISAURE, 

Clemence,  or  Clemenza,  a  lady  of  Toulouse  in 
France,  celebrated  for  her  learning.  She  insti- 
tuted the  Jeux  Floraux,  or  Floral  Games,  in  that 
city,  wliere  prizes  were  bestowed  on  the  success- 
ful poetical  competitors.     She  was  born  in  1464, 


and  was  the  daughter  of  Ludovico  Isaure,  who 
died  when  Clemence  was  only  five  years  old. 

Some  years  afterwards  the  romance  of  her  life 
began.  Near  her  garden  dwelt  Raoul,  a  young 
troubadour,  who  fell  in  love  with  her  for  her  ge- 
nius and  beauty,  and  communicated  his  passion  in 
songs  in  which  her  name  and  his  were  united. 
The  maiden  replied  with  flowers,  whose  meaning 
Raoul  could  easily  interpret.  He  was  the  natural 
son  of  count  Raymond  of  Toulouse,  and  followed 
his  father  to  the  war  against  the  emperor  Maxi- 
milian. In  the  battle  of  Guigenaste  both  were 
slain,  and  Clemence  resolved  to  take  the  veil.  Be- 
fore doing  so,  however,  she  renewed  the  poetic 
festival  which  had  been  established  by  the  gay 
company  of  the  seven  troubadours,  but  had  been 
long  forgotten,  and  assigned  as  prizes  for  the 
victors  the  five  diS'erent  flowers,  wrought  in  gold 
and  silver,  with  which  slie  had  replied  to  her 
lover's  passion.  She  fixed  on  the  first  of  May  as 
the  day  for  the  distribution  of  tlie  prizes  ;  and  she 
herself  composed  an  ode  on  spring  for  the  occa- 
sion, which  acquired  for  her  tlie  surname  of  the 
Sappho  of  Toulouse.  Her  character  was  tinged 
with  melancholy,  which  the  loss  of  her  lover  pro- 
bably heightened ;  and  her  poems  partake  of  this 
plaintive  style.  Her  works  were  printed  at  Tou- 
louse in  1505.  They  remained  a  long  time  in  obli- 
vion, and  perhaps  never  would  have  seen  the  light 
but  for  the  fortunate  discovery  of  M.  Alexandre 
Dumenge.  There  are  extant  two  copies  of  this 
precious  volume,  which  is  entitled  "  Dictats  de 
Dona  Clamenza  Isaure;"  it  consists  of  cantos  or 
odes ;  the  principal  and  most  finislied  is  called 
"  Plainte  d' Amour."  The  two  first  strophes  have 
been  translated  almost  literally  into  modern 
French. 

Au  soin  des  bois  la  colombe  amoiireuse 
Murmure  en  paix  ses  longs,  el  doux  accens; 
Sus  nos  coteaux,  la  Fauvette  de  meilleuse 
Va  celebrer  le  lelour  du  Printemps! 

Helas!  et  nioi,  plaintive,  solitaire 
Mol  qui  n'ai  su  qii'  aiiiies,  et  que  souffrir, 
Je  dois,  au  monde,  au  bonheur,  etrangere 
Pleurer  mesinanx,  les  redire,  et  mourir. 

115 


J  A 


JO 


The  queen  of  poetry,  as  her  contemporaries  en- 
titled her,  died  in  the  first  year  of  the  great  reign 
of  Frances  I.,  and  Leo  X.  Her  mortal  remains 
were  deposited  in  the  choir  of  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame,  at  Toulouse.  A  bronze  tablet,  inscribed 
with  a  highly  eulogistic  tribute  to  her  fame,  still 
remains,  at  the  foot  of  a  statue  of  Clemence.  Af- 
ter the  lapse  of  three  centuries,  it  required  nothing 
less  than  the  conv-ulsions  of  the  French  Revolution 
of  1789  to  suspend  the  floral  games;  they  were 
reinstated  under  Napoleon,  as  a  municipal  institu- 
tion, in  1806.  The  memory  of  Clemence  Isaure 
lived  "green  with  immortal  bays;"  for  centuries 
the  Toulousians  had  made  her  their  boast — but 
"  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wit  e'er  gave,"  could  find 
no  grace  with  the  patriots  of  1793.  That  intel- 
ligent body  of  citizens  voted  Clemence  Isaure  an 
"  aristocrat,"  and,  as  such,  sentenced  her  bronze 
monument  to  be  melted  down,  and  used  for  vulgar 
purposes.  Fortunately,  the  honest  artisan  to 
whom  the  work  was  consigned,  had  a  feeling  which 
saved  this  venerable  relic.  At  the  risk  of  his 
head,  he  substituted  some  other  bronze,  and  con- 
cealed the  tablet  till  a  time  of  political  safety 
arrived. 


JANE   OF   FLANDERS, 

Countess  of  Montfort,  was  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  women  of  her  age.  Her  husband, 
the  count  of  Montfort,  having  been,  in  1342, 
made  prisoner  and  conducted  to  Paris,  she  assem- 
bled the  inhabitants  of  Rennes,  her  place  of  resi- 
dence, and  by  her  eloquence,  aided  by  the  pity 
inspired  by  her  infant  son,  moved  the  inhabitants 
of  Rennes  to  take  up  arms  in  her  behalf.  The 
movement  was  participated  in  by  all  Brittany,  and 
she  soon  found  herself  in  a  position  to  protect  her 
rights.  Having  shut  herself  in  the  fortress  of 
Hennebonne,  Charles  de  Blois,  her  husband's  enemy, 
besieged  her  there,  after  an  obstinate  defence,  in 
which  the  countess  showed  many  of  the  qualities 
of  a  commander.  The  repeated  breaches  made  in 
the  walls  at  length  rendered  it  necessary  for  the 
besieged,  who  were  diminished  in  numbers,  and 
exhausted  by  fatigue,  to  treat  for  a  capitulation. 
During  a  conference  for  that  purpose,  in  which 
the  bishop  of  Leon  was  engaged  with  Charles  de 
Blois,  the  countess,  who  had  mounted  a  high 
tower,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  sea, 
descried  some  sails  at  a  distance,  and  immediately 
exclaimed,  "Behold  the  succours!  the  English 
succours!  no  capitulation !" 

This  fleet,  prepared  by  Edward  III.  for  the  re- 
lief of  Hennebonne,  having  been  detained  by  con- 
trary winds,  entered  the  harbour,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Sir  Walter  Mauny.  The  garrison,  by 
this  reinforcement,  animated  with  fresh  spirits, 
immediately  sallied  forth,  beat  the  besiegers  from 
their  posts,  and  obliged  them  to  decamp.  The 
flames  of  war  still  continued  their  devastations, 
when  Charles  de  Blois,  having  invested  the  fortress 
of  Roche  de  Rien,  the  Countess  of  Montfort,  re- 
inforced by  some  English  troops,  attacked  him, 


during  the  night,  in  his  entrenchments,  dispersed 
his  army,  and  took  him  prisoner.  His  wife,  in 
whose  right  he  had  pretended  to  Brittany,  com- 
pelled by  the  captivity  of  her  husband,  assumed, 
in  her  turn,  the  government  of  the  party;  and 
opposed  herself,  a  formidable  and  worthy  rival, 
both  in  the  cabinet  and  field,  to  the  countess  of 
Montfort. 

The  mediation  of  France  and  England  failed  to 
put  an  end  to  the  disputes  in  Brittany,  till  Charles 
de  Blois  was  at  length  slain,  at  the  battle  of  Auray. 
The  young  count  de  Montfort  soon  after  obtained 
possession  of  the  duchy,  and,  though  a  zealous 
partizan  of  England,  had  his  title  acknowledged 
by  the  French  king,  to  whom  he  did  homage  for 
his  dominions. 

JEANNE   DE   BOURBON, 

Daughter  of  Pierre  I.,  duke  de  Bourbon,  was 
born  at  Vincennes,  near  Paris,  February  3d,  1337. 
April  8th,  1350,  when  about  thirteen,  she  married 
Charles,  who  was  nearly  the  same  age,  afterwards 
Chai'les  V.  of  France,  eldest  son  of  king  John. 
She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  her  hus- 
band was  much  attached  to  her.  He  had  a  high 
opinion  of  her  judgment,  often  consulted  her  on 
state  aifairs,  and  loved  to  see  her  surrounded  by 
all  the  pomp  and  luxury  suited  to  her  station.  On 
days  of  solemnity,  Charles  frequently  broiight  his 
wife,  whom  he  called  "the  sun  of  his  kingdom," 
with  him  to  the  parliament,  where  she  took  her 
seat  by  his  side.  By  his  will,  he  left  the  regency 
to  Jeanne,  although  he  had  three  brothers  of  ma- 
ture age.  However,  his  queen  died  before  him, 
at  the  Hotel  de  St.  Paul,  in  Paris,  February  lltli, 
1378.  Her  death  proved  a  real  misfortune  to 
France.  She  is  spoken  of,  by  historians,  as  one 
of  the  most  accomplished  and  virtuous  princesses 
of  her  time. 

JEANNE  OF  FRANCE  AND  NAVARRE, 

Wife  of  Philip  IV.,  surnamed  the  Fair,  of 
France,  was  the  only  child  and  heiress  of  Henry 
I.,  king  of  Navarre  and  count  of  Champagne. 
The  count  de  Bar  having  attacked  Champagne,  she 
placed  herself  at  the  head  of  a  small  army,  forced 
him  to  surrender,  and  kept  him  a  long  time  in 
prison.  But  her  most  solid  title  to  glory,  is  the 
having  founded  the  famous  college  of  Navarre. 

Jeanne  of  Navarre  died  at  Vincennes,  in  1304, 
aged  thirty-three.  Her  husband  was  devotedly 
attached  to  her,  and  she  fully  deserved  his  love. 
Philip  never  took  the  titles  of  king  of  Navarre,  or 
of  count  of  Champagne  and  of  Brie  ;  and  to  all  his 
ordinances  relative  to  the  government  of  these 
principalities,  he  always  added  that  he  acted  with 
the  concurrence  of  his  dear  companion ;  and 
Jeanne  added  her  seal  to  that  of  her  husband. 
Jeanne  was  married  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and, 
during  her  twenty  years  of  wedded  life,  she  bore 
her  husband  seven  children.  She  was  equally 
beautiful,  eloquent,  generous,  and  courageous. 

JOANNA, 
Or  Jane  of  Navarre,  consort  of  Hem-y  IV.  of 
England,    was   the   second   daughter   of  Charles 

116 


JO 


JO 


d'Albert,  king  of  Navarre,  surnamed  the  Bad. 
Her  mother  was  Jane,  daughter  of  John,  king  of 
France.  Joanna  was  born  about  1370,  and  in 
1386,  she  marri.ed  John  de  Montfort,  duke  of 
Bretagne,  surnamed  the  Valiant,  by  whom  she 
was  tenderly  beloved,  and  who  left  her  regent  and 
sole  guardian  of  the  young  duke,  their  eldest  son, 
on  his  death,  in  1399.  In  1402,  Joanna  married 
Henry  of  Lancaster,  king  of  England,  who  died  in 
1413  ;  after  which  event,  Joanna  still  remained  in 
England.  In  1419,  she  was  arrested  on  a  charge 
of  witchcraft  against  the  king,  Henry  V.,  her 
step-son.  She  was  condemned,  deprived  of  all 
her  property,  and  imprisoned  till  1422,  when  she 
was  set  free,  and  her  dower  restored.  She  died 
at  Havering  Bower,  in  1437.  Joanna  had  nine 
children  by  the  duke  of  Bretagne,  some  of  whom 
died  before  her;  but  none  by  Henry  IV.  She  was 
a  beautiful  and  a  very  intelligent  woman. 


JOANNA, 

Countess  of  Hainault  and  Flanders.  Baldwin, 
count  of  Flanders,  born  in  1171,  was  one  of  the 
heroes  of  the  fourth  crusade.  He  had  taken  the 
city  of  Constantinople,  and  borne  for  a  short  time 
the  empty  title  of  emperor.  The  fortunes  of  war 
rendered  him  prisoner  during  a  tedious  captivity 
of  eighteen  years.  In  parting  for  the  crusade, 
Baldwin  left  two  young  daughters,  Joan  and  Mar- 
garet —  the  former  destined  to  be  his  heiress  and 
successor.  Their  mother,  Mary  di  Sciampagna, 
died  at  Acre,  in  making  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 
Land.  During  the  absence  of  Baldwin,  Flanders 
was  governed  by  the  guardian  and  cousin  of  the 
infants,  Philip  of  Namur. 

Joan,  from  early  girlhood,  manifested  an  impe- 
rious will  and  ardent  desire  for  sway.  Profiting 
by  a  rumour  of  the  death  of  her  father,  which 
began  to  be  spread  abroad,  she  seized  the  reins 
of  government,  and  caused  herself,  in  1209,  to  be 
declared  countess  of  Hainault  and  Flanders.  Two 
years  after  this  she  formed  a  marriage,  which, 
judging  from  its  result,  must  have  arisen  on  her 
side  from  motives  of  policy,  unmingled  with  affec- 
tion.    The  husband  she  selected  was  Ferdinand, 


son  of  Sancho,  king  of  Portugal.  Uncertain  in 
disposition,  unskilful  in  conduct,  and  weak  in  de- 
sign, Ferdinand  attempted  various  expeditions, 
and  performed  all  with  ill-success.  He  began  by 
forming  an  alliance  with  Philip  Augustus ;  then 
owing  to  some  frivolous  pique  we  find  him  desert- 
ing to  the  English,  just  at  the  time  of  the  famous 
battle  of  Bouvines.  Covered  with  wounds,  he  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  French,  and  was  conveyed  a 
prisoner  to  Paris,  where  he  remained  fifteen  years 
in  captivity.  Joan  appears  to  have  considered 
him  well  disposed  of,  as  she  maintained  an  ami- 
cable relation  with  Philip  Augustus,  and  after- 
wards with  Louis  VIII.  These  kings  were  her 
friends,  supporters,  and  trusty  allies.  No  doubt 
they  consulted  her  wishes  in  retaining  the  un- 
happy Ferdinand  in  the  Louvre,  while  they  granted 
her  the  honours  and  privileges  of  a  sovereign  per 
se,  among  which  was  the  holding  an  unsheathed 
sword  before  them.  She  seems  to  have  governed 
with  vigour  and  judgment.  Her  political  treaties 
were  made  with  a  sagacity  rare  at  that  period. 
She  had  none  of  the  tenderness  of  an  amiable 
woman,  but  was  gifted  with  the  shrewd  sense  and 
hardness  of  a  statesman.  Circumstances  soon 
arose  before  which  a  less  stout  heart  would  have 
quailed,  and  a  more  sensitive  conscience  refused 
to  act. 

In  1225,  a  broken-down,  grey-haired,  feeble  old 
man  made  his  appearance  in  Lisle,  and  declared 
himself  to  be  Baldwin,  the  father  of  the  countess, 
returned  to  resume  his  sovereignty !  Joan  boldly 
asserted  that  he  was  an  impostor,  and  denied  him 
admission  to  the  palace  ;  but  his  piteous  tale,  his 
venerable  appearance,  and  the  natural  bias  of  the 
populace  to  side  with  the  oppressed,  gained  him 
numei'ous  partizans.  Joan's  residence  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  tumultuoiis  mob,  and  she  hastily 
fled  to  Peronne,  and  put  herself  under  the  protec- 
tion of  her  trusty  friend  king  Louis,  who  sum- 
moned the  soi-disant  Baldwin  to  appear  before  his 
tribunal,  when  as  suzerain  he  would  pronounce 
between  the  contending  parties.  His  decision 
would  probably  have  been  the  same  had  the  un- 
fortunate pretender  offered  the  strongest  evidence 
—  as  it  was,  the  old  man  was  unable  to  answer 
questions  propounded  to  him  about  early  events 
and  persons.  He  pleaded  that  age,  and  trouble, 
and  present  sickness  and  agitation,  dulled  his 
faculties  and  injured  his  memory  ;  but  Louis  gave 
sentence  that  he  was  an  impostor,  and  as  such, 
ordered  him  out  of  the  kingdom,  though  he  re- 
spected the  safe-conduct  under  which  he  had  pre- 
sented himself,  and  had  him  carried  safely  beyond 
the  frontiers.  The  countess  being  reinstated  in 
her  domains,  showed  by  her  cruelty  that  she  did 
not  despise  the  claims  of  the  wretched  veteran. 
She  sent  persons  to  seize  him,  and  when  under  her 
jurisdiction,  after  submitting  his  aged  limbs  to 
the  torture,  she  caused  him  to  be  decapitated. 
Kneeling  on  the  scaffold,  with  one  hand  on  the 
crucifix,  and  his  head  on  the  block,  he  repeated 
that  he  was  the  true  and  real  Baldwin,  count  of 
Flanders.  At  a  neighbouring  window  appeared  a 
pale  visage,  with  closed  teeth  and  contracted 
muscles  —  it  was  Joan  —  who  took  a  fearful  satis- 

117 


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faction  in  seeing  with  her  own  eyes  the  fulfilment 
of  her  dire  will ! 

After  this  scene  of  blood,  the  countess  governed 
Flanders  peacefully  and  prosperously  for  sixteen 
years.  The  justice  of  St.  Louis  when  he  ascended 
the  throne  of  France  opened  the  prison-doors  of 
Ferdinand ;  but  the  privations,  and  sufferings, 
and  solitude  of  years,  had  weakened  his  moral 
and  physical  economy — he  was  prematvu'ely  old — 
and  did  not  live  to  enjoy  his  freedom,  so  long 
wished  for.  The  widow  princess  deemed  it  expe- 
dient to  enter  into  new  nuptials.  She  espoused 
Thomas  of  Savoy.  The  day  after  this  marriage, 
mounted  in  a  stately  car  with  her  husband,  she 
went  in  procession  through  the  city  of  Lisle ;  but 
when  she  arrived  at  the  place  where  her  father 
had  been  executed,  a  bloody  phantom  rose  before 
her — the  head  but  half  attached  to  the  bust — and 
uttered  the  most  frightful  menaces.  AVho  shall 
pronounce  whether  this  apparition  was  the  effect 
of  a  guilty  conscience,  stimulated  by  the  accusa- 
tions of  the  populace,  or  a  nervous  disorder,  the 
beginning  of  divine  vengeance !  At  all  events, 
from  that  day  Joan  led  a  life  of  agony  and  terror, 
always  haunted  by  the  fatal  spectre.  Consulting 
holy  churchmen,  she  was  advised  to  build  a  mon- 
astery on  the  very  spot  where  the  phantom  rose. 
Joan  not  only  did  this,  but  also  erected  a  hospital 
and  two  convents ;  and  that  her  repentance  might 
prove  still  more  efficacious,  assumed  herself  the 
habit  of  a  nun,  and  died  in  the  cloister  in  the 
year  1241.  Her  death-bed  was  surrounded  by  the 
holy  sisterhood,  who  lavished  every  comfort  of 
religion  upon  her ;  she  grasped  convulsively  the 
crucifix,  and  her  last  words  were,  in  accents  of 
despair,  "Will  God  forgive  me?" 


JOANNA,       / 

Of  Naples,  daughter  of  Robert,  king  of  Naples, 
of  the  Anjou  dynasty,  succeeded  her  father  in 
1343.  She  was  then  sixteen,  handsome  and  ac- 
complished. She  had  been  for  some  time  married 
to  her  cousin  Andreas  of  Hungary  ;  but  this  union 
was  not  a  happy  one.  Andreas  claimed  to  be  king 
and  to  share  his  wife's  authority,  which,  by  her 
father's  will,  had  been  solely  left  to  her.     The 


conduct  of  Andreas,  and  his  haughty  manners, 
offended  the  Neapolitan  nobility,  and  his  Hunga- 
rian guards  excited  their  jealousy.  A  conspiracy 
was  formed  by  the  nobles,  and  one  night  while  the 
court  was  at  Aversa,  Andreas  was  strangled,  and 
his  body  thrown  out  of  a  window  of  the  castle. 

Joanna  went  immediately  to  Naples,  and  thence 
issued  orders  for  the  apprehension  of  the  mur- 
derers. Many  pei-sons  were  put  to  a  cruel  death 
as  accessaries,  but  public  opinion  still  implicated 
the  queen  in  the  murder.  The  same  year  Joanna 
married  her  cousin  Louis,  prince  of  Tareutum. 
Soon  after  Louis,  king  of  Hungary,  the  brother  of 
Andreas,  came  with  an  army  to  avenge  his  bro- 
ther's death.  He  defeated  the  queen's  troops, 
and  entered  Naples.  Joanna  then  took  refuge  in 
her  hereditary  principality  of  Provence.  She  soon 
repaired  to  Avignon,  and,  before  Pope  Clement 
VL,  protested  her  innocence  and  demanded  a  trial. 
She  was  tried  and  acquitted ;  and,  out  of  grati- 
tude, she  gave  up  to  the  papal  see  the  town  and 
county  of  Avignon. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  pestilence  had  frightened 
away  the  Hungarians  from  Naples,  and  Joanna, 
returning  to  her  kingdom,  was  solemnly  crowned 
with  her  husband,  in  1351.  Joan  reigned  many 
years  in  peace.  Having  lost  her  husband  in  1362, 
she  married  James  of  Arragon,  a  prince  of  Majorca, 
and  on  his  death  she  married,  in  1376,  Otho,  duke 
of  Brunswick ;  but  having  no  children,  she  gave 
her  niece  Margaret  to  Charles,  duke  of  Durazzo, 
and  appointed  him  her  successor.  On  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  schism  between  Urban  VI.  and 
Clement  VII.,  Joanna  took  the  part  of  the  latter. 
Urban  excommunicated  her,  and  gave  her  king- 
dom to  Charles  Durazzo,  who  revolted  against  his 
sovereign  and  benefactress.  With  the  aid  of  the 
pope  he  raised  troops,  defeated  the  queen,  and 
took  her  jirisoner.  He  then  tried  to  induce  Joanna 
to  abdicate  in  his  favour ;  but  she  firmly  refused, 
and  named  Louis  of  Anjou,  brother  of  Charles  V., 
king  of  France,  as  her  successor.  Charles  then 
transferred  Joanna  to  the  castle  of  Muro,  in  Basi- 
licata,  where  he  caused  her  to  be  mirrdered,  in 
1382.  She  was  a  woman  of  great  accomplish- 
ments, and  many  good  qualities. 

JOANNA  II., 

D.\UGHTER  of  Charles  Durazzo,  and  sister  of 
Ladislaus,  king  of  Naples,  succeeded  the  latter  in 
1414.  She  was  then  forty-four,  and  was  noted 
for  her  licentiousness  and  weakness.  She  married, 
from  political  motives,  James,  Count  de  la  Marche, 
who  was  allied  to  the  royal  family  of  France.  But 
the  union  proved  a  most  unhappy  one,  and  James 
fled  to  France,  where  it  is  said  that  he  ended  his 
days  in  a  convent.  Meantime  unworthy  favour- 
ites ruled  in  succession  in  the  court  of  Joanna. 
One  of  them,  Ser  Gianni  Caracciolo,  of  a  noble 
family,  saw  his  influence  disputed  by  the  famous 
Condottiere  Sforza  Attendolo,  who,  together  with 
many  barons  that  were  jealous  of  Caracciolo,  took 
the  part  of  Louis  of  Anjou,  grandson  of  that  Louis 
to  whom  Joanna  I.  had  bequeathed  the  crown. 
The  queen  sought  for  support  in  Alfonso  of  Arra- 
gon, king  of  Sicily,  whom  she  appointed  her  suc- 

118 


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JU 


cessor.  Alfonso  came  to  Naples ;  but  the  fickle 
Joan,  having  made  her  peace  with  Sforza,  revoked 
her  adoption  of  Alfonso,  and  appointed  Louis  of 
Anjou  her  successor.  Alfonso  was  obliged  to  re- 
turn to  Sicily,  and  soon  after  Caracciolo  was  mur- 
dered in  consequence  of  court  jealousy.  Louis  of 
Anjou  died  also,  and  was  followed  to  the  grave  by 
Joanna  herself,  who  appointed  Ren^  of  Anjou  her 
successor.  She  died  in  1435,  leaving  her  kingdom 
in  great  disorder,  and  with  the  prospect  of  dis- 
puted succession  and  civil  war. 

JUDITH, 

Daughter  of  AVelflf,  a  count,  by  some  writers 
called  the  duke  of  Bavaria,  was  selected,  from  her 
beauty,  to  be  the  second  wife  of  Louis  le  Debon- 
naire,  son  of  Charlemagne,  emperor  of  France. 
She  was  well  educated,  and  succeeded  in  obtaining 
such  control  over  the  king's  affections,  that  she 
governed  not  only  in  the  palace,  but  also  exercised 
the  greatest  influence  in  the  government.  Her 
oldest  son,  who  afterwards  reigned  under  the  name 
of  Charles  the  Bald,  was  born  in  823  ;  but  as  the 
king  had  already  divided  his  estates  between  the 
sons  of  his  former  marriage,  there  was  nothing 
left  for  him.  Judith  immediately  exerted  herself 
to  obtain  a  kingdom  for  her  child ;  and  having 
made  her  god-son,  Bernard,  duke  of  Aquitaine, 
prime  minister,  a  national  assembly  was  convoked 
at  Worms,  and  by  the  consent  of  Lothaire,  tlie 
eldest  son  of  Louis,  the  country  between  the  Jura, 
Alps,  Rhine,  and  Maine,  was  given  to  Charles, 
who  was  placed  under  the  care  of  Bernard. 

Pepin,  the  second  son  of  Louis,  having  convinced 
Lothaire  of  his  folly  in  yielding  up  his  possessions 
at  the  request  of  Judith,  induced  him  to  unite 
with  him  in  a  rebellion  against  Judith  and  Louis. 
In  829  they  surrounded  Aix,  took  Judith  and  her 
husband  prisoners,  and  accusing  Judith  of  too 
great  intimacy  with  Bernard,  forceil  her  to  take 
the  veil,  in  the  convent  of  St.  Radegonde,  at  Poi- 
tiers. They,  however,  permitted  Judith  to  have 
a  private  interview  with  her  husband,  on  condition 
that  she  would  urge  on  him  the  necessity  of  an 
immediate  abdication.  Judith  promised  to  do  so  ; 
but  instead,  advised   Louis  to  yield  to  circum- 


stances, and  go  to  the  monastery  of  St.  M^dard, 
at  Soissons,  but  not  to  abdicate  the  crown.  The 
king  followed  her  advice ;  and,  in  830,  Lothaire, 
having  quarrelled  with  his  brother,  restored  the 
crown  to  Louis,  who  immediately  recalled  Judith. 
The  pope  released  her  from  her  conventual  vows, 
and  she  cleared  herself  by  an  oath  from  the  accu- 
sation of  adultery  that  was  brought  against  her. 
Bernard,  who  had  fled  to  Aquitaine,  also  returned, 
and  offered  to  prove  his  innocence  of  the  crime  by 
single  combat,  with  any  of  his  accusers.  No  one 
accepted  the  challenge,  but  the  public  feeling  was 
so  strong  against  him,  that  the  empress  was  obliged 
to  send  him  away. 

In  833,  the  emperor  was  again  betrayed  and 
deposed  by  his  children,  although  Judith  had  ex- 
erted herself  in  every  way,  even  by  cruelty,  to 
retain  for  her  weak  husband  the  power  he  could 
not  keep  for  himself.  After  a  year  of  confinement, 
Louis  was  again  placed  on  the  throne ;  and  by  the 
new  division  of  the  empire,  arranged  in  839,  Ju- 
dith had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  son  placed 
in  possession  of  a  large  share  of  those  estates  from 
which  he  had  seemed  forever  excluded.  Louis 
the  Mild  died  in  840,  and  Judith  only  survived 
him  three  years.  She  died  at  Tours.  Some  his- 
torians, however,  say  that  her  death  did  not  occur 
till  848,  or  even  till  874.  In  her  heart  the  mo- 
ther's ambition  was  the  predominating  power. 


JULIA   DOMNA 

Was  the  daughter  of  a  noble  Phoenician,  a  high 
priest  of  the  temple  of  the  sun,  at  Emesa.  Natui-e 
had  blessed  her  with  great  intellectual  and  per- 
sonal endowments ;  and  the  high  gifts  of  beauty, 
wit,  imagination,  and  discernment,  were  augment- 
ed by  all  the  advantages  of  study  and  education. 
She  is  said  to  have  been  well  acquainted  with  his- 
tory, moral  philosophy,  geometry,  and  other  sci- 
ences, which  she  cultivated  tlirough  life ;  and  her 
mental  accomplisliments  won  her  the  friendship 
of  all  the  most  distinguished  among  the  learned  in 
Rome,  "where,"  (saj-s  one  of  her  modern  histo- 
rians, in  modern  phrase,)  "elle  vint,  dans  I'inten- 
tion  de  faire  fortune,  et  y  reussit." 

From    the    time   of    her   union   with   Severus, 

119 


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KH 


(twenty  years  before  his  elevation  to  the  throne,) 
he  almost  always  adopted  her  counsels,  and  mainly 
owed  to  them  that  high  reputation  with  his  army, 
which  induced  his  troops  in  Illyria  to  proclaim 
him  emperor.  Although  Julia  Domna  has  been 
accused,  by  the  scandal  of  ancient  history,  of  gal- 
lantry in  her  early  days,  (the  common  accusation 
of  the  compilers  of  anecdotes,  who  pass  for  histo- 
rians,) all  writers  acknowledge  that  the  follies  of 
her  youth  were  effaced  by  the  virtues  and  the  ge- 
nius which  glorified  her  maturity  ;  and  that,  when 
seated  on  the  throne  of  the  empire,  she  surrounded 
it  by  whatever  the  declining  literature  and  science 
of  the  day  still  preserved  of  the  wise,  able,  and 
eminent. 

Her  husband  esteemed  her  genius,  and  consulted 
her  upon  all  affairs ;  and  she,  in  some  measure, 
governed  during  the  reign  of  her  sons,  though 
she  had  the  misfortune  of  seeing  one  slain  by 
his  execrable  brother,  whose  excesses  she  in- 
wardly murmured  at,  when  she  dared  not  openly 
condemn. 

To  the  last  horn*  of  her  son's  life,  Julia  Domna, 
who  had  accompanied  him  to  the  East,  adminis- 
tered all  that  was  moral  or  intellectual  in  the  go- 
vernment of  the  empire  ;  and  the  respectful  civility 
of  the  usurper  Macrinus  to  the  widow  of  Severus, 
might  have  flattered  her  with  the  hope  of  an  ho- 
nourable if  not  a  happy  old  age,  in  the  society  of 
the  lettered  and  the  scientific,  whom  to  the  last 
she  served  and  protected. 

But  the  heart,  if  not  the  spii-it  of  this  great 
woman,  and  most  unfortunate  of  mothers,  was 
broken.  "She  had  experienced  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune.  From  an  humble  station  she 
had  been  raised  to  greatness,  only  to  taste  the 
superior  bitterness  of  an  exalted  rank.  She  was 
doomed  to  weep  over  the  death  of  one  of  her  sons, 
and  over  the  life  of  another.  The  terrible  death 
of  Caracalla,  though  her  good  sense  must  have 
long  taught  her  to  expect  it,  awakened  the  feel- 
ings of  a  mother  and  an  empress.  She  descended 
with  a  painful  struggle  into  the  condition  of  a 
subject,  and  soon  withdrew  herself,  by  a  voluntary 
death,  from  an  anxious  and  a  humiliating  depend- 
ence." She  refused  all  food  and  died  of  starva- 
tion. 

JULIA   MAM  ME  A, 

^loTHER  of  Alexander  Severus,  emperor  of 
Rome,  in  222,  was  possessed  of  equal  genius  and 
courage.  She  educated  her  son  very  carefully  for 
the  throne,  rendering  him  a  man  of  virtue  and 
sensibility.  Severus  thought  so  highly  of  his 
mother  that  he  consulted  her  in  every  thing,  and 
followed  her  ad^dce.  Julia  having  heard  of  Ori- 
gen,  sent  for  him,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been 
converted  by  him  to  Christianity.  She  was  mur- 
dered with  her  son,  in  Gaul,  by  the  discontented 
soldiery,  in  235. 

JULIA   MOESA, 
Grandmother    of    Heliogabalus,    emperor    of 
Rome,  was  a  great  politician,  and  a  virtuous  wo- 
man.    She  strove  to  counteract  the  bad  counsels 
of  the  mother  of  the  emperor,  and  bring  him  back 


to  common  sense  and  duty.  She  saw  that  the 
Romans  would  not  long  bear  such  a  shameful 
yoke,  and  she  induced  the  emperor,  who  always 
retained  his  respect  for  her,  to  nominate  his  cou- 
sin, Alexander  Severus,  his  successor.  Julia  Mcesa 
attained  a  happy  and  respected  old  age,  and  was 
placed  by  Alexander  Severus  in  the  list  of  divi- 
nities. 

JULIA  SCEMIUS, 
Mother  of  Heliogabalus,  emperor  of  Rome, 
was  a  native  of  Apamea ;  her  father  was  Julius 
Avitus,  and  her  mother,  Mcesa.  Her  sister,  Julia 
Mammea,  was  the  second  wife  of  the  emperor 
Septimus  Severus.  Julia  Soemius  was  made  pre- 
sident of  a  senate  of  women,  which  she  had  elect- 
ed, to  decide  the  quarrels  and  alfairs  of  the  Roman 
matrons,  an  oflSce  of  some  diflSculty,  if  not  honour. 
She  at  last  provoked  the  people  by  her  debauche- 
ries, extravagance,  and  cruelties,  and  was  mur- 
dered with  her  son  and  family,  in  222. 

JULIA, 
A  VIRGIN  and  martyr  of  Carthage.  At  the  sack 
of  Carthage  by  Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals, 
Julia  was  sold  to  a  heathen  merchant,  and  carried 
to  Syria.  Here  she  was  discovered  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian, by  her  refusal  to  take  a  part  in  some  of  the 
festivals  instituted  in  honour  of  the  female  deities, 
and  was  put  to  death,  in  440. 

JULIANNA, 

AViFE  of  Eustace  de  Breteuil,  was  the  natural 
daughter  of  Henry  I.  of  England.  Her  husband 
having  confided  to  her  the  defence  of  the  castle 
de  Breteuil,  in  1119,  she  defended  it  bravely 
against  her  father,  at  the  head  of  a  large  army. 
Her  father  had  taken  her  two  sons  prisoners,  and 
given  them  to  their  enemies,  who  had  mutilated 
their  faces.  When  Julianua  found  that  she  could 
hold  out  no  longer,  she  sent  to  desire  an  intei-view 
with  her  father,  who,  suspecting  no  treachery, 
went  to  meet  her,  when  she  attempted  to  kill  him. 
Henry  avoided  the  blow,  and  forced  her  to  sur- 
render. She  was  obliged  to  leave  the  castle  igno- 
miniously,  and  went  to  rejoin  her  husband  at 
Pacy-sur-Eure. 


K. 

KHAULA, 

An  Arabian  heroine,  who,  in  the  famous  battle 
of  the  Yermonks,  between  the  Greeks  and  the 
Arabs,  in  the  seventh  century,  rallied  the  Arabs, 
when  they  were  driven  back  by  the  furious  onset 
of  their  assailants,  and,  with  several  other  of  the 
chief  women,  took  the  command  of  the  army.  In 
leading  the  van,  Khaula  was  beaten  to  the  ground 
by  a  Greek,  when  Wafeira,  one  of  her  female 
friends,  rescued  her,  by  striking  off  his  head  with 
one  blow.  This  courageous  conduct  so  animated 
the  Arabs,  that  they  routed  the  Greeks  with  great 
loss.  Khaula  afterwards  married  the  caliph 
AU. 

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L. 

LABANA, 

A  Moorish-Spaniard,  of  a  noble  family  at  Cor- 
duba.  She  was  a  most  accurate  poetess,  and  also 
was  skilled  in  philosophy  and  music.  She  died 
young,  in  995. 


LAURA, 

The  beloved  of  Petrarch,  is  better  known  by 
that  title,  than  by  her  own  name  of  Laura  de 
Noyes.  She  was  born  at  Avignon,  and  married 
Hugo  de  Sade.  Petrarch  first  saw  her  in  1327, 
and  conceived  a  passion  for  her,  which  existed 
during  her  life ;  yet  her  chastity  has  never  been 
called  in  question.  Petrarch  wrote  three  hundred 
and  eighteen  sonnets  and  eighty-eight  songs,  of 
which  Laura  was  the  subject.  She  died  of  the 
plague,  in  1348,  aged  thirty-eight.  She  is  said  to 
have  had  a  graceful  figure,  a  sweet  voice,  a  noble 
and  distinguished  appearance,  and  a  countenance 
which  inspired  tenderness. 

The  poetry  of  Petrarch  gave  Laura  a  wide  cele- 
brity during  her  lifetime.  It  is  recorded,  that  the 
king  of  Bohemia,  arriving  at  Avignon,  sought  out 
this  well-sung  lady,  and  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head, in  token  of  homage.  All  this  may  appear 
very  pleasant ;  romantic  young  ladies  may  even 
account  Laura  a  very  fortunate  woman;  but  there 
is  a  dark  side  to  the  picture.  The  husband  of 
Laura  was  not  pleased  with  the  notoriety  which 
the  devotion  of  Petrarch  conferred  on  the  object 
of  his  passion  or  his  poetry.  No  wonder  the 
jealousy  of  the  husband,  even  an  Italian  husband, 
should  have  been  awakened ;  and  though  no  real 
infidelity  of  his  wife  was  ever  discovered,  yet  it 
was  not  possible  he  could  enjoy  the  quiet  happi- 
ness of  domestic  life,  which  is  based  on  perfect 
confidence  in  the  aS'ections  as  well  as  principles 
of  the  man-ied  pair.  The  children  of  this  ill- 
matched  couple  showed  either  that  their  training 
was  neglected,  or  their  natural  gifts  very  me- 
diocre ;  both  consequences  unfavourable  to  the 
character  of  their  mother.  Of  Laura's  nine  sons, 
not  one  was  ever  distinguished  for  sense  or  spirit; 


and  her  only  daughter  conducted  herself  in  such 
an  irregular  manner,  that  her  friends  were  forced 
to  shut  her  up  in  a  convent.  Such  were  the 
children  of  this  "  beloved  of  Petrarch."  Surely, 
Laura's  celebrity  can  be  no  object  of  envy  to  any 
good  mother  who  has  good  children.  And  Pe- 
trarch —  could  he  have  been  an  honourable  man, 
who,  for  twenty-two  years,  made  love  to  another 
man's  wife  ? 

LEELA, 
Of  Granada,  a  Moorish-Spaniard,  who  was  cele- 
brated for  her  learning.     She  died  in  the  early 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

LEVI, 

Justin  de,  daughter  of  Andr^  Perotti,  of  Sasso 
Ferrato,  a  descendant  of  the  illustrious  house  of 
Levi,  was  born  at  Cremona,  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, and  was  a  successful  writer  of  Italian  poetry. 
She  was  a  contemporary  and  correspondent  of 
Petrarch.  She  addressed  to  him  a  sonnet,  to 
which  he  replied  by  another.  But,  to  avoid  the 
appearance  of  rivalry  with  this  celebrated  poet, 
she  determined  to  write  only  in  French.  She 
married  Louis  de  Puytendre,  a  French  gentleman, 
living  on  the  borders  of  the  Rhine,  and  was  the 
ancestress  of  Clotilde  de  Surville. 

LEIVA, 

Maria  Virginia  di.  Horace  remarks,  in  an 
often-quoted  sally,  that  many  heroes  worthy  of 
renown  have  existed,  acted,  and  been  forgotten, 
because  there  was  no  bard  to  cast  his  sacred  light 
around  their  deeds.  The  interest  awakened  by 
the  poet,  is  indeed  universal  and  far-spreading. 
Who,  for  instance,  does  not  feel  more  alive  to  the 
identity  of  Agamemnon  —  the  very  king  noted  by 
Homer  —  or  of  Andromache,  or  of  Helen,  than  to 
the  well-authenticated  existence  of  many  an  actual 
prince  or  pretty  woman,  who,  wanting  the  bard, 
is  made  known  to  us  merely  by  chronological 
tablets  ?  It  is  that  sort  of  interest,  inspired  by 
being  the  sulyect  of  the  pen  of  genius,  that  ren- 
ders the  Signora  Di  Leiva  worthy  a  place  in  these 
sketches.     Manzoni,  in  tlie  best  romance  Italy  has 


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ever  produced  —  we  may  say,  one  of  the  best  ro- 
mances to  be  found  in  any  language  —  has  given 
importance  to  the  memory  of  an  otherwise  obscure 
gentlewoman.  Those  versed  in  Italian  literature, 
need  not  be  reminded  of  the  interesting  and 
strongly  depicted  account  of  the  lady  of  Monza ; 
but  little  is  to  be  added  to  the  episode  of  the 
"  Promessi  Sposi." 

It  must  be  stated,  that  the  circumstances  de- 
tailed in  that  work  did  not  really  happen  at 
Monza,  but  in  some  obscure  bourg,  whose  name 
cannot  now  be  ascertained ;  the  real  name  of  the 
lady  was  Maria  Virginia  di  Leiva.  Her  father, 
Antonio  di  Leiva,  from  an  unjust  ambition  to  en- 
dow his  son  with  an  excessive  wealth,  immured 
this  unfortunate  daughter  in  a  convent,  where 
she  was  forced  to  take  the  veil,  without  the 
smallest  vocation  or  sentiment  of  religion.  To 
recompense  her  for  this  sacrifice,  uncommon  pri- 
vileges were  extended  to  her;  she  was  account- 
able to  nobody  for  her  time  or  actions,  and  this 
led  to  her  ruin.  A  young  nobleman,  of  dissolute 
habits  and  abandoned  life,  found  means  to  attract 
her  attention  from  a  neighbouring  house — to  gain 
her  affections,  and  to  seduce  her.  Thus  far  Man- 
zoni : — but  the  work  called  the  Monaca  di  Monza, 
by  Rossini,  which  affects  to  give  a  detailed  and 
continued  life  of  this  lady,  is  entirely  incorrect 
and  without  real  foundation.  The  true  end  of  her 
history  is,  that  the  scandalous  life  she  led,  was 
brought  by  report  to  the  ears  of  the  Cardinal  Bor- 
romeo,  who  quietly  withdrew  her  from  the  scene 
of  her  errors,  placed  her  in  another  monastery, 
under  strict  overseeing,  and  in  fine,  by  tenderness 
and  spiritual  exhortations,  awakened  her  torpid 
conscience,  insti-ucted  her  in  religious  truths,  and 
brought  about  a  sincere  repentance.  She  became 
as  eminent  for  the  saintly  piety  of  her  latter  days, 
as  she  had  been  offensive  from  her  early  licen- 
tiousness. Her  seducer,  after  a  series  of  fearful 
crimes — among  which  murder  was  to  be  reckoned 
— came  to  an  untimely  and  violent  death. 

LI  OB  A, 

A  RELATION  of  St  Boniface,  the  intrepid  apostle 
of  Northern  Europe,  was  placed  by  him  at  the 
head  of  a  convent  which  he  had  founded  for  wo- 
men, in  the  midst  of  the  barbarous  tribes  of  Ger- 
many, not  far  from  the  monastery  of  Fulda.  She 
was  a  very  learned  woman  for  that  age,  and  was 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  the 
Fathers,  ecclesiastical  law,  and  theology.  The 
Bible  was  almost  always  in  her  hands,  and  even 
during  her  sleep  she  liad  it  read  to  her.  All 
her  life,  Lioba  was  considered  a  saint.  She  was 
the  only  woman  who  was  ever  allowed  to  enter 
the  monastery  of  Fulda.  When  St.  Boniface  was 
massacred  at  Friesland,  he  requested  to  be  buried 
near  Lioba;  "I  wish,"  said  he,  "to  wait  with 
her  for  the  day  of  resurrection.  Those  who  have 
laboured  together  for  Christ,  ought  together  to 
receive  their  reward." 

LOIS    and  EUNICE, 
Mother  and  daughter,  were  Jewish  women,  and 
early  believers  in  the  Christian  faith  ;  they  resided 


at  Lystra,  a  city  of  Lycaonia.  Eunice  was  the 
mother  of  Timothy,  who  was  the  first  bishop  of 
the  Ephesians,  and  the  favourite  convert  and 
friend  of  the  apostle  Paul.  As  the  husband  of 
Eunice  was  a  Greek,  the  religious  education  of 
Timothy  must  have  been  entirely  the  work  of  his 
mother  and  grandmother.  This  is  proved  by  what 
Paul  says  in  his  epistle  to  Timothy  regarding  the 
"  unfeigned  faith"  of  these  two  noble  women.  He 
judged  the  piety  of  this  gifted  young  man  by  the 
measure  of  excellence  they  possessed ;  and  if 
Timothy  came  up  to  this  standard  of  the  female 
soul,  Paul  was  satisfied.  Thus  was  the  piety  of 
woman  held  up  as  the  pattern  for  the  best  of  men, 
by  the  sternest  and  most  masculine  mind  among 
the  apostles.  See  Acts,  chap,  xvi.,  and  2  Timo- 
thy, chap.  i. 

LOSA, 
Isabella,  a  native  of  Cordova,  Spain,  was  so 
illustrious  for  her  knowledge  of  Greek,  Latin,  and 
Hebrew,  that  she  was  honoured  with  the  degree 
of  D.  D.  When  she  became  a  widow,  she  took 
the  habit  of  St.  Clair,  went  to  Italy,  and  founded 
there  the  hospital  of  Loretto,  where  she  ended 
her  days,  in  acts  of  devotion  and  benevolence, 
March  5th,  1546,  aged  seventy-three. 


LOUISA, 
Of  Savoy,  countess  of  Angouleme,  wife  of 
Charles,  duke  of  Orleans,  and  mother  of  Francis 
I.,  who  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  France  in  1515. 
Immediately  on  his  accession,  he  raised  Angouleme 
into  a  duchy  from  motives  of  filial  affection. 
Louisa  had  been  eminently  beautiful,  and  even 
then,  time  had  diminished  her  charms  but  little, 
while  the  gifts  of  nature  were  carefully  improved 
and  embellished  by  cultivation.  Gifted  with  strong 
talents,  and  a  mind  active,  vigorous,  penetrating, 
and  decisive,  she  aimed  at  the  acquisition  of 
power,  but,  unhappily  for  the  nation,  her  virtues 
were  overbalanced  by  her  vices  ;  her  passions  were 
strong  and  impetuous,  and  to  their  gratification 
she  sacrificed  all  a  woman  should  hold  dear ;  vain, 
avaricious,  intriguing,  jealous,  and  implacable, 
she  thwarted  the  best  concerted  plans  of  her  son, 

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and  occasioned  the  greatest  distress  to  the  na- 
tion. 

Francis,  on  liis  Italian  expedition,  left  his  mo- 
ther regent  of  the  kingdom,  and,  after  his  return 
from  it,  when  his  duchy  of  Milan  was  threatened 
by  tlie  Pope,  and  Lautrec  was  appointed  its  gover- 
nor, Louisa,  partly  from  avarice,  and  partly  from 
an  inveterate  dislike  she  had  conceived  for  Lau- 
trec, who  had  spoken  too  freely  of  some  of  her 
intrigues,  seized  and  appropriated  the  three  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns  which  had  been  raised  for 
the  pay  of  the  Milanese  troops.  Lautrec  per- 
formed prodigies  of  valour,  but  the  Swiss  merce- 
naries, who  formed  the  greater  part  of  the  army, 
enraged  at  not  receiving  their  pay,  left  him,  and 
Lautrec  was  obliged  to  return  to  France.  The 
king  was  so  enraged  at  the  loss  of  the  Milanese, 
that  he  at  first  refused  to  see  liim ;  but,  having  at 
length  obtained  an  audience,  he  justified  himself 
by  imputing  the  disasters  of  the  campaign  to  the 
want  of  the  promised  money.  Francis  flew  into 
a  violent  passion  with  Semblancy,  superintendant 
of  the  finances,  insisting  on  knowing  what  had  be- 
come of  the  money  he  had  ordered  to  be  sent  to 
Italy  ;  the  minister,  a  man  of  virtue  and  integrity, 
who  had  grown  grey  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
confessed  he  had  been  obliged  to  pay  it  to  the 
duchess  d'Angouleme,  who  had  taken  the  conse- 
quences on  herself ;  but  that  infamous  woman  had 
the  presumption  to  deny  the  fact,  though  Sem- 
blancy produced  her  receipt  for  the  amount. 
When  Semblancy  had  thus  justified  himself  in 
the  eyes  of  Francis,  and  continued  to  enjoy  his 
place,  the  vindictive  Louisa  soon  suborned  one  of 
his  clerks  to  accuse  him  of  peculation ;  he  was 
tried  by  partial  judges,  condemned,  and  executed. 

Louisa's  affections  had  long  been  fixed  on  the 
duke  of  Bourbon,  but  finding  her  love  rejected  by 
a  prince  sincerely  attached  to  his  wife,  in  revenge 
she  prejudiced  the  king  against  him.  The  death 
of  the  duchess  of  Bourbon  revived  her  former 
tenderness,  and  she  offered  her  hand  to  the  duke. 
Tliis  being  rejected  with  contempt,  she  doomed 
Bourbon  to  destruction.  A  law-suit  was  com- 
menced against  him,  to  recover  some  possessions 
he  lield  in  right  of  his  wife  ;  and  the  judges,  over- 
awed by  Louisa,  pronounced  a  sentence  by  which 
his  estate  was  sequestered.  Bourbon,  driven  to 
desperation  by  this  injustice,  entered  into  a  treaty 
with  Henry  VIII.,  of  England,  and  Charles  V.,  of 
Germany,  against  the  king  of  France. 

At  first,  Francis  was  successful  in  repelling  the 
confederate  princes,  which  encouraged  him  to  at- 
tempt, in  person,  the  recovery  of  the  Milanese ; 
in  vain  did  his  motlier  and  his  wisest  ministers 
dissuade  him  from  it ;  he  departed,  leaving  the 
duchess  regent  of  the  kingdom.  After  the  battle 
of  Pavia,  at  which  he  had  lost  his  army  and  his 
liberty,  he  addressed  the  following  note  to  his  mo- 
ther, "  Madame,  all  is  lost  except  our  honour." 
The  captivity  of  the  king,  and  the  loss  of  a  flour- 
ishing army,  added  to  a  discontent  prevailing 
throughout  the  kingdom,  seemed  to  threaten  a 
general  insurrection.  In  this  trying  emergency, 
the  magnanimity  of  Louisa  was  eminently  dis- 
played, and  the  kingdom,  which  her  passions  had 


endangered,  her  abilities  were  exerted  to  save. 
She  assembled,  at  Lyons,  the  princes  of  the  blood, 
the  governors  of  the  provinces,  and  the  notables 
of  the  realm,  who  generously  resolved  to  ransom 
immediately  the  officers  and  soldiers  taken  at 
Pavia.  The  army  and  garrisons  were  recruited, 
and  enabled  to  repel  the  Imperialists,  while  Louisa 
conciliated  the  favour  of  the  king  of  England, 
whom  she  disengaged  from  the  confederacy ;  and 
to  her  mediation  Francis  acknowledged  himself 
indebted  for  his  liberty,  which  he  recovered  in 
March,  1526.  The  terms  of  his  liberation  by  the 
emperor  were  so  exorbitant  that  he  never  intended 
to  fulfil  them,  and  the  Pope  absolved  him  from 
his  oath. 

Consequently,  hostilities  continued,  till  Marga- 
ret of  Austria  and  the  duchess  of  Angouleme  met 
at  Cambray,  and  settled  the  terms  of  pacification, 
whence  the  peace  was  called  the  "  Ladies'  Peace." 
Louisa  died,  1571.  In  obedience  to  her  counsels, 
Francis  completed,  after  her  death,  her  favourite 
project  of  annexing  the  duchy  of  Brittany  to  the 
crown. 

LUCILLA, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  M.  Aurclius,  celebrated  for  her 
youthful  virtues  and  her  beauty  ;  and  also  noto- 
rious, at  a  later  period,  for  her  debaucheries  and 
misfortunes.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  her  father 
sent  her  to  Syria,  to  marry  the  emperor  Verus, 
who  was  then  at  war  with  the  Parthians  and  Ar- 
menians. Lucilla  loved  her  husband  passionately, 
and,  at  first,  conducted  herself  with  great  mo- 
desty and  discretion ;  but,  seeing  Verus  plunge 
into  dissipations  of  every  kind,  while  he  neglected 
her,  she  yielded  to  the  fashion  of  the  times,  and 
became  very  profligate.  After  the  death  of  Verus, 
she  married,  by  order  of  her  father,  an  old  but 
virtuous  senator.  She  was  accused  of  incest  with 
her  brother  Commodus  ;  and  when  he  treated  her 
with  coldness,  she,  with  many  of  the  senators, 
conspired  against  him.  The  plot  was  discovered, 
and  Lucilla  was  banished,  in  185.  Soon  after,  she 
was  put  to  death  by  her  brother,  in  the  thirty- 
eighth  year  of  her  age. 

LUCY,  ST., 
A  VIRGIN  martyr,  born  at  Syracuse.  She  te- 
fused  to  marry  a  young  man  who  addressed  her, 
because  she  had  determined  to  devote  herself  to 
religion,  and,  to  prevent  his  importunities,  she 
gave  her  whole  fortune  to  the  poor.  Enraged  at 
this,  the  young  man  accused  her,  before  Pascha- 
sius  the  heathen  judge,  of  professing  Christianity, 
and  Lucy  was  put  to  death  by  him,  in  305. 


M. 

MALATESTI, 

Battista,  of  Urbino.  This  very  erudite  lady 
was  the  daughter  of  Guido  di  Montefeltro,  lord  of 
Urbino.  She  was  a  pupil  of  Leonardo  Bruni. 
She  understood  Latin,  and  was  so  expert  in  phi- 
losophy that  she  was  able  to  hold  public  theses. 

123 


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As  a  widow,  she  maintained  a  fair  and  wise 
government  of  her  dominions,  until  having  reached 
a  very  advanced  age,  she  retired  into  the  convent 
of  St.  Clara,  where  she  iinished  her  life  in  pious 
tranquillity.     She  died  in  1460. 

MARGARET   OF   ANJOU, 

Queen-consort  of  England,  was  daughter  of 
Regiiier,  or  Ren^,  titular  king  of  Sicily,  Naj^les, 
and  Jerusalem,  descended  from  the  counts  of 
Anjou,  and  brother  of  Charles  V.  of  France. 
Brought  up  in  the  petty  court  of  Anjou,  her  na- 
tural strength  of  mind  was  not  enfeebled  by  in- 
dulgence, and  she  was  considered  the  most  accom- 
plished princess  of  her  time,  when  she  was  selected 
by  cardinal  Beaufort  for  the  wife  of  Henry  VI. 
of  England.  She  was  married  in  1445,  when  only 
sixteen,  to  share  with  a  weak  prince  a  throne  dis- 
turbed by  rancorous  and  contending  factions. 
She  naturally  threw  herself  into  that  party  which 
had  favoured  her  marriage,  of  which  the  earl  of 
Suffolk  was  the  chief;  and  when  the  destruction 
of  Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloucester,  was  effected  by 
their  machinations,  she  was  generally  suspected 
of  being  privy  to  his  murder.  The  surrender  of 
the  province  of  Maine,  in  France,  to  the  king  of 
that  country,  who  was  Margaret's  uncle,  in  con- 
sequence of  a  secret  article  in  the  marriage  treaty, 
aggravated  the  odium  under  which  Margaret  and 
Sufiblk  laboured ;  and  the  sacrifice  of  that  noble- 
man, which  followed,  is  said  to  have  cost  her  more 
tears  than  are  usually  shed  on  the  loss  of  a  poli- 
tical ally. 

Her  son  was  born  in  1453,  while  the  national 
discontents  were  rising  to  a  crisis.  She  was  soon 
after  called  upon  to  exert  all  the  vigour  of  her 
character  in  resisting  the  Yorkists,  who  had  de- 
feated the  royal  army  at  St.  Albans.  Though 
Henry  VI.  was  taken  prisoner,  she  raised  troops, 
and  defended  the  royal  cause  with  so  much  spirit, 
that  she  eifected  a  favourable  compromise,  and 
restored  her  husband  to  the  sovereignty.  The 
war,  however,  was  renewed,  and  at  the  battle  of 
Northampton,  the  Lancasterians  were  totally 
routed,  and  Henry  again  taken  prisoner.  Mar- 
garet, with  her  son,  fled  to  Durham,  and  thence 
to  Scotland.  Returning  into  the  north  of  England, 
she  interested  the  nobles  there  in  her  cause,  and 
collected  a  powerful  army.  With  this  she  met  the 
duke  of  York  at  Wakefield,  and  totally  defeated 
him.  The  duke  was  killed  in  this  battle,  and,  by 
the  order  of  Margaret,  his  head  was  struck  oflF, 
and,  crowned  with  a  paper  diadem,  was  placed  on 
the  gates  of  York.  His  youngest  son,  Rutland, 
was  killed  in  cold  blood  by  the  furious  Clifford  ; 
several  prisoners  of  distinction  were  put  to  death, 
and  an  example  given  of  the  cruelties  which 
marked  the  progress  of  this  unnatural  war. 

In  1461,  the  queen  defeated  the  earl  of  War- 
wick, partizan  of  Edward,  son  of  the  duke  of 
York,  at  the  second  battle  of  St.  Albans,  in  which 
she  recovered  the  person  of  the  king,  now  a  pas- 
sive agent  in  the  hands  of  friends  and  foes.  She 
displayed  her  fierce  and  cruel  disposition,  by 
ordering  lord  Bonvillc  to  be  executed,  to  whose 


care  Henry  had  been  entrusted  by  the  Yorkists, 
and  to  whom  the  powerless  king  had  promised 
pardon.  The  approach  of  Edward  with  a  superior 
force,  obliged  her  again  to  retreat  to  the  north, 
and  that  prince  was  elevated  to  the  throne  by  the 
Londoners,  and  the  lords  of  the  Yorkists. 

Margaret's  influence,  and  the  licentiousness  in 
which  her  troops  were  indulged,  increased  the 
Lancasterian  party  to  sixty  thousand  men.  It 
was  met  at  Towton,  in  Yorkshire,  by  Edward  and 
Warwick,  at  the  head  of  forty  thousand  men,  and 
a  battle  was  fought,  March  1461,  which  was  the 
bloodiest  of  these  destructive  wars.  The  Lancas- 
terians were  defeated,  and  Margaret  and  Henry, 
who  had  remained  at  York,  hastily  retreated  to 
Scotland.  After  soliciting  aid  in  vain  from  that 
country,  she  went  over  to  France  for  the  same 
purpose  :  and  by  offering  to  deliver  Calais  to  the 
French,  should  Henry  be  restored  to  the  crown, 
she  obtained  the  succour  of  two  thousand  men, 
with  which  she  landed  in  Scotland.  Joined  by 
some  of  her  partizans,  and  a  band  of  freebooters, 
she  made  an  incursion  into  the  north  of  England, 
and  proceeded  to  Hexham.  She  was  there  met 
and  defeated  by  a  force  under  lord  Montacute. 

The  unfortunate  queen  fled  with  her  son  into  a 
forest,  where  she  was  seized  by  a  band  of  robbers, 
who  took  her  jewels,  and  treated  her  with  great 
indignity.  While  they  were  quarrelling  about  the 
booty,  Margaret  escaped,  and  fled  wearied  and 
terrified  into  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Seeing  a 
man  coming  towards  her  with  a  drawn  sword,  she 
summoned  up  all  her  courage,  and  going  to  meet 
him,  "  Here,  friend,"  said  she,  "  I  commit  to  your 
protection  the  son  of  your  king."  Struck  by  the 
nobleness  and  dignity  of  her  manner,  and  charmed 
with  the  confidence  reposed  in  him,  the  man, 
though  a  robber,  devoted  himself  to  her  service. 
He  concealed  the  queen  and  her  son  for  some  time 
in  the  woods,  and  then  led  them  to  the  coast, 
whence  they  escaped  to  Flanders. 

Margaret  went  to  her  father's  court,  where  she 
remained  several  years,  while  her  husband  was 
imprisoned  in  the  Tower  of  London.  In  1470, 
the  rebellion  of  the  earl  of  Warwick  against  Ed- 
ward, and  his  subsequent  arrival  in  France,  pro- 
duced an  alliance  between  him  and  the  exiled 
queen.  It  was  agreed  that  Warwick  should  en- 
deavour to  restore  the  house  of  Lancaster,  and 
that  Edward,  the  son  of  Margaret  and  Henry, 
should  marry  his  daughter  Anne,  which  alliance 
took  place  in  France.  Warwick  landed  in  Eng- 
land, and  Edward  was  forced  to  escape  to  Flan- 
ders. Margaret  was  preparing  to  second  his 
efforts  ;  but  on  the  very  day  on  which  she  landed 
at  Weymouth,  the  battle  of  Barnet,  April  14th, 
1471,  terminated  the  life  of  Warwick,  and  the 
hopes  of  the  confederacy.  Margaret,  with  her 
son,  took  refuge  in  the  sanctuary  of  Beaulieu,  in 
Hampshire,  intending  to  return  to  France ;  but 
being  encouraged  by  the  increase  of  her  party, 
she  advanced  to  Tewksbm-y,  where  she  was  met 
by  Edward,  who  totally  defeated  her,  and  took  her 
and  her  son  prisoners,  the  latter  of  whom  was 
cruelly  put  to  death.  Margaret  was  confined  in 
the   Tower,   where  her  husband  died   about  the 

124 


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same  time.  Louis  XI.  ransomed  her,  and  she  re- 
turned again  to  her  father's  protection. 

The  home  to  which  the  loving  Ren^  welcomed 
his  forlorn  daughter,  was  a  castle  on  the  river 
Mayence ;  the  scenery  was  beautiful,  and  the  king 
had  a  gallery  of  paintings  and  sculpture,  which 
he  took  delight  in  adorning  with  his  own  paintings ; 
he  had  also  ornamented  the  walls  of  his  garden 
with  heraldic  designs  carved  in  marble.  It  was 
in  such  pursuits  that  Rene,  a  true  Provencal 
sovereign,  found  alleviations  for  his  afflictions. 
But  Margaret's  temperament  was  of  too  stormy  a 
nature  to  admit  of  the  slightest  alleviation  of  her 
griefs.  She  passed  her  whole  time  in  bitter  re- 
grets, or  unavailing  sorrows.  This  intensity  of 
suffering  affected  her  constitution.  The  agonies 
and  agitations  she  had  undei-gone  seemed  to  turn 
her  blood  into  gall :  her  eyes  were  sunken  and 
hollow,  her  skin  was  disfigured  by  a  dry,  scaly 
leprosy,  until  this  princess,  who  had  been  a  mira- 
cle of  beauty,  such  as  the  world  seldom  beholds, 
became  a  spectacle  of  horror. 

Her  errors  and  her  misfortunes  were  the  result 
of  the  circumstances  by  which  she  was  surround- 
ed ;  her  talents  and  virtues  were  of  a  lofty  stamp ; 
had  she  been  married  to  a  stronger-minded  man, 
she  would  no  doubt  have  been  a  better  and  a  hap- 
pier woman. 


MARGARET, 

Countess  of  the  Tyrol  and  duchess  of  Carinthia. 
Her  father  Henry  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Bo- 
hemia, at  the  death  of  Winzeslaus  III.,  but  was 
expelled  from  it  by  John  of  Luxemburg.  Henry 
preserved  the  title  of  king  and  retired  to  the  castle 
of  the  Tyrol,  where,  in  1318,  was  born  the  princess 
Margaret.  This  sole  heiress  of  the  Tyrol  and  of 
Carinthia  soon  became  the  aim  of  the  houses  of 
Austria,  Bavaria,  and  Luxemburg.  King  John 
of  Bohemia,  with  finesse  superior  to  the  others, 
ingratiated  himself  with  the  count  of  Tyrol,  who 
agreed  to  betroth  the  countess  Margaret,  then 
seven  years  old,  to  his  son  John,  yet  an  infant. 
The  union  did  not  take  place  till  the  year  1338, 
when  Margaret  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty. 

This  princess,  who  was  of  a  light  and  frivolous 


disposition,  open  to  flattery,  and  easily  swayed  by 
the  designing,  had  an  invincible  repugnance  to 
her  husband,  who,  to  the  petulance  of  a  beardless 
boy,  joined  the  haughtiness  of  a  sovereign.  The 
ambition  of  the  house  of  Bavaria  took  advantage 
of  these  circumstances,  and  secret  negotiations 
were  opened  with  Margaret.  Her  marriage  with 
John  was  cancelled,  and  the  emperor  proposed  one 
of  his  sons  as  his  successor.  Some  suspicions  en- 
tering the  mind  of  John,  he  proceeded  to  harsh 
measures  with  his  wife,  causing  her  to  be  guarded 
in  a  tower  of  the  castle  of  the  Tyrol.  This  was  a 
very  imprudent  step ;  for  it  excited  her  subjects 
to  such  indignation,  that  the  emissaries  of  Bavaria 
found  it  an  easy  matter  to  excite  a  revolt.  John 
was  himself  driven  from  the  country,  and  Marga- 
ret fell  into  the  hands  of  the  emperor. 

Ludovic,  margrave  of  Brandenburg,  was  selected 
to  become  the  new  spouse  of  Margaret.  His 
handsome  person,  pleasing  manners,  and  military 
reputation,  easily  reconciled  her  to  the  decree. 
But  he  manifested  extreme  repugnance  to  wed  a 
princess  who  was  without  intrinsic  merit,  who  was 
lawfully  married  to  another,  and  who  was  related 
to  him  within  the  permitted  degrees  of  consan- 
guinity. His  father  silenced  all  these  scruples ; 
the  dower  of  Margaret,  in  his  eyes,  neutralized 
every  objection.  He  used  his  imperial  power  to 
annul  her  first  marriage,  and  proceeded  to  unite 
her  with  Ludovic. 

In  the  year  1361,  Ludovic  died  suddenly,  and 
many  attributed  his  death  to  poison ;  some  even 
hinted  that  Margaret  was  implicated ;  but  there 
exist  no  proofs  of  such  an  atrocity.  The  death 
of  their  only  son,  Mainard,  in  the  flower  of  his 
age,  has  also  been  by  some  ascribed  to  his  mo- 
ther's malice.  But  the  most  authentic  historians 
are  far  from  attributing  to  her  such  revolting 
wickedness.  What  can  really  be  proved  is  her 
want  of  capacity,  which  was  shown  in  the  mistakes 
she  made  when,  for  a  short  time,  the  powers  of 
government  were  concentrated  in  her  hands. 
Rodolph,  who,  by  many  manoeuvres  and  intrigues, 
had  captivated  the  favours  of  Margaret,  had,  in 
the  life-time  of  Ludovic,  obtained  from  her  a  set- 
tlement investing  him  with  the  inheritance  of  the 
Tyrol  in  case  of  her  husband  and  son  dying  with- 
out heirs.  He,  taking  advantage  of  her  weakness, 
induced  her  to  abdicate  her  sovereignty  in  his 
favour  ;  painting  the  troubles  that  invest  a  throne, 
and  the  life  of  pleasure  and  ease  she  would  lead 
in  a  court  that  was  then  the  first  in  Europe.  She 
had  an  appointed  revenue  of  6000  gold  marks, 
and  four  princely  residences.  When  all  was  con- 
cluded, she  proceeded  with  the  widow  of  Mainard 
to  the  court  of  Vienna,  where  she  was  received 
with  most  distinguished  attention.  She  passed 
six  years  of  tranquillity,  if  insignificant  pleasures 
deserve  that  term,  and  died  in  1369.  She  was 
buried  in  the  convent  of  St.  Croce,  near  Baden. 

MARGARET,    ST., 
A  VIRGIN,  who  is  said  to  have  suffered  martyr- 
dom at  Antioch,  in  275.    She  is  not  mentioned  by 
the  ancient  martyrologists,  and  she  did  not  become 
famous  till  the  eleventh  century.     A  festival  i*^ 

125 


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held  in  honour  of  her  memory  on  the  20th  of  July. 
The  Orientals  reverence  her  under  the  name  of 
St.  Pelagia,  or  St.  Marina,  and  the  western  church 
under  that  of  St.  Geruma,  or  St.  Margaret. 

MARGARET, 

Sister  of  Edgar  Atheling,  grandson  of  Edmund 
Ironsides,  king  of  England,  fled  to  Scotland  on  the 
invasion  of  William  the  Conqueror,  and  mai-ried 
Malcolm,  king  of  that  country.  She  was  a  very 
amiable  and  benevolent  princess.  Her  sons,  Edgar, 
Alexander,  and  David,  successively  filled  the  throne 
of  Scotland ;  and  her  daughter  Matilda  married 
Henry  I.  of  England.  She  died  November  16th, 
1093,  aged  forty-seven. 

M  A  R  G  A  RET, 
Daughter  of  Robert,  duke  of  Burgundy,  mar- 
ried Louis  Hutin,  king  of  France,  in  1305.  She 
was  a  beaiitiful  but  very  licentious  woman.  Her 
lover  was  flayed  alive,  and  she  herself  was  stran- 
gled to  death,  in  1315. 

MARGARET  OF  SCOTLAND, 
The  first  wife  of  Louis  XI.  of  France,  died  in 
1445,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  before  her  husband 
had  ascended  the  throne.  Margaret  was  devoted 
to  literature,  and,  while  she  lived,  patronised  men 
of  learning  and  genius.  Her  admiration  for  the 
poet  Alain  Chartier  is  said  to  have  induced  her  to 
kiss  his  lips,  as  he  sat  asleep  one  day  in  a  chair. 
Her  attendants  being  astonished  at  this  act  of  con- 
descension, the  princess  replied  that  "  she  did  not 
kiss  the  man,  but  the  lips  which  had  given  utter- 
ance to  so  many  exquisite  thoughts."  She  excited 
in  the  gloomy  and  ferocious  Louis  XI.  a  taste  for 
science  and  literature,  which  lasted  long  after  her 
death.  She  left  no  children.  Her  death  is  said 
to  have  been  caused  by  the  calumnies  circulated 
against  her;  of  which,  however,  she  was  proved 
innocent. 

MARGARET, 

Daughter  of  Raymond  Bereuger,  count  of  Pro- 
vence, married  St.  Louis,  king  of  France,  in  1254, 
and  attended  him  during  his  wars  in  the  Holy 
Land  with  the  Saracens  ;  when,  on  his  captivity, 
she  behaved  with  heroic  intrepidity  in  the  defence 
of  Damietta.  She  died  at  Paris  in  1285,  aged  se- 
venty-six. 

MARGARET, 

The  Semiramis  of  the  North,  third  daughter  of 
Waldemar,  king  of  Denmark,  was  born  in  1353. 
At  the  age  of  six  she  was  contracted  to  Haguin, 
king  of  Norway;  but  the  Swedes,  of  whom  his 
father  JIagnus  was  king,  insisted  on  his  renouncing 
the  alliance ;  and  to  oblige  them,  he  consented  to 
demand  Elizabeth  of  Holstein  in  marriage,  whom 
he  espoused  by  proxy.  But,  on  her  voyage  to 
Norway,  a  storm  drove  her  off"  the  coast  of  Den- 
mark, where  she  was  detained  by  Waldemar  until 
his  daughter  was  married  to  Haguin  in  136G. 

Waldemar  died  in  1375,  leaving  only  two  daugh- 
ters, of  whom  Margaret  was  the  younger.  Olaus, 
the  son  of  Margaret,  was  at  that  time  king  of 


Norway ;  and  as  the  grandson  of  Magnus,  who ' 
had  however  been  deposed,  he  had  some  claims 
on  the  crown  of  Sweden.  The  eldest  daughter, 
Ingeburga,  wife  of  Henry,  duke  of  Mecklenburg, 
had  also  a  son ;  but  the  right  of  succession  was 
then  confused  and  uncertain,  and  Margaret  con- 
trived that  the  election  should  be  decided  in  favour 
of  her  son,  then  eleven  years  old,  who  was  placed 
on  the  throne,  under  her  guidance  as  regent. 
Haguin  died  soon  after;  and  Olaus  died  in  1387, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two ;  with  him  the  male  line 
was  extinct,  and  custom  had  not  yet  authorized 
the  election  of  a  woman.  Henry  of  Mecklenburg 
omitted  nothing  that  could  advance  his  preten- 
sions ;  but  Margaret's  genius,  and  well-placed 
liberality,  won  over  the  bishops  and  clergy,  which 
was  in  efl^ect  gaining  the  greater  part  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  she  was  unanimously  elected  queen  of 
Denmark. 

But  her  ambition  grasped  at  the  crown  of  Nor- 
way also ;  she  sent  deputies  to  solicit  the  states, 
gained  over  the  chief  people  by  money,  and  found 
means  to  render  herself  mistress  of  the  army  and 
garrisons ;  so  that,  had  the  nation  been  otherwise 
disposed,  she  would  in  the  end  have  succeeded ; 
but  they  readily  yielded  to  her  wishes.  The  Nor- 
wegians, perceiving  that  the  succession  was  in 
danger  of  being  extinct,  entreated  her  to  secure  it 
by  an  advantageous  marriage ;  but  she  received 
the  proposal  coldly.  To  satisfy,  however,  their 
desire,  she  consented  to  appoint  a  successor ;  but 
fixed  on  one  so  young  that  she  would  have  full 
time  to  satisfy  her  ambition  before  he  could  be  of 
age  to  take  any  share  in  the  government ;  yet  he 
was  the  true  heir,  and  grandson  of  her  sister. 

She  recommended  herself  so  strongly  to  the 
Swedes,  who  were  oppressed  by  their  king  Albert, 
who  had  gone  to  war  with  her,  that  they  renounced 
their  allegiance  to  that  prince,  and  made  her  a 
solemn  offer  of  their  crown,  thinking  that  her 
good  sense  would  set  bounds  to  her  ambition,  and 
prevent  any  encroachment  on  their  rights.  She 
accepted  the  offer,  marched  to  their  assistance,  de- 
feated Albert,  who  was  deposed,  in  1388,  after  a  war 
of  seven  years.  She  then  imprisoned  him  another 
seven  years,  till  he  made  a  solemn  renunciation 

126 


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of  his  crown,  and  retired  to  the  dominions  of  his  ] 
brother,   the   duke    of  Mecklenburg.      Margaret  j 
then  assumed  the  reins  of  government  in  Sweden, 
and  was  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of  the 
Semiramis  of  the  North. 

In  1395,  she  associated  with  her  in  the  three 
elective  kingdoms,  her  great-nephew  Eric,  duke 
of  Pomerania.  She  governed  with  absolute  au- 
thority ;  and  when  reminded  of  her  oaths  by  the 
nobility,  who  added,  "they  had  the  records  of 
them,"  she  replied,  "I  advise  you  to  keep  them 
carefully ;  as  I  shall  keep  the  castles  and  cities  of 
my  kingdom,  and  all  the  rights  belonging  to  my 
dignity." 

At  the  treaty  of  Calmar,  concluded  in  1397,  she 
endeavoured  to  make  the  union  of  the  three  king- 
doms perpetual,  and  introduced  Eric  separately  to 
all  the  deputies.  She  represented  to  them,  with 
eloquence  and  address,  the  advantages  that  would 
accrue  fi-om  the  consolidation  of  the  three  nations 
into  one  kingdom;  that  it  would  put  an  end  to  the 
frequent  wars  which  desolated  them,  and  render 
them  entirely  masters  of  the  commerce  of  the 
Baltic  ;  keep  in  awe  the  Hanse-towns,  grown  pow- 
erful by  the  divisions  of  her  people ;  and  acquire 
for  them  all  the  advantages  resulting  from  a  per- 
fect conformity  of  laws,  customs,  and  interests. 
The  majesty  of  her  person,  the  strength  of  her 
arguments  and  her  eloquence,  gained  over  the  de- 
puties. They  approved  and  established  a  funda- 
mental law,  which  was  received  by  the  three  na- 
tions, and  solemnly  confirmed  by  oath.  This  was 
the  celebrated  law  called  the  union  of  Calmar, 
which  only  served  to  show  how  impotent  are 
human  wishes,  though  conceived  with  wisdom  and 
forwarded  by  address. 

Margaret  is  charged  with  only  one  political 
error,  that  of  suffering  Olaus  to  grant  the  import- 
ant duchy  of  Keswick  to  the  house  of  Holstein, 
whose  enmity  they  thus  wished  to  do  away,  but 
which  proved  a  thorn  in  her  side  till  the  death  of 
the  duke ;  when  she,  by  her  vigorous  measures, 
forced  his  successors  to  hold  their  possessions  as  a 
fief  from  Denmark. 

Distinguished  at  the  same  time  for  moderation, 
solid  judgment,  enterprising  and  persevering  am- 
bition, Margaret  receives  different  characters  from 
Danish  and  Swedish  historians.  The  latter  were 
prejudiced  against  her,  because  she  abridged  the 
power  of  the  nobles  and  favoured  the  clergy ;  but 
she  was  exceeded  by  none  in  prudence,  policy, 
and  true  magnanimity.  She  died  suddenly,  in 
1412,  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine. 

Though  merciful,  she  made  the  wisest  regula- 
tions for  strict  justice,  and  to  prevent  offenders 
being  screened  from  punishment.  Private  oppres- 
sions and  abuses  she  did  away,  and  decreed  that 
assistance  should  be  given  to  all  who  were  ship- 
wrecked on  her  coasts  ;  for  which  acts  of  humanity 
she  provided  rewards  by  law.  She  exerted  all  lier 
power  to  repress  piracies ;  and  by  her  regulations 
laid  the  foundations  for  future  commerce.  It  was 
in  her  reign  that  we  first  meet  with  the  mention 
of  the  copper  mines  of  Sweden.  In  fact,  she 
equalled  the  most  famous  politicians.  Her  father, 
perceiving  while  she  was  yet  a  child  her  surprising 


elevation  of  soul  and  mental  resources,  said  that 
nature  had  been  deceived  in  forming  her,  and  in- 
stead of  a  woman  had  made  a  hero. 

MARGARET   OF   VALOIS, 

Queen  of  Navarre,  and  sister  to  Francis  I.  of 
France,  was  born  at  Angouleme,  in  1492 ;  being 
the  daughter  of  Charles  of  Orleans,  duke  of  An- 
gouleme, and  Louisa  of  Savoy.  In  1509,  she 
married  Charles,  the  last  duke  of  Alen9on,  who 
died  at  Lj'ons,  after  the  battle  of  Pavia,  in  1525. 
The  widow  went  to  Madrid,  to  attend  her  brother, 
who  had  been  taken  prisoner  in  that  battle  by  the 
Spaniards,  and  was  then  ill.  She  was  of  the 
greatest  service  to  her  brother,  obliging  Charles 
and  his  ministers,  by  her  firmness,  to  treat  him  as 
his  rank  required.  His  love  equalled  her  merits, 
and  he  warmly  promoted  her  marriage  with  Henry 
d'Albret,  king  of  Navarre.  The  offspring  of  this 
union  was  Joan  d'Albret,  mother  of  Henry  IV. 

Margaret  filled  the  part  of  a  queen  with  exem- 
plary goodness,  encouraging  arts,  learning,  and 
agricultui'e,  and  everything  that  could  contribute 
to  the  prosperity  of  the  kingdom.  She  died  in 
1549,  of  a  cold,  caught  while  making  observations 
on  a  comet.  During  her  life,  she  inclined  to  the 
Protestant  faith,  but  the  Roman  Catholics  say  that 
she  was  reconverted  before  she  died. 

She  wrote  well  in  prose  and  verse,  and  was 
called  the  Tenth  Muse ;  and  the  Margaret,  or 
pearl,  surpassing  all  the  pearls  of  the  East.  Some 
of  her  works  are,  "  Heptameron,  or  Novels  of  the 
Queen  of  Navarre ;"  "  Les  Marguerites  de  la  Mar- 
guerite des  Princesses,"  a  collection  of  her  pro- 
ductions, foi-med  by  John  de  la  Haye,  her  valet- 
de-chambre.  A  long  poem  was  entitled,  "  The 
Triumph  of  the  Lamb  ;"  and  another,  "  The  Com- 
plaints of  a  Prisoner." 

MARGARET   OF   YORK, 

Sister  of  Edward  IV.  of  England,  married 
Charles  the  Rash,  duke  of  Burgundy.  She  ren- 
dered herself  notorious  by  the  opposition  she 
made  to  the  accession  of  Henry  VII.  to  the  throne 
of  England,  in  1485  ;  and  the  impostures  she  sup- 
ported to  disturb  his  reign. 

MARGARET, 
Daughter  of  JNIaximilian  I.,  emperor  of  Ger- 
many, was  betrothed  to  the  dauphin  of  France, 
afterwards  Charles  VIII.,  but  did  not  marry  him. 
She  married  the  infanta  of  Spain  in  1497,  who 
died  the  same  year.  In  1501,  she  married  Phili- 
bert,  duke  of  Savoy,  who  died  in  1504.  She  was 
governess  of  the  Netherlands,  and  displayed  her 
religious  zeal  against  the  Lutherans.  She  died, 
December,  1530,  aged  fifty. 

MARGARETTA   OF   SAXONY 

Was  born  in  the  year  1416,  and  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Ernst,  Archduke  of  Austria,  and  Cimburgia, 
his  wife.  In  1431,  she  married  Frederick  the  Mild, 
of  Saxony,  and  brought  to  her  husband  a  dower 
of  29,000  ducats,  which  was  then  considered 
so  great  a  sum,  that  the  chroniclers  mention  it 
as  something  very  extraordinary.      Slie  was  the 

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mother  of  eight  children,  two  of  of  whom,  Ernst 
and  Albert,  ai-e  particularly  mentioned,  on  account 
of  an  incident  which  nearly  cost  them  their  lives. 
Margaretta  had  proved  herself  so  wise  a  counsellor 
in  state  affairs,  that  her  husband  not  only  accorded 
her  the  right  (which  she  also  exercised)  of  coining 
legal  money,  but  also,  to  assist  in  governing  the 
state.  She  contributed  much,  by  her  wise  coun- 
sels, to  put  an  end  to  the  bloody  wars  between  the 
brothers.  After  these  wars  were  over,  she  drew 
upon  herself  and  her  husband  the  hatred  of  Kuntz 
von  Kaufunger,  a  brave  but  wicked  knight,  who, ' 
thinking  himself  aggrieved,  resolved  to  avenge 
himself  upon  his  patrons.  During  the  temporary 
absence  of  Frederick,  Kuntz  penetrated,  with  two 
companions,  into  the  castle,  and  kidnapped  the 
two  princes.  As  soon  as  Margaretta  discovered 
that  her  enemy  had  carried  off  her  children,  she 
ordered  the  alarm-bells  to  be  rung  throughout  the 
country,  and  sent  out  armed  men  in  pursuit  of  the 
robbers.  They  were  discovered  in  a  wood  near 
Grunhair,  and  captured  by  a  collier ;  who,  when 
he  was  requested  to  name  his  reward,  asked  only 
permission  to  have  the  privilege  to  make  as  much 
charcoal,  free  of  expense,  as  he  and  his  family 
could  attend  to.  When,  in  the  year  1467,  her 
husband  died,  she  assumed  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment, and  proved  herself  truly  a  mother  to  her 
subjects.  She  was  the  first  sovereign  who  provided 
public  rooms  where  the  poor  could  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  warm  themselves,  diiring  the  severe 
winter  months.  Margaretta  died,  February  12th, 
1486,  in  her  seventieth  year,  after  she  had  lived  a 
widow  for  more  than  twenty-two  years. 

MARTIA, 

SuBNAMED  Proba,  or  the  Just,  was,  according 
to  HoUinshed,  "  the  widow  of  Gutiline,  king  of 
the  Britons,  and  was  left  protectress  of  the  realm 
during  the  minority  of  her  son.  Perceiving  much 
in  the  conduct  of  her  svibjects  which  needed  re- 
formation, she  devised  sundry  wholesome  laws, 
which  the  Britons,  after  her  death,  named  the 
Martian  statutes.  Alfred  caused  the  laws  of  this 
excellently -learned  princess,  whom  all  commended 
for  her  knowledge  of  the  Greek  tongue,  to  be  esta- 


blished in  the  realm."  These  laws,  embracing 
trial  by  jury  and  the  just  descent  of  property, 
were  afterwards  collated  and  further  improved  by 
Edward  the  Confessor.  Thus  there  are  good  rea- 
sons for  believing  that  the  remarkable  code  of 
laws,  called  the  common  law  of  England,  iisually 
attributed  to  Alfred,  were  by  him  derived  from 
the  laws  first  established  by  a  British  queen,  a 
woman. 

MAR  Y, 

The  mother  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour,  was  the 
daughter  of  Eli,  or  Joachim,  of  the  house  of  Da- 
vid. She  dwelt  in  the  city  of  Nazareth ;  and  her 
personal  history  commences  with  the  salutation 
of  the  angel,  "  Hail,  highly  favoured,  the  Lord  is 
with  thee :  blessed  art  thou  among  women." 

It  was  the  angel  Gabriel  that  thiis  addressed 
her.  What  appearance  this  ministering  spirit 
wore,  we  are  not  told ;  but  it  seems  that  she  felt 
it  was  an  angel,  and  was  "  troubled,"  as  she  could 
not  comprehend  the  purport  of  the  salutation. 
Then  Gabriel  went  on  to  unfold  the  pm-pose  of 
God  towards  her ;  that  she  was  to  be  the  blessed 
mother  of  the  holy  Messiah,  the  "Jesus;  called 
the  Son  of  the  Highest." 

To  be  the  mother  of  "  Shiloh"  had  been,  pro- 
bably, the  hope  and  prayer  of  many  a  pious  mother 
in  Israel,  from  the  time  of  Jacob's  prediction. 
But,  though  Isaiah  had  prophesied  that  "  a  virgin 
shall  conceive  and  bear  a  son,  and  they  shall  call 
his  name  Emmanuel,  which  being  interpreted  is, 
God  with  us,"  still  it  is  not  probable  this  was  un- 
derstood literally,  or  that  any  Jewish  virgin  had 
even  hoped  to  be  thus  miraculously  endowed  with 
the  privilege  of  motherhood. 

Mary  of  Nazareth  was  a  young  and  humble 
maiden,  betrothed  to  a  poor  man,  a  carpenter 
named  Joseph.  Could  she,  in  her  lowly  estate, 
ever  have  dreamed  of  the  glory  awaiting  her? 
She  could  not.  She  had,  in  all  truth  and  humility, 
only  been  solicitous  to  perform,  from  her  heart, 
every  duty  before  her,  in  the  fear  and  love  of 
God;  thus  it  was  that  she  "found  favour  with 
God." 

When  the  angel  had  assured  her  she  should  be 
the  blessed  mother  of  the  promised  Messiah,  and 
had  answered  her  simple,  child-like  question, 
"  How  shall  this  be  ?"  she  instantly  believed,  and 
accepted  the  high  mission. 

Zacharias  did  not  believe  the  announcement 
made  to  him  by  Gabriel  of  the  birth  of  John. 
The  priest  was  righteous — as  man  is  righteous — 
but  the  difference  between  the  masculine  and  the 
feminine  nature  is  most  strikingly  illustrated  in 
these  two  examples ;  Zacharias  was  earthward  in 
his  doubts,  his  reason ;  Mary  was  heavenward  in 
her  faith,  her  feelings.  He  believed  not  the  angel, 
and  was  struck  dumb ;  she  believed,  and  "  the 
Holy  Ghost  overshadowed"  her ! 

Great,  indeed,  must  have  been  her  faith,  when 
it  wholly  overcame  all  fear  of  man,  all  selfish  con- 
siderations. She  was  betrothed,  and  therefore 
not  only  her  reputation,  but  her  life,  would  be 
placed  in  jeopardy  if  she  were  proven  to  have  been 
unfaithful  to  her  plighted  husband.    When  assured 

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that  she  should  "bear  a  Son,"  who  would  not  be 
Joseph's  son,  it  would  seem  natural  that  some 
fears  for  her  own  safety  might  have  clouded  her 
faith.  But  no ;  her  humble,  trusting  answer  was, 
"  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  ;  be  it  unto  me 
according  to  thy  word."  Worthy  was  Mary  to  be 
the  mother  of  our  Saviour ; — that  the  human  na- 
ture, He  who  was  very  God  took  on  himself, 
should  be  derived  from  her,  the  obedient  tvoman  ! 
Thus  is  the  high  and  holy  mission  of  her  sex  indi- 
cated ; — to  receive  the  promises  of  God  in  humble 
faith,  and  transmute  these,  as  it  were,  like  living 
principles,  into  the  souls  of  their  sons. 

The  next  event  in  Mary's  life  was  her  visit  to 
her  cousin  Elisabeth,  who  lived  in  the  "  Hill  coun- 
try." Elisabeth  was  old,  but  the  angel  had  pro- 
mised her  a  son,  and  had  also  told  Mary  of  this 
event.  The  meeting  between  these  two  holy  and 
happy  women  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
sublime  exhibitions  of  piety  and  inspiration  to  be 
found  in  the  world's  history.  Elisabeth,  "filled 
with  the  Holy  Ghost,"  poured  out  the  blessing  of 
heaven  on  the  believing  virgiii  mother,  and  predicted 
the  fulfilment  of  every  promise.  Then  Mary 
breathed  forth  that  sweetest  strain  of  triumphant 
faith,  love,  and  thanksgiving,  ever  recorded  as  the 
production  of  a  human  mind. — And  Mary  said, 

"My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord. 
My  Spirit  hath  rejoiced  in  God  my  Saviour. 
He  hath  regarded  the  low  estate  of  his  handmaiden  ; 
Behold,  from  henceforth  all  generations  shall  call  me 

blessed. 
For  he  that  is  mighty  hath  done  me  great  things; 
And  holy  is  his  name. 
His  mercy  is  on  them  that  fear  him  from  generation  to 

generation. 
He  hath  showed  strength  with  his  arm ; 
He  hath  scattered  the  proud  in  the  imagination  of  their 

hearts. 
He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seats, 
And  e.xalted  them  of  low  degree. 
He  hath  filled  the  hungry  with  good  things; 
And  the  rich  he  hath  sent  empty  away. 
He  hath  holpen  his  servant  Israel, 
In  remembrance  of  his  mercy. 
As  he  spake  to  our  fathers. 
To  Abraham  and  his  seed  forever." 

Though  the  mental  endowments  of  woman  will 
never  atone  for  the  lack  of  moral  excellence,  yet 
we  are  glad  to  find,  as  we  do  from  these  records 
of  holy  writ,  that  the  mother  of  our  Saviour  pos- 
sessed the  highest  order  of  genius,  that  wliich  can 
comprehend  the  beautiful  in  the  trite  and  the  good, 
and  give  fitting  expression  to  these  sublime  ideas 
and  holy  feelings.  She  was  then  prepared  by  her 
natural  gifts,  to  imbue  the  opening  mind  of  her 
divine  son  with  those  lofty  aspirations,  those  ten- 
der sympathies,  which,  as  a  man,  he  always  exhi- 
bited. Ilis  human  soul,  derived  from  a  woman, 
trained  by  a  woman,  was  most  truly  womanly  in 
its  characteristics.  Examine  the  doctrines  he 
taught,  the  duties  and  virtues  he  enforced,  the  ex- 
amples he  set  —  where,  in  any  of  these,  are  the 
distinctive  traits  men  vaunt  as  proofs  of  mascu- 
line greatness  ?  Physical  strength,  earthly  ho- 
nours, riches,  worldly  wisdom,  even  the  gifts  of 
intellect  and  the  pride  of  learning,  our  Saviour 
put  all  these  down  far,  far  beneath  meekness,  mercy, 
purity,  patience,   charity,   humility ;  qualities    and 


graces  always  considered  peculiarly  feminine ; 
qualities  and  graces  his  blessed  mother  had  dis- 
played and  commended. 

From  the  birth  of  her  first-born  son,  Mary  seems 
to  have  been  absorbed  in  his  destiny.  We  only 
see  her  when  ministering  to  him.  That  his  nature 
and  office  were  revealed  to  her,  the  Bible  records  ; 
and  that  she  was  his  first  disciple  is  also  indicated, 
as  she  first  applies  the  term  "  my  Saviour"  to  God. 
She  kept  all  these  divine  revelations,  "  all  these 
sayings  in  her  heart."  A  woman's  heart  was  the 
only  human  heart  which  then  held  the  secret  that  the 
Saviour  had  come. 

And  it  was  at  the  suggestion  of  a  woman,  of 
Mary,  that  the  first  miracle  of  the  Saviour  was 
performed.  There  seems  to  be  a  strange  misap- 
prehension in  many  minds  respecting  the  circum- 
stances attending  tliis  miracle  —  the  changing  of 
the  water  into  wine — as  if  our  Saviour  spoke  chid- 
ingly,  or  disrespectfully,  to  his  mother.  The  word 
"  Woman"  is  in  reality  a  nobler  and  more  beauti- 
ful appellation  than  Lady  or  Madam.,  or  any  other 
conventionalism  or  title.  It  is  the  Eden  name  of 
the  female,  and  when  our  Saviour  used  it,  was 
most  honourable.  It  appears  from  the  sacred  nar- 
rative, that  Mary,  discovering  there  was  no  wine, 
and  feeling  assured  in  her  own  soul  that  the  time 
was  come  for  her  divine  Son  to  begin  his  mission 
of  love,  intimated  this  to  him. 

His  reply — "  Woman,  what  have  I  to  do  with 
thee?  Mine  hour  is  not  yet  come;"  seems  to 
have  been  in  answer  to  her  intuitive  faith,  he  fear- 
ing she  had  anticipated  the  time  of  his  "  begin- 
ning.'' But  the  sequel  shows  she  was  right.  And 
her  perseverance  was  rewarded,  when,  having  or- 
dered the  servants  to  do  "  whatsoever  he  saith 
unto  you;" — and  they  had  filled  the  water-pots 
with  water — it  "was  made  wine."  What  a  tri- 
umph this  to  the  power  of  maternal  influence !  to 
the  gift  of  insight  or  harmony  with  heavenly 
things  which  the  mind  of  a  true,  and  pure,  and 
pious  woman  possesses !  Even  the  Son  of  God, 
when  he  came  in  the  form  of  man  to  redeem  the 
world,  was  to  be  subject  to  this  influence ;  and 
only  at  his  mother's  persuasion  begin  his  miracles ! 
That,  during  the  three  eventful  years  which  fol- 
lowed, Mary  watched  the  ministry  of  her  divine 
son,  rejoicing  in  his  wonderful  deeds  of  love  and 
mercy,  and  weeping  with  him  in  his  sorrows,  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  And  she  was  beside  him  in  his 
last  agony.  We  see  in  this  the  immense  power  of 
her  love ;  though  he  was  condemned  to  die  tlie 
bitter  death  of  a  felon ;  forsaken  of  all  his  follow- 
ers save  a  few  women ;  of  all  his  chosen  disciples 
save  one  —  the  faithful,  gentle,  loving,  womanlike 
John  ;  and  though  the  dreadful  scene  would  be  "  a 
sword  to  pierce  through  her  own  soul" — yet  Mary 
the  mother  was  near  the  cross  of  the  Christ.  And 
the  last  throb  of  human  affection  the  Son  of  God 
manifested  was  for  his  mother.  AVith  his  dying 
breath,  he  consigned  her  to  the  care  of  the  be- 
loved John. 

We  have  one  last  glimpse  of  this  "highly  fa- 
voured among  women,"  as  a  meek  and  earnest 
follower  of  the  faith  the  risen  Saviour  had  estab- 
lished.    In  the  "Acts  of  the  Apostles"  it  is  re- 

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corded  that  in  an  upper  room  at  Jerusalem,  whei-e 
the  eleven  apostles  "  abode" — "  these  all  continued 
with  one  accord  in  prayer  and  supplication  with 
the  women,  and  Mary  the  mother  of  Jesus." 

Her  history  commences  with  the  heavenly  salu- 
tation, and  ends,  appropriately,  with  prayer.  Her 
youth  was  distinguished  by  the  favour  of  God ; 
her  maturity  by  active  piety  and  faithful  disciple- 
ship  ;  her  age  by  fervent  devotion  and  hallowed 
communion  with  the  first  church.  Her  birth- 
place, death,  and  burial,  are  not  recorded ;  but 
the  life  is  highest  in  honour  whose  records  are  of 
holy  acts  and  heroic  fidelity.  What  she  said  pro- 
phetically of  herself  has  proved  true — "All gene- 
rations shall  call  me  blessed."  Can  the  like  be 
said  of  any  man?  See  St.  Luke,  chap,  i.,  and  St. 
John,  chap.  ii.  and  xix. 

MARY, 

The  wife  of  Cleophas,  was  mother  of  James, 
.Jude,  Joses,  Simeon,  and  Salome.  Cleophas  and 
Joseph,  the  husband  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  were 
probably  brothers,  which  made  these  Marys 
sisters.  Her  children  are  therefore  represented 
as  the  brothers  of  our  Lord.  She  early  believed 
on  the  Saviour,  attended  to  his  preaching,  and 
ministered  to  his  support.  She  witnessed  his 
crucifixion,  and  prepared  spices  to  embalm  his 
body ;  and  went,  with  Mary  Magdalene  and  Sa- 
lome, "  early  to  the  sepulchre."  It  was  this 
Mary  who,  with  Salome,  saw  the  vision  of  the 
angel,  and  heard  from  him  those  cheering  words, 
"Be  not  afraid;  ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth;  he 
is  risen,"  &c. 

MARY, 

Mother  of  Mark,  the  Evangelist.  She  had  a 
house  in  Jerusalem,  where  it  is  thought  that  the 
apostles  retired,  after  the  ascension  of  our  Lord, 
and  where  they  received  the  Holy  Ghost.  After 
the  imprisonment  of  Peter,  the  faithful  assembled 
at  this  house,  and  were  praying  there,  when  Peter, 
delivered  by  the  angel,  knocked  at  the  door. 

MARY   AND   MARTHA, 

Sisters  of  Lazarus,  whom  Jesus  raised  from 
the  dead,  lived  with  their  brother  at  Bethany,  a 
^^llage  near  Jerusalem.  Jesus  had  a  particular 
afi"ection  for  this  family,  and  often  resorted  to 
their  house.  One  day  Martha,  preparing  an  en- 
tertainment for  him,  while  Mary  sat  at  his  feet, 
listening  to  his  words,  wished  her  sister's  assist- 
ance, and  said  to  Jesus,  "Do  you  not  see.  Lord, 
that  my  sister  leaves  me  to  minister  alone  ?  Bid 
her  come  to  help  me."  But  Jesus  said,  that 
"Mary  had  chosen  the  better  part,  that  should 
not  be  taken  from  her." 

Six  days  before  the  passover,  Jesus  came  to 
Bethany,  and  was  at  meat  in  the  house  of  Simon< 
Martha  attended,  and  Lazarus  was  one  of  the 
guests.  Mary  took  a  pound  of  spikenard,  the 
most  precious  perfume  of  the  kind,  and  poured  it 
over  the  head  and  feet  of  Jesus. 

The  sisters  were  of  one  mind  in  the  reverence 
and  love  they  bore  him  ;  yet  the  characters  of  the 
two  are  in  striking  contrast  —  IMartha  was  active, 


Mary  contemplative.  Martha  seems  to  have  been 
a  creature  of  impulse ;  Mary  was  slower  of  appre- 
hension, and,  of  course,  less  sudden  in  her  resolves 
and  movements.  Martha  had  the  most  fervent 
faith;  Mary  the  most  humble  piety.  "Jesus 
loved  Martha  and  her  sister,  and  Lazarus."  What 
a  beautiful  illustration  is  here  !  showing  that  the 
sweet,  pure  affections  of  domestic  life  are  sanc- 
tified by  the  best  blessings  of  heaven.  See  St. 
John,  chap.  xi. 

MARY   MAGDALENE 

Seems  to  have  been  an  inhabitant  of  Magdala, 
otherwise  called  Dalmanutha.  The  city  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  situated  somewhere  on  the 
eastern  coast  of  the  sea  of  Galilee.  Wherever  it 
was,  it  probably  gave  the  surname  of  Magdalene 
to  this  Mary.  It  has  been  asserted  by  some 
writers,  that  she  was  a  plaiter  of  hair  to  the  wo- 
men of  her  city  ;  but  all  we  certainly  know  of  her, 
is  contained  in  the  New  Testament.  We  are  there 
taught,  she  had  been  a  great  sinner,  that  she  re- 
pented, came  to  the  feet  of  Jesus,  while  he  "sat 
at  meat  in  the  Pharisee's  house,  and  began  to 
wash  his  feet  with  tears,  and  did  wipe  them  with 
the  hairs  of  her  head,  and  kissed  his  feet,  and 
anointed  them  with  precious  ointment."  Her 
penitence  and  humility  are  graphically  portrayed ; 
and  she  has  ever  since  that  time  been  as  a  star 
of  hope  to  the  fallen  sisterhood,  proving,  that 
from  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation  the  true 
penitent  may  be  raised,  if  she  will,  like  Mary 
Magdalene,  turn  from  her  sins,  and  love  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  From  the  moment  when  Mary 
Magdalene  heard  those  sweet  words  from  the  Sa- 
viour, "  Thy  sins  are  forgiven,"  she  seems  to  have 
devoted  herself  to  his  followers ;  and  at  the  cross, 
and  at  the  sepulchre,  she  proved  that  her  faith 
was  as  fii'm  and  devoted,  as  her  love  was  true  and 
holy.  According  to  the  apostle  St.  John,  Mary 
Magdalene  was  the  first  person  who  reached  the 
sepulchre  on  the  eventful  morning,  "  when  it  was 
yet  dark;"  she  first  discovered  that  the  stone  was 
taken  away  from  the  sepulchre ;  and  to  her,  the 
risen  Saviour  first  made  himself  manifest.  This 
female  disciple  was  honoured  above  even  the  be- 
loved John ;  for  he  and  all  the  other  disciples  were 
taught  by  her  that  Jesus  had  risen  from  the  tomb. 

MARY   OF   FRANCE 

Is  one  of  the  first  of  her  sex  who  wrote  French 
verses,  and  she  holds  a  distinguished  rank  among 
the  Anglo-Norman  poets.  Her  learning,  her  en- 
lightened opinions,  and  the  courage  she  showed  in 
speaking  the  truth  to  ears  little  accustomed  to 
hear  it,  place  her  far  in  advance  of  her  age.  It 
is  to  be  regretted  that  the  writings  of  this  cele- 
brated woman  have  thrown  no  light  on  her  private 
life,  or  the  name  and  rank  of  her  family.  She 
was  born  in  France,  and  probably  in  Normandy, 
in  1200.  She  went  to  England,  where  she  com- 
posed all  her  works,  and  died  about  12G8.  Her 
first  productions  are  lays  in  French,  relating  the 
adventures  of  valiant  knights.  There  are  fourteen 
of  them ;  she  also  wrote  a  hundred  and  three 
fables,  which  show  a  great  penetration  into  cha- 

130 


MA 


MA 


racter,  deep  reflection,  and  are  written  in  an  easy 
and  unaffected  style. 

MARY   OF   BRABANT, 

Dauohter  of  Henry  III.,  duke  of  Brabant,  mar- 
ried Philip  the  Bold  of  France,  in  1274.  She  was 
accused  of  poisoning  her  husband's  eldest  son,  by 
a  former  marriage ;  but  was  deemed  innocent  be- 
cause of  the  knight,  who  was  sent  by  her  brother 
to  challenge  her  accusei's,  proving  victorious.  She 
was  a  woman  of  a  cultivated  mind,  and  possessed 
great  mfluence.     She  died  in  1321. 

MARY  OF  ANJOU, 
DAroHTER  of  Louis  II.,  king  of  Sicily  and  duke 
of  Anjou,  was  the  wife  of  Charles  VII.,  and  the 
mother  of  Louis  XI.  of  France.  She  was  a  woman 
of  a  very  heroic  character ;  and  though  insulted 
and  neglected  by  her  husband,  during  the  latter 
part  of  their  married  life,  she  applied  all  the 
powers  of  her  great  mind  to  secure  the  crown  to 
him.  She  died  in  146-3,  aged  fifty-nine.  She  was 
a  devoted  mother,  and  superintended  herself  her 
children's  education. 

MARY, 

Daughter  of  Henry  VII.  of  England,  and  wife 
of  Louis  XII.  of  France.  He  died  soon  afterwards, 
and  she  married  Charles  Brandon,  duke  of  Suffolk, 
by  whom  she  had  a  daughter,  the  mother  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey.     She  died  in  1534,  aged  thirty-seven. 

MARY, 

Daughter  of  Charles,  duke  of  Burgundy,  mar- 
ried Maximilian,  son  of  Frederick,  emperor  of 
Austria,  and  thus  transferred  the  dominions  of 
Burgundy  to  the  house  of  Austria.  She  died  at 
Bruges,  1482,  in  consequence  of  a  fall  from  her 
horse,  while  she  was  hunting. 

MARY   OF   ARRAGON, 

Daughter  of  Sancho  III.,  and  wife  of  Otho  of 
Germany,  is  said  to  have  been  put  to  death,  in 
998,  for  causing  the  death  of  the  count  of  Modena, 
whom  she  falsely  accused  of  attempts  on  her 
virtue. 

MATILDA, 

Of  Scotland,  daughter  of  Malcolm  Canmore, 
king  of  Scotland,  and  Margaret  Atheling,  a  de- 
scendant of  the  Anglo-Saxon  line  of  England's 
kings,  was  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady. 
She  married  Henry  I.  of  England,  and  proved  a 
wise  and  excellent  queen.  She  was  charitable  to 
the  poor,  and  always  watchful  to  do  what  was 
most  useful  for  her  people.  She  caused  bridges 
to  be  built,  and  roads  to  be  made  and  repaired, 
while  she  acted  as  regent  during  her  husband's 
absence  in  Normandy.  As  king  Henry  was  obliged 
to  pass  most  of  his  time  in  Normandy,  then  be- 
longing to  the  English  crown,  in  order  to  suppress 
the  continual  revolts  of  his  Norman  subjects,  the 
good  Matilda  was  left  to  govern  England  in  lier 
own  way.  She  was  always  popular ;  and  at  her 
decease,  in  1118,  she  was  "passionately  lamented 
by  every  class  of  the  people,  to  whom  her  virtues 


and  wisdom  had  rendered  her  inexpressibly  dear.'' 
She  was  mother  of  the  empress  Matilda. 

MATILDA,  or  MAUD, 
Empress  of  Germany,  and  queen  of  England, 
daughter  of  Henry  I.,  king  of  England,  and  Matilda 
of  Scotland,  was  born  in  1102.  At  eight  years  of 
age,  she  was  betrothed  to  Henry  V.,  emperor  of 
Germany,  and  was  sent  to  that  country  for  educa- 
tion. The  emperor  dying  without  issue,  in  1125, 
Matilda  returned  to  her  father's  court,  who,  hav- 
ing lost  his  only  son,  caused  all  his  nobles,  prelates, 
&c.,  to  swear  fealty  to  her  as  his  successor,  in 
case  he  died  without  male  issue;  and  in  1127,  he 
married  her  to  Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  eldest  son 
of  Fulke,  count  of  Anjou. 

Matilda  went  to  reside  in  Normandy,  where,  in 
1132,  her  son,  afterwards  Henry  II.,  was  bom. 
By  the  death  of  her  father,  in  1135,  she  became 
heiress  of  all  his  dominions  in  England  and  France. 
She  was  then  at  Anjou  with  her  husband,  of  which 
circumstance  her  cousin  Stephen,  earl  of  Blois, 
took  advantage,  and  seized  on  the  crown  of  Eng- 
land. The  barons  of  Normandy  also  submitted  to 
Stephen  ;  but  his  administration  soon  becoming 
unpopular,  Matilda,  in  1139,  landed  in  England, 
and  a  number  of  powerful  barons  declared  in  her 
favour.  A  civil  war  ensued,  and  in  1141,  Stephen 
was  taken  prisoner,  and  Matilda  crowned  queen 
in  the  cathedral  of  AVinchester. 

But  no  sooner  was  she  seated  on  the  throne, 
than  her  haughty  and  impolitic  conduct  irritated 
the  nobles  and  estranged  her  friends.  She  refused 
to  listen  to  their  requests,  or  to  the  petition  of  the 
Londoners  for  the  restoration  of  the  laws  of  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor.  Conspiracies  were  formed 
against  her,  and  she  was  obliged,  in  1148,  to  flee 
to  Normandy,  where  she  resided  till  her  death,  in 
11G7.  The  art  of  government  consists  mainly  in 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ;  by 
which  princes  acquire  the  art  of  conciliating  the 
affections  of  those  around  them,  and  by  graceful 
condescensions,  win  the  regard  of  the  lower  orders, 
of  whom  the  great  body  of  the  nation,  emphatically 
called  "the  people,"  is  composed.  The  German 
education  of  the  empress  Matilda,  as  well  as  her 
pride,  prevented  her  from  duly  estimating  the  im- 
portance of  these  things ;  and  thus  she  failed  in 
obtaining  the  crown  of  England,  which  was  hers 
in  the  order  of  regular  succession. 

MATILDA, 

Countess  of  Tuscany,  daughter  of  Boniface, 
marquis  of  Mantua,  was  born  in  1039.  Her 
mother  Beatrice,  sister  of  Henry  III.,  emperor  of 
Germany,  after  the  death  of  Boniface,  married 
Galezo,  duke  of  Lorraine,  and  contracted  Matilda 
to  Godfrey  Gibbosus,  or  Crookback,  duke  of  Spo- 
leto  and  Tuscany,  Gazelo's  son  by  a  former  mar- 
riage. This  alliance  alarmed  Henry,  who  marched 
into  Italy,  took  his  sister  prisoner,  and  carried 
her  to  Germany,  hoping  to  dissolve  the  agreement; 
but  he  died  soon  after,  in  1050.  Jlatilda's  hus- 
band also  died,  in  1076,  and  she  was  afterwards 
married  to  Azo  V.,  marquis  of  Ferrara,  from  whom 
she  was  divorced  by  the  pope,  as  she  was  also 

131 


MA 


ME 


from  her  third  husband,  Welpho  V.,  duke  of  Ba- 
varia, whom  she  married  in  1088.  She  parted 
from  him  in  1095.  Dispossessed  of  her  estates  by 
the  emperor  Henry  III.,  she  recovered  them,  with 
vast  additions,  by  the  aid  of  the  pope,  Gregory 
VII. ;  who  was  always  a  friend  of  hers,  and  to 
whose  interests  Matilda  through  life  devoted  her- 
self. She  died  in  1115,  leaving  all  her  estates  to 
the  see  of  Rome. 

Matilda,  in  her  wars  with  the  emperor,  mani- 
fested an  indomitable  firmness,  that  no  reverses 
could  shake.  It  would  be  tedious  to  trace  the 
various  brawls — they  hardly  deserve  the  dignified 
name  of  wars  —  which  vexed  the  little  sovereign- 
ties of  that  period.  Matilda  was  so  situated  as 
to  be  shaken  by  every  swell  of  the  storm,  but  she 
emerged  with  honour  from  all  her  conflicts.  With 
rare  heroism  she  made  and  sustained  sieges, 
manoeuvred  troops,  and,  after  many  disasters, 
proved  victorious,  enlarged  her  dominions,  and 
exalted  her  fame.  Dante,  so  severe  upon  every 
flaw,  gives  this  lady  unqualified  praise  in  his 
"  Purgatorio,"  where  she  is  celebrated  in  beauti- 
ful verse. 

MATILDA, 

Daughter  of  Baldwin  de  Lille,  count  of  Flan- 
ders, married  her  cousin,  AVilliam  of  Normandy, 
afterwards  king  of  England.  The  pope  granted 
them  absolution  on  their  marriage,  on  condition 
of  their  erecting  two  chapels,  which  they  did. 
She  is  distinguished  for  working  the  tapestry  in 
wool,  portraying  the  descent  upon  England,  which 
is  still  preserved  in  the  cathedral  at  Bayeux.  She 
was  a  woman  of  great  kindness  and  generosity ; 
and  her  death,  in  1083,  was  a  source  of  unfeigned 
sorrow  to  her  husband,  and  deep  regret  of  the 
people  both  of  England  and  Normandy. 

MATTUGLIANI   MEA. 

Among  the  women  who  gave  lustre  to  the  lite- 
rature of  Bologna  during  the  fifteenth  century, 
■was  Bartolomea,  whom  her  contemporaries  univer- 
sally called  Mea.  She  is  supposed  to  have  been 
the  wife  of  Michcle  Mattugliani,  or  Mattugani,  a 


man  honoured  and  respected  by  his  fellow-citizens, 
both  for  his  own  merit,  and  for  the  elevated  situa- 
tion to  which  his  birth  entitled  him.  She  is  repre- 
sented as  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  learned. 
A  modern  Bolognese  writer  has  indulged  his  ima- 
gination with  the  probabilities  of  a  romantic  at- 
tachment between  her  and  the  young  Carlo  Caval- 
cabo ;  but  this  is  mere  fantasy :  we  have  nothing 
to  authenticate,  or  even  afi"ord  the  slightest  base 
for  such  a  legend.  On  the  contrary,  Mea  appears 
to  have  been  a  prudent,  virtuous  wife. 

Carlo  Cavalcabo,  elevated  to  the  lordship  of 
Bologna  in  1405,  took  pleasure  in  a  select  society 
of  intellectual  persons.  He  addressed  to  the  Bo- 
lognese poetess  a  poetical  epistle  which  breathes 
nothing  but  the  most  respectful  friendship.  She 
replied  to  it  by  an  answer  in  terza  rima,  which  is 
the  only  one  of  her  works  now  extant.  The  poetry 
is  graceful,  sweet,  and  of  an  elevated  moral  tone. 
She  enumerates  the  titles  and  honours  of  Caval- 
cabo, gives  him  just  praise  without  adulation.  In 
a  dignified  manner  she  thanks  him  for  attributing 
so  much  merit  to  her,  while  she  modestly  disclaims 
his  praises ;  she  says  they  will  be  to  her  an  incen- 
tive to  improvement.  Then  follows  a  learned 
account  of  those  women  who  have  honoured  their 
sex  by  virtue,  with  deprecations  for  those  who 


\^ 


have  sought  other  than  honest  fame.  She  con- 
cludes by  exhorting  the  lord  of  Cremona  to  meri- 
torious enterprises. 

MESSALINA  VALERIA, 

Daughter  of  Messala  Barbatus,  was  married  to 
Claudius,  emperor  of  Rome,  before  he  came  to  the 
empire.  She  had  great  influence  over  her  hus- 
band, and  was  as  notorious  for  her  cruelties  as  for 
her  licentiousness.  By  the  instigation  of  Messa- 
lina  and  her  minions,  Claudius  was  led  to  commit 
many  of  those  excesses  that  disgraced  his  reign. 
At  length,  when  Claudius  was  at  Ostia,  Messalina, 
in  utter  contempt  of  all  appearance  of  propriety, 
married  publicly  her  lover  Lilius,  a  young  noble- 
man of  great  beauty.  When  Claudius  heard  of 
the  dishonour  inflicted  on  him,  he  exclaimed,  with 
terror,  "Am  I  still  emperor?"  His  fears  were 
dispelled,  and  Lilius,  with  a  number  of  Messalina's 

132 


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other  accomplices,  were  put  to  death.  She  was 
preparing  to  go  to  Claudius,  to  appease  his  anger, 
in  which  she  would  probably  have  succeeded, 
when  Narcissus,  the  freedman  of  the  emperor, 
gave  orders  to  kill  her,  in  the  year  46.  Her  name 
has  become  almost  a  common  appellation  for  wo- 
men of  abandoned  characters. 

MESSALINA, 
Wife  of  Nero,  also  called  Statilia,  was  descended 
from  a  consular  family,  and  married  the  consul 
Atticus  Visticus,  whom  Nero  murdered.  She  re- 
ceived her  husband's  murderer  with  tenderness, 
and  married  four  husbands  before  she  came  to  the 
imperial  throne.  After  the  death  of  Nero,  in  68, 
she  retired  from  public  life,  and  occupied  her- 
self with  literary  pursuits.  Otho,  the  eighth 
emperor  of  Rome,  next  addressed  her,  but  be- 
fore their  marriage  he  destroyed  himself,  in  the 
year  69. 

MONICA, 

Mother  of  Augustine,  bishop  of  Hippo,  was 
born  of  Christian  parents,  in  Numidia.  She  was 
not  so  much  indebted  to  her  mother's  care,  as  to 
that  of  an  old  servant  of  the  house,  who  had 
nursed  her  father.  This  pious  servant  never  suf- 
fered the  children  to  drink  even  water,  except  at 
meals,  telling  them,  that  if  they  ever  became  mis- 
tresses, the  custom  of  drinking  would  remain ;  and 
they  would  indulge  it  with  wine,  not  water.  Yet 
Monica  learned  by  degrees  to  drink  wine,  having 
been  sent  to  draw  it  for  the  use  of  the  family  ;  but 
having  been  called  a  drunkard  by  one  of  the  maids 
when  in  a  passion,  she,  struck  with  shame  that 
such  a  reproach  should  be  addressed  to  her,  gave 
up  the  practice  forever. 

She  was  married  to  Patricius,  a  pagan,  a  native 
of  Tagasta,  in  Numidia,  and  endeavoured,  by  her 
gentleness,  to  win  him  over  to  her  faith,  patiently 
enduring  his  passionate  temper,  in  the  hope  that 
his  natural  goodness  and  benevolence  would  one 
day  make  him  a  restraint  to  himself.  Many  of 
her  friends  complained  to  her  of  the  harsh  treat- 
ment they  received  from  their  husbands,  when  she 
advised  them  to  follow  her  plan ;  which  some  did, 
and  afterwards  thanked  her  for  her  counsel.  She 
also  completely  gained  the  heart  of  her  unkind 
and  prejudiced  mother-in-law.  She  was  never 
known  to  repeat  any  thing  that  might  cause  a 
quarrel,  but  only  what  would  heal  and  reconcile. 

Though  so  obedient  to  her  husband,  Monica 
prevailed  on  him  to  allow  their  son  Augustine, 
born  in  the  yfear  357,  to  be  brought  up  a  Chris- 
tian ;  but  though  he  made  great  progress  in  learn- 
ing, he  was,  in  early  life,  very  dissipated.  Patri- 
cius, who  only  wished  him  to  be  learned  and  elo- 
quent, was  satisfied ;  but  Monica  grieved  over  his 
errors,  and  prayed  constantly  for  him,  and  pa- 
tiently remonstrated  with  him  for  more  than  nine 
years.  Her  husband  died  a  Christian,  leaving  her 
only  this  one  son  as  an  object  of  solicitude. 

Augustine  had  been  led  away  by  the  doctrine 
of  the  Manichees,  and  still  continuing  his  dissolute 
life,  she  entreated  a  bishop  to  reason  him  out  of 
hie  errors. 


"Your  son,"  said  he,  "is  too  much  elated  at 
present,  and  carried  away  by  the  pleasing  novelty 
of  his  error,  to  regard  any  arguments.  Let  him 
alone  ;  only  continue  praying  to  the  Lord  for  him  ; 
he  will,  in  the  com'se  of  his  studies,  discover  his 
error." 

But  Monica,  with  floods  of  tears,  persisted  in 
her  request.  At  last,  a  little  out  of  temper,  on 
account  of  her  importunity,  he  exclaimed,  "  Be- 
gone, good  woman  ;  it  is  impossible  a  child  of  such 
tears  should  perish."  And  the  result  proved  that 
the  bishop  was  correct,  though  not  till  after  the 
anxious  mother  had  waited  in  mingled  anxiety  and 
hope  for  many  years. 

She  had  followed  her  son  to  Rome,  on  hearing 
of  his  illness,  and  remained  there  with  him  after- 
wards. They  were  conversing  one  evening  on 
holy  subjects  :  the  world  appeared  of  no  value  to 
either.  Monica  said,  "  Son,  what  I  should  do 
here,  and  why  I  am  here,  I  know  not ;  the  hope 
of  this  life  is  now  quite  spent.  One  thing  only, 
your  conversion,  was  an  object  for  which  I  wished 
to  live.  My  God  has  given  me  this  in  a  large 
measure.  What  do  I  here?"  Five  days  after 
this  she  was  seized  with  a  fever.  Some  one  la- 
mented that  she  was  about  to  die  in  a  foreign 
land  —  she  had  formerly  been  troubled  about  it. 
"Nothing,"  said  she,  "is  far  from  God;  and  I  do 
not  fear  that  he  will  not  know  where  to  find  me 
at  the  resurrection."  She  died  on  the  ninth  day 
of  her  illness,  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  her  age., 


N. 
NOGAROLA  ISOTTA, 
A  LEARNED  lady  of  Verona.  She  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  philosophy,  theology,  and  the  learn- 
ed languages ;  and  her  reputation  was  so  great, 
that  cardinal  Bessarien  went  to  Verona  to  converse 
with  her.  In  a  dialogue  on  the  question  whether 
Adam  or  Eve  were  the  greater  sinner  in  eating  the 
forbidden  fruit,  she  ably  defended  the  cause  of  the 
mother  of  mankind  against  Louis  Foscaro.  She 
died,  universally  respected,  in  1468,  aged  thirty- 
eight.     Five  hundred  and  sixty-six  of  her  letters 

133 


NO 


PA 


■were  preserved  in  De  Thou's  library.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  Leonardo  and  of  Bianca  Borro- 
meo.  She  passed  her  life  in  the  bosom  of  her 
family,  loved  by  all  her  friends,  and  honoured  and 
esteemed  by  the  most  illustrious  literati  of  her 
day.  She  has  done  much  to  render  her  name 
celebrated,  but  would  probably  have  accomplished 
still  more,  had  not  a  premature  death  removed 
her  from  earthly  glories.  Her  works  are  —  "A 
Dialogue  on  Original  Sin  ;"  "  An  Elegy  on  a  Beau- 
tiful Villa;"  "Epistles  Preserved  in  the  Ambro- 
siau  Library;"  "Oration  to  the  Bishop  Ermolao, 
■written  in  Latin;"  "An  Eulogy  on  Girolano,  Doc- 
tor of  Divinity;"  and  a  "Latin  Ejjistle  to  Ludo- 
vico  Foscarni." 

NOGAROLA, 

Arco  d'ANGELA,  of  Verona,  ■was  very  learned 
in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  made  metrical  trans- 
lations of  some  of  the  poetical  books.  She  was  a 
remarkably  beautiful  and  virtuous  woman.  She 
lived  contemporary  with  the  celebrated  Isotta. 
She  has  left  some  epistles,  elegantly  written. 

NOVELLA, 

Daughter  of  John  Andreas,  a  famous  canonist 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  was  born  in  Bologna, 
■where  her  father  was  professor.  He  loved  his 
daughter  Novella  extremely,  and  instructed  her  so 
well  in  all  parts  of  learning,  that  when  he  ■was 
engaged  in  any  affair  that  hindered  him  from 
reading  lectures  to  his  scholars,  he  sent  his  daugh- 
ter in  his  stead ;  but  lest  her  beauty  should  pre- 
vent the  attention  of  her  hearers,  she  had  a  little 
curtain  drawn  before  her. 

She  was  married  to  John  Caldesimus,  a  learned 
canonist,  and  did  not  long  survive  her  marriage. 
To  perpetuate  her  memory,  her  father,  Andreas, 
entitled  his  commentary  on  the  Decretals  of  Gre- 
gory X.  "  the  Novelli»." 

OLGA, 

Wife  of  Igor,  the  second  monarch  of  Russia, 
was  born  of  the  best  family  in  Plescow.  She  bore 
Igor  one  son,  called  Swetoslaw.  Igor  being  mur- 
dered by  the  Drewenses,  Olga  revenged  his  death. 
She  went  afterwards  to  Constantinople,  where  she 
■was  baptized  by  the  name  of  Helen.  The  emperor, 
John  Zimisces,  was  her  godfather,  and  fell  in  love 
with  her ;  but  she,  alleging  their  spiritual  affinity, 
refused  to  marry  him.  Her  example  induced  many 
of  her  subjects  to  embrace  Christianity,  but  had 
no  effect  on  her  son.  She  died  at  Pereslaw,  in  the 
eightieth  year  of  her  age,  fourteen  years  after  her 
baptism. 

OCTAVIA, 
Daughter  of  Claudius,  emperor  of  Rome,  and 
Messalina,  was  betrothed  to  Silanus  ;  but  through 
the  intrigues  of  Agrippina,  the  niece  and  fourth 
wife  of  Claudius,  she  was  married,  when  only 
fifteen,  to  the  emperor  Nero.  This  wretched  tyrant 
soon  divorced  her  to  marry  Poppaea,  who  had  her 
banished  to  Campania.  She  was  recalled  by  the 
people ;  but  Poppsea,  resolved  on  her  ruin,  caused 
her  to  be  again  banished  to  an  island.     There  she 


was  ordered  to  kill  herself  by  opening  her  veins. 
She  died  at  the  age  of  twenty.  Her  head  was  cut 
off  and  carried  to  Poppasa.  To  great  personal 
charms,  Octavia  added  modesty,  sweetness,  bene- 
ficence, purity  of  manners,  talents,  and  irreproach- 
able conduct ;  and  the  people  in  Rome  mourned 
her  loss  with  the  greatest  grief.  She  died  about 
the  year  56. 


PACHECO, 

Donna  Maria,  wife  of  Don  Jolin  de  Padilla,  a 
young  nobleman,  ■who  ■was  at  the  head  of  the  con- 
federacy in  Castile,  during  the  minority  of  Charles 
v.,  called  the  Holy  Junta,  raised  to  recover  those 
laws  and  liberties  the  Castilians  had  always  prized 
so  highly.  During  their  hostile  operations,  the}' 
were  in  much  distress  for  money.  Donna  Maria,  a 
■woman  of  great  abilities  and  unbounded  ambition, 
proposed  to  seize  all  the  magnificent  ornaments  in 
the  cathedral  of  Toledo ;  but  lest  that  action,  ap- 
parently sacrilegious,  should  ofi"end  the  people, 
she  and  her  retinue  went  in  a  solemn  procession 
to  the  church,  and  implored  pardon  of  the  saints, 
whose  shrines  she  was  about  to  ■violate.  The  po- 
pulace thus  appeased,  they  stripped  the  cathedral 
and  obtained  the  necessary  funds. 

In  a  subsequent  engagement,  in  1521,  the  yoimg 
and  brave  Padilla  was  taken  prisoner,  and  con- 
demned to  death.  He  wrote  an  affectionate  letter 
to  his  wife,  exhorting  her  to  consider  his  death  as 
his  deliverance.  This  blo^sv  was  fatal  to  the  con- 
federacy. The  city  of  Toledo  alone,  animated  by 
Donna  Maria,  who  sought  to  revenge  her  husband's 
death,  held  out.  The  prudence  and  vigour  with 
which  she  acted  justified  the  confidence  the  people 
reposed  in  her.  She  ■wi-ote  to  the  French  general, 
encouraging  him  to  invade  Navarre ;  she  endea- 
voured to  arouse  the  other  Castilian  cities ;  raised 
soldiers ;  and,  by  keeping  the  death  of  their  be- 
loved general  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  people, 
she  prevented  them  from  being  dispirited.  Her 
enemies  in  vain  endeavoured  to  undermine  her 

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popularity ;  the  city  was  invested,  but  she  de- 
fended it  so  vigorously  that  no  progress  was  made 
in  reducing  it,  till  the  clergy,  whose  property  she 
had  been  forced  to  invade,  openly  deserted  her, 
and  persuaded  the  credulous  multitude  that  her 
influence  over  them  was  the  effect  of  enchantment; 
and  that  she  was  assisted  by  a  familiar  spirit  in 
the  form  of  a  negro  maid.  Incensed  at  these 
suggestions,  they  themselves  took  up  arms  against 
her,  drove  her  out  of  the  city,  and  surrendered  it 
to  the  royalists.  She  then  retired  to  the  citadel, 
which  she  defended  with  amazing  fortitude,  four 
months  longer ;  and,  when  reduced  to  the  last 
extremity,  fled  in  disguise  to  Portugal,  where  she 
had  many  relations,  and  where  she  passed  the 
remainder  of  her  life. 

PAD  ILL  A, 

Mart  de,  a  Spanish  lady,  mistress  of  Pedro  the 
Cruel,  king  of  Castile  in  1350.  She  possessed  such 
influence  over  him,  that  three  days  after  his  mar- 
riage with  the  beautiful  and  virtuous  Blanche  de 
Bourbon,  he  repudiated  her  for  liis  guilty  mistress. 
After  his  divorce  from  Blanche,  Pedro  married 
Jeanne  de  Castro ;  and  two  days  after  was  again 
at  the  feet  of  the  all-powerful  Padilla,  who  dying 
soon  after,  was  buried  with  all  the  magnificence 
due  to  a  crowned  head. 

PAMPHILA, 

A  Grecian  authoress,  who  flourished  in  Nero's 
reign,  and  wrote  a  general  history  in  thirty-three 
books,  much  commended  by  the  ancients,  but  not 
extant.    She  died  in  the  first  century  after  Christ. 

PAULA,    ST., 

A  Roman  lady  of  noble  birth  and  great  learning. 
She  embraced  Christianity ;  and  when  she  became 
a  widow,  she  retired  to  Bethlehem,  where  she 
built  a  monastery,  and  led  a  very  devout  and  asce- 
tic life.  St.  Jerome  was  the  director  of  her  cha- 
ritable institutions,  and  he  also  taught  her  to  read 
the  Scriptures  in  Hebrew.  She  died  in  407,  aged 
sixty.  It  is  said  that  she  was  descended  from  the 
families  of  the  Gracchi  and  Scipios. 

PAULINA, 

A  Roman  lady  of  exquisite  beauty,  and  great 
wealth  and  virtue,  lived  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius, 
about  the  year  30.  She  was  married  to  Saturni- 
nus,  a  husband  worthy  of  her.  Decius  Mundus, 
a  Roman  knight,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her, 
and  tried  every  means,  in  vain,  to  obtain  lier  affec- 
tions. He  even  offered  her  two  hundred  thousand 
drachmae.  At  length  Ide,  a  female  domestic  of 
his  father's,  offered  to  enable  him  to  accomplish 
his  object  for  fifty  thousand  drachmte,  which  he 
gave  her.  This  woman,  knowing  Paulina's  great 
veneration  for  Isis,  bribed  several  of  the  priests 
of  this  goddess,  who  went  to  Paulina,  and  told  her 
that  the  god  Anubis  was  passionately  enamoured 
of  her,  and  that  she  must  visit  him.  Elated  with 
this  honour,  Paulina  communicated  the  desire  to 
her  husband,  who,  confiding  in  her  virtue,  cheer- 
fully granted  the  request.  She  went  to  the  tem- 
ple, and,  being  shut  up  in  the  dark,  Mundus  was 


introduced  to  her  as  Anubis.  Upon  the  third  day 
after  this,  Mundus  met  Paulina,  and,  in  a  keen 
and  sai'castic  speech,  ridiculed  her  for  her  credu- 
lity, and  informed  her  of  her  mistake.  Paulina, 
in  the  greatest  distress,  hastened  to  her  husband, 
and  urged  him  vehemently  not  to  suffer  such  an 
indignity  to  pass  unpunished.  Saturninus  ap- 
pealed to  Tiberius,  who  caused  Ide  and  the  priests 
of  Isis  to  be  crucified  for  sacrilege,  the  temple  of 
Isis  to  be  thrown  down,  and  her  statue  cast  into 
the  Tiber.     Mundus  was  simply  banished. 

PAULINA, 

Wife  of  Seneca,  the  celebrated  Roman  philoso- 
pher, insisted  upon  sharing  her  husband's  fate, 
who  was  condemned  to  die  by  the  order  of  the 
emperor  Nero.  Her  veins  were  accordingly  opened 
at  the  same  time ;  but  fainting  from  loss  of  blood, 
Nero  sent  and  commanded  her  wounds  to  be  bound 
up,  and  conjured  her  to  live.  She,  however,  sur- 
vived her  husband  but  a  short  time,  looking  wan 
and  miserable,  and  oppressed  with  the  deepest 
melancholy.  She  was  much  younger  than  her 
husband.  These  events  occurred  about  the  year 
68. 

PERPETUA, 

ViviA,  a  Carthaginian  lady,  about  twenty-two 
years  of  age,  suffered  for  her  faith  during  the  per- 
secution of  the  Christians  by  Severus,  emperor  ol' 
Rome.  Her  father,  a  pagan,  who  loved  her  ten- 
derly, went  to  console  her  in  her  imprisonment, 
and  attempted  to  persuade  her  to  renounce  Chris- 
tianity. Perpetua,  however,  remained  firm,  which 
so  incensed  him,  that  he  beat  her  severely,  and 
did  not  visit  her  for  some  days.  In  the  mean  time 
she  was  baptized,  having  only  been  a  catechumen 
before.  On  refusing  to  sacrifice  to  idols,  she  was 
confined  in  a  dark  dungeon  and  deprived  of  her 
infant.  Her  father  again  visited  her,  and  in  the 
most  tender  and  affectionate  manner  entreated  her. 
for  his  sake  and  that  of  her  child,  to  renounce  her 
faith;  but  she  said,  "God's  will  must  be  done.'" 
After  her  condemnation,  Perpetua  and  Felicitas. 
another  Christian  woman,  were  thrown  to  a  mad 
bull,  who  wounded  them  severely,  but  did  not  kill 
them.  Perpetua  then  caused  her  brother  to  be 
called,  and,  addressing  herself  to  him  and  another 
Christian,  she  said,  "  Continue  firm  in  the  faith, 
love  one  another,  and  be  not  offended  at  our  sui- 
ferings." 

The  people  insisted  on  having  the  martyrs 
brought  into  the  amphitheatre,  that  they  might 
see  them  die.  The  beauty  of  Perpetua,  and  the 
weak  state  of  Felicitas,  who  had  just  been  con- 
fined, excited  some  compassion  among  the  savage 
beholders.  Perpetua  fell  into  the  hands  of  an  un- 
skilful gladiator,  but  she  guided  his  trembling 
hand  to  her  throat.     She  perished  in  205. 

PETRONILLA, 
Dona,  daughter  of  Ramiro  the  monk,  was  be- 
trothed in  her  infancy  to  Raymond,  count  of  Bar- 
celona. The  conditions  of  this  marriage,  that 
united  Catalonia  to  Arragon,  in  1137,  were,  that 
the  count  himself  should  never  bear  the  title  of 

135 


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"Bang,"  but  merely  that  of  "Prince"  of  Arragon, 
and  that  the  offspring  of  the  queen  should  succeed 
10  the  throne  and  kingship  ;  that  the  arms  of  Cata- 
lonia should  be  united  with  those  of  Ai'ragon,  but 
that  the  standard-bearer  should  always  be  an  Ar- 
ragonian  ;  and  that  the  Arragonians  should  invoke 
the  name  of  St.  George,  as  that  of  their  patron. 

Petronilla  gave  birth,  in  1150,  to  her  eldest  son, 
Raymond,  who  succeeded  to  the  throne  under  the 
name  of  Alfonso  ;  and  subsequently  to  Pedro,  who 
inherited  Sardinia,  Carcassone,  and  Narbonne. 
She  had  also  two  daughters,  Aldonza  or  Dulcis, 
who,  in  1181,  married  Sancho,  prince  of  Portugal, 
and  another,  whose  name  is  not  recorded,  though 
she  is  said  to  have  married  Ai-mengaul,  count  of 
Urgel. 

The  queen,  being  extremely  ill  previous  to  the 
birth  of  her  eldest  child,  made  a  will,  providing 
that  should  the  infant  prove  a  son,  he  should  suc- 
ceed to  the  crown,  but,  if  a  daughter,  the  throne 
should  be  inherited  by  her  husband.  This  will, 
excluding  a  female  from  inheriting  the  crown,  was 
ever  after  quoted  as  a  precedent  against  the  sove- 
reigns of  Arragon,  when  they  attempted  to  bequeath 
the  crown  to  a  daughter. 

Raymond  dying  in  August  of  1162,  Petronilla 
reigned  one  year,  during  the  minority  of  her  son, 
but  on  his  attaining  his  thirteenth  year,  in  1163, 
by  the  advice  of  the  nobles,  resigned  the  crown  to 
him.  The  queen  died  on  the  3d  of  October,  1173, 
in  Barcelona.  She  was  a  wise  and  good  ruler 
over  her  people. 

PHEBE, 

A  DEACONESS  of  the  port  of  Corinth  called 
Cenchrea.  St.  Paul  had  a  particular  esteem  for 
her,  and  Theodoret  thinks  he  lodged  at  her  house 
while  at  Coi'inth.  She  brought  to  Rome  the  epistle 
he  wrote  to  the  Romans,  wherein  she  is  so  highly 
commended. 

In  this  epistle,  the  apostle  names,  with  warm 
approval,  the  faith  and  works  of  a  number  of  wo- 
men who  appear  to  have  been  devoted  and  import- 
ant servants  of  the  church  at  Rome.  Friscilla, 
Mary,  Junia,  Tryphena  and  Tryphasa,  Persis,  Julia, 
the  sister  of  Nereus,  and  the  ^^  mother  of  Rufus," 
whom  the  apostle  calls  "■  rnine ;"  a  touching  tri- 
bute to  the  virtues  of  this  Christian  woman. 
There  was  no  man  among  the  Christian  converts 
ever  saluted  by  Paul  with  the  title  of  father ;  and 
that  he  found  a  woman  worthy  of  the. tender,  holy 
title  of  nwther,  shows  how  highly,  in  his  estima- 
tion, ranked  the  piety  of  the  gentle  sex.  The  im- 
portant trust  reposed  in  Phebe  proves,  also,  the 
efficient  help  he  derived  from  woman's  ministry  in 
the  cause  of  Christ.  See  Romans,  chap.  xvi.  A. 
D,  60. 

PIIILIPPA  OF  HAINAULT, 
Daughter  of  the  earl  of  Hainault,  married  Ed- 
ward III.,  king  of  England,  in  1327.  In  1346, 
when,  after  the  victorious  battle  of  Cressy,  Edward 
lay  before  Calais,  David  Bruce,  king  of  Scotland, 
invaded  the  north  of  England,  and  ravaged  the 
country  as  far  as  Durham.  He  was  there  met  by 
queen  Pliilippa,  at  the  head  of  twelve  thousand 


men,  commanded  by  Lord  Percy;  after  a  fierce 
engagement,  the  Scots  were  entirely  defeated,  and 
their  king  and  many  of  the  nobility  taken  pri- 
soners. As  soon  as  Philippa  had  secured  her 
royal  captive,  she  crossed  the  sea  at  Dover,  and 
was  received  in  the  English  camp,  before  Calais, 
with  all  the  eclat  due  to  her  rank  and  her  victory. 
Here  her  intercession  is  said  to  have  saved  the 
lives  of  the  six  citizens  of  Calais,  who  were  con- 
demned to  death  by  Edward. 

Philippa's  conduct  was  always  marked  by  wis- 
dom and  generosity,  and  she  was  on  all  occasions 
the  confidant  and  adviser  of  her  husband.  She 
died  before  Edward,  leaving  several  children,  the 
eldest  of  whom  was  the  celebrated  Black  Prince. 
Philippa  is  said  to  have  founded  Queen's  College, 
Oxford ;  but  her  agency  in  establishing  a  manu- 
facturing colony  of  Flemings  at  Norwich,  in  the 
year  1335,  was  of  far  greater  importance  to  the 
prosperity  of  the  nation.  "  Blessed  be  the  memory 
of  Edward  III.  and  Philippa  of  Hainault,  his 
queen,  who  first  invented  clothes,"  says  a  monastic 
chronicler.  He  meant  that  by  the  advice  of  the 
queen,  the  English  first  manufactured  cloth. 

Philippa  was  also  the  friend  and  patroness  of 
Chaucer  and  Froissart. 

PISE,  or  PISAN,  CHRISTINE  DE, 

Was  born  in  Venice,  in  1363 ;  and,  at  the  age 
of  five  years,  was  taken  by  her  father  to  France, 
where  he  emigrated  upon  the  invitation  of  Charles 
V.  Thomas  de  Pise  was  one  of  the  marked  men 
of  his  age  ;  possessing  all  the  learning  and  all  the 
science  that  could  then  be  attained,  his  ambitious 
genius  struggled  for  something  beyond,  and  took 
the  path  of  astrology.  Lamb  makes  the  quaint 
lament  that,  through  our  modern  men  of  science, 
the  stars  have  become  merely  astronomical.  It 
was  quite  otherwise  in  the  fourteenth  century; 
then  the  stars  were  really  "  the  poetry  of  heaven," 
and  the  scientific  men,  poets,  through  whose  ima- 
ginations the  highest  destinies  passed,  dignified 
with  an  august  feeling  of  preternatural  skill,  that, 
however  false,  must  have  elevated  their  tone  of 
self-appreciation  to  something  beyond  the  vanities 
of  our  times.     Charles  V.  honoured  Thomas  de 

136 


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Pise,  and  made  him  his  astrologer.  Thomas  gave 
his  daughter  a  learned  education.  The  child 
having  an  hereditary  brightness  of  mind,  applied 
herself  with  diligence,  and  became  remarkable, 
ere  she  reached  womanhood,  for  her  many  acquire- 
ments. She  was  well  acquainted  with  history, 
and  equal  to  any  of  the  scholars  of  the  day  in  the 
Greek  and  Latin  languages.  She  married,  early 
in  life,  Stephen  Castel,  a  gentleman  of  Picardy. 
Shortly  after  this,  her  father  died ;  and,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-five,  having  also  lost  her  husband, 
she  was  left  destitute  of  all  human  support,  having 
no  relations  in  France.  To  add  to  her  distress, 
the  inheritance  of  her  husband  was  litigated  by 
some  members  of  his  family,  and  she  had  great 
difiBculty  to  obtain  a  portion  of  it.  Being  a 
foreigner,  she  was  obliged  to  rely  entirely  on  her 
own  energies ;  and  she  applied  herself  to  a 
resource  never  before  sought  by  a  female.  Chris- 
tine de  Pise  was  the  first  woman  who  used  her 
literary  abilities  to  support  her  household,  and 
made  her  pen  procure  bread  for  her  children. 
Louis,  duke  of  Orleans,  brother  of  Charles  VI., 
was  a  prince  of  elegant  tastes,  and  a  patron  of 
letters ;  he  discerned  the  merit  of  Christine,  and 
invited  her  frequently  to  his  court,  where  she  met 
with  honourable  attention.  This  unfortunate 
young  man  was,  as  is  well  known,  assassinated  by 
emissaries  of  the  duke  of  Bm-gundy.  After  his 
death,  and  the  confusion  of  parties  that  ensued, 
the  insanity  of  the  king,  the  invasion  of  France 
by  the  English,  all  these  national  misfortunes 
darkened  the  state  of  literature,  and  obstructed 
farther  progress  in  social  improvement. 

Christine  lived  to  an  advanced  age  in  the  privacy 
of  domestic  life.  She  died  in  1441.  Some  of  her 
poems,  which  are  full  of  tenderness,  were  printed 
in  Paris,  in  1529 ;  others  remain  in  manuscript, 
in  the  royal  library.  "  The  Life  of  Charles  V.," 
written  by  desire  of  Philip  the  Good,  duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, is  considered  her  best  prose  performance. 
One  of  her  first  books  was  called,  "A  Hundred 
Stories  of  Troyes."  She  also  wrote  several  long 
poems.  She  had  three  children,  one  of  whom 
retired  to  a  convent,  where  Christine  passed  the 
latter  part  of  her  life. 

Henry  IV.  invited  her  to  the  English  court ; 
and  she  was  every  where  received  with  that 
homage  and  veneration  which  her  virtues  and 
talents  deserved.  True  feminine  purity  and  re- 
finement prevail  throughout  her  writings.  All  her 
works  are  written  in  French. 

PLACIDIA, 
A  DAUGHTER  of  Thcodosius  the  Great,  sister  to 
Honorius  and  Arcadius,  was  born  about  the  year 
388,  and  was  brought  up  in  the  palace  of  Con- 
stantinople. At  the  third  siege  and  sack  of  Rome 
by  Alaric,  in  410,  Placidia  was  one  of  the  captives 
carried  away  by  him ;  she  was  treated  with  the 
respect  due  her  rank ;  and  Ataulphus,  Alaric's 
successor,  married  her  in  414.  She  bore  him  a 
son  who  soon  died.  In  415,  Ataulphus  was  mur- 
dered by  Singeric,  who  usurped  the  Gothic  throne, 
and  treated  the  royal  widow  with  great  ignominy, 


obliging  her  to  walk  twelve  miles  before  his  cha- 
riot. Singeric  was  soon  after  assassinated,  and 
Placidia  was  ransomed  by  the  Romans  for  000,000 
measures  of  wheat,  and  returned  to  Italy. 

In  417,  Honorius  compelled  Placidia  to  marry 
his  general,  Constantius,  as  a  reward  for  his  ser- 
vices. She  became  the  mother  of  Valentinian  III. 
and  Ilonoria.  By  Placidia's  instigation,  Constan- 
tius urged  Honorius  to  admit  him  to  a  partnership 
in  the  empire,  by  which  elevation  she  obtained  the 
title  of  Augusta ;  their  titles,  however,  were  not 
acknowledged  at  the  court  of  Constantinople. 
Placidia  again  became  a  widow  in  421.  AVhen  her 
son,  Valentinian  III.,  was  declared  emperor,  in 
425,  Placidia  assumed  the  reins  of  government, 
during  his  minority.  Her  administration  was 
neither  wise  nor  vigorous.  She  died  at  Rome,  in 
the  year  450. 

POLLA  ARGENTARIA, 

Wife  of  Lucan,  the  Latin  poet,  who  wrote  a 
poem  on  her  merits.  This  poem  is  now  lost,  but 
her  name  is  immortalized  by  two  other  poets  of 
that  age.  Martial  and  Statius.  Lucan  was  con- 
demned to  death  by  Nero ;  but  the  tyrant  allowed 
him  to  choose  the  way  in  which  he  would  die. 
He  chose  the  warm  bath  and  an  open  artery ;  but 
entreated  his  wife  to  live,  and  transcribe  his  great 
poem,  the  "Pharsalia;"  which  she  promised  him 
to  do.  It  is  said  that,  after  his  mournful  death, 
she  shut  herself  up  in  a  solitary  retreat,  with  the 
bust  of  Lucan  beside  her,  and  there  carefully  re- 
vised the  three  first  books  of  the  "  Pharsalia." 


POMPEIA  PLOTINA, 
A  Roman  lady,  who  married  Trnjan  while  he 
was  a  private  individual.  She  entered  Rome  in 
procession  with  her  husband  when  he  was  saluted 
emperor,  in  the  year  99,  and  distinguished  her- 
self by  her  affability,  humanity,  and  kindness  to 
the  poor  and  friendless.  It  is  recorded  that  on 
approaching  the  threshold  of  the  palace  raised  by 
Nero,  she  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  the  vast  and 
splendid  monument  of  so  many  crimes,  and  pol- 

137 


PO 


RA 


luted  by  so  many  vices ;  then  tui'mng  to  the 
people,  and  raising  her  hands  and  eyes  heaven- 
ward, she  exclaimed,  "May  the  gods  send  me 
forth  from  this  august  palace,  whenever  I  may  be 
destined  to  leave  it,  even  as  I  now  enter  it ;  and 
may  the  high  destiny  to  which  fortune  now  raises 
me  leave  me  in  possession  of  the  same  qualities 
with  which  I  this  day  assume  it." 

The  people  applauded  her  speech  and  seem 
always  to  have  loved  and  revered  her.  And  she 
proved  herself  worthy  of  this  warm  esteem.  She 
was  remarkable  for  the  dignity  of  her  deportment, 
and  for  the  influence  which  her  chaste  example 
had  on  the  morals  of  Roman  society.  Plotina 
loved  tranquillity,  and  sought  to  incline  her  hus- 
band's heart  to  the  arts  of  peace;  but  Trajan  was 
a  soldier,  and  his  passion  for  military  glory  super- 
seded to  the  last  his  wisdom  and  his  discretion. 
As  Plotina  could  not  dissuade  him  from  his  last 
expedition  into  Africa  and  Asia,  she  accompanied 
him ;  was  by  his  side  when  he  pasjcd  the  Tigris 
over  a  bridge  of  boats ;  and  when  he  died  she 
was  beside  him  and  received  his  last  breath. 
Then,  after  she  had,  by  her  energy  and  influence, 
made  her  favourite  Adrian  emperor,  she  brought 
back  the  ashes  of  her  husband  to  Rome ;  and  still 
enjoyed  all  the  honours  and  titles  of  a  Roman 
empress  under  Adrian,  who,  by  her  means,  had 
succeeded  to  the  vacant  throne.  At  her  death, 
which  occurred  in  the  year  122,  she  was  ranked 
among  the  goddesses,  and  received  divine  honours. 

PONTHIEU, 

Adelaide,  a  French  lady  whose  adventures 
during  the  crusades  under  St.  Louis,  king  of 
France  in  the  13th  century,  have  furnished  a 
subject  for  a  romance,  a  tragedy,  and  an  opera. 

PRISCA, 

A  Roman  lady,  a  convert  to  Christianity,  was 
horribly  tortured,  and  afterwards  beheaded,  for 
refusing  to  abjure  her  religion  and  to  sacrifice  to 
idols,  under  the  emperor  Claudius,  about  the 
year  275. 

PROBA, 

Valeria  Falconia,  was  the  wife  of  Adolphus, 
the  Roman  proconsul,  in  the  reigns  of  Ilonorius 
and  Theodosius  the  Younger.  She  composed  a 
Virgilian  cento  upon  the  books  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments,  which  was  printed  at  Frankfort, 
in  1541.  She  also  wrote  an  epitaph  on  her  hus- 
band. 

PULCHERIA, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  Theodosius  the  Groat,  emperor 
of  Rome,  in  379.  She  was  eminent  for  her  piety, 
moderation,  and  virtue. 

PULCHERIA   ^LIA, 

Born  in  399,  was  the  daughter  of  Arcadius, 
emperor  of  the  East.  She  reigned  conjointly  with 
her  brother,  Theodosius,  a  mild  and  feeble  prince. 
The  vigorous  wisdom  of  Pulcheria,  though  only 
two  years  the  elder,  compensated  for  his  defects, 
and  she  maintained,  by  meekness  and  discretion. 


that  ascendency  over  him  which  a  superior  capa- 
city always  gives.  Adorned  with  all  the  graces 
of  beauty,  at  fifteen  she  took  a  vow  of  virginity, 
and  persuaded  her  two  younger  sisters  to  do  the 
same.  She  consecrated  herself  to  the  service  of 
God  and  the  state,  and  divided  her  time  between 
prayer,  charity,  and  the  affairs  of  the  empire. 
At  sixteen,  she  took  the  name  of  Augusta,  and  as 
she  had  always  the  prudence  to  preserve  her  bro- 
ther's honour,  she  governed  in  his  name  with  great 
success.  She  gave  him  the  credit  of  completing 
the  destruction  of  idolatrous  temples  and  worship, 
which  was  due  to  the  sjjirit,  firmness,  and  vrise 
lenity  of  her  measures.  Pulcheria's  great  natural 
sagacity  enabled  her  to  discover  at  once  how  she 
ought  to  act,  and  she  executed  her  purposes  with 
promptitude  and  vigour. 

The  empire  was  agitated  by  factions,  when  first 
she  stood  at  its  helm ;  but  it  soon  enjoyed  a  per- 
fect peace  under  her  wise  administration ;  she 
taught  her  brother  to  respect  the  rights  of  pro- 
perty, saying,  that  "  The  more  princes  abstained 
from  touching  the  wealth  of  their  people,  the 
greater  would  be  theii"  resources  in  the  wants  of 
the  state." 

When  Theodosius,  weak  and  irresolute,  neglected 
her  advice,  and  sufi"ered  himself  to  be  guided  by 
his  eunuchs,  the  empire  soon  felt  and  mourned 
the  change.  On  his  death,  in  450,  as  he  left  but 
one  child,  a  daughter,  married  to  Valentinian  III., 
Pulcheria  became  sole  mistress  of  the  empire. 
For  political  reasons  she  married  Marcian,  an  old 
officer  in  the  army,  whom  she  made  emperor. 
She  lived  four  years  after,  till  454,  maintaining 
the  same  exemplary  character.  Her  loss  was 
deeply  regretted.  She  alone  had  sustained  the 
imperial  dignity,  under  the  reign  of  her  imbecile 
brother;  and  after  his  death,  had  placed  the 
crown  on  a  head  worthy  to  wear  it.  During  her 
life  she  was  a  mother  to  the  poor,  and  she  left 
them  her  possessions  at  her  death. 


K. 

RADEGONDE,    ST., 

Daughter  of  Bertarius,  king  of  Thuringia,  was 
taken  prisoner  in  529,  when  only  eight  years  old, 
by  Clotaire,  king  of  Normandy.  Her  childish 
grace  and  beauty  made  such  an  impression  on 
Clotaire  that  he  resolved  to  educate  her  for  his 
wife.  She  was  carefully  taught,  and,  at  the  age 
of  ten,  she  renounced  paganism  for  Christianity, 
in  consequence  of  the  instructions  of  those  by 
whom  she  was  surrounded,  and  from  that  early 
age  conceived  an  ardent  desire  to  devote  herself 
wholly  to  religion.  She  was  so  much  opposed  to 
the  idea  of  becoming  one  of  the  wives  of  Clotaire, 
that  when  the  time  approached  for  that  event,  she 
fled,  but  was  brought  back  to  Soissons,  and  married 
in  spite  of  her  reluctance.  Radegonde,  to  avoid 
as  much  as  possible  her  new  duties,  became  lite- 
rally the  servant  of  the  poor  and  the  sick.  Having 
received  as  a  marriage  present,  the  royal  domain 
of  Atres,  she  converted  it  into  a  hospital  for  indi- 

138 


RO 


RO 


gent  women,  for  whom  she  performed  the  most 
menial  and  repulsive  services.  She  also  passed  a 
great  part  of  her  time  in  reading,  or  conversing 
with  learned  and  pious  men. 

Radegonde  spent  six  years  in  this  way,  during 
all  which  time,  Clotaire  obstinately  refused  to  let 
her  go  into  a  convent.  A  brother  of  the  young 
queen's  had  been  taken  prisoner  at  the  same  time, 
and  as  he  grew  up  he  showed  so  much  of  the  pride 
and  temper  of  his  race,  that  Clotaire  had  him  put 
to  death.  This  was  too  much  for  Radegonde  to 
endure,  and  Clotaire,  not  wishing  to  be  annoyed 
by  her  grief,  allowed  her  to  go  to  M^dard,  bishop 
of  Noyon,  whose  reputation  for  sanctity  had  ex- 
tended throughout  all  France,  for  consolation. 
When  she  arrived  at  Noyon,  she  found  M^dard  in 
his  cathedral,  and  she  immediately  exclaimed, 
"Priest  of  God!  I  wish  to  leave  the  world,  and 
consecrate  myself  to  the  Lord."  At  these  words 
the  guard  who  accompanied  her  crowded  around 
her,  and  protested  against  such  an  act.  While 
Medard  hesitated  as  to  what  course  he  should 
take,  Radegonde  fled  to  the  sacristy,  threw  the 
dress  of  a  nun  over  her  royal  apparel,  and  return- 
ing, said  to  Medard,  "  If  you  refuse  to  receive 
me,  if  you  fear  man  more  than  God,  you  will  have 
to  answer  for  it  before  the  Shepherd  of  the  flock." 

These  words  put  an  end  to  the  uncertainty  of 
the  bishop.  He  annulled,  on  his  own  authority, 
the  forced  marriage  of  the  queen,  consecrated  her 
to  God,  and  sent  away  the  soldiers,  who  had  not 
dared  to  offer  any  farther  opposition.  Radegonde 
went  to  Tours  for  greater  safety,  and  when  Clo- 
taire, still  ardently  attaphed  to  her,  sent  to  reclaim 
her,  she  fled  to  Poitiers.  Here  the  energetic  re- 
monstrances of  Germain,  bishop  of  Paris,  obliged 
him  to  leave  her,  and  he  allowed  her  to  found  a 
convent  there,  which  she  did  about  550,  where 
she  passed  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  was  at  first 
the  abbess  of  this  convent,  but  after  it  was  firmly 
established,  she  gave  iip  her  authority  to  a  lady 
younger  than  herself,  whom  she  called  Agnes,  and 
lived  for  the  remainder  of  her  life  as  a  simple 
nun.  Her  convent  held  a  high  reputation  in  that 
age  for  the  devotion  of  its  members  to  religion, 
and  also  for  their  cultivation  of  literature  and  the 
arts.  Radegonde  died  at  Poitiers,  August  13th, 
590.     She  was  afterwards  canonized. 

ROCHIER, 

Agnes  du,  was  a  very  beautiful  girl,  the  only 
daughter  of  a  rich  tradesman  of  Paris.  Her  fa- 
ther left  her  a  handsome  fortune,  but  at  the  age 
of  eighteen  she  turned  recluse,  in  the  parish  of 
St.  Opertune,  in  1403.  Recluses  built  themselves 
a  little  chamber  adjoining  the  walls  of  some 
church.  The  door  of  the  cell  was  sealed  with 
great  pomp  by  the  bishop,  and  never  again  opened. 
A  little  window  was  left,  from  whence  the  recluse 
heard  the  oflices  of  the  church,  and  received  the 
necessaries  of  life.  Agnes  du  Rochier  lived  to 
the  age  of  ninety-eight. 

ROD  HI  A, 

A  Moorish  Spaniard  of  Cordova,  the  frcedwo- 
man  of  king  Abdelrahman,  who  wrote  many  vol- 


umes on  rhetoric.     She  is  said  to  have  lived  one 
hundred  and  seven  years,  and  died  in  1044. 

ROSAMOND 

Was  the  wife  of  Alboin  of  Albovinus,  king  of 
Lombardy,  in  the  sixth  century.  Alboin  slew  her 
father,  Gunimond,  king  of  a  neighbouring  horde, 
in  battle,  and  married  his  daughter  by  force. 
And,  in  order  to  retain  a  monument  of  his  victory, 
he  converted  the  skull  of  Gunimond  into  a  drink- 
ing-cup,  which  he  sent  full  of  wine  to  Rosamond. 
In  revenge,  she  had  him  assassinated. 

ROSAMOND, 
Daughter  of  Walter  de  Clifford,  lord  Hereford, 
was  the  favourite  mistress  of  Henry  II.,  of  Eng- 
land. To  conceal  this  amour  fi-om  his  jealous 
queen,  Eleanor,  Henry  is  said  to  have  removed 
Rosamond  to  a  labyi'inth  in  Woodstock  park, 
where,  however,  his  wife  discovered  her  and 
obliged  her  to  take  poison.  Some  authors  declare 
that  the  fair  Rosamond  died  at  Godstow  nunnery, 
near  Oxford.  She  had  two  sons  by  Henry,  Wil- 
liam, surnanied  Longsword,  and  Jeffrey,  arch- 
bishop of  York. 

ROSARES, 

Isabella  de,  preached  in  the  great  church  of 
Barcelona,  in  Spain.  In  the  reign  of  Paul  III., 
pope  of  Rome,  she  went  to  that  city,  and  by  her 
eloquence,  she  converted  many  of  the  Jews  to 
Christianity. 

ROSSI, 

Blanche  de,  the  wife  of  Battista  de  la  Porta 
of  Padua,  was  a  noble,  brave,  and  faithful  woman, 
In  1237,  dm'ing  the  war  between  the  Ghibellines 
and  Guelfs,  she  went  with  her  husband,  who  was 
sent  as  commander  of  the  forces  to  Bassano,  to 
defend  the  city  against  the  tyrant  Ezzelino. 

Blanche  fought  by  the  side  of  her  husband  in 
various  skirmishes  and  upon  the  w.alls  of  the  city, 
and  often  took  the  place  of  his  aid-de-camp,  when 
the  man  was  exhausted  by  his  duty.  When  the 
city  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  by  treachery, 
Battista  was  killed  at  the  head  of  his  soldiers, 
fighting  to  the  last.  Blanche,  tied  with  cords, 
was  dragged  before  the  conqiieror.  The  tyrant, 
inflamed  by  her  beauty,  ofl^ered  her  liberty  and 
wealth  if  she  would  consent  to  make  his  house  her 
home.  She  refused  indignantly,  and  threw  her- 
self out  of  the  window — but,  contrary  to  her  ex- 
pectation, she  escaped  unharmed,  and  was  again 
brought  before  her  enemy.  She  now  had  recourse 
to  stratagem.  She  pretended  to  accept  the  ty- 
rant's proposals,  and  made  only  one  condition,  that 
of  seeing  once  more  the  body  of  her  husband. 
The  tyrant  consented,  and  ordered  his  guards  to 
accompany  her  to  the  grave.  When  they  had  ar- 
rived at  it,  and  after  the  heavy  stone  had  been 
removed,  she  jumped  into  the  grave  and  caused 
the  stone  to  fall  upon  and  crush  her.  Thus  died 
the  noble  wife  of  Battista. 

ROSSI, 
Properzia  de.     It  is  uncertain  when  this  illus- 
trious artist  was  born,   but  various  reasons  in- 

139 


RU 


SA 


duce  us  to  fix  the  date  towards  1495.  The  cities 
of  Bologna  and  Modena  still  dispute  the  honour 
of  having  produced  her ;  and  such  is  the  cloud 
that  rests  upon  her  early  days,  that  it  has  never 
been  ascertained  who  were  her  parents — and  some 
have  even  been  uncertain  whether  she  was  a  mar- 
ried or  single  woman — whether  the  name  of  Rossi 
descended  to  her  from  a  father,  or  was  given  by  a 
husband.  The  latter  doubt  is  entirely  set  to  rest 
by  Georgio  Vasari,  who,  in  his  biography  of  cele- 
brated artists,  calls  Properzia  "  a  virtuous  maiden, 
possessing  every  merit  of  her  sex,  together  with 
science  and  learning  all  men  may  envy." 

She  began  her  progress  in  the  arts  by  learning 
to  di-aw  of  Raimondi — but  as  the  predilection  of 
the  age  was  for  sculpture,  she  soon  turned  all  her 
attention  to  tJiat  art.  Many  of  her  works  are  still 
extant  and  admired.  In  possession  of  the  Grassi 
family,  at  Bologna,  is  a  sculptured  representation 
of  our  Saviour's  passion,  where  eleven  figures  are 
introduced  as  spectators,  each  with  a  character- 
istic expression,  and  the  whole  carved  on  a  peach- 
stone.  She  also  assisted  in  the  sculptures  that 
adorn  the  three  gates  of  the  fa5ade  of  St.  Petro- 
neus.  There  is  also  a  very  fine  figure,  in  marble, 
of  count  Guido  di  Pepoli,  unquestionably  her  pro- 
duction. She  died  February  24th,  1530,  and 
George  Vasari  thus  writes :  "  The  lovely  maiden 
was  this  day  made  perfect."  All  the  Bolognese 
mourned  her  death,  for  she  was  considered  a  mi- 
racle of  nature.  The  following  epitaph  was  writ- 
ten by  Vincenzo  of  Bonaccorso  Pitti : 

Fero  splendor  di  due  begli  occhi  accrehbe 
Gia  iriiirmi  a  marmi ;  e  stupor  nuovo  e  strano 
Uiividi  marmi  delicla  mano 
Fea  diaiizi  vivi,  ahi !  morte  invidia  n'  cbbe. 


RUFINA, 

Claudia,  a  noble  British  lady,  who  lived  about 
the  year  100,  wife  of  Aulus  Rufus  Pudens,  a  Bo- 
nonian  philosopher,  and  one  of  the  Roman  eques- 
trian order.  She  is  said  to  have  been  an  intimate 
associate  of  the  poet  Martial,  who,  in  many  places, 
highly  extols  her  for  beauty,  learning,  and  virtue. 
Of  her  poetic  writings,  Balaeus  mentions  a  book 


of  Epigrams,  an  "Elegy  on  her  Husband's  Death," 
and  other  poems ;  besides  which  she  wrote  many 
things  in  prose. 


SABINA, 
JoLiA,  grand-niece  and  heiress  of  Trajan,  and 
wife  of  Adrian,  emperor  of  Rome,  is  celebrated 
for  her  private  as  well  as  her  public  virtues. 
Adrian  had  mari-ied  Sabina  chiefly  through  the 
favour  of  the  empress  Plotina ;  he  never  loved 
her,  and  treated  her  with  the  greatest  asperity ; 
and  the  empress  was  so  irritated  by  his  unkind- 
ness,  that  she  boasted  in  his  presence  that  she  had 
disdained  to  make  him  a  father,  lest  his  cliildren 
should  be  more  odious  and  tyrannical  than  he  him- 
self was.  The  behaviour  of  Sabina  at  last  so  ex- 
asperated Adrian,  that  he  poisoned  her,  or,  accord- 
ing to  some,  obliged  her  to  destroy  herself.  Divine 
honours  were  paid  to  her  memory.  She  died 
about  138,  after  she  had  been  married  to  Adrian 
thirty-eight  years.  It  is  difficult  to  assign  any 
motive  less  unworthy  than  the  base  passion  of 
envy  for  the  cruel  treatment  Sabina  endured  from 
her  husband.  Adrian  did  not  feel  flattered  by  the 
means  which  had  placed  him  on  the  greatest  throne 
in  the  woi-ld.  He  owed  it  to  Plotina — a  woman ; 
and  though  he  was  never  ungrateful  to  her,  yet 
Sabina,  the  niece  of  Trajan,  was  really,  in  birth, 
above  him  ;  and  he  never  forgave  her  for  this  su- 
periority. To  implicate  her  in  some  plot  or  crime, 
seemed  his  first  desire.  He  set  spies  about  her  to 
watch  her  conduct,  and  even  had  the  meanness  to 
intercept  and  read  all  her  letters.  After  the 
death  of  her  aunt  Plotina,  he  overwhelmed  Sabina 
with  his  contempt  and  calumny.  One  of  the  his- 
torians of  his  reign  says  that  he  engaged  "les 
personnes  de  sa  cour  a  lui  faire  eprouver  les  plus 
sanglantes  mortifications,  et  la  maltraita  tellement 
qu'elle  finit  par  se  donner  la  mort."     And  this 


wretch  was  one  of  the  best  emperors  who  governed 
Rome !  That  the  soul  of  the  woman  had  not  thus 
lost  its  love  of  the  good  and  the  true,  is  proven  in 

140 


SA 


SA 


this  sad  history  of  Sabina ; — with  all  his  scrutiny, 
the  vindictive  Adrian  could  never  find  cause  of 
accusation  against  her.  She  was  murdered,  not 
executed. 

SABINA, 

Popp^A,  was  a  daughter  of  Titus  Ollius.  She 
married  a  Roman  knight,  Rufus  Crispinus,  by 
whom  she  had  a  son.  Her  beauty  captivated 
Otho,  one  of  Nero's  favourites,  and  afterwards  the 
eighth  emperor  of  Rome.  He  took  her  from  her 
husband,  and  married  her ;  but  Nero,  who  had 
seen  her,  and  heard  her  accomplishments  extolled, 
soon  took  possession  of  her,  and  sent  Otho  to  pre- 
side over  one  of  the  Roman  provinces.  Nero  then 
repudiated  his  wife,  Octavia,  on  pretence  of  bar- 
renness, and  married  Popptea,  who  had  Octavia 
banished  and  put  to  death.  Nero  soon  began  to 
treat  Poppsea  with  barbarity,  and  she  died  of  a 
kick  she  received  from  him  during  her  pregnancy, 
about  the  year  65.  Her  funeral  was  performed 
with  great  pomp,  and  statues  were  raised  to  her 
memory.  She  left  one  son  by  Nero.  She  was  so 
anxious  to  preserve  her  beauty,  that  five  hundred 
asses  were  kept  to  afford  her  milk,  in  which  she 
bathed  daily  ;  and  from  their  milk  she  invented  a 
kind  of  pomatum,  called  Poppseanum. 

ST.    CECILIA, 

The  patroness  of  music,  is  said  to  have  been  a 
Roman  lady,  born  of  noble  parents,  about  the 
year  235.  Her  story,  as  related  by  the  Roman 
Catholics,  is,  that  her  parents  married  her  to  a 
young  pagan  nobleman,  Valerianus.  Cecilia  told 
him,  on  her  wedding-night,  that  she  was  visited 
nightly  by  an  angel.  Valerianus  desired  to  see 
the  angel ;  and  his  bride  told  him  that  it  would  be 
impossible,  unless  he  would  become  a  Christian. 
This  he  consented  to,  and  was  baptized  by  pope 
Urban  I. ;  after  which,  returning  to  his  wife,  he 
found  her  at  prayer,  and  by  her  side  a  beautiful 
young  man,  clothed  with  brightness.  Valerianus 
conversed  with  the  angel,  who  foretold  his  mar- 
tyrdom, and  that  of  his  brother,  Tiburtius.  In 
a  few  years,  Valerianus  and  Tiburtius  were  be- 
headed. Cecilia  was  offered  her  life,  if  she  would 
sacrifice  to  the  idols ;  but  she  refused,  and  was 
thrown  into  a  caldron  of  boiling  water.  St.  Ce- 
cilia is  said  to  have  excelled  so  greatly  in  music, 
as  to  have  drawn  the  angel  from  the  celestial  re- 
gions by  her  melody. 

SAINTE  DES  PREZ, 
A  PUPIL  of  Agnes  de  Bragelongne  de  Planey, 
lived  in  the  thirteenth  century.  She  was  a  French 
poetess.  At  the  age  of  twelve,  she  fell  in  love 
with  Seymour,  an  English  gentleman,  who  was 
then  thirty,  and  who  did  not  reciprocate  her  affec- 
tion till  ten  years  after,  when  he  married  her ; 
but  she  died  soon.  Guillebert  d'Erneville,  a  cele- 
brated troubadour,  was  one  of  her  suitors. 

SALOME, 
Only  daughter  of  Antipater,  a  man  of  eminence 
in  Idumea,  and  of  Cypron,  an  Arabian  lady  of  il- 
lustrious descent,  was  sister  to  Herod,  afterwards 


Herod  the  Great  of  Judea.  She  was  an  ambitious 
and  intriguing  woman,  and  conceived  a  strong  dis- 
like to  Mariamne,  Herod's  wife,  because  Mariamne 
reproached  her  with  the  meanness  of  her  family, 
in  comparison  with  the  royal  race  of  the  Asmo- 
neans,  from  whom  she  herself  was  descended. 
She  thei'efore  accused  Mariamne  to  Herod  of  too 
great  intimacy  with  Joseph,  who  was  both  the 
uncle  and  husband  of  Salome,  but  whom  she  was 
willing  to  sacrifice,  to  revenge  herself  on  her  inno- 
cent sister-in-law.  Herod,  enraged,  had  Joseph 
immediately  put  to  death  ;  but  his  great  love  for 
jNIariamne  induced  him  to  spare  her.  Some  time 
after,  Salome  again  accused  Mariamne  of  infi- 
delity, and  an  attempt  to  poison  Herod,  which  so 
exasperated  him,  that  he  ordered  his  wife  to  be 
executed.  When  the  two  sons  of  Mariamne,  Aris- 
tobulus  and  Alexander,  were  grown  up,  Salome, 
envious  of  their  popularity,  and  fearing  lest  they 
should  revenge  their  mother's  death,  resolved  on 
their  destruction,  notwithstanding  that  Aristo- 
bulus  had  married  her  daughter,  Berenice.  She 
succeeded  so  well  in  embittering  Herod  against 
them,  that  he  accused  them  before  Caisar  of  con- 
spiring against  him.  But  they  were  acquitted. 
She  made  two  or  three  other  attempts  to  effect 
the  same  object ;  but  failing  in  them,  and  losing 
the  confidence  of  Herod,  she  resolved  to  marry 
Syllseus,  prime  minister  to  Obodas,  king  of  Arabia. 
But  when  Syllseus  found  that  he  would  have  to 
conform  to  the  Jewish  faith,  he  declined  the  pro- 
posal. Salome  still  continued  in  love  with  Syl- 
Iffius  ;  but  Herod  compelled  her  to  marry  Alexas, 
a  friend  of  his.  She  afterwards  used  her  influ- 
ence against  Antipater,  Herod's  eldest  son  and 
heir,  who  had  procured  the  death  of  his  half-bro- 
thers, Aristobulus  and  Alexander ;  and  Antipater 
was  executed.  After  Herod's  death,  Salome,  by 
her  intrigues,  caused  dissensions  between  his  two 
remaining  sons,  Archelaus  and  Antipas ;  but  these 
were  settled  by  Cfcsar,  who  gave  to  Salome  the 
royal  palace  at  Askelon,  besides  the  cities  of 
Jamnia,  Azotus,  and  Phasaelis,  and  a  large  sum 
of  money,  which  was  left  her  by  her  brother. 
She  seems  to  have  passed  the  rest  of  her  life  in 
tranquillity. 

SALOME, 

The  daughter  of  Herodias  and  Herod  Philip. 
She  so  delighted  her  uncle  and  mother's  husband, 
Herod  Antipas,  by  her  dancing,  that  he  promised 
her  whatever  she  asked.  At  her  mother's  instiga- 
tion, she  requested  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist. 
Salome  married  her  uncle,  Herod  the  Great;  and 
afterwards  Aristobulus,  son  of  Herod,  king  of 
Chalcis,  by  whom  she  had  several  children. 

SALOME, 

Wife  of  Zebedee,  and  mother  of  James  the 
Greater,  and  John  the  Evangelist.  She  was  one 
of  those  holy  women  who  attended  and  adminis- 
tered to  our  Saviour  in  his  journeys.  She  re- 
quested of  Jesus  that  her  two  sons  might  sit  one 
on  his  right,  and  the  other  on  his  left  hand. 
Mark  xv.  40.  She  followed  Christ  to  Calvary, 
and  did  not  forsake  him  at  the  cross.    She  was  one 

Ml 


SA 


SE 


of  those  ■women  who  came  early  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing with  perfumes  to  embalm  the  body  of  Christ. 

SAPPHIRA, 

The  wife  of  Ananias,  who,  with  her  husband, 
made  pretence  of  becoming  converts  to  the  reli- 
gion of  Jesus,  soon  after  the  apostles  commenced 
their  mission.  We  only  hear  of  this  couple,  be- 
cause of  one  wicked  act.  The  disciples  of  the 
new  faith  then  shared  their  property  in  common. 
Ananias  sold  his  possessions,  pretending  to  bring 
all  the  money  to  the  apostles,  while  "he  kept 
back  part  of  the  price,  his  wife  also  being  privy." 

For  this  lie,  Ananias  and  Sapphira  were  struck 
down  dead.  The  record  is  remarkable  in  another 
respect ;  it  is  the  only  example  given  in  the  New 
Testament  of  an  evil  deed,  or  act  of  apostasy, 
done  by  any  woman  who  professed  to  follow  the 
Saviour.     See  Acts,  chap.  v. 

SAPPHIRA, 

The  wife  of  a  rich  merchant  in  Gueldres,  equally 
distinguished  for  her  beauty  and  virtue.  Rhins- 
auld,  a  German  officer,  and  governor  of  the  town 
of  Gueldres,  became  enamoured  of  her,  and  finding 
promises  and  presents  ineflFectual,  imprisoned  her 
husband,  pretending  that  he  kept  up  a  traitorous 
correspondence  with  the  enemies  of  the  state. 
Sapphira  yielded  to  the  passion  of  the  governor, 
to  obtain  the  promised  release  of  her  husband ; 
but  Rhiusauld  had  given  private  orders  for  his 
execution.  Sapphira  complained  to  Charles,  duke 
of  Burgundy,  who  ordered  Rhinsauld  to  marry 
her,  and  make  over  to  her  all  his  possessions.  As 
soon  as  this  was  done,  Charles  ordered  him  to  be 
put  to  death.  Thus  the  children  of  a  wife  whom 
he  had  seduced,  and  a  husband  whom  he  had 
'murdered,  inherited  his  wealth.  This  happened 
in  the  fifteenth  century. 

SCALA, 

Alexandea,  was  daughter  of  Bartholemi  Scala, 
an  Italian,  eminent  as  a  statesman  and  man  of 
letters  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  a  very 
accomplished  woman.  She  became  the  wife  of 
the  celebrated  Marullus,  whose  avowed  reason  for 
marrying  her  was  to  become  perfect  in  the  Latin 
tongue.  Nevertheless,  she  was  not  only  a  learned, 
but  an  excellent  and  a  beautiful  woman.  She  was 
often  praised  by  Politian  in  Greek.  She  died  in 
1506.    Marullus  wrote  several  poems  in  her  praise. 

SELVAGGIA,    RICCIARDA, 

Was  of  a  noble  family  of  Pistoia,  and  beloved 
by  Cino,  a  famous  scholar  and  poet  of  the  four- 
teenth century.  The  parents  of  Ricciarda  were 
haughty,  and  though  she  returned  the  love  of  the 
young  poet,  it  was  unknown  to  her  family.  At 
length  her  father,  who  belonged  to  the  faction  of 
the  Bianchi,  was  banished,  with  his  fixmily,  from 
Pistoia,  by  the  faction  of  the  Neri.  They  took 
refuge  in  a  little  fortress  among  the  Apennines, 
where  they  suffered  severe  privations.  Cino  hast- 
ened to  comfort  them,  and  the  parents  now  re- 
ceived him  gladly ;  but  Ricciarda  drooped  under 
the  pressure  of  anxiety  and  want,  and  died  in  a 


few  months.  Iler  parents  and  her  lover  buried 
her  in  a  nook  among  the  mountains ;  and  many 
years  afterwards,  when  Cino  had  been  crowned 
with  wreaths  and  honours,  he  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  her  tomb.  Ricciarda,  or  Selvaggia,  as  she  is 
usually  called,  possessed  poetical  talents  which 
were  then  considered  of  a  high  order.  Some  of  her 
"  Madrigals"  are  now  extant;  but  her  chief  fame 
rests  on  being  the  beloved  of  Cino.  In  the  history 
of  Italian  poetry,  Selvaggia  is  distinguished  as  the 
"  bel  numero  una,"  the  fair  number  one  of  the 
four  celebrated  women  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  others  were  Dante's  Beatrice,  Petrarch's 
Laui-a,  and  Boccaccio's  Fiammetta. 

SENENA,    or   SINA, 

Wife  of  GryfFydh,  son  of  Llewellyn,  prince  of 
North  Wales.  GryfFydh  having  been  supplanted 
and  imprisoned  by  his  younger  brother,  David, 
Senena,  a  woman  of  spirit  and  address,  in  concert 
with  the  bishop  of  Bangor,  and  many  of  the  Welsh 
nobility,  entered  into  a  treaty  with  Henry  III.  of 
England,  hoping  to  interest  him  in  her  husband's 
cause.  She  managed  the  business  so  well  that  she 
induced  Henry  to  demand  GryfFydh  of  his  brother, 
who  gave  him  up,  but,  at  the  same  time,  infused 
such  suspicions  of  GryfFydh  into  the  breast  of 
Henry,  that  he  confined  him  in  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don. After  two  years'  imprisonment,  GryfFydh 
was  killed  by  a  fall,  while  attempting  to  escape, 
in  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  son,  who  shared 
his  captivity,  1244.  This  son  afterwards  became 
joint  sovereign  of  Wales,  with  his  brother. 

SETON, 

Lady,  was  the  wife  of  Sir  Alexander  Seton, 
who  was  acting-governor  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
at  the  time  that  important  fortress  was  besieged 
by  Edward  III.  The  garrison,  being  reduced  to 
a  scarcity  of  provisions,  proposed  to  surrender 
upon  the  terms  that  there  should  be  an  armistice 
of  five  days,  and  if  in  that  interval  the  town  and 
castle  should  not  be  relieved  by  two  hundred  men- 
at-arms,  or  by  battle,  they  should  be  given  up  to 
Edward  ;  the  lives  and  property  of  the  inhaliitants 
to  be  protected.  The  eldest  son  of  Sir  Alexander 
Seton  was  one  of  the  hostages  delivered  by  the 
Scots  for  the  performance  of  the  conditions :  the 
younger  son  of  Seton  was  also  a  pi'isoner  in  Ed- 
ward's hands,  having  been  taken  in  a  sally. 

No  sooner  had  Edward  obtained  the  hostages, 
than  he  insisted  on  the  immediate  surrender  of 
the  town,  threatening  Sir  Alexander,  that  if  he 
refused,  his  two  sons  should  immediately  be  hung 
in  front  of  the  ramparts.  The  governor  was  thun- 
derstruck, and,  in  his  agony,  was  on  the  point  of 
sacrificing  his  country's  honour  to  his  paternal 
tenderness,  when  he  was  roused  and  supported  in 
his  duty  by  his  wife,  the  mother  of  these  two  sons. 
Lady  Seton  came  suddenly  forward,  and  called 
upon  her  husband  to  stand  firm  to  his  honour  and 
his  country.  She  represented,  that  if  the  savage 
monarch  did  really  put  his  threat  into  execution, 
they  should  become  the  most  wretched  of  parents, 
but  their  sons  would  have  died  nobly  for  their 
country,  and  they  themselves  could  wear  out  life 

142 


SF 


su 


in  Borrow  for  their  loss  ;  but,  that  if  he  abandoned 
his  honour,  their  king,  their  country,  their  con- 
sciences, nay,  their  sons  themselves,  would  regard 
them  with  contempt;  and  that  they  should  not 
only  be  miserable,  but  entail  lasting  disgrace  on 
those  they  sought  to  save.  Never  did  Spartan  or 
Roman  matron  plead  with  the  eloquence  of  the 
most  exalted  virtue,  more  forcibly  against  the 
weakness  of  her  own  and  her  husband's  mind. 
And  when  she  saw,  across  the  water,  preparations 
actually  making  for  the  death  of  her  sons,  and 
beheld  her  husband,  at  the  dreadful  spectacle, 
again  giving  way,  she  drew  him  from  the  horrid 
scene,  and  thus  saved  his  honour,  though  at  the 
sacrifice  of  their  children.  The  tyrant  put  them 
to  death.     This  was  in  July,  13.32. 


SFORZA, 

BiANCA  Maria  Visconti,  was  the  natural  child 
of  Filippo  Visconti ;  and,  being  his  only  daughter, 
she  was  legitimated,  and  apportioned  with  the 
dowry  of  a  princess;  and,  in  1441,  she  was  mar- 
ried to  Francesco  Sforza,  duke  of  Milan.  She 
was  then  fifteen  years  of  age,  and  distinguished 
among  all  the  ladies  of  the  court  for  beauty  and 
elegance.  The  duchess,  though  not  of  a  race  emi- 
nent for  piety,  had  always  an  inclination  for  pro- 
moting religious  institutions ;  by  her  influence 
over  her  husband,  who  loved  her  passionately,  she 
was  now  in  a  situation  to  gratify  her  jjious  wishes. 
She  placed  the  first  stone  in  the  temple  of  St.  Ag- 
nes, in  Milan ;  and,  nine  years  afterwards,  erected 
the  church  of  St.  Nicolas,  and  founded  the  monas- 
tery of  Coi'po  Cristo,  in  Cremona.  But  her  most 
useful  and  greatest  establishment  was  the  grand 
hospital  of  Milan,  a  magnificent  edifice,  which  she 
caused  to  be  begun  in  1456,  Init  which  was  not 
completed  until  1797.  After  the  death  of  her 
husband,  she  was  regent  for  her  son,  Galeazzo. 
In  her  administration  she  exhibited  the  \itmost 
strictness,  good  sense,  and  political  ability.  Iler 
son,  when  arrived  at  manhood,  ungratefvdly  for- 
getting all  he  owed  to  her  care  and  prudence,  ren- 
dered his  conduct  so  distasteful  to  her,  by  his  ar- 
rogance and  rudeness,  that  she  retired  to  an  estate 


she  possessed  at  Marignard,  where  she  began  a 
plan  of  life  to  be  pursued  in  good  works  and  pious 
duties ;  when  a  sudden  death  terminated  her  ex- 
istence, at  the  age  of  forty-two,  in  the  year 
1468. 

SFORZA, 

Ipolita,  wife  of  Alphonso  II.,  king  of  Naples. 
Born  at  Milan,  1445 ;  died,  1488.  She  understood 
the  classical  languages ;  and  Lascari  wrote  a 
grammar  for  her,  in  Greek.  Argelatti  declares 
that  she  wrote  Latin  with  consummate  elegance. 

In  the  Ambrosian  Library,  at  Milan,  are  pre- 
served two  orations,  in  Latin,  spoken  by  her  in 
Mantua,  to  pope  Pius  II.  In  the  monastery  of 
Santa  Croce  is  to  be  seen  an  autograph  manuscript 
of  a  codex  to  Cicero's  treatise  De  Senectute,  in 
which  she  has  produced  striking  thoughts  in  a 
finished  style  of  expression. 

SHORE, 

Jane,  the  celebrated  mistress  of  Edward  IV., 
king  of  England,  was  the  wife  of  Matthew  Shore, 
a  goldsmith  in  Lombard-street,  London.  She  is 
represented  as  extremely  beautiful,  cheerful,  and 
very  generous.  She  never  used  her  great  influ- 
ence over  the  king  to  the  prejudice  of  any  one, 
but  in  favour  of  the  unfortunate.  After  his  death, 
she  attached  herself  to  Lord  Hastings ;  and  when 
he  was  executed  by  Richard  III.,  Jane  Shore  was 
also  arrested  on  the  accusation  of  witchcraft ; 
however,  she  was  only  condemned  to  a  public 
penance  as  an  adulteress,  and  the  loss  of  her  pro- 
perty. Sir  Thomas  More  saw  her  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII. ,  poor,  old,  and  shrivelled,  without 
the  least  trace  of  her  former  beauty.  The  popu- 
lar tradition  of  her  dying  of  hunger  in  a  ditch,  is 
untrue. 

SOPHIA, 

Of  Hispali,  was  a  Spanish- Arabian  ladj',  cele- 
brated for  her  poetry  and  oratory.  She  died  in 
1039.  None  of  her  writings  are  now  extant.  She 
had  a  sister,  Maria,  who  was  also  a  poet  and  a 
learned  lady. 

SULPITIA, 

A  Roman  poetess,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of 
Domitian,  in  the  first  century  after  Christ.  She 
has  been  called  the  Roman  Sappho.  There  are 
none  of  her  writings  left  but  a  fragment  of  a  satire 
against  Domitian,  who  published  a  decree  for  the 
banishment  of  the  philosophers  from  Rome.  This 
satire  has  usually  been  printed  at  the  end  of  the 
Satires  of  Juvenal,  to  whom  it  has  been  sometimes 
falsely  attributed.  From  the  invocation,  it  would 
seem  tliat  she  was  the  author  of  many  other 
poems,  and  the  first  Roman  lady  who  taught  her 
sex  to  vie  with  the  Greeks  in  poetry.  Her  lan- 
guage is  easy  and  elegant,  and  she  appears  to 
have  had  a  ready  talent  for  satire.  She  is  men- 
tioned by  Martial  and  Sidonius  Apollinaris,  and 
is  said  to  have  addressed  to  her  husband  Calcnus, 
who  was  a  Roman  knight,  "  A  Poem  on  Conjugal 
Love."      The    thirty-fifth    epigram    in    Martial's 

143 


su 


SY 


tenth    took    refers    to    her    poem    on    conjugal 

love : 

"Omnes  Sulpiciam  legant  puellae, 
Uni  qiis  cupiant  viro  placere. 
Onines  Sulpiciam  legant  mariti, 
Uni  qui  cupianl  placeio  nuptaj." 

SURVILLE,  , 

Margtjerite  Eleonore  Clotilde  de,  of  the 
noble  family  of  Vallon  Chalys,  was  the  wife  of 
Berenger  de  Surville,  and  lived  in  those  disastrous 
times  which  immediately  succeeded  the  battle  of 
Agincourt.  She  was  born  in  1405,  and  educated 
in  the  court  of  the  count  de  Foix,  where  she  gave 
an  early  proof  of  literary  and  poetical  talent,  by 
translating,  when  eleven  years  old,  one  of  Pe- 
trarch's Canzoni,  with  a  harmony  of  style  wonder- 
ful, not  only  for  her  age,  but  for  the  time  in  which 
she  lived.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  she  married  the 
Chevalier  de  Surville,  then,  like  herself,  in  the 
bloom  of  youth,  and  to  whom  she  was  passionately 
attached.  In  those  days  no  man  of  high  standing, 
who  had  a  feeling  for  the  misery  of  his  country, 
or  a  hearth  and  home  to  defend,  could  avoid  taking 
an  active  part  in  the  scenes  of  barbarous  strife 
around  him ;  and  De  Surville,  shortly  after  his 
marriage,  followed  his  heroic  sovereign,  Charles 
VII.,  to  the  field.  During  his  absence,  his  wife 
addressed  to  him  the  most  beautiful  effusions  of 
conjugal  tenderness  to  be  found  in  the  compass 
of  poetry. 

Clotilda  has  entitled  her  first  epistle  "  Heroide 
a  mon  ^poux  Berenger;"  and  as  it  is  dated  in  1422, 
she  could  not  have  been  more  than  seventeen  when 
it  was  written.  The  commencement  recalls  the 
superscription  of  the  first  letter  of  Heloise  to 
Abelard. 

"Clotilde,  au  sien  ami,  douce  tnande  accolade! 

A  son  epoux,  salut,  respect,  amour! 
Ah,  tandis  qu'eplor^e  et  de  coEur  si  malade, 

'i'e  quier  la  nuit,  te  redemande  au  jour — 
due  deviens?  ou  cours  tu  ?  Lion  de  la  bien-aimee. 

Oil  les  destins,  entrainent  done  tes  pas  ? 
'Faut  que  le  dise,  helas  !  s'en  crois  la  renommfie 

De  bien  long  temps  ne  te  reverrai  pas?" 

Among  some  other  little  poems,  which  place  the 
conjugal  and  maternal  character  of  Clotilde  in  a 
most  charming  light,  one  deserves  notice  for  its 
tender  and  heartfelt  beauty.  It  is  entitled  "  Bal- 
lade a  mon  premier  n6,"  and  is  addressed  to  her 
child,  apparently  in  the  absence  of  its  father. 

"  O  cher  enfantelet,  vrai  portrait  de  ton  pere  ! 

Dors  sur  le  sein  que  ta  bouclie  a  presse ! 
Dors  petit ! — clos,  ami,  sur  le  .sein  de  ta  mere, 

Tien  doux  aillet,  par  le  somme  oppress^. 
Bel  ami — cher  petit !  que  ta  pupille  tendre, 

Goute  un  sommeil  que  plus  n'est  fait  pour  moi : 
Je  vcille  pour  te  voir,  te  nourrir,  te  defendre, 

Ainz  qu'il  est  doux  ne  veiller  que  pour  toi !" 

Contemplating  him  asleep,  she  says, 

"  N'etait  ce  teint  fleuri  des  couleurs  de  la  pomme, 
Ne  le  diriez  vous  dans  les  bras  de  la  mort  ?" 

Then,  shuddering  at  the  idea  she  had  conjured  up, 
she  breaks  forth  into  a  passionate  apostrophe  to 
her  sleeping  child. 

"  Arrete,  cher  enfant  1  j'en  fiiimis  toute  entiere — 
Reveille  toi  !  chassed  un  fatal  propos! 
Mon  fils ....  pour  un  moment — ah  revois  la  lumiere ! 
Au  prix  du  tien,  rends-moi  tout  mon  r^pos! 


Douce  erreur!  il  dormait.  ..  .c'est,  assez,  je  respire. 

Songes  legers,  flattez  son  doux  sonmieil 
Ah!  quand  verrai  celui  pour  qui  mon  coeur  soupire, 

Au  miens  cot6s  jouir  de  son  r6veil  ? 
*  *  *  *  » 

Quand  reverrai  eelui  dent  as  recu  la  vie? 

Mon  jeune  epoux,  le  plus  beau  des  humains 
Oui — d6ja  crois  voir  ta  mere,  aux  cieux  ravie, 

Q.ue  tends  vers  lui  tes  innocentes  mains. 
Comme  ira  se  duisant  a  ta  premiere  caresse  ! 

Au  miens  baisers  com'  t'ira  disputant! 
Ainz  ne  compte,  a  toi  seul,  d'epuisersa  tendresse, — 

A  sa  Clotilde  en  garde  bien  aulant !" 

Her  husband,  count  de  Surville,  closed  his  brief 
career  of  happiness  and  glory  (and  what  more 
than  these  could  he  have  asked  of  heaven  ?)  at  the 
siege  of  Orleans,  where  he  fought  under  the  ban- 
ner of  Joan  of  Arc.  He  was  a  gallant  and  a  loyal 
knight ;  so  were  hundreds  of  others  who  then 
strewed  the  desolated  fields  of  France :  and  De 
Surville  had  fallen  undistinguished  amid  the  gen- 
eral havoc  of  all  that  was  noble  and  brave,  if  the 
love  and  genius  of  his  wife  had  not  immortalized 
him. 

Clotilde,  after  her  loss,  resided  in  the  chateau 
of  her  husband,  in  the  Lyonnois,  devoting  herself 
to  literature  and  the  education  of  her  son ;  and  it 
is  very  remarkable,  considering  the  times  in  which 
she  lived,  that  she  neither  married  again,  nor 
entered  a  religious  house.  The  fame  of  her  poe- 
tical talents,  which  she  continued  to  cultivate  in 
her  retirement,  rendered  her  at  length  an  object 
of  celebrity  and  interest.  The  duke  of  Orleans 
happened  one  day  to  repeat  some  of  her  verses  to 
Margaret  of  Scotland,  the  first  wife  of  Louis  XI. ; 
and  that  accomplished  patroness  of  poetry  and 
poets  wrote  her  an  invitation  to  attend  her  at 
court ;  which  Clotilde  modestly  declined.  The 
queen  then  sent  her,  as  a  token  of  her  admiration 
and  friendship,  a  wreath  of  laurel,  surmounted 
with  a  bouquet  of  daisies,  (Marguerites,  in  allusion 
to  the  name  of  both,)  the  leaves  of  which  were 
wrought  in  silver  and  the  flowers  in  gold,  with 
this  inscription:  '■'■  Margutrite  d'Ecossed  3Iargubrite 
d' Helicon."  We  are  told  that  Alain  Chartier,  en- 
vious, perhaps,  of  these  distinctions,  wrote  a  sati- 
rical quatrain,  in  which  he  accused  Clotilde  of 
being  deficient  in  I'air  de  cour ;  and  that  she 
replied  to  him,  and  defended  herself,  in  a  very 
spii-ited  rondeau.  Nothing  more  is  known  of  the 
life  of  this  interesting  woman,  but  that  she  had 
the  misfortune  to  survive  her  son  as  well  as  her 
husband  ;  and  dying  at  the  advanced  age  of  ninety, 
in  1495,  she  was  buried  with  them  in  the  same 
tomb. 

SYBELLA, 
Wife  of  Robert  of  Normandy,  son  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  lived  in  the  twelfth  century.  Her 
husband  was  wounded  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  and, 
while  he  slept,  Sybella  applied  her  lips  to  the 
wound,  and  drew  forth  the  venom,  which  soon 
caused  her  death. 

SYMPHOROSA, 

A  Roman  matron,  living  in  the  reign  of  Trajan, 
embraced  the  Christian  faith  with  her  seven  sons. 
During  Trajan's  persecution  of  the  Clu-istians,  about 

144 


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TE 


the  year  108,  Symphrosa  was  ordered  to  sacrifice 
to  the  heathen  deities.  Refusing  to  comply  with 
this  command,  she  and  her  sons  were  cruelly  put 
to  death.  Many  other  women  sufiFered  death  in 
this  persecution  for  the  same  cause. 


TENDA, 

Beatrice,  was  born  in  1370,  in  a  castle  erected 
in  a  valley  which  opens  to  the  north  of  the  cele- 
brated Col  di  Tenda,  Her  progenitors  were  counts 
Lascari  di  Ventimiglia,  sovereigns  of  a  large  pro- 
vince in  the  maritime  region  of  the  Alps,  and 
more  properly  were  called  counts  di  Tenda.  How 
or  why  Beatrice  was  given  in  marriage  to  the 
celebrated  condottier,  Facino  Cane,  cannot  now  be 
ascertained.  Probably  her  family  constrained  her 
to  this  union.  By  him  she  was,  however,  always 
treated  with  the  greatest  consideration  and  re- 
spect ;  his  glories  and  treasures  were  divided  with 
her ;  and  while  his  wife,  she  received  sovereign 
honours,  and  by  her  gentle  influence  she  miti- 
gated the  natural  cruelty  of  his  disposition.  The 
elevation  of  Facino  Cane  was  owing  to  these  cir- 
cumstances. The  viscount's  family  had  rendered 
their  sovereignty  odious  throughout  Lombardy  by 
a  (course  of  crimes  and  oppressions  beyond  endu- 
rance. In  their  domestic  relations  assassinations 
and  poisonings  were  frequent ;  towards  their  sub- 
jects they  were  cruel  and  unjust ;  and  towards 
other  princes  their  outrageous  violations  of  the 
most  solemn  treaties  seemed  to  render  an  alliance 
with  them  impossible.  Things  had  arrived  at  such 
a  point,  that  at  the  death  of  duke  Giovanni,  all 
classes  were  determined  to  put  an  end  to  their 
dominion.  The  principal  captains  of  the  provinces 
assembled,  and  elected  the  most  distinguished  of 
their  leaders,  Facino  Cane,  to  be  at  the  head  of  a 
new  government.  He,  a  very  warlike  and  unscru- 
pulous man,  soon  rendered  himself  master  of  the 
state  of  Milan ;  and  to  the  power  he  would  doubt- 
less soon  have  added  the  title  of  duke,  had  not 
K 


death  taken  him  off  in  the  midst  of  his  glory  and 
conquests. 

He  left  every  possession  in  the  hands  of  his 
widow ;  and  from  this  state  of  things  the  viscount's 
faction  evolved  a  plan  for  re-obtaining  their  former 
dignities.  The  heir  of  that  house,  Filippo  Visconti, 
lived  in  seclusion;  he  was  brought  forward,  and 
by  various  manoeuvres  familiar  to  politicians,  a 
marriage  was  effected  between  him  and  Beatrice  di 
Tenda.  By  this  connection  she  resigned  the  trea- 
sures, the  fortresses,  the  army  of  Facino  Cane,  and 
by  these  means  he  obtained  an  easy  conquest  over 
the  various  little  rulers  of  the  neighbourhood : 
and,  building  on  the  foundation  erected  by  Facino, 
achieved  a  state  more  extended  and  powerful  than 
had  been  enjoyed  by  his  predecessors.  A  curious 
result  of  perverse  sentiments  arose  from  this ;  the 
more  he  felt  that  the  valour  and  conduct  of  Facino 
had  contributed  to  his  grandeur,  the  plainer  he 
perceived  that  these  qualities  eclipsed  all  that  the 
Visconts  could  boast  of,  the  more  he  hated  any 
allusion  to  the  brave  condottier;  and  he  felt  a 
growing  aversion  to  Beatrice  as  the  widow  of  this 
man,  and  as  the  person  to  whom  his  own  elevation 
was  owing.  Besides,  she  was  twenty  years  older 
than  he ;  and  though  she  was  still  handsome,  and 
eminently  endowed  with  accomplishments  and 
mental  charms,  his  inclinations  were  fixed  upon  u, 
young  girl  named  Agnes  de  Maino.  At  first  his 
hate  manifested  itself  in  neglect  and  contumelious 
treatment.  Beatrice,  who  had  been  in  the  time 
of  Facino  the  adored  object  of  every  attention, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  was  now  exposed  to  jeers, 
and  left  to  solitude.  To  amuse  her  dreary  hours, 
she  sought  to  draw  around  her  the  society  of  some 
persons  of  letters  and  talents,  and  among  whom  was 
Orombello,  a  young  gentleman  quite  remarkable 
for  his  spi-ightly  conversation,  his  many  acquire- 
ments, and  especially  his  skill  in  music.  This  in- 
timacy with  the  duchess,  though  perfectly  innocent 
and  harmless,  was  seized  upon  by  Filippo  as  a 
pretext  for  the  destruction  of  his  guiltless  wife. 
Calumnies  and  aspersions  were  followed  by  impri- 
sonment ;  next  came  the  rack.  Under  its  tortures, 
Orombello  avowed  whatever  they  proposed ;  but 
on  the  firmer  spirit  of  Beatrice  torture  had  no 
effect  to  oblige  her  to  distort  the  truth.  With  a 
despot  and  a  Visconti,  judgment  was  pronounced 
as  he  ordered ;  and  the  unhappy  victims  were 
condemned  to  be  executed.  Beatrice  was  so  much 
beloved  by  the  people,  that  Filippo  ordered  her 
judgment  and  decapitation  to  take  place  at  night, 
and  in  the  secret  dungeons  of  the  castle,  as  open 
measures  might  have  caused  a  revolt.  Before  the 
blow  of  the  executioner  was  allowed  to  fall,  they 
were  again  cruelly  submitted  to  the  torture,  and 
Orombello  again  weakly  gave  way.  Beatrice,  still 
superior  to  bodily  suffering,  addressed  him  in  a 
very  noble  speech,  which  has  been  transmitted 
from  an  ear-witness.  After  reproaching  him  for 
basely  uttering  falsehoods  in  that  tremendous  hour, 
she  pathetically  turned  to  God,  and  addressed  him 
in  a  solemn  prayer,  as  the  being  who  knew  her 
innocence,  and  as  the  sole  support  left  to  her. 
They  were  buried  in  the  court-yard  without  any 
memorial.     The  purity  and  excellence  of  Beatrice 

145 


TH 


TH 


were  disputed  by  nobody ;  and  her  violent  death 
was  in  fact  a  judicial  murder.  Her  melancholy 
story  has  been  the  theme  of  poets  and  romance 
writers,  and  has  been  sung  by  the  plaintive  genius 
of  Bellini. 

THECLA, 
A  NOBLE  lady  of  Alexandi'ia,  in  Egypt,  who 
transcribed  the  whole  of  the  Bible  into  the  Greek, 
from  the  original  Septuagint  copy  then  in  the  Alex- 
andrian library ;  and  this  ancient  copy  is  still  pre- 
served, and  is  the  celebrated  Alexandrian  manu- 
script, so  often  appealed  to  by  commentators.  It 
was  presented  to  Charles  I.  of  England,  by  the 
patriarch  of  Constantinople,  in  1628. 


THEODELINDA, 

Queen  of  the  Lombards,  was  the  daughter  of 
Garibaldo,  duke  of  Bavaria.  She  was  betrothed 
to  Childebert,  but  rejected  by  his  mother,  the 
haughty  Brunechild.  She  afterwards,  in  589, 
married  Antari,  king  of  the  Lombards,  with  whom 
she  lived  in  great  affection ;  when  in  690  he  died, 
not  without  suspicion  of  poison.  The  people  were 
very  much  attached  to  her ;  but  that  turbulent 
age  seemed  to  require  a  stronger  hand  than  that 
of  a  yoimg  girl,  to  sway  the  rod  of  empire.  She 
therefore  found  it  expedient  to  conti'act  a  second 
marriage  with  Flavins  Agilulphus,  who,  as  her 
husband,  was  invested  with  the  ensigns  of  royalty 
before  a  general  congress  at  Milan.  She  was  des- 
tined to  be  a  second  time  a  widow.  Agilulphus 
died  in  615.  From  that  time  she  assumed  the 
government  as  regent,  which  she  maintained  with 
vigour  and  prosperity ;  she  encouraged  and  im- 
proved agriculture ;  endowed  charitable  founda- 
tions ;  and,  in  accordance  with  what  the  piety  of 
that  age  required,  built  monasteries.  What  was 
more  extraordinary,  and  seems  to  have  been  rarely 
thought  of  by  the  men  sovereigns  of  that  day, 
she  reduced  the  taxes,  and  tried  to  soften  the 
miseries  of  the  inferior  classes.  She  died  in  628, 
bitterly  lamented  by  her  subjects.  Few  men  have 
exhibited  powers  of  mind  so  well  balanced  as  were 
those  of  Theodelinda ;  and  this  natural  sense  of  the 
just  and  true  fitted  her  for  the  duties  of  government. 


THEODORA, 

Empress  of  the  East,  the  wife  of  Justinian, 
famous  for  her  beauty,  intrigues,  ambition,  and 
talents,  and  for  the  part  she  acted  in  the  direction 
of  affairs,  both  in  church  and  state,  in  the  reign 
of  her  husband.  Her  father  was  the  keeper  of 
the  beasts  for  public  spectacles  at  Constantinople, 
and  she  herself  was  a  dancer  at  the  theatre,  and 
a  courtezan  notorious  for  her  contempt  of  decency, 
before  her  elevation  to  the  throne.  Justinian  saw 
her  on  the  stage,  and  made  her  his  mistress  during 
the  reign  of  his  uncle  Justin,  whose  consent  he  at 
length  obtained  for  his  marriage  with  Theodora ; 
and  a  Roman  law,  which  prohibited  the  marriage 
of  the  great  officers  of  the  empire  with  actresses, 
was  repealed  in  her  favour.  She  was  crowned, 
together  with  Justinian,  in  527  ;  and  the  death  of 
Justin,  shortly  after,  left  her  in  possession  of  sove- 
reign authority,  through  the  blind  partiality  and 
weakness  of  her  imperial  consort.  She  made  use 
of  the  power  she  had  attained  to  raise  from  obscu- 
rity her  friends  and  favourites,  and  to  avenge  her- 
self of  her  enemies.  According  to  Procopius,  she 
continued  to  indulge  herself  in  the  most  degrading 
sensuality  after  she  became  empress ;  and,  if  the 
disgusting  detail  which  he  gives  of  her  crimes  is 
to  be  believed,  seldom  indeed  has  a  brothel  been 
disgraced  by  scenes  of  more  infamous  profligacy 
than  those  exhibited  in  the  palace  of  Theodora. 
With  all  her  faults,  however,  this  woman  displayed 
courage  and  presence  of  mind  in  circumstances  of 
difficulty  and  danger ;  for  in  the  alarming  sedition 
at  Constantinople,  in  532,  her  counsels  animated 
the  drooping  spirits  of  Justinian,  and  induced  him 
to  forego  his  inglorious  design  of  fleeing  before 
the  rebels,  who  were  subsequently  reduced  to  sub- 
jection by  Belisarius.  Theodora  died  of  a  cancer 
in  548,  much  to  the  regret  of  her  surviving  hus- 
band. 

THOMA, 

A  Moorish  Spaniard,  also  called  Habeba  of  Va- 
lencia. She  wrote  celebrated  books  on  grammar 
and  jurisprudence.     She  died  in  1127. 

THUSNELDA, 

The  wife  of  Herman,  or  Armin,  the  prince  of 
the  Cherusky  and  conqueror  of  Voro.  She  was 
born  in  the  year  7  of  the  new  era.  A  daughter 
of  Segest,  a  prince  of  the  Cherusky,  she  married 
Herman  contrary  to  the  wish  of  her  father,  who 
was  the  ally  and  friend  of  the  Romans.  When 
Herman  took  up  arms  in  behalf  of  his  people,  she 
did  everything  in  her  power  to  sustain  him  in  his 
arduous  undertaking.  One  day,  while  Herman 
was  pursuing  the  enemy,  Segest  attacked  his  cas- 
tle, where  Thusnelda  had  been  left  under  the  care 
of  Herman's  mother,  and  carried  her  off,  before 
her  husband  could  hasten  to  her  assistance. 
Thusnelda  remained  for  a  while  a  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  her  cruel  father,  who  finally  delivered 
her  over  to  the  Romans,  as  a  victim  for  her  hus- 
band's attempt  to  liberate  his  people.  Herman 
made  several  desperate  attempts  to  rescue  her,  but 
in  vain ;  she  was  carried  to  Rome  with  her  little 

146 


TO 


VA 


son,  and  nothing  further  was  discovered  of  her 
fate. 

TORNABUONI, 
LucREziA,  of  Florence,  was  the  wife  of  Pietro 
de  Medici,  and  mother  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 
She  was  a  zealous  promoter  of  literature.  Under 
her  patronage,  and  by  her  encouragement,  Pulci 
published  his  Morgante.  She  wrote  in  Spenserian 
stanza,  or,  as  the  Italians  term  it,  octave  rhyme — 
"  The  Life  of  St.  John,"  "  The  History  of  Judith," 
of  "  Susanna,"  and  of  "  Tobit,"  besides  the  "  Life 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary."     She  died,  1482. 


u. 

URRACA,  or  PATERNA, 
Was  the  wife  of  Don  Ramiro,  a  king  of  Oviedo 
and  Leon,  who  succeeded  Don  Alphonso  on  the 
throne  of  Spain.  Urraca  was  a  very  pious  Catho- 
lic, and  celebrated  for  her  zeal  in  contributing  to 
endow  churches.  She  lavished  rich  gifts  on  the 
church  of  St.  James  (Santiago,)  in  gi-atitude  to 
that  saint  for  the  assistance  he  rendered  the  Chris- 
tians against  the  Moors  at  the  battle  of  Clavjo, 
where  he  is  said  to  have  appeared,  armed  cap-a- 
pie,  mounted  on  a  white  charger,  and  bearing  a 
white  banner,  with  a  red  cross  embroidered  in  the 
centre.  This  is  the  origin  of  invoking  this  patron 
saint  on  the  eve  of  battle,  and  of  the  war-cry,  of 
"  Santiago  y  cierra  Espana" — St.  James  and  close 
Spain !  Dona  Urraca  died  in  861,  and  was  buried 
by  the  side  of  her  husband,  who  had  died  in  831, 
in  the  church  of  St.  Mary,  in  Oviedo. 

URGULANIA, 

A  Roman  lady,  was  a  favourite  of  the  empress 
Livia,  mother  of  Tiberius.  So  insolent  did  she 
gi'ow  upon  this,  that  she  refused  to  go  to  the  Se- 
nate to  give  in  her  evidence,  and  therefore  the 
praetor  was  obliged  to  repair  to  her  house  to  exa- 
mine her.  Lucius  Piso  sued  her  for  a  debt,  and 
Urgulania  withdrew  to  the  emperor's  palace,  re- 
fusing to  appear ;  but  Piso  proceeded  in  his  suit ; 
and,  althovigh  Tiberius  promised  his  mother  that 
he  would  solicit  the  judges  in  favour  of  Urgulania, 
Livia  was  at  length  obliged  to  have  the  sum  which 
Piso  claimed  paid  to  him. 

URGULANILLA, 

Grand-daughter  of  Urgulania,  was  married  to 
the  emperor  Claudius,  before  he  was  raised  to  the 
empire.  He  had  by  her  a  son  and  daughter. 
Claudius  repixdiated  Urgulanilla  on  accoiint  of  her 
bad  reputation,  and  her  being  suspected  of  mur- 
der. In  that  age  of  crime,  it  was  a  mark  of  her 
discretion  or  innocence  when  no  murder  was  proven 
against  her. 


V. 

VALADA, 

A  Moorish  Spaniard,  daughter  of  king  Almos- 
takeph,  of  Corduba,  was  greatly  skilled  in  polite 
learning.     She  more  than   once   contended  with 


scholars  noted  for  their  learning,  and  always  Lore 
away  the  palm.     She  died  in  1091. 

VALENTINE, 

Of  Milan,  daughter  of  John  Galeas,  duke  of 
Milan,  and  of  Isabelle,  the  youngest  of  the  ten 
children  of  John  II.  of  France,  married,  in  1389, 
Louis,  duke  of  Orleans,  brother  of  Charles  VI.  of 
France.  She  was  a  beautiful  and  accomplished 
woman,  and  appears,  in  the  midst  of  that  disas- 
trous epoch  in  French  history,  like  an  angel  of 
goodness  and  beauty.  The  first  few  years  that 
Valentine  passed  in  France,  were  spent  in  the 
midst  of  festivals,  and  all  kinds  of  amusements. 
Although  her  husband  was  unfaithful  to  her,  he 
surrounded  her  with  all  splendour  and  luxury 
suited  to  her  rank  and  station.  She  occupied  her- 
self principally  in  taking  care  of  her  children, 
and  in  literary  pursuits,  for  which  she,  as  well  as 
her  husband,  had  a  decided  taste. 

The  insanity  of  her  brother-in-law,  Charles  VI., 
affected  Valentine  deeply,  and  she  exerted  herself 
to  the  utmost  to  calm  his  paroxysms,  and  console 
him  for  the  negligence  of  his  wife.  Charles,  in 
his  turn,  became  very  much  attached  to  her ;  he 
called  her  his  well-beloved  sister,  went  every  day 
to  see  her,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  ravings  could 
always  be  controlled  by  her.  Her  power  over  the 
unhappy  monarch  seemed  to  the  ignorant  populace 
so  supernatural,  that  she  was  accused  of  using 
sorcery,  and,  to  prevent  disagreeable  consequences, 
her  husband  sent  her,  in  1395,  to  the  duchy  of 
Orleans. 

This  exile,  so  painful  to  Valentine,  terminated 
in  1398,  when  she  was  recalled  to  Paris ;  after 
this  time  she  lived  principally  at  Blois,  superin- 
tending the  education  of  her  sons,  till  the  death 
of  Louis  d'Orleans,  who  was  assassinated  by  the 
duke  of  Burgundy,  in  1407.  Unable  to  avenge 
his  death,  she  died  of  a  broken  heart,  in  1408, 
aged  thirty-eight,  recommending  to  her  children, 
and  to  John,  count  of  Dunois,  the  natural  son  of 
her  husband,  the  vindication  of  their  father's 
reputation  and  glory. 

VALERIA, 

Daughter  of  the  emperor  Dioclesian,  who  had 
abdicated  the  throne  in  305,  was  married  to  Ga- 
lerius,  on  his  being  created  Csesar,  about  292. 
Galerius  became  emperor  of  Rome  in  305,  and 
died  in  311.  He  recommended  Valeria,  and  his 
natural  son  Candidien,  whom  he  had  caused  Va- 
leria to  adopt,  as  he  had  no  other,  to  Licinius,  his 
friend,  whom  he  had  raised  to  be  emperor.  Va- 
leria was  rich  and  beautiful,  and  Licinius  wished 
to  marry  her  ;  but  Valeria,  to  avoid  this,  fled  from 
the  court  of  Licinius,  with  her  mother  Prisca  and 
Candidien,  and  took  refuge  with  Maximin,  one  of 
the  other  emperors.  He  had  already  a  wife  and 
children,  and  as  the  adopted  son  of  Galerius,  had 
been  accustomed  to  regard  Valeria  as  his  mother. 
But  her  beauty  and  wealth  tempted  him,  and  he 
offered  to  divorce  his  present  wife  if  she  would 
take  her  place.  Valeria  replied,  "  That  still  wear- 
ing the  garb  of  mourning,  she  could  not  think  of 
marriage ;    that    Maximin   should  remember   his 

147 


VA 


WO 


father,  the  husband  of  Valeria,  whose  ashes  were 
not  yet  cold ;  that  he  could  not  commit  a  greater 
injustice  than  to  divorce  a  wife  by  whom  he  was 
beloved;  and  that  she  could  not  flatter  herself 
with  better  treatment ;  in  fine,  that  it  would  be 
an  unprecedented  thing  for  a  woman  of  her  rank 
to  engage  in  a  second  marriage." 

This  reply  roused  Maximin's  fury.  He  pro- 
scribed Valeria,  seized  upon  her  possessions,  tor- 
tured some  of  her  officers  to  death,  and  took  the 
rest  away  from  her,  banished  her  and  her  mother, 
and  caused  several  ladies  of  the  court,  friends  of 
theirs,  to  be  executed  on  a  false  accusation  of  adiil- 
tery.  Valeria,  exiled  to  the  deserts  of  Syria,  found 
means  to  inform  Dioclesian  of  her  misery ;  and  he 
sent  to  Maximin,  desiring  the  surrender  of  his 
daughter,  but  in  vain :  the  unhappy  father  died  of 
grief.  At  length  Prisca  and  Valeria  went  disguised 
to  Nicomedia,  where  Licinius  was,  and  mingled 
unknown  among  the  domestics  of  Candidien.  Li- 
cinius soon  became  jealous  of  him,  and  had  him 
assassinated  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Valeria  and 
Prisca  again  fled,  and  for  fifteen  months  wandered 
in  disguise  through  different  provinces.  At  length 
they  were  discovered  and  arrested  in  Thessalonica, 
in  315,  and  were  condemned  to  death  by  Licinius, 
for  no  other  crime  than  their  rank  and  chastity. 
They  were  beheaded,  amidst  the  tears  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  their  bodies  were  thrown  into  the  sea. 
Some  authors  assert  that  they  were  Christians. 

VARANO  DI  COSTANZA, 
Born  at  Camerino,  1428.  She  had  a  learned 
and  literary  education.  Her  family  having  lost 
the  signory  of  Camerino,  she  made  a  Latin  ha- 
rangue to  Bianca  Visconti,  in  order  to  obtain  its 
restitution.  Having  failed  in  her  eloquence,  she 
wrote  to  the  principal  sovereigns  of  Italy  to  pro- 
cure assistance,  and  this  time  her  efforts  re- 
sulted successfully.  At  the  restoration  of  her 
father  she  addressed  a  large  assembly  in  a  Latin 
oration.  This  erudite  lady  became  the  wife  of 
Alexander  Sforza,  sovereign  of  Pesaro.  She  died 
in  1447,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  leaving  a  son,  Cos- 
tanzo.  She  has  left  several  orations  and  some 
epistles. 

VELEDA,  or  VELLEDA, 
Was  a  German  prophetess,  who  lived  in  the 
country  of  the  Bructeri  in  the  first  century.  She 
exercised  a  powerful  influence  over  her  own  coun- 
trymen, and  the  Romans  regarded  her  with  great 
awe  and  dread.  She  was  venerated  as  a  goddess, 
and  to  increase  the  respect  with  which  she  was 
regarded,  she  lived  in  a  high  tower,  allowing  no 
one  to  see  her,  and  communicating  her  directions, 
on  the  important  aS'airs  of  her  nation,  to  the  peo- 
ple, through  one  of  her  relations.  She  instigated 
her  countrymen  to  rebel  against  the  Romans. 

VICTORINA, 

A,  CELEBRATED  Roman  matron,  who  placed  her- 
self at  the  head  of  the  Roman  armies,  and  made 
war  against  the  emperor  Gallicnus.  Her  son  Vic- 
torinus,  and  her  grand-son  of  the  same  name, 
were  declared  emperors,  but  when  they  were  as- 


sassinated, Victorina  invested  with  the  imperial 
purple  one  of  her  favourites,  called  Petricius. 
She  was  some  time  after  poisoned,  in  269,  and 
according  to  some  by  Petricius  himself. 

VON   DER  WART, 

Gertrude,  was  the  wife  of  baron  Von  der  Wart, 
who  was  accused,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  of 
being  an  accomplice  in  the  murder  of  Albert,  em- 
peror of  Germany.  There  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  Von  der  Wart  was  innocent,  but  he  was 
condemned  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel ;  and  during 
the  whole  of  his  sufferings,  which  lasted  for  two 
days  and  nights,  his  wife  braved  the  queen's  anger 
and  the  inclemency  of  the  weather  to  watch  by  his 
scaffold,  and  soften,  as  much  as  possible,  the 
tortures  of  that  agonizing  death.  During  one  of 
the  days,  she  saw  the  queen,  who,  in  male  attire, 
and  surrounded  by  her  courtiers,  rode  up  to  see 
how  Von  der  Wart  was  bearing  his  sufferings. 
The  queen  ordered  Gertrude  to  be  sent  away,  but 
some  more  compassionate  persons  interfering,  she 
was  allowed  to  remain. 

Her  own  sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortu- 
nate husband,  are  most  touchingly  described  in 
a  letter  which  she  afterwards  wi'ote  to  a  female 
friend,  and  which  was  published  some  years  ago, 
at  Haarlam,  in  a  book  entitled,  "  Gertrude  Von  der 
Wart,  or  Fidelity  unto  Death."  Mrs.  Hemans 
wrote  a  poem  of  great  pathos  and  beauty,  com- 
memorating this  sad  story. 


w. 

WALPURGA,  or  WALPURGIS, 

A  SAINT  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  was 
born  in  England,  and  was  the  sister  of  St.  Willi- 
bald,  first  bishop  of  Eichstadt,  in  Germany,  and 
niece  of  St.  Boniface,  the  apostle  to  the  Germans. 
She  went  to  Germany  as  a  missionary,  and  was 
made  abbess  of  a  convent  at  Heidenheim,  in  Fran- 
conia.  She  was  a  learned  woman,  and  wrote  a 
work  in  Latin,  entitled,  "  The  Travels  of  St.  Wil- 
libald."  She  died  in  778,  and  was  canonized  after 
her  death  by  the  pope.  From  some  accidental 
association,  the  night  previous  to  the  first  of  May 
is  called,  in  many  parts  of  Germany,  Walpurgis 
night. 

AVOODVILLE, 

Elizabeth,  was  the  widow  of  Sir  John  Grey, 
who  lost  his  life  in  the  battle  of  Bernard's  Heath. 
Edward  IV.  king  of  England,  married  her,  though 
he  had  before  demanded  Bona  of  Savoy,  sister  to 
the  queen  of  France,  in  marriage.  The  story  of 
the  courtship  and  marriage  of  this  beautiful  wo- 
man is  like  a  romance ;  how  king  Edward  first 
saw  her,  when,  clad  in  the  deepest  weeds  of  widow- 
hood, she  threw  herself  at  his  feet  and  pleaded  for 
the  restoration  of  the  inheritance  of  her  fatherless 
sons ;  how  the  king  fell  desperately  in  love  with 
her ;  how  she  resisted  his  passion,  till  he  offered 
her  honourable  marriage ;  the  secresy  of  the  es- 
pousals ;    and  the  grandeur  of  her  queenly  life, 

14S 


ZA 


ZE 


with  the  wretchedness  of  her  lot  after  the  death 
of  Edward,  are  all  like  scenes  in  a  highly- wrought 
fiction.  The  effect  of  the  ill-assorted  marriage 
was  soon  apparent  on  the  fortunes  of  Edward.  It 
made  the  French  king,  and  also  the  earl  of  War- 
wick, his  enemy.  The  queen's  happiness  was 
embittered  by  Edward's  infidelity.  After  the 
death  of  Edward,  in  1483,  her  two  sons  were 
murdered  by  their  uncle  Richard  III.,  who  had 
usurped  the  crown.  After  the  battle  of  Bosworth, 
where  Richard  was  defeated  and  killed  by  Henry, 
earl  of  Richmond,  afterwards  Henry  VII.,  the 
conqueror  married  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of 
Edward  IV.  and  Elizabeth,  thus  uniting  the 
houses  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

Elizabeth  took  a  third  husband.  Lord  Stanley. 
She  died  in  the  convent  of  Bermondsey,  where  her 
son-in-law,  Henry  VII.,  had  provided  an  asylum 
for  her  years  and  misfortunes.  The  daughter  of 
Elizabeth,  then  queen  of  England,  attended  her 
death-bed,  and  paid  her  grand-mother  every  at- 
tention. 

ZAIDA, 

A  Moorish  princess,  daughter  of  Benabet,  king 
of  Seville,  married  Alfonso  VI.,  king  of  Castile 
and  Leon.  Zaida  is  said  to  have  been  induced  to 
adopt  the  Christian  faith  by  a  dream,  in  which  St. 
Isodorus  appeared  to  her  and  persuaded  her  to 
become  a  convert.  Her  father,  when  she  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  resolution  she  had  formed, 
made  no  objections ;  but  fearful  it  might  cause 
discontent  among  his  subjects,  he  allowed  her  to 
escape  to  Leon.  Thither  she  fled ;  the  Christian 
sovereigns  instructed  her  in  the  new  creed,  and 
had  her  baptized  Isabel ;  or,  as  some  assert,  Mary. 
Zaida  subsequently  became  the  third  wife  of  Al- 
fonso, the  king;  though  Pelagius,  the  bishop  of 
Oviedo,  denies  that  she  was  married  to  that  sove- 
reign, asserting  she  was  only  his  mistress.  She 
bore  the  king  one  son,  Don  Sancho,  and  died  soon 
afterwards,  near  the  close  of  the  eleventh  century. 


ZENOBIA   SEPTIMIA, 
Queen  of  Palmyra,  was  a  native  of  Syria,  and 
a  descendant  of  the  Ptolemies.      She  was  cele- 


brated for  her  beauty,  the  melody  of  her  voice, 
her  mental  talents,  literary  acquirements,  and  her 
distinguished  heroism  and  valour,  as  well  as  her 
modesty  and  chastity.  "  Her  manly  understand- 
ing," says  Gibbon,  "  was  strengthened  and  adorned 
by  study.  She  was  not  ignorant  of  the  Latin 
tongue,  and  possessed  in  equal  excellence  the 
Greek,  the  Syriac,  and  the  Egyptian  languages ; 
she  had  drawn  up,  for  her  own  use,  an  epitome 
of  Oriental  history,  and  familiarly  compared  the 
beauties  of  Homer  and  Plato,  under  the  tuition  of 
the  sublime  Longinus." 

She  married  Odenatus,  a  Saracen  prince,  who 
had  raised  himself  from  a  private  station  to  the 
dominion  of  the  East ;  and  she  delighted  in  those 
exercises  of  war  and  the  chase  to  which  he  was 
devoted.  She  often  accompanied  her  husband  on 
long  and  toilsome  marches,  on  horseback  or  on 
foot,  at  the  head  of  his  troops ;  and  many  of  his 
victories  have  been  ascribed  to  her  skill  and 
valour. 

Odenatus  was  assassinated,  with  his  son  Herod, 
by  his  nephew  Maronius,  about  the  year  267,  in 
revenge  for  a  punishment  Odenatus  had  inflicted 
on  him.  Maronius  then  seized  upon  the  throne ; 
but  he  had  hardly  assumed  the  sovereign  title, 
when  Zenobia,  assisted  by  the  friends  of  her  hus- 
band, wrested  the  government  from  him,  and  put 
him  to  death.  For  five  years  she  governed  Pal- 
myra and  the  East  with  vigour  and  ability;  so 
that  by  her  success  in  warlike  expeditions,  as  well 
as  by  the  wisdom  and  firmness  of  her  administra- 
tion, she  aggrandized  herself  in  Asia,  and  her 
authority  was  recognized  in  Cappadocia,  Bithynia, 
and  Egypt.  She  united  with  the  popular  manners 
of  a  Roman  princess,  the  stately  pomp  of  the 
Oriental  courts,  and  styled  herself  "  Queen  of  the 
East."  She  attended,  herself,  to  the  education  of 
her  three  sons,  and  frequently  showed  them  to  her 
troops,  adorned  with  the  imperial  purj^le. 

When  Aurelian  succeeded  to  the  Roman  empire, 
dreading  the  power  of  such  a  rival,  and  deter- 
mined to  dispossess  her  of  some  of  the  rich  pro- 
vinces under  her  dominion,  he  marched,  at  the 
head  of  a  powerful  army,  into  Asia ;  and,  having 
defeated  the  queen's  general,  Zabdas,  near  An- 
tioch,  Zenobia  retreated  to  Emessa,  whither  she 
was  pursued  by  Aurelian.  Under  the  walls  of 
that  city,  another  engagement,  commanded  and 
animated  by  Zenobia  herself,  took  place,  in  which 
the  emperor  was  again  victorious.  The  unfor- 
tunate queen  withdrew  the  relics  of  her  forces  to 
Palmyra,  her  capital,  where  she  was  pursued  by 
Aurelian.  Having  closely  invested  the  city,  he 
found  the  besieged  made  a  most  spii-ited  resistance. 

It  was  after  he  had  been  wounded  by  an  arrow, 
that  he  wrote  his  memorable  letter  to  the  senate 
of  Rome,  defending  himself  from  the  charge  of 
protracting  the  siege  unnecessarily. 

"The  Roman  people,"  says  Aurelian,  "speak 
with  contempt  of  the  war  I  am  waging  against  a 
woman.  They  are  ignorant  both  of  the  character 
and  of  the  power  of  Zenobia.  It  is  impossible  to 
enumerate  her  warlike  preparations  of  stones,  of 
arrows,  and  every  species  of  missile  weapons. 
Every  part  of  the  walls  is  provided  with  two  or 

149 


ZE 


ZO 


three  balistse,  and  artificial  fires  are  thrown  from 
her  military  engines.  The  fear  of  punishment 
has  armed  her  with  a  desperate  courage.  Yet 
still  I  trust  in  the  protecting  deities  of  Rome,  who 
have  hitherto  been  favourable  to  all  my  imder- 
takings." 

But  though  Aurelian  appeared  confident  of  final 
success,  yet  he  found  the  conquest  of  Palmyra  so 
difiBcult  that  he  proposed  very  advantageous  offers 
to  Zenobia,  if  she  would  submit  and  surrender  the 
the  city.  She  rejected  his  terms,  in  the  following 
haughty  letter,  addressed  to  the  emperor  himself : 

"It  is  not  by  writing,  but  by  arms,  that  the 
submission  you  require  from  me  can  be  obtained. 
You  have  dared  to  propose  my  surrender  to  your 
prowess.  You  forget  that  Cleopatra  preferred 
death  to  servitude.  The  Saracens,  the  Persians, 
the  Armenians,  are  marching  to  my  aid ;  and  how 
are  you  to  resist  our  united  forces,  who  have  been 
more  than  once  scared  by  the  plundering  Arabs 
of  the  desert  ?  When  you  shall  see  me  march  at 
the  head  of  my  allies,  you  will  not  repeat  an  inso- 
lent proposition,  as  though  you  were  already  my 
conqueror  and  master." 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  prudence  of 
this  reply,  the  courage  and  patriotism  of  the  queen 
are  shown  to  be  of  the  highest  order.  She  super- 
scribed this  daring  epistle,  "Zenobia,  Queen  of 
the  East,  to  Aurelian  Augustus." 

It  was  her  last  triumph.  She  held  out  a  long 
time,  expecting  aid  from  her  allies ;  but  the  dis- 
turbed state  of  the  country,  and  the  bribes  of  Au- 
relian, prevented  their  arrival.  After  protracting 
the  siege  as  long  as  possible,  Zenobia,  determined 
not  to  surrender,  mounted  one  of  the  swiftest  of 
her  dromedaries,  and  hastened  towards  the  Eu- 
phrates, with  a  view  of  seeking  an  asylum  in  the 
Persian  territories.  But  being  overtaken  in  her 
flight,  she  was  brought  back  to  Aurelian,  who 
sternly  demanded  of  her,  how  she  dared  to  resist 
the  emperors  of  Rome.  She  replied,  "Because  I 
could  not  recognise  as  such,  Gallienus  and  others 
like  him ;  you,  alone,  I  acknowledge  as  my  con- 
queror and  my  sovereign." 

At  Emessa,  the  fate  of  Zenobia  was  submitted 
to  the  judgment  of  a  tribunal,  at  which  Aurelian 
presided.  Hearing  the  soldiers  clamouring  for 
her  death,  Zenobia,  according  to  Zosimus,  weakly 
purchased  her  life,  with  the  sacrifice  of  her  well- 
earned  fame,  by  attributing  the  obstinacy  of  her 
resistance  to  the  advice  of  her  ministers.  It  is 
certain  that  these  men  were  put  to  death ;  and  as 
Zenobia  was  spared,  it  was  conjectured  her  accu- 
sations drew  down  the  vengeance  of  the  emperor 
on  the  heads  of  her  counsellors  ;  but  the  fact  has 
never  been  proven.  One  of  the  victims  of  this 
moment  of  cowardice,  was  the  celebrated  Lon- 
ginus,  who  calmly  resigned  himself  to  his  fate, 
pitying  his  unhappy  mistress,  and  comforting  his 
aSlicted  friends.     He  was  put  to  death  in  273. 

Zenobia,  reserved  to  grace  the  triumph  of  Aure- 
lian, was  taken  to  Rome,  which  she  entered  on 
foot,  preceding  a  magnificent  chariot,  designed  by 
her,  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity,  for  a  triumphal 
entry  into  Rome      She  was  bound  by  chains  of 


gold,  supported  by  a  slave,  and  so  loaded  with 
jewels,  that  she  almost  fainted  under  their  weight. 

She  was  afterwards  treated  more  humanely  by 
the  victor,  who  presented  her  an  elegant  residence 
near  the  Tiber,  about  twenty  miles  from  Rome, 
where  she  passed  the  rest  of  her  life  as  a  Roman 
matron,  emulating  the  virtues  of  Cornelia.  Whether 
she  conti'acted  a  second  marriage,  with  a  Roman 
senator,  as  some  have  asserted,  is  uncertain.  Her 
surviving  son,  Vhaballat,  withdrew  into  Armenia, 
where  he  possessed  a  small  principality,  granted 
him  by  the  emperor ;  her  daughters  contracted 
noble  alliances,  and  her  family  was  not  extinct 
in  the  fifth  century.  She  died  about  the  year 
300. 

Zenobia  had  written  a  "History  of  Egypt;" 
and,  previous  to  her  defeat  by  Aurelian,  she  inte- 
rested herself  in  the  theological  controversies  of 
the  times ;  and,  either  from  policy  or  principle, 
protected  Paul  of  Samosata,  the  celebrated  unita- 
tarian  philosopher,  whom  the  council  of  Antioch 
had  condemned.  In  estimating  her  character,  it 
may  well  be  said  that  she  was  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  women  who  have  swayed  the  sceptre 
of  royalty ;  in  every  virtue  which  adorns  high 
station,  as  far  superior  to  Aurelian,  as  soul  is 
superior  to  sense.  But  moral  energy  was  then 
overborne  by  physical  force  ;  the  era  was  impro- 
pitious  for  the  gentle  sex ;  yet  her  triumphs  and 
her  misfortunes  alike  display  the  wonderful  power 
of  woman's  spirit. 

ZOBEIDE,  or   ZOEBD-EL-KHEMATIN, 

That  is,  the  flower  of  women,  was  the  cousin 
and  wife  of  the  celebrated  caliph  Haroun  al  Ras- 
chid.  She  was  a  beautiful,  pious,  and  benevolent 
woman,  and  is  said  to  have  founded  the  city  of 
Tauris,  in  Persia.  She  is  frequently  mentioned 
in  the  "  Ai-abian  Nights."     She  died  in  831. 

ZOE, 

Fourth  wife  of  Leo  VI.,  emperor  of  Constanti- 
nople, was  mother  of  Constantine  Porphyrogeni- 
tus,  dui'ing  whose  minority,  912,  she  governed 
with  great  wisdom  and  fii-mness.  She  crushed 
the  rebellion  of  Constantine  Ducas,  made  peace 
with  the  Saracens,  and  obliged  the  Bulgarians  to 
return  to  their  own  country.  Though  thus  enti- 
tled to  the  gratitude  of  her  son  and  the  people, 
she  was  obliged,  by  the  intrigues  of  the  courtiers, 
to  retire  to  a  private  station,  and  she  died  in  exile. 

ZOE, 

Daughter  of  Constantine  IX.,  was  born  in  978. 
She  married  Argyrus,  who  succeeded  her  father ; 
but  she  soon  caused  her  husband  to  be  strangled, 
and  married  Michael  the  Paphlagonian,  whom  she 
placed  on  the  throne.  She  was  afterwards  con- 
fined in  a  monastery ;  but  on  Michael's  death,  in 
her  sixty-fourth  year,  she  married  Constantine 
Monomachus.  She  died  eight  years  after  this 
third  marriage,  in  1050.  Another  Zoe,  daughter 
of  the  Stylian,  married  the  emperor  Leo,  the  phi- 
losopher, and  died  in  less  than  two  years  after, 
in  893. 

150 


REMARKS  ON   THE  THIRD  ERA 


This  portion  of  time,  comprising  three  hundred  and  fifty  years,  commencing  with  the  year  1500 
and  closing  in  1850,  though  very  brief  compared  with  the  first  era,  and  short  even  when  measured  with 
the  second,  yet  contains  a  wonderfully  increased  number  of  remembered  names  among  the  female  sex. 
Many  of  these  have  by  their  writings  contributed  greatly  to  the  improvement  of  morals  in  literature 
and  society,  and  also  to  the  progress  of  popular  education:  some  have  become  celebrated  for  their 
attainments  in  science  and  art ;  and  a  considerable  number  have  "  put  on  the  whole  armour  of  God," 
and  gone  forth  as  messengers  of  good  tidings  to  their  heathen  sisters,  or  as  teachers  of  little  children 
in  the  way  of  righteousness.  These  have  been  the  loveliest  examples  of  true  piety,  manifested 
by  deeds  of  disinterested  benevolence  and  Christian  love,  which  have  blest  the  world  and  uplifted 
the  heart  of  humanity. 

We  have  now  reached  the  point  where  woman  has  gained  a  sure  foundation  on  which  to  build 
her  house,  if  she  is  wise,  (see  Proverbs  xiv.  1st  verse) :  that  foundation  is  a  knowledge  of  the  Word 
of  God. 

The  declaration  of  Jehovah  to  the  tempter  or  spirit  of  Evil, — "/  will  put  enmity  between  thee 
and  the  woman," — (which  is  explained  at  length  in  the  Preface)  may  be  traced  in  its  fulfilment 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  history,  profane  as  well  as  sacred.  The  tempter  has  assailed  men 
in  their  sensuous  nature,  changing  what  should  have  been  the  pure,  protecting  love,  sanctified  by 
the  true  marriage  of  one  man  with  one  woman,  into  unholy  lust,  which  degrades,  pollutes,  and  destroys 
all  hope  for  tlie  female  sex.  Licentiousness,  polygamy,  divorce  —  these  are  sins  against  woman  as 
well  as  against  God's  law,  established  at  the  Creation,  reiterated  in  the  four-fold  example  of  those 
saved  from  the  "  Flood ;"  but  which  law,  wicked  men,  instigated  by  the  devil,  have  in  every  age  of 
the  world  disregarded,  annulled,  or  broken.  Therefore  it  is  that  the  progress  of  human  nature,  in 
regaining  the  path  of  righteousness,  has  been  so  slow.  God  helped  the  physical  weakness  of  the 
first  woman  by  giving  to  her  keeping,  the  moral  destiny  of  her  husband  and  children,  in  the  Jiope 
of  the  promised  seed;  thus  God  sanctified,  by  a  spiritual  or  moral  providence*  the  honour  of  the 
mother's  office  and  the  glory  of  the  true  wife. 

Woman  was  again  aided  by  the  special  providence  which  shortened  human  life,  thus  rendering 
the  male  sex  dependent  on  female  care  and  training  for,  comparatively,  a  very  large  portion  of  their 
lives.  And,  lastly,  at  the  close  of  the  first  era,  when  the  moral  sense  or  instinct  of  woman  was 
nearly  darkened,  God  sent  forth  his  true  light,  constrained  men  to  see,  and  thus  saved  the  race. 

Rome's  last  patriot  was  a  woman,  the  noble-minded  Agrippina.  When  she  was  starved  to  death, 
by  order  of  the  brutal  Tiberius,  the  last  gleam  of  hope  for  hum.anity  seemed  fading  from  the  world. 
The  enmity  of  the  spirit  of  Evil  had  nearly  destroyed  the  purity,  and  with  it  the  power  for  good,  of 
the  female.  And  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  year  when  Agrippina  was  murdered  was  the  very 
year  in  which  Jesus  Christ  was  crucified !  But  His  death  was  followed  by  His  glorious  resurrec- 
tion, bringing  life  and  immortality  to  the  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  exalting  woman  by  making 
the  virtues  consonant  with  her  nature,  the  rule  for  man  also.  Thus  God  proclaimed  anew,  as  it 
were,  that  the  moral  power  of  the  world  was  confided  to  the  female  sex. 

*  I  term  that  a  moral prooidcnce,  where  divine  interposition  has  evidently  been  exerted  to  advance  the  moral  condition 
of  an  individual  or  a  people  :  giving  the  succession  to  Jacob;  saving  and  training  Moses;  and  preserving  the  Jews  under 
Ahasuerus,  were  eacii  and  all  moral  providences 

(151) 


152  REMARKS    ON    THE    THIRD    ERA. 

Jesus  Christ,  whose  life  and  lessons  were  a  stern  rebuke  of  the  selfishness,  licentiousness,  and 
unbelief  of  men,  and  the  true  witness  and  tender  encouragement  of  the  disinterestedness,  the  puritj 
or  penitence,  and  faith  of  woman,  Jesus  Christ  gave  the  first  mission  of  his  Gospel  to  his  female 
disciples.  These  were  sent  to  make  known  to  the  apostles  the  great  doctrine  they  were  to  preach 
to  all  the  world  —  that  Christ  was  risen  from  the  dead.  (See  St.  Mat.  xxviii.  9,  10. —  St.  John,  xx. 
17.)  Does  it  not  seem  impossible  that  men,  the  appointed  teachers  of  this  Gospel,  should  ever  have 
sought  to  disparage  and  degrade  the  sex  whose  faithfulness  and  devotion  the  Saviour  had  thus 
publicly  honoured  1  But  so  it  has  been.  The  Roman  Catholic  church  degraded  women,  when  it 
degraded  marriage  by  making  the  celibacy  of  the  priests  a  condition  of  greater  holiness  than  married 
life.  From  this  falsehood  against  the  Word  of  God,  came  those  corrupting  sins  which,  at  the  close 
of  our  Second  Era,  seemed  about  to  dissolve  the  whole  fabric  of  civilized  society,  and  spread  the 
most  polluting  crimes  of  heathen  nations  over  the  Christian  world.*  How  the  powers  of  darkness 
must  have  triumphed,  when  their  machinations  had  drawn  on  their  poor,  deluded  servants  to  destroy 
the  then  most  noble  and  wonderful  exemplar  of  female  purity,  patriotism,  and  piety,  the  world  con- 
tained !  The  fire  that  consumed  Joan  of  Arc  seemed  to  have  reduced  to  ashes  the  hopes  of  that 
progress  in  morality,  which  regard  for  its  development  in  the  female  character  can,  humanly  speaking, 
only  ensure.  But  God's  good  providence  again  baflled  the  powers  of  evil.  In  the  same  year,  per- 
chance at  the  very  moment  this  meek  martyr  patriot  laid  down  her  life,  there  was  a  poor,  persecuted 
exile  in  Strasburg,  carving  those  little  wooden  blocks,  destined  to  open  an  Art  which  would  ensure, 
to  the  end  of  time,  the  means  of  improvement  and  moral  influence  to  the  female  mind. 

The  art  of  printing  holds  the  next  place  to  the  Gospel,  in  the  emancipation  of  women  from  the 
power  of  wicked  men. 

When  the  great  Reformer  threw  his  ink-stand  at  the  demon  on  the  wall,  he  used  the  most  potent 
weapon  of  exorcism  against  the  powers  of  darkness  which  divine  Providence  had  then  put  into  his 
hands.  It  was  by  reading  the  Word  of  God  that  the  nine  nuns  of  Nimptsch  discerned  the  contrast 
between  the  Christian  life,  and  the  daily  routine  of  the  cloister.  They  left  their  superstitions  and 
returned  to  the  duties  God  imposes  on  the  sex.  Among  these  nuns  was  Catharine  Bora;  and  when 
Luther  made  his  declaration  of  uniting  himself  with  her  in  the  true  and  holy  marriage  ordained  by 
the  Creator  as  the  state  good  for  man,  then  the  Reformer  gave  a  surety  for  the  moral  progress  of 
humanity,  which  the  enemy  of  good  has  never  been  able  to  overcome.  But  this  improvement  is 
only  where  the  Bible  is  read,  and  its  authority  acknowledged.  The  Chinese  nation  cannot  advance 
in  moral  culture  while  their  women  are  consigned  to  ignorance  and  imbecility :  the  nations  of  the 
East  are  slaves  to  sensuality  and  sin,  as  well  as  to  foreign  masters;  and  thus  they  must  remain  till 
Christianity,  breaking  the  fetters  of  polygamy  from  the  female  sex,  shall  give  to  the  mothers  of 
men  freedom,  education,  and  influence. 

The  last  fifteen  hundred  years  hardly  add  a  leaf  to  our  record  from  the  life  of  heathendom ; 
but  the  Era  is  remarkable  for  the  development  of  genius  and  talent  in  a  new  race  of  women  — 
the  Anglo-Saxon.  Hitherto,  the  great  nations  of  antiquity,  with  those  of  Southern  and  Western 
Europe,  have  furnished  nearly  all  the  names  recorded.  Now  the  sceptre  of  female  power,  always 
founded  in  morals,  has  passed  to  the  British  Island,  and  from  thence  to  our  United  American  nation. 
The  reasons  are  obvious.  No  other  nations  have  the  Bible  in  their  homes;  or  the  preached  Gospel 
on  every  Sabbath ;  or  a  free  press ;  and  no  other  nations  have  guaranteed  the  personal  freedom 
of  subject  and  citizen.  As  men  reach  a  higher  standard  of  Christian  civilization,  their  minds 
are  lifted  up  to  understand  the  moral  nature  of  woman ;  then  their  estimate  of  her  fitness  to  aid  in 
the  great  movements  of  humanity  and  religion  is  exalted,  and  the  wife  goes  forth  lo  help  her  husband 
in  the  most  lofty  and  holy  mission  human  beings  can  hold, —  that  of  conveying  the  light  of  the 
Gospel  to  the  world  that  is  still  in  darkness. 

This  Third  Era  bears  the  names  of  illustrious  queens,  who  have  ruled  their  people  wi«h  a  wisdom 
above  that  of  kings ;  of  good  and  gifted  women  who  have  won  the  high  places  of  genius,  and  per- 
formed noble  deeds  of  philanthropy.  But  the  name  which,  concentrating  the  attributes  of  genius 
with  the  excellencies  of  female  character,  brought  out  in  the  heroism  of  acting  or  suffering  in  the 
greatest  cause,  is  that  of  Ann  H.  Judson. 

*  "Such  was  the  almost  universal  corruption  of  the  clergy  during  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  that  the  priestly 
office  had  fallen  into  almost  general  disrepute:  the  isolated  virtue  of  a  few  faithful  servants  of  God  had  not  sufficed  to 
redeem  it  from  contempt.  The  Reformation,  by  abolishing  the  celibacy  of  the  ecclesiastics,  restored  the  sanctity  of  wed- 
lock. The  marriage  of  the  clergy  put  an  end  to  an  untold  amount  of  secret  profligacy.  The  Reformers  became  examples 
to  their  flocks  in  the  most  endearing  and  important  of  human  relationship, — and  it  was  not  long  before  the  people  rejoiced 
to  see  the  ministers  of  religion  in  the  character  of  husbands  and  falhers."—D'jlubigne's  History  of  the  Reformation. 


THIRD   EUA. 


FROM   THE    YEAR    1500    TO    1850.* 


A. 

ABARCA,    MARIA   DE, 

A  Spanish  lady,  distinguished  herself,  in  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  by  the  peculiar 
excellence  of  the  portraits  she  painted.  She  was 
contemporary  with  Rubens  and  Velasquez,  by  whom 
she  was  much  esteemed.  The  time  of  her  death 
is  unknown. 

ABINGTON,  FRANCES, 
An  eminent  English  actress,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Barton,  was  born  in  1735.  Some  part  of  her 
earlier  life  she  is  said  to  have  spent  in  great 
poverty,  and  when  about  fifteen,  she  joined  a  com- 
pany of  strolling  players.  In  1752,  she  was  en- 
gaged at  the  Haymarket,  London,  where  she  was 
received  with  great  applause.  In  1755,  she  mar- 
ried Mr.  James  Abington,  and  in  1759,  she  left 
London  for  Dublin,  where  she  was  long  the  chief 
theatrical  favourite.  Her  forte  was  in  comedy ; 
and  as  the  finished  lady,  or  romping  chambermaid, 
she  was  equally  at  home.  In  1761,  Mrs.  Abington 
left  her  husband  to  reside  with  Mr.  Needham,  who 
bequeathed  her  part  of  his  fortune  at  his  death. 
In  1799  she  quitted  the  stage,  and  died  at  London 
in  1815. 

ACCIAIOLI,    MAGDALEN, 
A  NATIVE  of  Florence,  celebrated  for  her  beauty 
and  genius.     She  was  a  great  favourite  of  Chris- 
tina, duchess  of  Tuscany,  and  wrote  poems  in  a 
very  pleasing  and  elegant  style.    She  died  in  1610. 

ACCORAMBONI,  VITTORIA, 
Was  born  in  1585,  of  a  noble  family,  in  Agudio, 
a  little  town  of  the  duchy  of  Urbino.  From  her  in- 
fancy, she  was  remarked  for  extraordinary  beauty 
and  loveliness.  Her  father  established  his  resi- 
dence at  Rome  during  her  early  youth ;  there  she 
became  the  "  cynosure"  of  the  neighbouring  no- 
bility, as  well  as  that  of  Rome.  Her  father  mar- 
ried her  to  Felice  Peretti,  nephew  and  adopted 
son  of  the  cardinal  Montalto,  afterwards  Pope 
Sixtus  V.  In  the  family  of  her  husband  she  was 
adored,  and  all  her  desires  anticipated ;  when,  in 

*  Including  the  names  of  all  the  distinguished   women 
wlio  are  deceased. 


the  midst  of  seeming  prosperity  and  delight,  Pe- 
retti was  entrapped  into  a  solitary  situation,  and 
murdered.  Rumour  attributed  this  assassination 
to  the  prince  Paolo  Orsini,  who  was  madly  ena- 
moured of  Vittoria;  nor  was  she  free  from  sus- 
picion of  having  consented  to  this  crime.  She 
certainly  jiistified  her  accusers,  by  speedily  imiting 
herself  in  marriage  to  the  prince.  From  this  step, 
sprang  her  melancholy  catastrophe.  Orsini  was 
not  young ;  he  had  grown  enormously  stout,  and 
was  aiBicted  with  complaints  that  menaced  him 
with  sudden  death.  In  order  to  provide  for  the 
possible  widowhood  of  his  young  wife,  he  made  a 
will,  which,  by  endowing  her  largely,  awakened 
the  cupidity  and  animosity  of  his  natural  heirs. 
After  his  death,  which  happened  as  had  been 
anticipated,  at  the  conclusion  of  an  inordinate 
feast,  the  duchess  took  possession  of  her  inherit- 
ance. She  was  not  allowed  to  enjoy  it  long;  her 
palace  was  entered  by  forty  masked  assassins, 
who  cruelly  plunged  a  dagger  in  her  heart,  and 
besides,  murdered  her  brother,  who  resided  with 
her. 

She  takes  a  place  among  the  literary  women  of 
Italy,  having  been  admired  for  her  poetical  talents 
during  her  life.  And  there  exists  in  the  Ambro- 
sian  library  at  Milan,  a  volume  of  her  sonnets,  full 
of  grace  and  sentiment. 

153 


AC 


AD 


ACKLAND,   LADY   HARRIET, 

Wife  of  Major  Ackland,  an  officer  in  that  por- 
tion of  the  British  army  in  America  under  the  com- 
mand of  General  Burgoyne,  accompanied  her  hus- 
band to  America  in  1776,  and  was  with  him  during 
the  disastrous  campaign  of  1777,  wliich  terminated 
in  Burgoyne's  surrender  at  Saratoga.  Accustomed 
as  she  was  to  every  luxury,  she  shrank  from  no 
hardship  or  danger,  while  allowed  to  remain  with 
her  husband  ;  and  her  gentleness  and  conciliatory 
manners  often  softened  the  bitterness  of  political 
animosity. 

Major  Ackland  being  taken  prisoner  at  the 
battle  of  Saratoga,  Lady  Harriet  determined  to 
join  him ;  and  obtaining  from  Burgoyne  a  note, 
commending  her  to  the  protection  of  General 
Gates,  she  set  out  in  an  open  boat,  during  a  vio- 
lent storm,  accompanied  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Brude- 
nell,  a  chaplain  in  the  British  army,  her  own  maid 
and  her  husband's  valet,  to  the  American  camp. 
Here  she  was  kindly  received,  and  allowed  to  join 
her  husband.  After  Major  Ackland' s  return  to  Eng- 
land, he  was  killed  in  a  duel,  caused  by  his  resent- 
ing some  aspersions  cast  on  the  bravery  of  the  Bri- 
tish soldiers  in  America ;  and  the  shock  of  his  death 
deprived  Lady  Harriet  of  her  reason  for  two  years. 
She  afterwards  married  the  same  Mr.  Brudenell 
who  had  accompanied  her  to  the  camp  of  General 
Gates.  Lady  Harriet  outlived  her  second  husband 
many  years,  and  died  at  a  very  advanced  age. 

In  a  work  by  Madame  de  Riedesel,  who  was 
also  at  the  battle  of  Saratoga,  (her  husband.  Major 
de  Riedesel,  was  one  of  the  German  officers  em- 
ployed by  the  English  government  in  the  war 
against  the  American  colonies,)  she  makes  this 
mention  of  the  subject  of  our  memoir: 

"  Lady  Ackland' s  tent  was  near  ours.  She 
slept  there,  and  spent  the  day  in  the  camp.  On 
a  sudden,  she  received  the  news  that  her  husband 
was  mortally  wounded,  and  taken  prisoner.  She 
was  greatly  distressed ;  for  she  was  much  attached 
to  him,  though  he  was  rude  and  intemperate ;  yet 
a  good  officex'.  She  was  a  very  lovely  woman. 
And  lovely  in  mind,  as  in  person." 

ADAMS,  ABIGAIL, 
Wife  of  John  Adams,  second  President  of  the 
United  States,  was  daughter  of  the  Rev.  William 
Smith,  minister  of  a  Congregational  church  at  Wey- 
mouth, Massachusetts,  and  of  Elizabeth  Quincy. 
She  was  born  Nov.  22d,  1744,  and,  in  Oct.  1767, 
married  .John  Adams,  then  a  lawyer,  residing  at 
Weymouth.  Mr.  Adams  was  appointed  minister 
plenipotentiary  to  the  court  of  Great  Britain,  and, 
in  1784,  Mrs.  Adams  sailed  from  Boston  to  join 
him.  She  returned  in  1788,  having  passed  one  year 
in  France  and  three  in  England.  On  her  husband's 
being  appointed  Vice  President,  in  1789,  she  went 
to  reside  at  Philadelphia,  then  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment, with  him;  as  she  also  did  when  he  was 
chosen  President,  in  1797.  After  Mr.  Adams'  de- 
feat, in  1800,  they  retired  to  Quincy,  where  Mrs. 
Adams  died,  Oct.  28th,  1818.  Her  letters  to  her 
son,  John  Quincy  Adams,  were  very  much  admired. 
She  was  a  woman  of  true  greatness  and  elevation 


of  mind,  and,  whether  m  public  or  private  life, 
she  always  preserved  the  same  dignified  and  tran- 
quil demeanour.  As  the  mistress  of  a  household, 
she  united  the  prudence  of  a  rigid  economist  with 
the  generous  spirit  of  a  liberal  hospitality ;  faith- 
ful and  affectionate  in  her  friendships,  bountiful 
to  the  poor,  kind  and  courteous  to  her  dependants, 
cheerful,  and  charitable  in  the  intercourse  of  social 
life  with  her  neighbours  and  acquaintances,  she 
lived  in  the  habitual  practice  of  benevolence,  and 
sincere,  unaflTected  piety.  In  her  family  relations, 
few  women  have  left  a  pattern  more  worthy  of 
imitation  by  her  sex. 

Her  letters  have  been  collected,  and,  with  a  Bi- 
ographical Sketch  by  her  grand-son,  Charles  F. 
Adams,  were  published  some  years  since.  We  will 
give  a  few  extracts,  first,  from  a  letter  to  her  son, 
John  Quincy  Adams,  the  sixth  President  of  the 
United  States. 

*  *  *  * 

"  Your  father's  letters  came  to  Salem,  yours  to 
Newburyport,  and  soon  gave  ease  to  my  anxiety, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  excited  gratitude  and 
thankfulness  to  Heaven,  for  the  preservation  you 
all  experienced  in  the  imminent  dangers  which 
threatened  you.  You  express,  in  both  your  let- 
ters, a  degree  of  thankfulness.  I  hope  it  amounts 
to  more  than  words,  and  that  you  will  never  be 
insensible  to  the  particular  preservation  you  have 
experienced  in  both  your  voyages.  You  have  seen 
how  inadequate  the  aid  of  man  would  have  been, 
if  the  winds  and  the  seas  had  not  been  under 
the  particular  government  of  that  Being,  who 
'  stretched  out  the  heavens  as  a  span,'  who  'hold- 
eth  the  ocean  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,'  and 
'rideth  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.' 

"  If  you  have  a  due  sense  of  your  preservation, 
your  next  consideration  will  be,  for  what  purpose 
you  are  continued  in  life.  It  is  not  to  rove  from 
clime  to  clime,  to  gratify  an  idle  curiosity ;  but 
every  new  mercy  you  receive  is  a  new  debt  upon 
you,  a  new  obligation  to  a  diligent  discharge  of 
the  various  relations  in  which  you  stand  connected ; 
in  the  first  place,  to  your  great  Preserver ;  in  the 
next,  to  society  in  general ;  in  particular,  to  your 
country,  to  your  parents,  and  to  yourself. 

154 


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"  The  only  sui-e  and  permanent  foundation  of  vir- 
tue is  religion.  Let  this  important  truth  be  en- 
graven upon  your  heart.  And  also,  that  the  foun- 
dation of  religion  is  the  belief  of  the  one  only 
God,  and  a  just  sense  of  his  attributes,  as  a  being 
infinitely  wise,  just,  and  good,  to  whom  you  owe 
the  highest  reverence,  gratitude,  and  adoration ; 
who  superintends  and  governs  all  nature,  even  to 
clothing  the  lilies  of  the  field,  and  hearing  the 
young  ravens  when  they  cry ;  but  more  particu- 
larly regards  man,  whom  he  created  after  his  own 
image,  and  breathed  into  him  an  immortal  spirit, 
capable  of  a  happiness  beyond  the  grave  ;  for  the 
attainment  of  which  he  is  bound  to  the  perform- 
ance of  certain  duties,  which  all  tend  to  the  hap- 
piness and  welfare  of  society,  and  are  comprised 
in  one  short  sentence,  expressive  of  universal  be- 
nevoler»ce,  '  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  as  thy- 
self.' This  is  elegantly  defined  by  Mr.  Pope,  in 
his  '  Essay  on  Man.' 

'Remember,  man,  the  universal  cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws, 
And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly  call, 
Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all. 
There's  not  a  blessing  individuals  find. 
But  some  way  leans  and  hearkens  to  the  kind.' 

"  Thus  has  the  Supreme  Being  made  the  good  will 
of  man  towards  his  fellow-creatures  an  evidence 
of  his  regard  to  Him,  and  for  this  purpose  has 
constituted  him  a  dependent  being  and  made  his 
happiness  to  consist  in  society.  Man  early  disco- 
vered this  propensity  of  his  nature,  and  found 

'  Eden  was  tasteless  till  an  Eve  was  there.' 

*'  Justice,  humanity,  and  benevolence  are  the  du- 
ties you  owe  to  society  in  general.  To  your  coun- 
try the  same  duties  are  incumbent  upon  you,  with 
the  additional  obligation  of  sacrificing  ease,  plea- 
sure, wealth,  and  life  itself  for  its  defence  and 
security.  To  your  parents  you  owe  love,  reve- 
rence, and  obedience  to  all  just  and  equitable 
commands.  To  yourself, — here,  indeed,  is  a  wide 
field  to  expatiate  upon.  To  become  what  you 
ought  to  be,  and  what  a  fond  mother  wishes  to 
see  you,  attend  to  some  precepts  and  instructions 
from  the  pen  of  one,  who  can  have  no  motive  but 
your  welfare  and  happiness,  and  who  wishes,  in 
this  way,  to  supply  to  you  the  personal  watchful- 
ness and  care,  which  a  separation  from  you  de- 
prived you  of  at  a  period  of  life,  when  habits  are 
easiest  acquired  and  fixed ;  and,  though  the  ad- 
vice may  not  be  new,  yet  suffer  it  to  obtain  a  place 
in  your  memory,  for  occasions  may  offer,  and  per- 
haps some  concurring  circumstances  unite,  to  give 
it  weight  and  force. 

"  Suffer  me  to  recommend  to  you  one  of  the 
most  useful  lessons  of  life,  the  knowledge  and 
study  of  yourself.  There  you  run  the  greatest 
hazard  of  being  deceived.  Self-love  and  partiality 
cast  a  mist  before  the  eyes,  and  there  is  no  know- 
ledge so  hard  to  be  acquired,  nor  of  more  benefit 
when  once  thoroughly  understood.  Ungoverned 
passions  have  aptly  been  compared  to  the  boister- 
ous ocean,  which  is  known  to  produce  the  most 
terrible  effects.  '  Passions  are  the  elements  of 
life,'  but  elements  which  are  subject  to  the  control 


of  reason.  Whoever  will  candidly  examine  them- 
selves, will  find  some  degree  of  passion,  peevish- 
ness, or  obstinacy  in  their  natural  tempers.  You 
will  seldom  find  these  disagreeable  ingredients  all 
united  in  one ;  but  the  uncontrolled  indulgence 
of  either  is  sufficient  to  render  the  possessor  un- 
happy in  himself,  and  disagreeable  to  all  who  are 
so  unhappy  as  to  be  witnesses  of  it,  or  suffer  from 
its  effects. 

"  You,  my  dear  son,  are  formed  with  a  consti- 
tution feelingly  alive ;  your  passions  are  strong 
and  impetuous ;  and,  though  I  have  sometimes 
seen  them  hurry  you  into  excesses,  yet  with  plea- 
sure I  have  observed  a  frankness  and  generosity 
accompany  your  efforts  to  govern  and  subdue  them. 
Few  persons  are  so  subject  to  passion,  but  that 
they  can  command  themselves,  when  they  have  a 
motive  sufficiently  strong ;  and  those  who  are 
most  apt  to  transgress  will  restrain  themselves 
through  respect  and  reverence  to  superiors,  and 
even,  where  they  wish  to  recommend  themselves, 
to  their  equals.  The  due  government  of  the  pas- 
sions, has  been  considered  in  all  ages  as  a  most 
valuable  acquisition.  Hence  an  inspired  wi'iter 
observes,  '  He  that  is  slow  to  anger,  is  better  than 
the  mighty ;  and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he 
that  taketh  a  city.'  This  passion,  co-operating 
with  power,  and  unrestrained  by  reason,  has  pro- 
duced the  subversion  of  cities,  the  desolation  of 
countries,  the  massacre  of  nations,  and  filled  the 
world  with  injustice  and  oppression.  Behold  your 
own  country,  your  native  land,  suffering  from  the 
effects  of  lawless  power  and  malignant  passions, 
and  learn  betimes,  from  your  own  observation  and 
experience,  to  govern  and  control  yourself.  Hav- 
ing once  obtained  this  self-government,  you  will 
find  a  foundation  laid  for  happiness  to  yourself 
and  usefulness  to  mankind.  '  Virtue  alone  is 
happiness  below ;'  and  consists  in  cultivating  and 
improving  every  good  inclination,  aiad  in  checking 
and  subduing  every  propensity  to  evil.  I  have 
been  particular  upon  the  passion  of  anger,  as  it  is 
generally  the  most  predominant  passion  at  youi- 
age,  the  soonest  excited,  and  the  least  pains  are 
taken  to  subdue  it ; 

— '  what  composes  man,  can  man  destroy.' 

"I  do  not  mean,  however,  to  have  you  insensi- 
ble to  real  injuries.  He  who  will  not  turn  when 
he  is  trodden  upon  is  deficient  in  point  of  spirit  ; 
yet,  if  you  can  preserve  good-breeding  and  decency 
of  manners,  you  will  have  an  advantage  over  the 
aggressor,  and  will  maintain  a  dignity  of  charac- 
ter which  will  always  insure  you  respect,  even 
from  the  offender. 

"  I  will  not  overburden  your  mind  at  this  time. 
I  mean  to  pureue  the  subject  of  self-knowledge  in 
some  future  letter,  and  give  you  my  sentiments 
upon  your  future  conduct  in  life,  when  I  feel  dis- 
posed to  resume  my  pen. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  be  assured,  no  one  is  more 
sincerely  interested  in  your  happiness,  than  your 
ever  affectionate  mother." 

From  another  letter  to  this  her  favoiu-ite  son, 
of  a  later  date,  we  will  add  a  few  sentences  which 
breathe  the  true  mother's  heart. 

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♦♦After  two  years'  silence,  and  a  journey  of 
which  I  can  scarcely  form  an  idea,  to  find  you 
safely  returned  to  your  parent,  to  hear  of  your 
health  and  to  see  your  improvements  !  You  can- 
not know,  should  I  describe  to  you,  the  feelings 
of  a  parent.  Through  your  father,  I  sometimes 
heard  from  you,  but  one  letter  only  ever  reached 
me  after  you  arrived  in  Kussia.  Your  excuses, 
however,  have  weight  and  are  accepted ;  but  you 
must  give  them  further  energy  by  a  ready  atten- 
tion to  your  pen  in  future.  Four  years  have 
already  passed  away  since  you  left  your  native 
land  and  this  rural  cottage  ;  humble  indeed  when 
compared  to  the  palaces  you  have  visited,  and  the 
pomp  you  have  been  witness  to ;  but  I  dare  say, 
you  have  not  been  so  inattentive  an  observer  as  to 
suppose,  that  sweet  peace  and  contentment  can- 
not inhabit  the  lowly  roof  and  bleBs  the  tranquil 
inhabitants,  equally  guarded  and  protected  in  per- 
son and  property  in  this  happy  country  as  those 
who  reside  in  the  most  elegant  and  costly  dwell- 
ings. If  you  live  to  retui-n,  I  can  form  to  myself 
an  idea  of  the  pleasure  you  will  take  in  treading 
over  the  ground  and  visiting  every  place  yoiu* 
early  years  were  accustomed  wantonly  to  gambol 
in;  even  the  rocky  common  and  lowly  whortle- 
berry bush  will  not  be  without  their  beauties. 

"  My  anxieties  have  been  and  still  are  great, 
lest  the  numerous  temptations  and  snares  of  vice 
should  vitiate  your  early  habits  of  virtue,  and  de- 
sti'oy  those  principles,  which  you  are  now  capable 
of  reasoning  upon,  and  discerning  the  beauty  and 
utility  of,  as  the  only  rational  source  of  happiness 
here,  or  foundation  of  felicity  hereafter.  Placed 
as  we  are  in  a  transitory  scene  of  probation,  draw- 
ing nigher  and  still  nigher  day  after  day  to  that 
important  crisis  which  must  introduce  us  into  a 
new  system  of  things,  it  ought  certainly  to  be  our 
principal  concern  to  become  qualified  for  our  ex- 
pected dignity. 

"  What  is  it,  that  affectionate  parents  require 
of  their  children,  for  all  their  care,  anxiety,  and 
toil  on  their  account  ?  Only  that  they  would  be 
wise  and  virtuous,  benevolent  and  kind. 

"  Ever  keep  in  mind,  my  son,  that  your  parents 
are  your  disinterested  friends,  and  that  if,  at  any 
time,  their  advice  militates  with  your  own  opinion 
or  the  advice  of  others,  you  ought  always  to  be 
diffident  of  your  own  judgment ;  because  you  may 
rest  assm-ed,  that  their  opinion  is  founded  on  ex- 
perience and  long  observation,  and  that  they  would 
not  direct  you  but  to  promote  your  happiness. 
Be  thankful  to  a  kind  Providence,  who  has  hither- 
to preserved  the  lives  of  your  parents,  the  natural 
guardians  of  your  youthful  years.  AVith  gratitude 
I  look  up  to  Heaven,  blessing  the  hand  which 
continued  to  me  my  dear  and  honoured  parents 
until  I  was  settled  in  life ;  and,  though  now  I 
regret  the  loss  of  them,  and  daily  feel  the  want  of 
their  advice  and  assistance,  I  cannot  suffer  as  I 
should  have  done,  if  I  had  been  early  deprived  of 
them." 

*  *  *  *  * 

We  will  now  give  a  few  extracts  from  the  letters 
to  her  husband ; — and  first,  from  one  dated  Oc- 
tober 25th,  1782. 


"  My  dearest  Friend, 

"The  family  are  all  retired  to  rest;  the  busy 
scenes  of  the  day  are  over ;  a  day  which  I  wished 
to  have  devoted  in  a  particular  manner  to  my 
dearest  friend ;  but  company  falling  in  prevented 
it,  nor  could  I  claim  a  moment  until  this  silent 
watch  of  the  night. 

"Look,  (is  there  a  dearer  name  than  friend? 
Think  of  it  for  me,)  look  to  the  date  of  this  letter, 
and  tell  me,  what  are  the  thoughts  which  arise  in 
your  mind  ?  Do  you  not  recollect  that  eighteen 
years  have  run  their  circuit  since  we  pledged  our 
mutual  faith  to  each  other,  and  the  hymeneal 
torch  was  lighted  at  the  altar  of  love  ?  Yet,  yet 
it  burns  with  unabating  fervour.  Old  Ocean  has 
not  quenched  it,  nor  old  Time  smothered  it  in  this 
bosom.  It  cheers  me  in  the  lonely  hour ;  it  com- 
forts me  even  in  the  gloom  which  sometimes  pos- 
sesses my  mind. 

"  It  is,  my  friend,  from  the  remembrance  of  the 
joys  I  have  lost,  that  the  arrow  of  affliction  is 
pointed.  I  recollect  the  untitled  man  to  whom  I 
gave  my  heart,  and,  in  the  agony  of  recollection, 
when  time  and  distance  present  themselves  to- 
gether, wish  he  had  never  been  any  other.  Who 
shall  give  me  back  time  ?  Who  shall  compensate 
to  me  those  years  I  cannot  recall  ?  How  dearly 
have  I  paid  for  a  titled  husband  ?  Should  I  wish 
you  less  wise,  that  I  might  enjoy  more  happiness? 
I  cannot  find  that  in  my  heart.  Yet  Providence 
has  wisely  placed  the  real  blessings  of  life  within 
the  reach  of  moderate  abilities ;  and  he  who  is 
wiser  than  his  neighbour  sees  so  much  more  to 
pity  and  lament,  that  I  doubt  whether  the  balance 
of  happiness  is  in  his  scale. 

"  I  feel  a  disposition  to  quarrel  with  a  race  of 
beings  who  have  cut  me  off,  in  the  midst  of  my 
days,  from  the  only  society  I  delighted  in.  '  Yet 
no  man  liveth  for  himself,'  says  an  authority  I  will 
not  dispute.  Let  me  draw  satisfaction  from  this 
source,  and,  instead  of  murmuring  and  repining  at 
my  lot,  consider  it  in  a  more  pleasing  view.  Let 
me  suppose,  that  the  same  gracious  Being,  who 
first  smiled  upon  our  union  and  blessed  us  in  each 
other,  endowed  my  friend  with  powers  and  talents 
for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  and  gave  him  a  willing 
mind  to  improve  them  for  the  service  of  his  coun- 
try. You  have  obtained  honour  and  reputation 
at  home  and  abroad.  Oh !  may  not  an  inglorious 
peace  wither  the  laurels  you  have  won. 

' '  I  wrote  you  by  Captain  Grinnell.  The  Firebrand 
is  in  great  haste  to  return,  and  I  fear  will  not  give 
me  time  to  say  half  I  wish.  I  want  you  to  say 
many  more  things  to  me  than  you  do ;  but  you 
write  so  wise,  so  like  a  minister  of  state.  I  know 
your  embarrassments.  Thus  again  I  pay  for  titles. 
Life  takes  its  complexion  from  inferior  things.  It 
is  little  attentions  and  assiduities  that  sweeten  the 
bitter  draught  and  smooth  the  rugged  road. 

"  I  have  repeatedly  expressed  my  desire  to  make 
a  part  of  your  family.  But  '  Will  you  come  and 
see  me?'  cannot  be  taken  in  that  serious  light  I 
should  choose  to  consider  an  invitation  from  those 
I  love.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  you  would  be  glad 
to  see  me,  but  I  know  you  are  apprehensive  of 
dangers  and  fatigues.     I  know  your  situation  may 

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be  unsettled,  and  it  may  be  more  permanent  than 
I  wish  it.  Only  think  how  the  words,  'three, 
four,  and  five  years'  absence '  sound  !  They  sink 
into  my  heart  with  a  weight  I  cannot  express. 
Do  you  look  like  the  miniature  you  sent  ?  I  can- 
not think  so.  But  you  have  a  better  likeness,  I 
am  told.  Is  that  designed  for  me?  Gracious 
Heaven !  restore  to  me  the  original,  and  I  care 
not  who  has  the  shadow." 

*  ^-  *  *  * 

From   another  letter   of  November,  the  same 
year : — 
"  My  dearest  Friend, 

"  I  have  lived  to  see  the  close  of  the  third  year 
of  our  separation.  This  is  a  melancholy  anniver- 
sary to  me,  and  many  tender  scenes  arise  in  my 
mind  upon  the  recollection.  I  feel  unable  to  sus- 
tain even  the  idea  that  it  will  be  half  that  period 
ere  we  meet  again.  Life  is  too  short  to  have  the 
dearest  of  its  enjoyments  curtailed;  the  social 
feelings  grow  callous  by  disuse,  and  lose  that 
pliancy  of  affection  which  sweetens  the  cup  of  life 
as  we  drink  it.  The  rational  pleasures  of  friend- 
ship and  society,  and  the  still  more  refined  sensa- 
tions of  which  delicate  minds  only  are  susceptible, 
like  the  tender  blossom,  when  the  rude  northern 
blasts  assail  them,  shrink  within  and  collect  them- 
selves together,  deprived  of  the  all-cheering  and 
beamy  influence  of  the  sun.  The  blossom  falls, 
and  the  fruit  withers  and  decays ;  but  here  the 
similitude  fails,  for,  though  lost  for  the  present, 
the  season  returns,  the  tree  vegetates  anew,  and 
the  blossom  again  puts  forth. 

"But,  alas  !  with  me  those  days  which  are  past 
are  gone  for  ever,  and  time  is  hastening  on  that 
period  when  I  must  fall  to  rise  no  more,  until 
mortality  shall  put  on  immortality,  and  we  shall 
meet  again,  pure  and  disembodied  spirits.  Could 
we  live  to  the  age  of  the  antediluvians,  we  might 
better  support  this  separation ;  but,  when  three- 
score years  and  ten  circumscribe  the  life  of  man, 
how  painful  is  the  idea,  that,  of  that  short  space, 
only  a  few  years  of  social  happiness  are  our  al- 
lotted portion  ! 

'  Should  at  my  feet  the  world's  great  master  fall, 
Himself,  his  world,  his  throne,  I  'd  scorn  them  all.' 

"  No.  Give  me  the  man  Hove ;  you  are  neither 
of  an  age  or  temper  to  be  allured  by  the  splendour 
of  a  court,  or  the  smiles  of  princesses.  I  never 
suffered  an  uneasy  sensation  on  that  account.  I 
know  I  have  a  right  to  your  whole  heart,  because 
my  own  never  knew  another  lord ;  and  such  is  my 
confidence  in  you,  that,  if  you  were  not  withheld 
by  the  strongest  of  all  obligations,  those  of  a  mo- 
ral nature,  your  honour  would  not  suffer  you  to 
abuse  my  confidence." 

Here  is  the  description  of  a  scene  in  London, 
when  Mrs.  Adams  was  there,  in  1786. 

"  London,  2  April,  1786. 

"  Your  kind  letter,  my  dear  niece,  was  received 
with  much  pleasure.  These  tokens  of  love  and 
regard,  which  I  know  flow  from  the  heart,  always 
find  their  way  to  mine,  and  give  me  a  satisfaction 
and  pleasure  beyond  anything  which  the  ceremony 
and  pomp  of  courts  and   kingdoms   can   afford. 


The  social  affections  are  and  may  be  made  the 
truest  channels  for  our  pleasures  and  comforts  to 
flow  through.  Heaven  formed  us  not  for  our- 
selves but  others, 

'  And  bade  self-love  and  social  be  the  same.' 

"  Perhaps  there  is  no  country  where  there  is  a 
fuller  exercise  of  those  virtues  than  ours  at  pre- 
sent exhibits,  which  is,  in  a  great  measure,  owing 
to  the  equal  distribution  of  property,  the  small 
number  of  inhabitants  in  proportion  to  its  terri- 
tory, the  equal  distribution  of  justice  to  the  poor 
as  well  as  the  rich,  to  a  government  founded  in 
justice  and  exercised  with  impartiality,  and  to  a 
religion  which  teaches  peace  and  good- will  to  man ; 
to  knowledge  and  learning  being  so  easily  acquired 
and  so  universally  distributed ;  and  to  that  sense 
of  moral  obligation  which  generally  inclines  our 
countrymen  to  do  to  others  as  they  would  that 
others  should  do  to  them.  Perhaps  you  will 
think  that  I  allow  to  them  more  than  they  deserve, 
but  you  will  consider  that  I  am  only  speaking 
comparatively.  Human  nature  is  much  the  same 
in  all  countries,  but  it  is  the  government,  the 
laws,  and  religion,  which  form  the  character  of  a 
nation.  Wherever  luxury  abounds,  there  you  will 
find  corruption  and  degeneracy  of  manners. 
Wretches  that  we  are,  thus  to  misuse  the  bounties 
of  Providence,  to  forget  the  hand  that  blesses  us, 
and  even  deny  the  source  from  whence  we  derived 
our  being. 

"  But  I  grow  too  serious.  To  amuse  you,  then, 
my  dear  niece,  I  will  give  you  an  account  of  the 
dress  of  the  ladies  at  the  ball  of  the  Comte  d'Ad- 
h^mar ;  as  your  cousin  tells  me  that  she  some  time 
ago  gave  you  a  history  of  the  birth-day  and  ball 
at  court,  this  may  serve  as  a  counterpart.  Though, 
should  I  attempt  to  compare  the  apartments,  St. 
James's  would  fall  as  much  short  of  the  French 
Ambassador's,  as  the  court  of  his  Britannic  Ma- 
jesty does  of  the  splendour  and  magnificence  of 
that  of  his  Most  Christian  Majesty.  I  am  sure  I 
never  saw  an  assembly  room  in  America,  which 
did  not  exceed  that  at  St.  James's  in  point  of  ele- 
gance and  decoration ;  and,  as  to  its  fair  visitors, 
not  all  their  blaze  of  diamonds  set  off  with  Pari- 
sian rouge,  can  match  the  blooming  health,  the 
sparkling  eye,  and  modest  deportment  of  the  dear 
girls  of  my  native  land.  As  to  the  dancing,  the 
space  they  had  to  move  in  gave  them  no  opportu- 
nity to  display  the  grace  of  a  minuet,  and  the  full 
di'ess  of  long  court-trains  and  enormous  hoops, 
you  well  know  were  not  favourable  for  country 
dances,  so  that  I  saw  them  at  every  disadvantage  ; 
not  so  the  other  evening.  They  were  much  more 
properly  clad; — silk  waists,  gauze,  or  white  or 
painted  tiffany  coats,  decorated  with  ribbon,  beads, 
or  flowers,  as  fancy  directed,  were  chiefly  worn 
by  the  young  ladies.  Hats  turned  up  at  the  sides 
with  diamond  loops  and  buttons  of  steel,  large 
bows  of  ribbons  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  displayed 
themselves  to  much  advantage  upon  the  heads  of 
some  of  the  prettiest  girls  England  can  boast. 
The  light  from  the  lustres  is  more  favourable  to 
beauty  than  daylight,  and  the  colour  acquired  by 
dancing,   more   becoming   than   rouge,    as   fancy 

157 


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dresses  are  more  favourable  to  youth  than  the  for- 
mality of  a  uniform.  There  was  as  great  a  variety 
of  pretty  dresses,  borrowed  wholly  from  France, 
as  I  have  ever  seen ;  and  amongst  the  rest,  some 
with  sapphire-blue  satin  waists,  spangled  with  sil- 
ver, and  laced  down  the  back  and  seams  with  silver 
sti'ipes  ;  white  satin  petticoats  trimmed  with  black 
and  blue  velvet  ribbon ;  an  odd  kind  of  head-dress, 
which  they  term  the  'helmet  of  Minerva.'  I  did 
not  observe  the  bird  of  wisdom,  however,  nor  do 
I  know  whether  those  who  wore  the  dress  had 
suitable  pretensions  to  it.  'And  pray,'  say  you, 
'  how  were  my  aunt  and  cousin  dressed  ?'  If  it 
will  gratify  you  to  know,  you  shall  hear.  Your 
aunt,  then,  wore  a  full-dress  court  cap  without  the 
lappets,  in  which  was  a  wreath  of  white  flowers, 
and  blue  sheafs,  two  black  and  blue  flat  feathers 
(which  cost  her  half  a  guinea  a-piece,  but  that 
you  need  not  tell  of),  three  pearl  pins,  bought  for 
court,  and  a  pair  of  pearl  ear-rings,  the  cost  of 
them — no  matter  what ;  less  than  diamonds,  how- 
ever. A  sapphire  blue  demi-saison  with  a  satin 
stripe,  sack  and  petticoat  trimmed  with  a  broad 
black  lace ;  crape  flounce,  &c. ;  leaves  made  of 
blue  ribbon,  and  trimmed  with  white  floss ; 
wreaths  of  black  velvet  ribbon  spotted  with  steel 
beads,  which  are  much  in  fashion,  and  brought  to 
such  perfection  as  to  resemble  diamonds ;  white 
ribbon  also,  in  the  Vandyke  style,  made  up  of  the 
trimming,  which  looked  very  elegant ;  a  full  dress 
handkerchief,  and  a  bouquet  of  roses.  '  Full 
gay,  I  think,  for  my  aunt.^  That  is  true,  Lucy, 
but  nobody  is  old  in  Europe.  I  was  seated  next 
the  duchess  of  Bedford,  who  had  a  scarlet  satin 
sack  and  coat,  with  a  cushion  full  of  diamonds, 
for  hair  she  has  none,  and  is  but  seventy-six,  nei- 
ther. Well,  now  for  your  coiisin ;  a  small,  white 
Leghorn  hat,  bound  with  pink  satin  ribbon ;  a 
steel  buckle  and  band  which  turned  up  at  the 
side,  and  confined  a  large  pink  bow ;  large  bow 
of  the  same  kind  of  ribbon  behind ;  a  wreath  of 
full-blown  roses  round  the  crown,  and  another  of 
buds  and  roses  withinside  the  hat,  which,  being 
placed  at  the  back  of  the  hair,  brought  the  roses 
to  the  edge ;  you  see  it  clearly ;  one  red  and  black 
feather,  with  two  white  ones,  completed  the  head- 
dress. A  gown  and  coat  of  Chamb6ri  gauze,  with 
a  red  satin  stripe  over  a  pink  waist,  and  coat 
flounced  with  crape,  trimmed  with  broad  point 
and  pink  ribbon ;  wreaths  of  roses  across  the 
coat ;  gauze  sleeves  and  ruflles.  But  the  poor  girl 
was  so  sick  with  a  cold,  that  she  could  not  enjoy 
herself,  and  we  retired  about  one  o'clock,  without 
waiting  supper,  by  which  you  have  lost  half  a 
sheet  of  paper,  I  dare  say ;  but  I  cannot  close 

without  describing  to  you  Lady  N and  her 

daughter.     She   is   as   large   as  Captain  C 's 

wife,  and  much  such  a  made  woman,  with  a  much 
fuller  face,  of  the  colour  and  complexion  of  Mrs. 
C ,  who  formerly  lived  with  your  uncle  Pal- 
mer, and  looks  as  if  porter  and  beef  stood  no 
chance  before  her ;  add  to  this,  that  it  is  covered 
with  large  red  pimples,  over  which,  to  help  the 
natural  redness,  a  coat  of  rouge  is  spread ;  and, 
to  assist  her  shape,  she  was  dressed  in  white  satin, 
trimmed  with  scarlet  ribbon.     Miss  N is  not 


so  large,  nor  quite  so  red,  but  has  a  very  small 
eye,  with  the  most  impudent  face  you  can  possibly 
form  an  idea  of,  joined  to  manners  so  masculine, 
that  I  was  obliged  frequently  to  recollect  that  line 
of  Dr.  Young's, 

'Believe  her  dress;  she's  not  a  grenadier;' 
to  persuade  myself  that  I  was  not  mistaken." 

Hs  :^  ^  *  * 

Extract  from  a  letter  to  a  female  friend,  written 
in  1809,  when  Mrs.  Adams  was  about  65  years  of 
age:— 

"  Ossian  says,  '  Age  is  dark  and  unlovely.'  When 
I  look  in  my  glass,  I  do  not  much  wonder  at  the 
story  related  of  a  very  celebrated  painter,  Zeuxis, 
who,  it  is  said,  died  of  laughing  at  a  comical  pic- 
ture he  had  made  of  an  old  woman.  If  ovir  glass 
flatters  us  in  youth,  it  tells  us  truths  in  age.  The 
cold  hand  of  death  has  frozen  up  some  of  the 
streams  of  our  early  friendships ;  the  congelation 
is  gaining  upon  our  vital  powers,  and  marking  us 
for  the  tomb.  '  May  we  so  number  our  days  as  to 
apply  our  hearts  unto  wisdom.' 

'  The  man  is  yet  unborn,  who  duly  weighs  an  hour.' 

"  When  my  family  was  young  around  me,  I  used 
to  find  more  leisure,  and  think  I  could  leave  it 
with  less  anxiety  than  I  can  now.  There  is  not 
any  occasion  for  detailing  the  whys  and  the  where- 
fores. It  is  said,  if  riches  increase,  those  increase 
that  eat  them ;  but  what  shall  we  say,  when  the 
eaters  increase  without  the  wealth  ?  You  know, 
my  dear  sister,  if  there  be  bread  enough,  and  to 
spare,  unless  a  prudent  attention  manage  that 
sufficiency,  the  fruits  of  diligence  will  be  scattered 
by  the  hand  of  dissipation.  No  man  ever  prosper- 
ed in  the  world  witHout  the  consent  and  co-opera- 
tion of  his  wife.  It  behoves  us,  who  are  parents 
or  grand-parents,  to  give  our  daughters  and  grand- 
daughters, when  their  education  devolves  upon  us, 
such  an  education  as  shall  qualify  them  for  the 
useful  and  domestic  duties  of  life,  that  they  should 
learn  the  proper  use  and  improvement  of  time, 
since  'time  was  given  for  use,  not  waste.'  The 
finer  accomplishments,  such  as  music,  dancing, 
and  painting,  serve  to  set  off  and  embellish  the 
picture ;  but  the  groundwork  must  be  formed  of 
more  durable  colours. 

"I  consider  it  as  an  indispensable  reqmsite, 
that  every  American  wife  should  herself  know  how 
to  order  and  regulate  her  family ;  how  to  govern 
her  domestics,  and  train  up  her  children.  For 
this  purpose,  the  all-wise  Creator  made  woman  an 
help-meet  for  man ;  and  she  who  fails  in  these 
duties  does  not  answer  the  end  of  her  creation. 

'  Life's  cares  are  comforts ;  such  by  Heaven  designed  ; 
They  that  have  none  must  make  them,  or  be  wretched. 
Cares  are  employments;  and,  without  employ, 
Tlie  soul  is  on  a  raclc,  the  racli  of  rest.' 

I  have  frequently  said  to  my  friends,  when  they 
have  thought  me  overburdened  with  care,  I  would 
rather  have  too  much  than  too  little.  Life  stag- 
nates without  action.  I  could  never  bear  merely 
to  vegetate ; 

'Waters  stagnate  when  they  cease  to  flow.' 

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These  letters  have  an  air  of  romantic  sentiment ; 
and  yet  it  was  only  the  expression  of  true  feeling 
which  Mrs.  Adams  always  exhibited  in  her  daily 
conduct.  Her  grand-son,  Charles  F.  Adams,  thus 
accounts  for  the  style  which  characterizes  her  cor- 
respondence : 

"In  her  neighbourhood,  there  were  not  many 
advantages  of  instruction  to  be  found ;  and  even 
in  Boston,  the  small  metropolis  nearest  at  hand, 
for  reasons  already  stated,  the  list  of  accomplish- 
ments within  the  reach  of  females  was,  probably, 
very  short.  She  did  not  enjoy  an  opportunity  to 
acquire  even  such  as  there  might  have  been,  for 
the  delicate  state  of  her  health  forbade  the  idea 
of  sending  her  away  from  home  to  obtain  them. 
In  a  letter,  wi-itten  in  1817,  the  year  before  her 
death,  speaking  of  her  own  deficiencies,  she  says : 
'  My  early  education  did  not  partake  of  the  abun- 
dant opportunities  which  the  present  days  offer, 
and  which  even  oiir  common  country  schools  now 
afford.  I  never  was  sent  to  any  school.  I  was  al- 
ways sick.  Female  education,  in  the  best  families, 
went  no  further  than  wi'iting  and  arithmetic ;  in 
some  few  and  rare  instances,  music  and  dancing.' 
Hence  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
knowledge  gained  by  her  was  rather  the  result  of 
the  society  into  which  she  was  thrown,  than  of 
any  elaborate  instruction. 

"  This  fact,  that  the  author  of  the  letters  in  the 
present  volume  never  went  to  any  school,  is  a  very 
important  one  to  a  proper  estimate  of  her  charac- 
ter. For,  whatever  may  be  the  decision  of  the 
long-vexed  question  between  the  advantages  of 
public  and  those  of  private  education,  few  persons 
will  deny,  that  they  produce  marked  differences  in 
the  formation  of  character.  Seclusion  from  com- 
panions of  the  same  age,  at  any  time  of  life,  is 
calculated  to  develope  the  imaginative  faculty,  at 
the  expense  of  the  judgment;  but  especially  in 
youth,  when  the  most  durable  impressions  are 
making.  The  ordinary  consequence,  in  females 
of  a  meditative  turn  of  mind,  is  the  indulgence  of 
romantic  and  exaggerated  sentiments  drawn  from 
books,  which,  if  subjected  to  the  ordinary  routine 
of  large  schools,  are  worn  down  by  the  attrition 
of  social  intercourse.  These  ideas,  formed  in 
solitude,  in  early  life,  often,  though  not  always, 
remain  in  the  mind,  even  after  the  realities  of  the 
world  surround  those  who  hold  them,  and  coun- 
teract the  tendency  of  their  conclusions.  They 
are  constantly  visible  in  the  letters  of  these  vol- 
umes, even  in  the  midst  of  the  severest  trials. 
They  form  what  may  be  considered  the  romantic 
turn  of  the  author's  mind ;  but,  in  her  case,  they 
were  so  far  modified  by  a  great  admixture  of  reli- 
gious principle  and  by  natural  good  sense,  as  to 
be  of  eminent  service  in  sustaining  her  through 
the  painful  situations  in  which  she  was  placed, 
instead  of  nursing  that  species  of  sickly  sensi- 
bility, which  too  frequently,  in  similar  circum- 
stances, impairs,  if  it  does  not  destroy,  the  power 
of  practical  usefulness." 

Many  women  fill  important  stations  with  the 
most  splendid  display  of  virtues ;  but  few  are 
equally  great  in  retirement ;  there  they  want  the 
animating  influence  of  a  thousand  eyes,  and  the 


inspiration  of  homage  and  flattery.  This  is  hu- 
man nature  in  its  common  form ;  and  though  fe- 
male nature  is  often  beautifully  displayed  in  retire- 
ment, yet  to  change  high  station  for  a  quiet  home 
is  a  tx'ial  few  women  would  have  borne  with  such 
sweet  serenity  as  did  Mrs.  Adams.  She  was,  in 
retirement  at  Quincy,  the  same  dignified,  sensible, 
and  happy  woman,  as  when  at  the  capitol,  sur- 
rounded by  fashion,  wit,  and  intellect.  This  sere- 
nity arose  from  a  settled  and  perfect,  but  philoso- 
phical and  Christian  contentment,  which  great 
minds  only  can  feel.  Such  purity  and  elevation 
of  soul  preserve  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  and 
keep  them  vigorous  even  in  old  age.  Thus  lived 
this  genuine  daughter  of  America,  leaving  at  her 
peaceful  death,  a  rich  legacy  of  the  loftiest  vir- 
tues, made  manifest  by  her  example,  as  the  inhe- 
ritance of  the  women  of  her  beloved  country. 


ADAMS,    HANNAH, 

A  CELEBRATED  American  writer,  was  born  in 
Medfield,  Massachusetts,  in  1755.  Her  father  was 
a  respectable  farmer  in  that  place,  rather  better 
educated  than  persons  of  his  class  usually  were 
at  that  time ;  and  his  daughter,  who  was  a  very 
delicate  child,  profited  by  his  fondness  for  books. 
So  great  was  her  love  for  reading  and  study,  that 
when  very  young  she  had  committed  to  memory 
nearly  all  of  Milton,  Pope,  Thomson,  Young,  and 
several  other  poets. 

When  she  was  about  seventeen  her  father  failed 
in  business,  and  Miss  Adams  was  obliged  to  exert 
herself  for  her  own  maintenance.  This  she  did  at 
first  by  making  lace,  a  very  profitable  employment 
during  the  revolutionary  war,  as  very  little  lace 
was  then  imported.  But  after  the  termination  of 
the  conflict  she  was  obliged  to  resort  to  some  other 
means  of  support ;  and  having  acquired  from  the 
students  who  had  boarded  with  her  father,  a  com- 
petent knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek,  she  under- 
took to  prepare  young  men  for  college ;  and  suc- 
ceeded so  well,  that  her  reputation  was  spread 
throughout  the  state. 

Her  first  work,  entitled,  "The  View  of  Reli- 
gions," which  she  commenced  when  she  was  about 

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thirty,  is  a  history  of  the  difFerent  sects  in  reli- 
gion. It  caused  her  so  much  hard  study  and  close 
reflection,  that  she  was  attacked  before  the  close 
of  her  labours  by  a  severe  fit  of  illness,  and 
threatened  with  derangement.  Her  next  work  was 
a  carefully  written  "History  of  New  England;" 
and  her  third  was  on  "  The  Evidences  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion."  Though  all  these  works  showed 
great  candour  and  liberality  of  mind  and  profound 
research,  and  though  they  were  popular,  yet  they 
brought  her  but  little  besides  fame ;  which,  how- 
ever, had  extended  to  Europe,  and  she  reckoned 
among  her  correspondents  many  of  the  learned 
men  of  all  counti-ies.  Among  these  was  the  cele- 
brated abb6  Gregoire,  who  was  then  struggling  for 
the  emancipation  of  the  Jews  in  France.  He  sent 
Miss  Adams  several  volumes,  which  she  acknow- 
ledged were  of  much  use  to  her  in  preparing  her 
own  work,  a  "  History  of  the  Jews,"  now  consi- 
dered one  of  the  most  valuable  of  her  productions. 
Still,  as  far  as  pecuniary  matters  went,  she  was 
singularly  unsuccessful,  probably  from  her  want 
of  knowledge  of  business,  and  ignorance  in  worldly 
matters ;  and,  to  relieve  her  from  her  embarrass- 
ments, three  wealthy  gentlemen  of  Boston,  with 
great  liberality,  settled  an  annuity  upon  her,  of 
which  she  was  kept  in  entire  ignorance  till  the 
whole  aifair  was  completed. 

The  latter  part  of  her  life  passed  in  Boston,  in 
the  midst  of  a  large  circle  of  friends,  by  whom 
she  was  warmly  cherished  and  esteemed  for  the 
singular  excellence,  purity,  and  simplicity  of  her 
character.  She  died,  November  15th,  1832,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-six,  and  was  buried  at  Mount  Au- 
burn ;  the  first  one  whose  body  was  placed  in  that 
cemetery.  Through  life,  the  gentleness  of  her  man- 
ners, and  the  sweetness  of  her  temper  were  child- 
like ;  she  trusted  all  her  cares  to  the  control  of  her 
heavenly  Father ;  and  she  did  not  trust  in  vain. 

ADORNI,  CATHARINE  FIESCHI, 
A  Genoese  lady,  married  a  dissipated  young 
man,  Julian  Adorni,  whom,  by  her  modest  and 
virtuous  conduct,  she  reclaimed.  After  his  death 
she  retired  to  Geneva,  where  she  devoted  herself 
to  acts  of  piety  and  benevolence.  She  wrote  se- 
veral works  on  divinity ;  and  died  in  1510,  aged 
sixty-three. 

ADRICHOMIA,    CORNELIA, 

A  DESCENDANT  of  the  Doblc  family  of  Adrictem, 
and  a  nun  in  Holland  of  the  St.  Augustine  order, 
who  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century,  published  a 
poetical  version  of  the  psalms,  with  several  other 
religious  poems.  Her  excellent  understanding  and 
erudition  are  commended  by  writers  of  her  own 
time.  She  composed  for  herself  the  following 
epitaph : 

Corpus  homo,  animam  superis  Cornelia  mando  ; 
Pulve  rulerta  caro  vermibus  esca  datur. 
Non  ac  lacrymas,  non  singultus,  tristesque  querelas, 
Sed  Christo  oblatus  nunc  precor  umbra  prer.es. 

AGNESI,    MARIA    GAETANA, 
A  NATIVE  of  Milan,  born  March  16th,   1718, 
gave  early  indications  of  extraordinary  abilities, 


devoted  herself  to  the  abstract  sciences,  and  at 
the  age  of  nineteen  supported  a  hundred  and 
ninety-one  theses,  which  were  afterwards  pub- 
lished. She  attained  such  consummate  skill  in 
mathematics,  that  the  pope  allowed  her  to  suc- 
ceed her  father  as  professor  at  Bologna.  Her 
knowledge  of  ancient  and  modern  languages  was 
also  extensive.  She  died  in  1799,  at  Milan,  where 
several  years  before  she  had  taken  the  veil.  Her 
great  work  is  "  Analytical  Institutions,"  and  has 
been  translated  by  the  Rev.  John  Colson,  of  the 
University  of  Cambridge.  This  able  mathemati- 
cian considered  "  The  Analytical  Institutions"  of 
Agnesi  such  an  excellent  work,  that  he  studied 
Italian  in  order  to  translate  it  into  English.  At 
his  death  he  left  the  manuscript  reiidy  for  publi- 
cation. The  commentators  of  Newton  were  ac- 
quainted with  her  mathematical  works,  while  they 
were  in  manuscript.  In  1801,  the  works  were 
published  in  two  volumes,  at  the  expense  of  Baron 
Maseres,  to  do  honour  to  her  memory,  and  also  to 
prove  that  women  have  minds  capable  of  compre- 
hending the  most  abstruse  studies.  Her  eulogy 
was  pronounced  in  Italian  by  Fris^,  and  translated 
into  French  by  Boulard.  In  her  genius  she  re- 
sembled Mrs.  Somerville. 

AGREDA,    MARIE   D', 

Superior  of  a  convent  at  Agreda,  in  Spain, 
founded  by  her  parents,  wrote  a  fanatical  book  on 
the  life  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which  she  said  had 
been  revealed  to  her  from  heaven.  A  translation 
of  this  extravagant  book,  which  was  prohibited  at 
Rome,  was  published  at  Brussels  in  1717.  Not- 
withstanding the  absurdities  of  this  work,  it  was 
deemed  so  fascinating  and  dangerous  by  the  theo- 
logical faculty  at  Paris,  that  it  was  thought  proper 
to  censure  it.  A  violent  opposition  was  made  to 
the  censure  by  some  of  the  doctors  of  the  Sor- 
bonne,  which,  on  this  important  occasion,  were 
divided  into  two  fierce  parties,  to  one  of  whom  the 
name  of  Agredians  was  given,  which  they  long 
retained.  One  of  the  propositions  of  this  singular 
work  was — "  That  God  gave  to  the  holy  virgin  all 
that  he  would,  and  would  give  her  all  that  he 
could,  and  could  give  her  all  that  was  not  of  the 
essence  of  God." 

Marie  d' Agreda  died  in  1665,  aged  sixty-three. 
Great  efforts  were  made  at  Rome  to  procure  her 
canonization,  but  without  effect. 

AGOSTINA,  THE  MAID  OF  SARAGOSSA. 

Spain  can  boast  of  having  produced  heroines 
from  the  earliest  records  of  history.  The  glorious 
memory  of  the  women  of  Saguntum  and  Numan- 
tia,  in  the  time  of  the  Romans,  and  of  Maria 
Pacheco,  widow  of  the  celebrated  Patiilla,  may  be 
paralleled  in  our  days  by  the  fame  of  Agostina  of 
Saragossa. 

This  illustrious  maiden  exposed  her  life  for  her 
king  and  country  at  the  memorable  siege  of  Sara- 
gossa in  1808.  General  Le  Fevre  had  been  des- 
patched in  the  June  of  that  year  to  reduce  Sara- 
gossa, where  the  royal  standard  of  the  Bourbons 
had  been  unfurled.  This  city  was  not  fortified ; 
it  was  surrounded  by  an  ill-constructed  wall,  twelve 

IGO 


AU 


AG 


feet  high  by  three  broad,  intersected  by  houses ; 
these  houses,  the  neighbouring  churches  and  con- 
vents, were  in  so  dilapidated  a  state,  that  from  the 
roof  to  the  foiindation  were  to  be  seen  in  each  im- 
mense breaches  ;  apertures  begun  by  time  and  in- 
creased by  neglect.  A  large  hill,  called  II  Torero, 
commanded  the  town  at  the  distance  of  a  mile, 
and  offered  a  situation  for  most  destructive  bom- 
bardment. Among  the  sixty  thousand  inhabitants 
there  were  but  two  hundred  and  twenty  regular 
troops,  and  the  artillery  consisted  of  ten  old 
cannon. 

The  French  began  the  siege  in  a  rather  slothful 
style ;  they  deemed  much  exertion  unnecessary ; 
Saragossa,  they  said,  was  only  inhabited  by  monks 
and  cowards.  But  their  opinions  and  their  efforts 
were  destined  to  an  entire  revolution.  Very  sel- 
dom in  the  annals  of  war  has  greater  heroism, 
greater  bravery,  greater  horror  and  misery  been 
concentrate<l,  than  during  the  two  months  that 
these  desperate  patriots  repelled  their  invaders. 
No  sacrifices  were  too  great  to  be  offered,  no  ex- 
tremities too  oppressive  to  be  endured  by  the 
besieged ;  but,  as  it  often  occurs  among  the  no- 
blest bodies  of  men,  that  one  sordid  soul  may  be 
found  open  to  the  far-reaching  hand  of  corruption, 
such  a  wretch  happened  to  be  entrusted  with  a 
powder-magazine  at  Saragossa.  Under  the  influ- 
ence of  French  gold,  he  fired  the  magazine  on  the 
night  of  the  '2d  of  June.  To  describe  the  horrors 
that  ensued  would  be  impossible.  The  French,  to 
whom  the  noise  of  the  explosion  had  been  a  signal, 
advanced  their  troops  to  the  gates.  The  popula- 
tion, shocked,  amazed,  hardly  knowing  what  had 
occurred,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  cause,  bewil- 
dered by  conflagration,  ruins,  and  the  noise  of  the 
enemy's  artillery  unexpectedly  thundering  in  their 
ears,  were  paralj'zed,  powerless ;  the  overthrow, 
the  slaughter  of  those  who  stood  at  the  ramparts, 
seemed  more  like  a  massacre  than  a  battle ;  in  a 
short  time  the  trenches  presented  nothing  but  a 
heap  of  dead  bodies.  There  was  no  longer  a  com- 
batant to  be  seen ;  nobody  felt  the  courage  to 
stand  to  the  defence. 
T 


At  this  desperate  moment  an  unknown  maiden 
issued  from  the  church  of  Nostra  Donna  del  Pillas, 
habited  in  white  raiment,  a  cross  suspended  from 
her  neck,  her  dark  hair  dishevelled,  and  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  supernatural  lustre  !  She  traversed 
the  city  with  a  bold  and  firm  step ;  she  passed  to 
the  ramparts,  to  the  very  spot  where  the  enemy 
was  pouring  on  to  the  assault ;  she  mounted  to 
the  breach,  seized  a  lighted  match  from  the  hand 
of  a  dying  engineer,  and  fired  the  piece  of  artil- 
lery he  had  failed  to  manage ;  then  kissing  her 
cross,  she  cried  with  the  accent  of  inspiration  — 
"  Death  or  victory  !"  and  reloaded  her  cannon. 
Such  a  cry,  such  a  vision,  could  not  fail  of  calling 
up  enthusiasm ;  it  seemed  that  heaven  had  brought 
aid  to  the  just  cause ;  her  cry  was  answered  — 
*'  Long  live  Agostina  !" 

"Forward,  forward,  we  will  conquer!"  re- 
sounded on  every  side.  Nerved  by  such  emotions, 
the  force  of  every  man  was  doubled,  and  the 
French  were  repulsed  on  all  sides. 

General  Lefevre,  mortified  at  this  unexpected 
result,  determined  to  reduce  the  place  by  famine, 
as  well  as  to  distress  it  by  bombardment  from  II 
j  Torero.  The  horrors  that  followed  his  measures 
j  would  be  too  painful  to  detail,  but  they  afforded 
Agostina  an  opportunity  of  displaying  her  intre- 
pidity. She  threw  herself  in  the  most  perilous 
positions,  to  rescue  the  unhappy  beings  wounded 
by  the  bombs  or  by  the  falling  of  timbers.  She 
went  from  house  to  house,  visiting  the  wounded, 
binding  up  their  hurts,  or  supplying  aid  to  the 
sick  and  starving.  The  French,  by  their  indom! 
table  perseverance,  had,  from  step  to  step,  ren- 
dered themselves  masters  of  nearly  half  the  city. 
Lefevre  thought  his  hour  of  triumph  had  now  cer- 
tainly arrived — he  sent  to  the  commandant,  Pala- 
fox,  to  demand  a  capitulation.  Palafox  received 
this  in  public ;  he  turned  to  Agostina,  who  stood 
near  him,  completely  armed  —  "What  shall  I  an- 
swer ?" 

The  girl  indignantly  replied,  "AVar  to  the  knife !" 

Her  exclamation  was  echoed  by  the  populace, 
and  Palafox  made  her  words  his  reply  to  Lefevre. 

Nothing  in  the  history  of  war  has  ever  been  re- 
corded, to  resemble  the  consequence  of  this  refu- 
sal to  capitulate.  One  row  of  houses  ia  a  street 
would  be  occupied  by  the  Spanish,  the  ojDposite 
row  by  the  French.  A  continual  tempest  of  balls 
passed  through  the  air  ;  the  town  was  a  volcano ; 
the  most  revolting  butchery  was  carried  on  for 
eleven  days  and  eleven  nights.  Every  street, 
every  house,  was  disputed  with  musket  and 
poignard.  Agostina  ran  from  rank  to  rank,  every- 
where taking  the  most  active  part.  The  French 
were  gradually  driven  back ;  and  the  dawn  of  the 
17th  of  August,  saw  them  relinquish  this  long- 
disputed  prey,  and  take  the  road  to  Pampeluna. 
The  triumph  of  the  patriots  —  their  joy,  was  un- 
speakable. Palafox  rendered  due  honours  to  the 
brave  men  who  had  perished,  and  endeavoured  to 
remunerate  the  few  intrepid  warriors  who  sur- 
vived—  among  them  was  Agostina.  But  what 
could  be  offered  commensurate  with  the  services 
of  one  who  had  saved  the  city  ?  Palafox  told  her 
to  select  what   lidtiours   she  pleased  —  any  thing 

IGi 


AG 


AI 


would  be  granted  her.  She  modestly  answered 
that,  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  retain  the  rank 
of  engineer,  and  to  have  the  privilege  of  wearing 
the  arms  of  Saragossa.  The  rest  of  her  life  was 
passed  in  honourable  poverty,  until  the  year  1828, 
when  she  died, 

"  By  all  her  country's  wishes  blest!" 

AGUILAR,    GRACE, 

Was  born  at  Hackney,  England,  June,  1816. 
Her  father  was  Emanuel  Aguilar,  a  merchant  de- 
scended from  the  Jews  of  Spain.  Grace  was  the 
eldest  child ;  and  her  delicate  health,  during  in- 
fancy and  early  youth,  was  a  source  of  great  soli- 
citude to  her  parents.  She  was  educated  almost 
entirely  at  home,  her  mother  being  her  instructor 
till  she  attained  the  age  of  fourteen,  when  her 
father  commenced  a  regular  course  of  reading  to 
her,  while  she  was  employed  in  drawing  or  needle- 
work. At  the  age  of  seven  she  began  keeping  a 
regular  journal ;  when  she  was  about  fifteen  she 
wrote  her  first  poetry ;  but  she  never  permitted 
herself  the  pleasure  of  original  composition  until 
all  her  duties  and  her  studies  were  performed. 

Grace  Aguilar  was  extremely  fond  of  music ; 
she  had  been  taught  the  piano  from  infancy  ;  and, 
in  1831,  commenced  the  harp.  She  sang  plea- 
singly, preferred  English  songs,  invariably  select- 
ing them  for  the  beauty  or  sentiment  of  the  words. 
She  was  also  passionately  fond  of  dancing ;  and 
her  cheerful,  lively  manners,  in  the  society  of  her 
young  friends,  would  scarcely  have  led  any  to 
imagine  how  deeply  she  felt  and  pondered  the 
serious  and  solemn  sulyects  which  afterwards 
formed  the  labour  of  her  life.  She  enjoyed  all 
that  was  innocent ;  but  the  sacred  feeling  of  duty 
always  regulated  her  conduct.  Her  mother  once 
expressed  the  wish  that  Grace  would  not  waltz ; 
and  no  solicitation  could  afterwards  tempt  her. 
Her  mother  also  required  her  to  read  sermons, 
and  study  religion  and  the  Bible  regularly  ;  this 
was  done  by  Grace  cheerfully,  at  first  as  a  task, 
but  finally  with  much  delight;  for  evidence  of 
which  we  will  quote  her  own  words  in  one  of  her 
works,  "Women  of  Israel." 

"  This  (reading  the  Bible  and  studying  religion) 
formed  into  a  habit,  and  persevered  in  for  life, 
would  in  time,  and  without  labour  or  weariness, 
give  the  comfort  and  the  knowledge  that  we  seek ; 
each  year  would  become  brighter  and  more  blest; 
each  year  we  should  discover  something  we  knew 
not  before ;  and,  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  feel  to  our  heart's  core  that  the  Lord  our 
God  is  Truth." 

The  first  published  work  of  Miss  Aguilar  was 
"  The  Magic  Wreath,"  a  little  poetical  work.  Soon 
afterwards,  "Home  Influences"  appeared;  and 
then,  the  "  Women  of  Israel."  All  of  these 
works  are  highly  creditable  to  the  literary  taste 
and  talents  of  the  writer ;  and  they  have  a  value 
beyond  what  the  highest  genius  could  give  —  the 
stamp  of  truth,  piety,  and  love,  and  an  earnest 
desire  to  do  good  to  her  fellow-beings.  The  death 
of  her  father,  and  the  cares  she  took  on  herself  in 
comforting  her  mother,  and  sustaining  the  exer- 
tions of  her  brothers,  undermined,  by  degrees,  her 


delicate  constitution.  She  went  abroad  for  her 
health,  and  died  in  Frankfort,  in  1847.  She  was 
buried  there  in  the  cemetery,  one  side  of  which  is 
set  apart  for  the  Jews,  the  people  of  her  faith. 
The  stone  which  marks  the  spot  bears  upon  it  a 
butterfly  and  five  stars,  emblematic  of  the  soul  in 
heaven  ;  and  beneath  appears  the  inscription  — 
"Give  her  of  the  fruit  of  her  hands,  and  let  her 
own  works  praise  her  in  the  gates." 

Her  works  do  indeed  praise  her.  She  died  at 
the  early  age  of  thirty-one,  and  was  never  at  lei- 
sure to  pursue  literature  as  her  genius  would  have 
prompted,  had  not  her  spirit  been  so  thoroughly 
subjected  to  her  womanly  duties.  She  seems  al- 
ways to  have  striven  to  make  her  life  useful.  She 
shows  this  in  writing  chiefly  for  her  own  sex ;  and 
her  productions  will  now  be  stamped  with  the 
value  which  her  lovely  character,  perfected  and 
crowned  by  a  happy  death,  imparts.  She  could 
not  speak  for  some  time  before  her  decease ;  but 
having  learned  to  use  her  fingers,  in  the  manner 
of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  almost  the  last  time  they 
moved,  it  was  to  spell  upon  them  feebly — "  Though 
He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him." 

Since  her  decease,  a  work  which  she  left  in 
manuscript  has  been  published,  entitled  "  AVoman's 
Friendship."  The  following  poem  is  from  her 
"  M.agic  Wreath."  Its  subject  will  be  found  in 
the  biography  of  Ingeborge. 

"  He  clasp'd  that  slight  and  faded  form. 

Unto  a  hi'art  that  bled ; 
The  monarch's  tears  fell  thick  and  warm 

Upon  that  drooping  head. 
Her  long  fair  hair,  long  as  a  v.il 

Of  faint  and  shadowy  gold, 
Around  a  face,  which  a  wild  tale 

Of  bitter  anguish  told. 
'Oh  !  what  avail  my  crown  and  state 

When  thou  art  from  me  Hown  ! 
Thy  Philip's  heart  is  desolate. 

My  beautiful,  my  owji  ! 
I  cannot,  cannot  bid  thee  go; 

My  curse  on  Gregory's  head  ! 
1  will  proclaim  him  as  my  foe. 

Though  princes  strike  me  dead.' 

"  '  My  liege,  my  husband,  heed  me  not, 

But  peace  to  France  restore. 
Oh  !  be  this  broken  heart  forgot. 

And  thou'  —  she  could  no  more. 
She  rais'd  her  head,  that  soft  blue  eye 

Could  scarce  the  monarch  meet ; 
She  grasped  his  robe  —  with  one  low  sigh 

Sunk  fainting  at  his  feet. 
And  on  that  pale  and  beauteous  face 

Th'  imperial  Philip  gaz'd  ; 
Then  to  a  wild  and  strain'd  embrace 

That  death-like  form  he  rais'd. 
One  kiss,  impassion'd,  on  her  brow — 

Ah!  'twill  not  break  that  sleep; 
And  he  to  whom  e'en  princes  bow 

Now  turn'd  aside  to  weep. 
Oh !  'twas  of  power  a  cruel  stroke 

Such  loving  hearts  to  sever; 
Ere  Agnes  from  that  long  trance  woke. 

They  parted  —  and  forever." 

AIGUILLON,    DUCHESS   D', 

Niece  of  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  was  the 
first  lady  of  high  rank  whose  house  was  opened  to 
all  men  of  letters.  There  men  of  talent  were  re- 
ceived, together  with  the  greatest  noblemen  of  the 

102 


AI 


AI 


court.  These  assemblies  had  much  influence  on 
the  manners  of  the  French.  The  duchess  was  a 
woman  of  intelligence,  piety,  and  the  greatest 
generosity.  After  the  death  of  Richelieu,  under 
the  direction  of  the  devout  Vincent  de  Paul,  she 
united  in  all  benevolent  works.  She  endowed 
hospitals,  bought  slaves  to  set  them  free,  liberated 
prisoners,  and  maintained  missionaries  in  France 
and  distant  countries.     She  died  in  1675. 

AIKIN,  LUCY, 
An  English  writer,  was  the  only  daughter  of 
Dr.  Aikin,  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Barbaidd.  Like 
her  father  and  aunt,  she  devoted  herself  to  litera- 
ture. Her  principal  works  are,  "Epistles  on  the 
Character  of  Women,"  "Juvenile  Correspond- 
ence," "The  Life  of  Zuinglius,  the  Reformer," 
and  a  "  History  of  the  Court  of  Queen  Elizabeth." 
She  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  and 
the  early  part  of  the  present  century.  Her  "  Me- 
moir" of  her  father.  Dr.  John  x\ikin,  is  a  beautiful 
tribute  of  filial  affection.  She  was  enabled,  by  the 
careful  education  he  had  given  her,  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  mental  intercourse  with  him ;  and 
how  well  she  repaid  his  care,  this  monument  she 
has  constructed  to  the  memory  of  his  genius  and 
goodness  is  a  touching  and  enduring  proof.  At 
the  close  of  the  Memoir,  she  describes  the  feeble- 
ness which  oppressed  his  body,  while  yet  his  mind 
could  enjoy,  in  a  degree,  the  pleasures  of  intellect; 
and  in  such  a  way  as  necessarily  made  him  entirely 
dependent  on  female  care  and  society. 

Thus  it  invariably  is  at  the  close  of  man's  life, 
as  well  as  at  its  beginning,  that  he  must  rely  for 
his  enjoyment,  comfort,  life  even,  on  the  love,  the 
care,  and  the  sympathy  of  woman.  The  more 
faithfully  he  cherishes  his  wife,  and  educates  his 
daughters,  the  happier  and  better  will  he  be 
through  life,  and  at  his  dying  hour. 

The  following  are  the  remarks  to  which  we  al- 
luded : — 

"  That  life  may  not  be  prolonged  beyond  the 
power  of  usefulness,  is  one  of  the  most  natural, 
and  apparently  of  the  most  reasonable  wishes  man 
can  form  for  the  future  ; — it  was  almost  the  only 
one  which  my  father  expressed  or  indulged,  and 
I  doubt  not  that  every  reader  will  be  affected  with 
some  emotions  of  sympathetic  regret  on  learning 
that  it  was  in  his  case  lamentably  disappointed. 
To  those  whose  daily  and  hourly  happiness  chiefly 
consisted  in  the  activity  and  enjoyment  diffused 
over  his  domestic  circle  by  his  talents  and  virtues, 
the  gradual  extinction  of  this  mental  light  was  a 
privation  aiflictive  and  humiliating  beyond  expres- 
sion. But  in  all  the  trials  and  sorrows  of  life, 
however  severe,  enough  of  alleviation  is  blended 
to  show  from  what  quarter  they  proceed ;  and 
there  were  still  circumstances  which  called  for 
grateful  acknowledgment.  The  natui-ally  sweet 
and  affectionate  disposition  of  my  dear  father  ;  his 
strictly  temperate  and  simple  habits  of  living,  and 
the  mastery  over  his  passions  which  he  had  so 
constantly  exercised,  were  all  highly  favourable 
circumstances;  and  their  influence  long  and 
powerfully  counteracted  the  irritability  of  disease, 
and  caused  many  instructive,  and  many  soothing 


and  tender  impressions  to  mingle  with  the  anxieties 
and  fatigues  of  our  long  and  melancholy  attend- 
ance. 

"  His  literary  tastes  were  another  invaluable 
source  of  comfort ;  long  after  he  was  incapacitated 
from  reading  himself,  he  would  listen  with  sa- 
tisfaction during  many  hours  in  the  day  to  the 
reading  of  others  ;  poetry,  in  particular,  exercised 
a  kind  of  spell  over  him ;  Virgil  and  Horace  he 
heard  with  delight  for  a  considerable  period,  and 
the  English  poets,  occasionally,  to  the  very  last. 
The  love  of  children,  which  had  always  been  an 
amiable  feature  in  his  character,  likewise  re- 
mained ;  and  the  sight  of  his  young  grand-children 
sporting  around  him,  and  courting  his  attention 
by  their  affectionate  caresses,  had  often  the  happy 
effect  of  rousing  him  from  a  state  of  melancholy 
languor,  and  carrying  at  least  a  transient  emotion 
of  pleasure  to  his  heart." 

The  writings  of  INIiss  Aikin  are  attractive  from 
the  quiet,  good  sense,  refined  taste,  and  kind  spirit 
always  exhibited.  Her  last  work,  "  The  Life  of 
Addison,"  was  somewhat  severely  criticised  in  re- 
gard to  the  accuracy  of  dates,  and  some  other 
matters,  of  minor  importance  when  compared  with 
the  value  of  this  contribution  to  the  memory  of  a 
good  man  and  an  accomplished  scholar.  The 
character  of  Mr.  Addison  was  never  before  set  in 
so  favourable  a  light ;  and  Miss  Aikin  deserves  to 
have  her  memory  revered  by  all  who  love  to  see 
the  works  which  genius  has  left  made  themes  of 
affectionate  study,  by  one  who  could  sympathize 
with  the  literary  tastes,  and  benevolent  feelings  of 
the  philanthropist  and  the  author. 

AISSE,  DEMO  IS, 
Was  born  in  Circassia,  1689,  and  was  purchased 
by  the  count  de  Ferriol,  the  French  ambassador 
at  Constantinople,  when  a  child  of  four  years,  for 
15001ivres.  The  seller  declared  her  to  be  a  Cir- 
cassian princess.  She  was  of  great  beauty.  The 
count  took  her  with  him  to  France,  and  had  her 
taught  all  the  accomplishments  of  the  day.  She 
sacrificed  her  innocence  to  her  benefactor,  but  she 
resisted  the  splendid  offers  of  the  duke  of  Orleans. 
Of  her  numerous  suitors  she  favoured  only  the 
chevalier  Aidy,  who  had  tiiken  the  vows  at  Malta. 
Aidy  wished  to  obtain  a  release  from  them,  but 
his  mistress  herself  opposed  the  attempt.  The 
fniit  of  this  love  was  a  daughter,  born  in  England. 
Ai'sse  became  afterwards  a  prey  to  the  bitterest 
remorse ;  she  tried  in  vain  to  resist  her  passion, 
and  sank  under  the  sti-uggle  between  her  love  and 
her  conscience.  She  died  1727,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-eight.  Her  letters  were  published,  first 
with  notes  by  Voltaire,  and  afterwards,  in  1806, 
with  the  letters  of  Mesdames  de  Villars,  Lafayette, 
and  de  Tencin.  They  are  written  in  a  pleasant, 
fluent  strain,  and  contain  many  anecdotes  of  the 
prominent  persons  of  her  time. 

AIROLA,    ANGELICA   VERONICA, 

A  Geonese  lady  of  high  rank,  who  lived  in  the 

seventeenth   century.      She   learned   the   art   of 

painting  from  Dominico  Fiasella ;  after  which  she 

executed  some  good  pictures  on  religious  subjects, 

1  ()?, 


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most  of  them  for  the  churches  ami  convents  of  her 
native  city.  At  the  close  of  her  life  she  became 
a  mm  of  the  order  of  St.  Bartholomew  della  Oli- 
vella,  at  Genoa. 

ALACOQUE,  MARIE, 
A  NUN  in  the  convent  of  the  Visitation,  at  Pai-ai- 
le-monial,  in  the  province  of  Burgundy,  who  was 
born  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
was  celebrated  for  her  sanctity  throughout  all 
France.  She,  in  conjunction  with  Claude  de  la 
Colombiere,  a  famous  Jesuit,  and  confessor  to  the 
duchess  of  York,  wife  of  James,  afterwards  James 
II.  of  England,  gave  a  form  to  the  celebration  of 
the  solemnity  of  the  heart  of  Christ,  and  composed 
an  office  for  the  occasion.  The  renowned  defender 
of  the  bull  Unigenitus,  John  Joseph  Languet, 
afterwards  archbishop  of  Sens,  was  an  ardent  ad- 
mirer of  this  holy  fanatic,  and  published,  in  1729, 
a  circumstantial  account  of  her  life.  She  imagined 
that  Christ  appeared  to  her  in  a  vision,  and  de- 
manded her  heart,  which,  when  she  gave  him,  he 
returned  enclosed  in  his  own,  saying,  "  Hence- 
forth thou  shalt  be  the  beloved  of  my  heart." 
With  such  wild  imaginings  the  book  of  the  visions 
of  Marie  Alacoque  is  filled,  but  at  the  time  they 
were  written  they  had  an  astonishing  effect.  In 
1674,  she  declared  that  her  divine  bridegroom  had 
showed  to  her  his  heart,  and  told  her  that  he  was 
determined,  in  these  last  days,  to  pour  out  all  the 
treasures  of  his  love  on  those  faithful  souls  who 
would  devote  themselves  to  an  especial  adoration 
of  it ;  and  commanded  her  to  acquaint  father  la 
Colombiere,  his  servant,  that  he  should  institute  a 
yearly  festival  to  his  heart,  and  promise,  to  such 
as  should  dedicate  themselves  to  it,  eternal  hap- 
piness. The  Jesuits  immediately  complied  with 
this  celestial  mandate,  and  in  all  parts  of  the 
world,  fraternities  were  formed,  and  passion- 
masses,  and  nine-day  devotions,  were  instituted 
to  the  honour  of  the  heart  of  Jesus.  In  all  Spain 
there  was  not  a  nun  who  had  not  a  present  from 
the  Jesuits  of  a  heart,  cut  out  of  red  cloth,  to  be 
worn  next  the  skin.  The  display  of  a  burning 
zeal  for  making  proselytes  was  regarded  as  the 
peculiar  characteristic  of  the  true  worshipper  of 
the  heart. 

ALBANY,    or  ALBANI,    LOUISA, 

Countess  of,  daughter  of  prince  Stolberg-Gedern, 
in  Germany,  was  born  in  1753,  and  married  in 
1772  to  Charles  James  Edward,  called  the  young 
Pretender,  grandson  of  James  II.  They  resided 
at  Rome,  and  had  a  little  court,  by  which  they 
were  addressed  as  king  and  queen.  In  1780, 
Louisa  left  her  husband,  who  was  much  older  than 
herself,  and  with  whom  she  did  not  agree,  and 
retired  to  a  convent.  She  afterwards  went  to 
France  ;  but  on  her  husband's  death  in  1788,  she 
returned  to  Italy,  and  settled  in  Florence.  She 
was  then  privately  married  to  count  Victor  Alfieri, 
the  Italian  poet,  who  died  at  her  house  in  1803. 
She,  however,  still  went  by  the  name  of  countess 
of  Albany,  widow  of  the  last  of  the  Stuarts,  up  to 
the  time  of  her  death.  She  was  fond  of  literature 
and  the  arts,  and  her  house  was  the  resort  of  all 


distinguished  persons  in  Florence.    She  died  there 
January  29th,  1824,  aged  seventy-two. 

Her  name  and  her  misfortunes  have  been  trans- 
mitted to  posterity  in  the  works  and  the  autobio- 
graphy of  Alfieri.  This  famous  poet  called  her 
7nia  donna,  and  confessed  that-  to  her  he  owed  his 
inspiration.  Without  the  friendship  of  the  countess 
of  Albany,  he  has  said  that  he  never  should  have 
achieved  anything  excellent:  "  Senza  laquella  mon 
aurei  mai  futta  nulla  di  buono."  The  sketch  of  his 
first  meeting  with  her  is  full  of  sentiment  and 
genuine  poetry.  Their  love  for  each  other  was 
true,  delicate  and  faithful ;  and  their  ashes  now 
repose  under  a  common  monument,  in  the  church 
of  Santa  Croce,  at  Florence,  between  the  tombs 
of  Machiavelli  and  Michael  Angelo. 

ALBEDYHL, 
Baroness  d',  a  Swedish  writer,   authoress  of 
Gefion,   an  epic  poem,  published   at   Upsala,   in 
1814,  has  been  called  the  Swedish  Sevigne,  from 
the  elegance  of  her  epistolary  style. 

ALBEMARLE,  ANNE  CLARGES, 

Duchess  of,  was  the  daughter  of  a  blacksmith ; 
who  gave  her  an  education  suitable  to  the  employ- 
ment she  was  bred  to,  which  was  that  cf  a  milli- 
ner. As  the  manners  are  generally  formed  early 
in  life,  she  retained  something  of  the  smith's 
daughter,  even  at  her  highest  elevation.  She  was 
first  the  mistress,  and  afterwards  the  wife  of  gen- 
eral Monk.  He  had  such  an  opinion  of  her  under- 
standing, that  he  often  consulted  her  in  the 
greatest  emergencies.  As  she  was  a  thorough 
royalist,  it  is  probable  she  had  no  inconsiderable 
share  in  the  restoration  of  Charles  II.  She  is 
supposed  to  have  recommended  several  of  the 
privy-councillors  in  the  list  which  the  general  pre- 
sented to  the  king  soon  after  his  landing.  It  is 
more  than  probable  that  she  carried  on  a  very 
lucrative  trade  in  selling  offices,  which  were  gen- 
erally filled  by  such  as  gave  her  most  money.  She 
was  an  implacable  enemy  to  Lord  Clarendon ;  and 
had  so  great  an  influence  over  her  husband,  as  to 
prevail  upon  him  to  assist  in  the  ruin  of  that  great 
man,  though  he  was  one  of  his  best  friends.  In- 
deed, the  general  was  afraid  to  offend  her,  as  her 
anger  knew  no  bounds.  Nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that  the  intrepid  commander,  who  was  never 
afraid  of  bullets,  was  often  terrified  by  the  fury 
of  his  wife. 

ALBRET,    CHARLOTTE    D', 

Duchess  de  Valentinois,  sister  of  John  D'Albret, 
king  of  Navarre,  and  wife  of  Ctesar  Borgia,  son 
of  Pope  Alexander  VI.,  whose  misfortunes  she 
shared,  without  reproaching  him  for  his  vices, 
was  pious,  sensible,  and  witty,  and  had  much  ge- 
nius for  poetry.     She  died  in  1514. 

ALBRET,  JEANNE  D', 

Daughter  of  Henry  d'Albret,  king  of  Navarre, 
and  his  wife,  the  illustrious  Margaret  of  Navarre, 
sister  of  Francis  I.  of  France,  ranks  high  among 
women  distinguished  for  their  great  qualities.  Id 
1500,  when  Jeanne  was  only  eleven,  she  was  mar- 

1G4 


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riod,  against  her  own  and  her  parents'  wishes,  to 
the  duke  of  Cleves,  by  her  uncle  Francis,  who 
feared  lest  her  father  should  give  her  in  marriage 
to  Philip,  son  of  the  emperor  of  Germany,  Charles 
V.  The  nuptials  were  never  completed,  and  were 
soon  declared  null  and  void  by  the  pope,  through 
the  intercession  of  the  king  of  Navarre. 

In  October,  1548,  Jeanne  was  again  married,  at 
Moulins,  to  Antoine  de  Bourbon,  duke  de  Ven- 
dome,  to  whom  she  bore  two  sons,  who  died  in 
their  infancy.  Her  third  son,  afterwards  Henry 
IV.  of  France,  was  born  at  Pau,  in  Navarre,  De- 
cember 15th,  1553.  The  king  of  Navarre,  from 
some  whimsical  ideas  respecting  the  future  char- 
acter of  the  child,  had  promised  his  daughter  to 
show  her  his  will,  which  she  was  anxious  to  see, 
if,  during  the  pangs  of  childliirth,  she  would  sing 
a  Bearnaise  song.  This  Jeanne  promised  to  do, 
and  she  performed  her  engagement,  singing,  in  the 
language  of  Beam,  a  song  commencing 

"  Notre  Dame  du  bout  du  pont,  aidez  moi  en  cctte  Iieiire." 

On  the  death  of  her  father,  May  25th,  1555, 
Jeanne  became  queen  of  Navarre.  Like  her  mo- 
ther, she  was  the  protectress  of  the  reformed  reli- 
gion, of  which,  it  is  believed,  she  would,  with  her 
husband,  have  made  a  public  profession,  but  for 
the  menaces  of  Henry  II.  of  France,  and  the  pope. 
In  1558,  in  consequence  of  the  dangers  that  threat- 
ened them,  they  were  compelled  to  make  a  visit  to 
the  court  of  France,  leaving  their  son  and  their 
kingdom  under  the  joint  care  of  Susanne  de  Bour- 
bon, wife  to  Jean  d'Albret,  and  Louis  d'Albret, 
bishop  of  Lescar.  About  this  time,  Jeanne,  young, 
gay,  and  lovely,  began  to  display  less  zeal  than 
her  husband  in  the  cause  of  the  reformers.  Fond 
of  amusements,  and  weary  of  preaching  and  pray- 
ing, she  remonstrated  with  her  husband  respecting 
the  consequences  of  his  zeal,  which  might  prove 
the  ruin  of  his  estates.  Eventually,  however, 
Jeanne  became  the  protectress  of  Calvinism,  which 
her  husband  not  merely  renounced,  but  persecuted 
the  reformers,  gained  over  by  the  stratagems  of 
Catharine  de  Medicis,  and  by  advantages  proposed 
to  him  by  Philip  II.  and  the  court  of  Rome. 
Jeanne  resisted  the  entreaties  of  her  husband, 
and,  resenting  his  ill-treatment  of  the  reformers, 
she  retired  from  France. 

In  Nov.  1562,  the  king  of  Navarre  died  of  a 
wound  he  received  at  the  siege  of  Rouen,  regret- 
ting, on  his  death-bed,  his  change  of  religion,  and 
declaring  his  resolution,  if  he  lived,  of  espousing 
more  zealously  than  ever  the  cause  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. On  the  following  Christmas,  the  queen  made 
a  public  proclamation  of  her  faith,  and  abolished 
popery  throughout  her  dominions.  At  the  same 
time,  she  fortified  Beam  against  the  Spaniards, 
who,  it  was  reported,  were  plotting  to  surprise  the 
city.  The  oiKices  of  the  Roman  ('atholic  church 
were  prohibited  throughout  Beam,  its  altars  over- 
thrown, and  its  images  destroyed.  Twenty  minis- 
ters were  recalled  to  instruct  the  people  in  their 
own  language,  academies  were  established,  and 
the  affairs  of  the  state,  both  civil  and  ecclesiastical, 
were  regulated  by  the  queen. 

In  1663,  Jeanne  had  been  cited  to  Rome  by  the 


pope ;  the  Inquisition,  in  case  of  her  non-appear- 
ance, declared  her  lands  and  lordships  confiscated, 
and  her  person  subjected  to  the  penalties  ap- 
pointed for  heresy.  But  the  court  of  France  re- 
voked the  citation,  conceiving  it  militated  against 
the  liberties  of  the  Gallican  church.  By  the  in- 
sui-rections  of  her  Roman  Catholic  subjects,  Jeanne 
was  kept  in  continual  alarm  ;  but,  holding  the 
reins  of  government  with  a  vigorous  hand,  she 
rendered  all  their  projects  abortive. 

In  1568,  she  left  her  dominions  to  join  the  chiefs 
of  the  Protestant  party.  She  mortgaged  her  jew- 
els to  raise  money  for  the  troops,  and  going,  with 
her  young  son,  Henry,  devoted  from  his  birth  to 
the  cause  of  the  Reformation,  to  Rochelle,  she 
assembled  and  hai'angued  the  troops ;  and  ad- 
dressed letters  to  the  foreign  princes,  and  particu- 
larly to  the  queen  of  England,  imploring  their 
pity  and  assistance. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Roman  Catholics  of  Beam, 
assisted  by  Charles  IX.,  taking  advantage  of  the 
absence  of  the  queen,  seized  on  the  greater  part 
of  the  country,  of  which,  however,  the  count  de 
Montgomery  dispossessed  them,  and  violated  the 
articles  of  capitulation,  by  causing  several  of  the 
leaders  of  the  insurrection  to  be  put  to  death. 
This  breach  of  honour  and  humanity  admits  of  no 
excuse. 

An  alliance  was  proposed,  by  the  court  of 
France,  between  Henry  of  Navarre  and  Margaret 
of  Valois,  sister  of  Charles  IX.,  to  which,  by  spe- 
cious offers  and  pretences,  Jeanne  was  induced  to 
lend  an  ear ;  having  taken  a  journey  to  Paris  for 
the  preparation  of  these  inauspicious  nuptials,  she 
was  seized  with  a  sudden  illness,  and,  not  without 
suspicions  of  poison,  expired  soon  after,  June  10th, 
1572,  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  her  age. 

She  was  accustomed  to  say,  "  that  arms  once 
taken  up  should  never  be  laid  down,  but  upon  one 
of  three  conditions — a  safe  peace,  a  complete  vic- 
tory, or  an  honourable  death."  Her  daughter, 
Catharine,  wife  of  the  duke  de  Bar,  continued  a 
Protestant  all  her  life. 

Jeanne  possessed  a  strong  and  vigorous  under- 
standing, a  ciiltivated  mind,  and  an  acquaintance 
with  the  languages.  She  left  several  compositions 
in  prose  and  verse.  The  following  extemporary 
stanzas  was  made  by  her,  on  visiting  the  printing- 
press  of  Robert  Stephens,  May  21st,  1566: 

"  Art  singulier,  d'ici  aiix  derniors  ans, 
Representez  aiix  enfaiits  de  ma  race 
Giie  j'ai  siiivi  des  craignants  Dieii  la  trace, 
A  fin  qu'ils  soient  les  memes  pas  suivants." 

The  second  is  her  reply  to  M.  Ballay,  who  had 
complimented  her  "Impromptu"  very  highly 
Que  meriter  on  ne  piiisse  I'honneur 
Qn'avez  escript.  je  n'en  siiis  itrnorante; 
Et  si  ne  suis  pour  cola  moins  contente, 
Qne  ce  n'est  moy  a  qui  apparlient  I'heur 
Je  cognois   bien  le  pris  et  la  valenr 
De  ma  lonange,  et  ccla  ne  me  tente 
D'en  croire  plus  que  re  qui  se  pr«5sentp, 
Et  n'en  sera  de  gloire  enfl6  mnn  copur; 
Mais  qu'un   liellay  ait  daigne  de  I'escrire, 
Honte  je  n'ay  a  voiis  et  chaciin  dire, 
Ciue  je  me  tiens  pbis  contente  du  tierc. 
Plus  satisfaite,  et  encor  glorieuse, 
Sans  ni6riter  trie  trouver  si  hciireuse, 
du'on  puisse  voir  mon  noni  en  vos  papiers. 

165 


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De  leiirs  grands  fails  les  rares  ancieiis 

Sont  inaiiiteiiant  contens  et  glorieiix, 

Ayanl  trouv6  poetes  eurietix 

Les  faire  vivre,  et  pour  tels  je  les  tieiis 

Mais  J'osp  (lire  (et  cela  je  maintieiis) 

Ciu'eiicor  ils  out  un  regret  ennuieux, 

Dont  ila  seroiit  sur  moymesme  envieux, 

En  geniissaiit  aux  Cliainps-Elysiens: 

(:;'est  qu'ils  voudroient  (pour  certain  je  le  scay) 

Revivre  ici  et  avoir  un  Bellay, 

Ou  qu'un  Bellay  de  leur  letnps  eust  6t6. 

Car  ce  qui  n'est  savez  si  dextremenl 

Feindre  et  parer,  que  trop  plus  aisemeiit 

Le  bien  du  bien  seroit  par  vous  cliant6. 

Le  papier  gros  et  I'encre  trop  espesse. 
La  plume  lourde  et  la  main  bien  pesante; 
Stile  qui  point  I'oreille  ne  contente, 
Foible  argument  et  mots  pleins  de  rudesse 
Monstreiit  assez  nion  ignorance  expresse ; 
Et  si  n'en  suis  moins  bardie  et  ardente, 
Mes  vers  serner,  si  subjet  se  presente : 
Et  qui  pis  est,  en  cela  je  m'adresse 
A  vous,  qui  pour  plus  aiijros  les  gouster. 
En  les  meslant  avecques  des  meilleurs, 
Faictes  les  miens  et  vostres  escouier. 
Telle  se  voit  difference  aux  couleurs  : 
Le  blanc  au  gris  scait  bien  son  lustre  oster. 
C'est  rlieur  de  vous,  et  ce  sont  mes  niallieurs. 

Le  temps,  les  ans,  d'armes  mc  serviront 

Pour  pouvoir  vaincre  ma  jeune  ignorance, 

Et  dessus  moy  a  moymesme  puissance 

A  I'advenir,  peut-estre,  donneront. 

Mais  quand  cent  ans  sur  mon  chef  doubleront 

Si  le  liault  ciel  un    tel    age  m'advance, 

Gloire  j'auray  d'henreuse  recompense. 

Si  puis  attaindre  a  celles  qui  seront 

Par  leur  chef  d'cetivre  en  los  toujoiirs  vivantes. 

Mais  tel  cuider  seroit  trop  plein  d'audace, 

Bien  suffira  si  pres  leurs  excellenles 

Vertus  je  puis  trouver  une  petite  place; 

Encor  je  sens  mes  forces  languissantes. 

Pour  esperer  du  ciel  tel  heur  et  grace." 


ALBRIZZI,    TEOTOCIII    ISABELLA. 

This  ladj,  of  mucli  celebrity  for  her  talents,  was 
born  on  the  island  of  Corfu,  of  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  families  of  that  island.  Her  father, 
count  Spindosi  Teotochi,  was  for  many  years  pre- 
sident of  the  senate  of  the  Ionian  islands.  At  a 
very  early  age,  Isabella  was  married  to  Carlo 
Marino,  a  Venetian  nobleman,  whom  she  accom- 
panied to  Italy,  which  she  never  left  again  during 
her  life. 

Marino  was  a  man  of  letters,  and  the  author  of 


a  history  of  Venetian  commerce ;  it  was  his  society 
and  guidance  which  determined  the  literary  bent 
of  her  mind,  and  gave  the  first  impetus  to  her 
studious  habits ;  but  his  existence  was  prema- 
turely terminated,  and  her  subsequent  union  with 
the  count  Albrizzi  placed  her  in  a  situation  where 
her  talents  and  tastes  obtained  complete  develop- 
ment. Her  house  at  Venice  became  the  resort  of 
all  the  noted  characters  resident  in  Italy,  or  visit- 
ing its  storied  land.  Lord  Byron,  Cuvier,  Canova, 
Denoii,  Foscolo  and  Humboldt,  were  the  habitues 
of  her  saloon.  Byron  called  her  the  Venetian 
De  Stael.  She  possessed  that  fine  tact  that  be- 
longs to  a  feeling  heart,  combined  with  the  cour- 
tesy which  a  life  passed  in  good  society  bestows. 
It  was  observed,  that  amid  the  concourse  of  stran- 
gers, artists,  authors,  and  notable  persons  of  every 
sort  and  nation — and  even  Chinese  have  been  seen 
at  her  conversazione  —  nobody,  however  obscure, 
was  ever  neglected ;  nobody  left  her  house  with- 
out an  agreeable  impression.  She  has  written  one 
very  interesting  work,  "  Life  of  Vittoria  Colonna," 
in  which  simplicity  and  elegance  are  remarkably 
combined.  A  little  work,  in  which  she  has  de- 
fended the  "  Mirza  of  Alfieri"  against  the  attacks 
of  a  celebrated  critic,  has  been  highly  praised. 
The  "Portraits  of  Celebrated  Contemporaries," 
from  the  subject,  the  author,  and  its  intrinsic 
merits,  became  justly  popular.  "  The  Observa- 
tions upon  tlie  Works  of  Canova,"  a  book  inspired 
by  friendship,  manifests  a  judicious  taste  for  the 
arts ;  is  full  of  instruction  for  strangers,  and  in- 
terest for  philosophic  and  poetic  minds. 

As  a  mother,  her  devotion  was  complete  and 
her  intelligence  admirable.  She  gave  unwearied 
pains  to  the  moral  and  intellectual  education  of 
her  children,  and  administered  their  property  with 
consummate  ability.  Nor  did  these  loving  cares 
go  unrewarded  ;  she  had  the  happiness  of  possess- 
ing in  her  sons,  tender  and  congenial  friends,  in 
seeing  them  partake  with  her,  the  general  esteem, 
and  in  her  last  painful  malady,  their  assiduity 
and  filial  affection  softened  the  pangs  of  death, 
and  smoothed  her  passage  to  the  tomb. 

ALOYSIA,  SIGEA, 
Of  Toledo,  a  Spanish  lady,  and  celebrated  for 
her  learning,  who  wrote  a  letter  to  Paul  III.,  the 
pope  of  Rome,  in  1540,  in  Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew, 
Arabic,  and  Syriac.  She  was  afterwards  called 
to  the  court  of  Portugal,  where  she  composed 
several  works,  and  died  young. 

ALTOVITI,    MARSEILLE   D', 
A  Florentine  lady,  who  settled  at  Marseilles, 
and    devoted    herself  to    writing    Italian    poetry. 
She  died  in  1609. 

AMELIA,   ANNA, 

Duchess  of  Weimar,  was  a  German  princess, 
highly  distinguished  for  her  talents  and  virtues, 
whose  patronage  was  powerfully  exerted  for  the 
improvement  of  taste  and  learning  among  her 
countrymen.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  duke 
of  Brunswick,  and  the  niece  of  Frederick  II.  of 
Prussia.      Her   birth    took   place   October  24th, 

166 


AM 


AN 


1739.     At  the  age  of  seventeen,  she  was  married 
to  the  duke  of  Weimar,  who  left  her  a  widow, 
after  a  union  of  about  two  years.    The  commence- 
ment of  the  seven  years'  war,  which  then  took 
place,   rendered  her  situation  peculiarly  embar- 
rassing, as,  while  herself  a  minor,  she  was  called 
to  the  guardianship  of  her  infant  son,  the  sove- 
reign of  the  little  state  over  which  she  presided. 
To  add  to  her  difficulties,  she  found  herself  obliged, 
as  a  princess  of  the  empire,  to  take  part  against 
her  uncle,  the  great  Frederick.     But  he  treated 
her  personally  with  great  respect,  and  though  her 
provinces  suffered  severely,  they  were  preserved 
from  absolute  ruin.    When  peace  was  established, 
she   directed  her   cares   to   the   education  of  her 
sons,  and  the  public  affairs  of  the  duchy.     Her 
regency  was  attended  with  great  advantages  to 
the  country.     In  the  administration  of  justice,  the 
management  of  the  revenue,   in  public  establish- 
ments, she  was  alike  sedulous ;  and  under  her  fos- 
tering patronage  a  new  spirit  sprang  up  among 
her  people,   and  diffused   its   influence  over  the 
north   of    Germany.      Foreigners   of    distinction, 
artists,  and  men  of  learning,  were  attracted  to  her 
court,  either  as  visitors  or  fixed  residents.     The 
use  of  a  large  library  was  given  to  the  public  ; 
a  new  theatre  erected,  and  provision  was  made 
for  the  improved  education  of  youth.     The  uni- 
versity of  Jena   underwent  a  revision,   and  the 
liberality  of  the  princess  was  exerted  in  modifying 
and  extending  the  establishment.     She  delighted 
in  the  society  of  men  of  talents  and  literature,  and 
succeeded  in  drawing  within  the  circle  of  her  in- 
fluence many  individuals  of  high  celebrity.     The 
city  of  Weimar  became  the  resort  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished literary  men  of  Germany,  whom  the 
duchess  encouraged,  by  her  liberal  patronage,  to 
come  and  reside  at  her  court.     Wieland,  Herder, 
Schiller,  and   Goethe,  formed  a  constellation  of 
genius  of  which  any  city  might  be  proud.     They 
all  held  some  distinguished  office  about  her  court. 
The  duchess  withdrew,  in  1775,  from  public  life, 
having  given  up  the  sovereign  authority  to  her 
eldest  son,  then  of  age.     Her  health,  which  had 
suffered  from  a  recent   severe   attack  of  illness, 
made  this  retirement  desirable ;  and  she  also  anti- 
cipated great  gratification  from  the  study  of  those 
arts  to  which  she  had  always  been  attached,  espe- 
cially music,  with  which  she  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted.    The  conclusion  of  her  life  was  clouded 
by  misfortune ;   and  the  deaths  of  several  of  her 
relatives,  the  ruin  of  royal  houses  with  which  she 
was  connected,   and  the  miseries  occasioned  by 
the  French  invasion  of  Germany,  contributed  to 
embitter  the  last  moments  of  her  existence.     She 
died  in  April,  1807,  and  was  interred  on  the  19th 
of  that  month  at  Weimar. 

AMMANATI,    LAURA   BATTIFERRI, 

Wife  of  Bartholemew  Ammanati,  a  Florentine 
sculptor  and  architect,  was  daughter  of  John  An- 
thony Battiferri,  and  born  at  Urbino,  in  1513. 
She  became  celebrated  for  her  genius  and  learning. 
Her  poems  are  highly  esteemed.  She  was  one  of 
the  members  of  the  Introvati  Academy  at  Sienna  ; 
and  died  at  Florence,  in  1589,  aged  seventy-six. 


She  is  considered  one  of  the  best  Italian  poets  of 
the  sixteenth  century. 

ANDREINI,  ISABELLA, 
Was  born  at  Padua,  in  1653.  She  became  an 
actress  of  great  fame,  and  was  flattered  by  the  ap- 
plauses of  men  of  wit  and  learning  of  her  time. 
The  Italian  theatre  was  considered,  in  that  day,  a 
literary  institution.  She  is  described  as  a  woman 
of  elegant  figure,  beautiful  countenance,  and  me- 
lodious voice  ;  of  taste  in  her  profession,  and  con- 
versant with  the  French  and  Spanish  languages ; 
nor  was  she  unacquainted  with  philosophy  and  the 
sciences.  She  was  a  votary  of  the  muses,  and 
cultivated  poetry  with  ardour  and  success.  The 
Intenti  academicians  of  Pavia,  conferred  upon  her 
the  honours  of  their  society,  and  the  title  of  Isa- 
bella Andreini,  Comica  Gelosa,  Academica  Intenta, 
detta  I'Accesa.  She  dedicated  her  woi-ks  to  car- 
dinal Aldobrandini,  (nephew  to  pope  Clement 
VIII.)  by  whom  she  was  greatly  esteemed,  and 
for  whom  many  of  her  poems  were  composed.  In 
France,  whither  she  made  a  tour,  she  met  with  a 
most  flattering  reception  from  the  king,  the  queen, 
and  the  court.  She  died  in  1604,  at  Lyons,  in  the 
forty-second  year  of  her  age.  Her  husband  was 
overwhelmed  with  affliction  at  her  loss,  and  erected 
a  monument  to  her  memory,  in  the  city  in  which 
she  expired,  inscribed  with  an  epitaph  commemo- 
rative of  her  virtues.  The  learned  strove  to  outdo 
each  other  in  pronouncing  panegyrics  on  her  cha- 
racter. Even  a  medal  was  struck,  with  this  in- 
scription, "  JEterna  Fama." 

Her  works  are  numerous,  and  still  much  ad- 
mired by  the  lovers  of  Italian  literature  ;  they  are 
readily  found  in  print.  She  left  a  son,  born  in 
1578,  who  was  also  a  poet;  he  wrote,  among  other 
things,  "Adamo,"  a  sacred  drama,  in  five  acts, 
with  chorusses,  &c.,  Milan,  1613,  and  1617,  with 
prints,  designed  by  Carlo  Antonio  Proccachini,  a 
celebrated  landscape  painter  of  his  time,  and  of 
the  school  of  the  Carracci;  but  in  a  wretched 
style.  Paradise  being  represented  as  full  of  dipt 
hedges,  squares,  parterres,  straight  walks,  &c. 
But  what  is  more  interesting,  Voltaire,  in  his  visit 
to  England,  in  1727,  suggested  that  Milton  took 
his  hint  of  his  Paradise  Lost  from  this  drama. 
This  obtained  little  credit  at  the  time,  and  was 
contemptuously  rejected  by  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his 
Life  of  Milton.  Mr.  Hayley,  however,  has  revived 
the  question,  and  with  considerable  advantage  to 
Voltaire's  supposition  ;  and  it  seems  now  to  be  the 
opinion,  that  the  coincidence  between  Andreini's 
plan  and  Milton's,  is  too  great  to  be  the  effect  of 
chance.  But  the  "Adamo"  is  here  only  of  im- 
portance as  showing  the  influence  of  the  talents  of 
the  mother  in  forming  the  mind  of  her  son.  Her 
"^"Eterna  Fama"  was  his  inspiration. 

ANGUSCIOLA,  SOPHONISBA, 
Better  known  by  the  name  of  Sophonisba,  an 
Italian  painter  of  great  eminence,  both  in  portrait 
and  historical  painting,  was  born  at  Cremona  in 
1533,  and  died  at  Genoa  in  1626.  She  was  twice 
married.  She  was  of  a  very  distinguished  family, 
and  was  first  taught  by  Bernardino  Campo  of  Cre- 

167 


AN 


AN 


mona,  and  afterwards  learned  persjiective  and 
colouring  from  Bernardo  Gatti,  called  Soraio. 
Her  principal  works  are  portraits,  yet  she  executed 
several  historical  subjects  with  great  spirit ;  the 
attitudes  of  her  figures  are  easy,  natural,  and 
gi-aceful.  She  became  blind  through  over-appli- 
cation to  her  profession,  but  she  enjoyed  the 
friendship  of  some  of  the  greatest  characters  of 
the  day.  Vandyck  acknowledged  himself  more 
benefited  by  her  than  by  all  his  other  studies. 
Some  of  the  principal  works  by  this  artist  are  the 
"  Marriage  of  St.  Catharine,"  and  a  portrait  of 
herself,  playing  on  the  harpsichord  with  an  old 
female  attendant  in  waiting. 

ANGUSCIOLA,    LUCIA, 

Sister  of  the  above-mentioned,  was  an  artist  of 
considerable  skill.  She  obtained  a  reputation 
equal  to  Sophonisba's,  by  her  portraits,  as  well 
for  truth  and  delicacy  of  colouring,  as  for  ease  of 
attitude  and  correctness  of  resemblance. 

ANNA   IWANOWNA, 

Empress  of  Russia,  was  the  second  daughter  of 
the  czar  Iwan,  or  John,  the  elder  brother,  and  for 
some  time  the  associate  of  Peter  the  Great.  She 
was  born  February  8th,  1694.  In  1710  she  mar- 
ried Frederic  William,  duke  of  Courland,  who  died 
in  1711.  On  the  death  of  the  emperor  Peter  II., 
in  1730,  she  was  declared  empress  by  the  council 
of  state,  the  senate,  and  the  principal  military 
officers  at  Moscow.  They  passed  over  her  elder 
sister,  the  duchess  of  Mecklenburg,  and  the  prin- 
cess Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Peter  the  Great,  and 
afterwards  empress,  thinking  that,  with  Anna  for 
an  empress,  they  might  reduce  the  government  to 
a  limited  monarchy ;  but  they  were  unsuccessful 
in  their  intrigues,  for  though  she  consented  to  all 
the  required  conditions,  yet  when  she  felt  her  po- 
sition secure,  she  annulled  her  promises,  and  de- 
clared herself  empress  and  autocrat  of  all  the 
Russias. 

The  empress  Anna  had  a  good  share  of  the 
ability  which  has  long  distinguished  the  imperial 
family  of  Russia ;  and  managed  the  affairs  of  the 
empire  with  superior  judgment.  She  was  not, 
however,  a  very  popular  sovereign,  owing  to  the 
many  oppressive  acts  of  her  favourite  Biron,  a 
minion  whom  she  had  raised  from  a  low  condition 
to  be  duke  of  Courland.  She  discountenanced  the 
drunkenness  in  which  both  sexes  used  to  indulge  ; 
only  one  nobleman  was  allowed,  as  a  special  fa- 
vour, to  drink  as  much  as  he  pleased ;  and  she 
also  discouraged  gaming.  Her  favourite  amuse- 
ments were  music  and  the  theatre.  The  first 
Italian  opera  was  played  at  St.  Petersburg,  in  her 
reign.  She  also  directed  the  famous  palace  of  ice 
to  be  built.     She  died  in  1740. 

ANN  AMELIA, 
Princess  of  Prussia,  sister  to  Frederick  the 
Great,  born  in  1723,  died  1787.  She  distinguish- 
ed herself  by  her  taste  for  the  arts.  She  set  to 
music  "  The  Death  of  the  Messiah"  by  Romler. 
She  was  a  decided  friend  to  the  far-famed  baron 
Trenck ;    and   there  can  be  no  doubt,   that  this 


attachment  for  the  princess,  was  the  cause  of 
Trenck's  misfortunes.  Frederick  was  incensed 
that  a  subject  should  aspire  to  the  hand  of  his 
sister.  She  continued  her  attachment  to  Trenck 
when  both  had  grown  old,  and  Frederick  was  in  his 
grave,  but  death  prevented  her  from  providing  for 
Trenck's  children  as  she  intended. 


ANNE   OF   AUSTRIA, 

Queen  of  Louis  XIII.  of  France,  and  regent 
during  the  minoi'ity  of  Louis  XIV.,  was  daughter  of 
Philip  II.  of  Spain,  and  was  married  to  Louis  XIIl. 
in  1615.  Anne  found  a  powerful  enemy  in  cardi- 
nal Richelieu,  who  had  great  influence  over  the 
king,  and  she  was  compelled  to  yield,  as  long  as 
he  lived,  to  the  great  minister. 

Had  Anne  possessed  greater  talents,  or  been 
more  agreeable,  the  case  might  have  been  differ- 
ent ;  but  her  coldness  and  gravity  of  demeanour, 
which  only  covered  frivolity,  alienated  Louis  XIIL 
Her  attachment  to  her  native  country  was  also 
represented  as  a  crime  by  the  cardinal,  and  his 
whispers  as  to  her  betraying  intelligence,  brought 
upon  Anne  the  ignominy  of  having  her  person 
searched,  and  her  papers  seized. 

When  it  was  known  that  the  queen  was  in  dis- 
grace, the  malcontent  nobles,  with  Gaston,  the 
king's  brother,  at  their  head,  rallied  around  her, 
and  she  was  implicated  in  a  conspiracy  against 
Louis  XIIL  Richelieu  took  advantage  of  this,  to 
represent  her  as  wishing  to  get  rid  of  Louis  to 
marry  Gaston  ;  and  Anne  was  compelled  to  appear 
before  the  king's  counsel  to  answer  this  grave 
charge.  Her  dignity  here  came  to  her  aid,  and, 
scorning  to  make  a  direct  reply,  she  merely  ob- 
served, contemptuously,  "  That  too  little  was  to 
be  gained  by  the  change,  to  render  such  a  design 
on  her  part  probable."  The  duke  of  Bucking- 
ham's open  court  to  the  neglected  queen,  also  gave 
rise  to  malicious  reports. 

On  the  death  of  Louis  XIIL,  Anne,  as  mother 
of  the  infant  king,  held  the  undisputed  reins  ;  and 
she  gave  one  great  proof  of  wisdom  in  her  choice 
of  cardinal  Mazarin  as  a  minister.  However, 
some  oppressive  acts  of  Mazarin  gave  birth  to  a 
popular  insurrection,  which  terminated  in  a  civil 

168 


AN 


AN 


vr.T,  called  the  war  of  the  Fronde,  in  which  Anne, 
her  minister,  and  their  adherents,  were  opposed 
to  the  nobility,  the  citizens,  and  the  people  of 
Paris.  But  Anne  and  Jlazarin  came  off  triumph- 
ant. The  result  of  this  rebellion,  and  of  Anne 
of  Austria's  administration,  was,  that  the  nobles 
and  middle  classes,  vanquished  in  the  field,  were 
never  afterwards  able  to  resist  the  royal  power, 
up  to  the  great  revolution.  Anne's  iniluence  over 
the  court  of  France  continued  a  long  time ;  her 
Spanish  haughtiness,  her  love  of  ceremonial,  and 
of  power,  were  impressed  on  the  mind  of  her  son, 
Louis  XIV.  Some  modern  French  writers  have 
pretended  to  find  reasons  for  believing  this  proud 
queen  was  secretly  married  to  cardinal  Mazarin, 
her  favourite  adviser  and  friend.  But  no  suffi- 
cient testimony,  to  establish  the  fact  of  such  a 
strange  union,  has  been  adduced.  The  queen  died 
in  1666,  aged  sixty-four.  She  was  a  very  hand- 
some woman,  and  celebrated  for  the  beauty  of  her 
hands  and  arms. 

Anne  of  Austria  appears  to  have  been  estimable 
for  the  goodness  and  kindness  of  her  heai't,  rather 
than  for  extraordinary  capacity ;  for  the  attrac- 
tions of  the  tcoman  rather  than  the  virtues  of  the 
queen  ;  a  propensity  to  personal  attachments,  and 
•an  amiable  and  forgiving  temper,  were  her  distin- 
guishing characteristics.  A  woman  who  procured 
her  subsistence  by  singing  infamous  songs,  ex- 
posed to  sale  one  grossly  reflecting  on  the  queen. 
This  woman,  after  having  exercised  her  odious 
profession  for  some  time,  was  committed  to  prison. 
Anne,  hearing  of  the  miserable  situation  to  which 
the  wretch  who  had  defamed  her  was  abandoned, 
secretly  sent  to  her  abundant  relief.  The  last 
favour  which  the  queen-mother  exacted  from  her 
son,  was  to  recal  a  gentleman  by  whom  she  had 
been  libelled. 

In  a  history  of  the  press  of  Caille,  an  anecdote 
appears,  by  which  it  may  be  seen  that  Anne  of 
Austria  loved  literature,  and  sustained  its  freedom 
and  dignity.  Antoine  Berthier,  librarian  of  Paris, 
having  formed  a  design  to  add  to  the  life  of  Car- 
dinal Richelieu  two  volumes  of  letters  and  me- 
moirs, which  he  had  carefully  collected,  addressed 
himself  to  the  regent,  to  whom  he  intimated  that, 
without  a  powerful  protection,  he  dared  not  hazard 
the  publication,  as  many  persons  still  living  and 
received  with  favour  at  court,  were  freely  treated 
in  this  collection.  "  Proceed  without  fear,"  re- 
plied she,  "  and  make  so  many  blush  for  vice,  that, 
for  the  future,  virtue  only  may  find  repose  in 
France." 

The  life  of  this  queen  had  been  marked  with 
vicissitude,  and  clouded  by  disquiet.  At  one  pe- 
riod, subjected  by  an  imperious  minister,  whose 
yoke  she  had  not  the  resolution  to  throw  off,  she 
became  an  object  of  compassion  even  to  those  who 
caballed  and  revolted  against  her ;  yet  her  affec- 
tions were  never  alienated  from  France,  in  favour 
of  which  she  interested  herself,  with  spirit  and 
zeal,  in  the  war  against  her  native  country.  The 
French,  at  length,  relinquished  their  prejudices, 
and  did  her  justice.  The  latter  years  of  her  life 
were  passed  in  tranquillity,  in  retirement,  and  in 
the  exercise  of  benevolence. 


The  following  curious  portrait,  in  which,  with 
an  affectation  of  antithesis,  some  malice  and  pre- 
judice seem  manifested,  is  drawn  of  her  by  Car- 
dinal de  Retz:  —  "The  queen  had,  beyond  any 
person  I  have  ever  seen,  that  kind  of  wit  which  is 
necessary  not  to  appear  a  fool  to  those  unac- 
quainted with  her.  She  possessed  more  sharpness 
than  pride,  more  pride  than  grandeur,  more  of 
manner  than  solidity,  more  avidity  for  money  than 
liberality,  more  liberality  than  selfishness,  more 
attachment  than  passion,  more  of  hardness  than 
fierceness,  a  memory  more  retentive  of  injuries 
than  benefits,  more  desire  of  being  pious  than 
piety,  more  obstinacy  than  firmness,  and  more  of 
incapacity  than  of  any  of  the  foregoing  qualities." 

Anne  of  Austria  was  interred  at  St.  Denis ; 
her  heart  was  carried  to  Le  Val  de  Grace,  of  which 
she  had  been  the  foundress ;  and  the  following 
epitaph  was  made  on  her: 

"  Sister,  wife,  mother,  daughter  of  kings !  Ne- 
ver was  any  more  worthy  of  these  illustrious 
titles." 


ANNE. 

Queen  of  England,  second  daughter  of  James  II. 
by  his  first  wife  Anne  Hyde,  was  born  at  Twicken- 
ham on  the  6th  of  February,  1664.  She  was  edu- 
cated in  the  religion  of  the  church  of  England; 
and,  in  1683,  married  prince  George,  brother  of 
Christian  V.,  king  of  Denmark.  At  the  revolution 
in  1688,  Anne  and  her  husband  adhered  to  the 
dominant  party  of  her  brother-in-law  William  III. ; 
and,  by  act  of  settlement,  the  English  crown  was 
guaranteed  to  her  and  her  children  in  default  of 
issue  to  William  and  Mary.  But  all  her  children 
died  in  infancy  or  early  youth. 

Anne  ascended  the  throne  on  the  death  of  AVil- 
liam  in  1702;  and  two  months  afterwards,  Eng- 
land, the  Empire,  and  Holland,  declared  war 
against  France  and  Spain ;  in  which  Mai-lborough 
and  Peterborough,  the  English  generals,  and 
Leake,  Rooke,  Shovel,  and  Stanhope,  the  English 
admirals,  greatly  distinguished  themselves.  Dur- 
ing tlie  brilliant  course  of  Marlborough's  con- 
quests, the  spirit  of  political  intrigue,  which  was 

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perhaps  never  more  fully  developed  than  in  the 
latter  years  of  the  reign  of  Anne,  was  stifled  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  people.  But  as  the  war  of 
the  succession  proceeded  with  few  indications  of 
its  being  brought  to  an  end,  the  great  commander 
of  the  English  forces  gradually  lost  his  popularity, 
from  the  belief  that  his  own  avarice  and  ambition 
were  the  principal  causes  of  the  burdens  which 
the  war  necessarily  entailed  upon  the  nation.  A 
formidable  party,  too,  had  arisen,  who  asserted 
the  supremacy  of  the  church  and  the  doctrine  of 
the  right  divine  of  kings  and  the  passive  obedience 
of  subjects  —  opinions  which  had  expelled  James 
II.  from  his  kingdom,  and  had  placed  his  childless 
daughter  upon  the  throne.  These  opinions,  how- 
ever, were  supposed  to  be  indirectly  encouraged  by 
tlie  queen,  and  were  exceedingly  popular  amongst 
a  passionate  and  unreasoning  people. 

In  July,  1706,  the  legislative  union  of  Scotland 
and  England  was  completed,  which  was  mainly 
owing  to  the  earnest  and  steady  eiforts  of  the 
queen  in  favour  of  the  union.  Anne  was  all  her 
life  under  the  control  of  her  favourites,  first  of  the 
duchess  of  Marlborough,  and  afterwards  of  Mrs. 
Masham.  The  duchess  of  Marlborough,  a  woman 
of  the  most  imperious,  ambitious,  avaricious,  and 
disagreeable  character,  kept  the  queen  in  a  state 
of  subjection  or  terror  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
The  detail  of  the  scenes  occurring  between  them 
would  hardly  be  believed,  were  it  not  authenti- 
cated by  careful  writers.  Miss  Strickland,  in  her 
"  History  of  the  Queens  of  England,"  has  given 
this  curious  subject  a  thorough  examination. 

Anne  was  mother  of  seventeen  children,  all  of 
whom  died  young.  When  left  a  widow,  she  would 
not  listen  to  the  entreaties  of  the  parliament  (al- 
though but  forty-four  years  old  at  the  time)  to 
conclude  another  marriage,  which  might  throw  new 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  restoration  of  her  own 
family.  She  now  intended  to  put  all  power  into  the 
hands  of  the  tories,  who  were  then  the  majority  in 
the  three  kingdoms.  The  duchess  of  Marlborough 
lost  her  influence ;  Godolphin,  Sunderland,  So- 
mers,  Devonshire,  AValpole,  Cowper,  were  super- 
seded by  Harley,  earl  of  Oxford ;  Bolingbroke, 
Rochester,  Buckingham,  George  Grenville,  and 
Sir  Simon  Harcourt ;  and  the  parliament  was  dis- 
solved. Peace  was  resolved  upon.  Marlborough 
was  accused,  suspended  and  banished.  Meanwhile 
Anne,  notwithstanding  the  measures  which  she 
publicly  took  against  her  brother,  seems  not  to 
have  given  up  the  hope  of  securing  to  him  the 
succession ;  but  the  irreconcileable  enmity  of  Ox- 
ford and  Bolingbroke,  the  former  of  whom  accused 
the  latter  of  favouring  the  Pretender,  was  an  in- 
surmountable obstacle. 

Grieved  at  the  disappointment  of  her  secret 
wishes,  the  queen  fell  into  a  state  of  weakness 
and  lethargy,  and  died  July  20th,  1714.  The 
words,  "0,  my  dear  brother,  how  I  pity  thee!" 
which  she  pronounced  on  her  death-bed,  unveiled 
the  secret  of  her  whole  life.  The  reign  of  Anne 
was  distinguished  not  only  by  the  brilliant  suc- 
cesses of  the  British  arms,  but  also  as  the  golden 
age  of  English  literature,  on  account  of  the  num- 
ber of  admirable  and  excellent  writers  who  flou- 


rished at  this  time  ;  among  whom  were  Pope  and 
Addison.  It  may  be  considered  the  triumph  of 
the  English  high-church  party,  owing  to  her  strong 
predilection  for  the  principles  by  which  it  has 
always  been  actuated.  Her  private  character  was 
amiable ;  but  her  good  sense  was  rendered  ineflPec- 
tual  from  the  want  of  energy.  The  kindness  of 
her  disposition  obtained  for  her  the  title  of  the 
good  queen  Anne.  She  was  an  excellent  wife  and 
mother,  ajid  a  kind  mistress. 

The  common  people  loved  her  well,  a  sure  proof 
of  her  real  worth  as  a  woman  and  a  sovereign. 
So  strong  was  this  feeling  of  veneration  for  her 
character  and  memory,  that  for  many  years  after 
her  death  her  name  had  power  to  agitate  or  excite 
them.  In  the  reign  of  George  I.,  Edmund  Curl 
was  set  in  the  pillory  for  some  of  his  libellous 
publications,  and  told  the  mob,  who  surrounded 
him,  "that  he  was  put  there  for  speaking  well  of 
the  memory  of  good  queen  Anne."  Upon  hearing 
this,  the  people  (inoh  in  English  parlance)  not  only 
laid  aside  the  missiles  with  which  they  had  come 
prepared  to  pelt  him,  but  they  waited  patiently 
till  he  had  stood  his  appointed  time,  and  then 
"escorted  him  to  his  own  house  with  great  re- 
spect." Anne  deserved  this  love  of  her  people, 
because  in  all  her  conduct  she  showed  that  her 
wish  was  to  do  them  good.  Unhappily  for  them, 
she  had  not  the  energy  to  do  what  she  would  will- 
ingly have  had  done.  The  education  of  the  poor 
was  at  that  time  utterly  neglected.  The  queen 
endeavoured  to  have  the  abuses  of  the  "charity 
schools"  rectified  ;  but  her  appeal  to  the  arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  though  she  wrote  a  letter 
to  him  herself,  was  unavailing. 

One  remarkable  feature  in  the  literary  progress 
of  that  age  must  not  be  forgotten.  Miss  Strick- 
land thus  describes  it : 

"  In  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of  Anne,  an 
annual  was  established  called  the  Ladies'  Diary, 
or  Women's  almanack ;  according  to  its  prospec- 
tus '  containing  directions  for  love,  marriage,  pre- 
serving (not  hearts,  but  plums  and  gooseberries), 
cookery,  perfumery,  bills  of  fare,  and  many  other 
concerns  peculiar  to  the  fair  sex.'  The  editor's 
description  of  this  unique  performance  throws 
some  light  on  the  domestic  customs  of  an  age  little 
known  though  very  near.  There  was  a  copy  of 
verses  in  praise  of  queen  Anne,  which  were  actu- 
ally spoken  '  in  the  lord-mayor's  parlor  by  one  of 
the  blue-coat  boys  (at  the  last  thanksgiving-day, 
about  the  Vigo  business),  with  universal  applause.' 
Then  the  calendar,  with  the  common  notes  of  the 
year,  the  times  when  marriage  comes  in  and  out, 
and  the  eclipses  all  in  one  page.  A  '  picture  of 
the  queen  in  copper'  (that  is,  a  copperplate  en- 
graving), very  well  performed.  The  rest  of  the 
literature  consisted  of  'delightful  tales.'  The 
preface  was  a  dissertation  on  the  happiness  of 
England,  enjoyed  under  the  reign  of  qiieen  Eliza- 
beth and  the  present  queen  (Anne).  Many  ardent 
aspirations  the  worthy  editor  made  to  obtain  the 
lives  of  celebrated  queens,  more  particularly 
queens  of  England,  and  he  even  names  Margaret 
of  Anjou  on  his  list,  but  gives  up  the  undertaking 
on  the  most  solemn  conviction  '  that  no  dates  of 

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birth  or  death  can  be  found  for  any  queen  except- 
ing queen  Elizabeth  and  queen  Anne.'  '  This 
being  the  first  ahuanac  printed  for  the  use  of  the 
fair  sex,  and  under  the  reign  of  a  glorious  woman,' 
saith  Mr.  Tipper,  '  some  would  advise  me  to  dedi- 
cate it  to  the  queen,  with  some  such  dedication 
as  this: 

"  '  To  the  queen's  most  excellent  majesty.  This 
Ladies'  Diary,  or  Woman's  Almanack,  being  the 
first  ever  published  for  the  peculiar  use  of  the  fair 
sex,  is,  with  all  humility,  dedicated  to  your  most 
sacred  majesty.'  " 

The  work  was  successful ;  the  oldest  of  all  Eng- 
lish annuals  by  at  least  a  hundred  years,  it  is  the 
survivor  of  most  of  them.  The  "  Ladies'  Diary" 
is  published  to  this  day  —  the  only  mathematical 
pei'iodical  in  Great  Britain.  Thus  the  "  good 
queen  Anne"  deserves  that  her  memory  be  kindly 
regarded  by  her  own  sex,  for  the  encouragement 
she  gave  to  female  talent,  when  so  little  estimation 
was  awarded  it.  Two  celebrated  women  floui-ished 
in  her  reign,  Mary  Astell,  and  Elizabeth  Elstob. 

ANNE  OF  FERRARA, 
Daughter  of  Hercules  II.,  duke  of  Ferrara, 
married,  in  1549,  Francis  duke  of  Guise,  and  be- 
haved with  great  spirit  and  courage  during  the 
wars  of  the  League.  She  was  imprisoned  for  some 
time  at  Blois. 

ANNE    DE   GONZAGUE, 

"Wife  of  Edward  count  Palatine,  died  at  Paris, 
in  1684,  aged  sixty-eight;  and  was  honoured  with 
an  eulogium  by  the  celebrated  Bossuet. 


ARBLAY,    MADAME    D', 

Better  known  to  the  world  as  Frances  Burney, 
was  the  second  daughter  of  Dr.  Burney,  author 
of  a  "  History  of  Music."  She  was  born  at  Lynn- 
Regis,  in  the  county  of  Norfolk,  England,  on  the 
13th  of  June,  1752.  Her  father  was  organist  at 
Lynn,  but  in  1700  he  removed  to  London,  his  for- 
mer residence ;  where  he  numbered  among  his 
familiar  friends  Garrick,  Barry  the  artist,  the 
poets  Mason  and  Armstrong,  and  other  celebrated 
chai'acters. 


Fanny,  though  at  the  age  of  eight  she  did  not 
know  her  letters,  yet  was  shrewd  and  observant ; 
and  as  soon  as  she  could  read,  commenced  to 
scribble.  At  fifteen  she  had  written  several  tales, 
unknown  to  any  one  but  her  sister. 

The  only  regular  instruction  she  ever  received, 
was  when  she  was,  together  with  her  sister  Susanna, 
placed  for  a  short  period  at  a  boarding-school  in 
Queen  Square,  that  they  might  be  out  of  the  way 
during  their  mother's  last  illness ;  and  when  the 
melancholy  tidings  of  this  lady's  death  were  com- 
municated to  them,  the  agony  of  Frances,  though 
then  but  nine  years  of  age,  was  so  great  that  the 
governess  declared  she  had  never  met  with  a  child 
of  such  intense  feelings. 

But  thoiigh  she  received  little  regular  education, 
there  was  no  want  of  industry  and  application  on 
her  part ;  for,  at  an  early  age,  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  best  authors  in  her  father's 
library,  of  which  she  had  the  uncontrolled  range ; 
and  she  was  accustomed  to  write  extracts  from, 
and  remarks  upon,  the  books  she  read,  some  of 
which  it  is  said  would  not  have  disgraced  her 
maturer  judgment. 

She  had  also  the  advantage  of  the  example  of 
her  father's  own  industry  and  perseverance,  to  sti- 
mulate her  to  exertion ;  for  Dr.  Biirney,  notwith- 
standing his  numerous  professional  engagement:, 
as  a  teacher  of  music,  studied  and  acquired  the 
French  and  Italian  languages  on  horseback,  from 
pocket  grammars  and  vocabularies  he  had  written 
out  for  the  purpose. 

In  the  French  language  his  daughter  Frances 
received  some  instructions  from  her  sister  Susanna, 
who  was  educated  in  France ;  and  in  Latin,  at  a 
later  period,  she  had  some  lessons  from  Dr.  John- 
son himself,  though  it  must  be  confessed,  she  does 
not  seem  to  have  taken  much  delight  in  this  study 
—  applying  to  that  learned  language  rather  to 
please  her  tutor  than  herself. 

Dr.  Burney  had,  at  the  period  of  her  youth,  a 
large  circle  of  intellectual  and  even  literary  ac- 
quaintance, and  at  his  house  often  congregated  an 
agreeable  but  miscellaneous  society,  including, 
besides  many  eminent  for  literature,  sevei-al  accom- 
plished foreigners,  together  with  native  artists  and 
scientific  men  ;  and  his  children,  emancipated  from 
the  restraints  of  a  school-room,  were  allowed  to 
be  present  at,  and  often  to  take  a  share  in,  the 
conversation  of  their  father's  guests ;  by  which 
their  minds  were  opened,  their  judgments  enlight- 
ened, and  their  attention  turned  to  intellectual 
pursuits ;  perhaps  in  a  far  greater  degree  than 
if  they  had  regularly  undergone  all  the  drudgery 
of  the  usual  routine  of  what  is  termed  "  edu- 
cation." 

The  following  is  a  comparative  sketch  of  the 
character  of  Miss  Frances  Burney,  drawn  about 
this  period  by  her  younger  sister,  Susanna,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Phillips, — to  whom  her  diary  was  sub- 
sequently addressed. 

"Sister  Fanny  is  unlike  her  [Hester  Burney, 
the  eldest  daughter]  in  almost  everything,  yet 
both  are  very  amiable,  and  love  each  other  as  sin- 
cerely as  ever  sisters  did.  The  characteristics  of 
Hetty  seem  to  be  wit,  generosity,  and  openness  of 

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heart ;  Fanny's,  sense,  sensibility,  and  bashful- 
ness,  and  even  a  degree  of  prudery.  Her  under- 
standing is  superior,  but  her  diffidence  gives  her  a 
bashfiihiess  before  company  with  whom  she  is  not 
intimate,  which  is  a  disadvantage  to  lier.  My 
eldest  sister  shines  in  conversation,  because,  though 
very  modest,  she  is  totally  free  from  any  7nauvaise 
hontc ;  were  Fanny  equally  so,  I  am  persuaded  she 
would  shine  no  less.  I  am  afraid  my  eldest  sister 
is  too  communicative,  and  that  my  sister  Fanny  is 
too  reserved.  They  are  both  charming  girls — des 
filles  comme  il  y  en  a  pen." 

Dr.  Burney  was  at  this  period  accustomed  to 
employ  his  daughters  in  copying  out  his  manu- 
scripts for  the  press,  tracing  over  and  over  again 
the  same  page,  with  the  endless  alterations  his  cri- 
tical judgment  suggested.  Upon  these  occasions 
Frances  was  his  principal  amanuensis,  and  thus 
she  became  early  initiated  in  all  the  mysteries  of 
publication,  which  was  of  much  advantage  to  her 
when  she  began  to  write  for  the  press. 

At  seventeen.  Miss  Burney  wrote  "Evelina," 
her  first  published  novel,  and  now  considered  by 
good  judges  her  best  work;  though  "Cecilia"  is 
the  more  highly  finished.  "Evelina"  was  pub- 
lished in  1778,  and  soon  became  popular  in  London. 
Its  author  did  not  long  remain  unknown,  and  Miss 
Burney  attained  a  celebrity  few  young  novel-wri- 
ters have  ever  enjoyed.  She  was  introduced  to 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  speedily  gained  an  enviable  place 
in  his  favour.  He  appreciated  very  justly,  both 
the  abilities  and  moral  excellence  of  Miss  Burney. 
On  one  occasion,  speaking  of  her  work,  he  ob- 
serves, "  Evelina  seems  a  work  that  should  result 
from  long  experience,  and  deep  and  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  world ;  yet  it  has  been  written 
without  eiUier  Miss  Burney  is  a  real  wonder. 
What  she  is,  she  is  intuitively.  Dr.  Burney  told 
me  she  had  the  fewest  advantages  of  any  of  his 
daughters,  from  some  peculiar  circumstances. 
And  such  has  been  her  timidity,  that  he  himself 
had  not  any  suspicion  of  her  powers.  *  *  *  Mo- 
desty with  her  is  neither  pretence  nor  decorum  ; 
it  is  an  ingredient  in  her  nature ;  for  she  who 
could  part  with  such  a  work  for  twenty  pounds, 
could  know  so  little  of  its  worth  or  of  her  own,  as 
to  leave  no  possible  doubt  of  her  humility." 

Miss  Burney's  next  publication  was  "Cecilia," 
which  work  called  forth  an  eulogium  from  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Burke.  In  a  letter  to  Miss  Bur- 
ney he  says,  "  There  are  few — I  believe  I  may  say 
fairly  there  are  none  at  all  —  that  will  not  find 
themselves  better  informed  concerning  human  na- 
ture, and  their  stock  of  observations  enriched,  by 
reading  your  '  Cecilia.'"  *  *  *  "  I  might  trespass 
on  your  delicacy  if  I  should  fill  my  letter  to  you 
with  what  I  fill  my  conversation  to  others ;  I 
should  be  troublesome  to  you  alone  if  I  should  tell 
you  all  I  feel  and  think  on  the  natural  vein  of 
humour,  the  tender  pathetic,  the  comprehensive 
and  noble  moral,  and  the  sagacious  observation, 
that  appear  quite  throughout  this  extraordinary 
performance." 

In  a  few  years  after  this.  Miss  Burney,  through 
the  favourable  representations  made  concerning 
her  by  her  venerable  friend  Mrs.  Delany,  was  in- 


vited to  accept  a  place  in  the  household  of  queen 
Charlotte.  A  popular  writer  thus  sketches  the 
result,  and  the  subsequent  events  of  her  chequered 
life: 

"The  result  was,  that  in  1786  our  authoress 
was  appointed  second  keeper  of  the  robes  to  queen 
Charlotte,  with  a  salary  of  £200  a-year,  a  foot- 
man, apartments  in  the  palace,  and  a  coach  be- 
tween her  and  her  colleague.  The  situation  was 
only  a  sort  of  splendid  slavery.  '  I  was  averse  to 
the  union,'  said  Miss  Burney,  'and  I  endeavoured 
to  escape  it ;  but  my  friends  interfered — they  pre- 
vailed— and  the  knot  is  tied.'  The  queen  appears 
to  have  been  a  kind  and  considerate  mistress ;  but 
the  stiff  etiquette  and  formality  of  the  court,  and 
the  unremitting  attention  which  its  irksome  duties 
required,  rendered  the  situation  peculiarly  dis- 
agreeable to  one  who  had  been  so  long  flattered 
and  coui'ted  by  the  brilliant  society  of  her  day. 
Her  colleague,  Mrs.  Schwellenberg,  a  coarse- 
minded,  jealous,  disagreeable  German  favourite, 
was  also  a  perpetual  source  of  annoyance  to  her ; 
and  poor  Fanny  at  court  was  worse  oif  than  her 
heroine  Cecilia  was  in  choosing  among  her  guar- 
dians. Her  first  official  duty  was  to  mix  the 
queen's  snuflF,  and  keep  her  box  alwaj's  replen- 
ished, after  which  she  was  promoted  to  the  great 
business  of  the  toilet,  helping  her  majesty  off  and 
on  with  her  dresses,  and  being  in  strict  attendance 
from  sis  or  seven  in  the  morning  till  twelve  at 
night!  From  this  grinding  and  intolerable  des- 
tiny Miss  Burney  was  emancipated  by  her  mar- 
riage, in  1793,  with  a  French  refugee  officer,  the 
Count  D'Arblay.  She  then  resumed  her  pen,  and 
in  1795  produced  a  tragedy,  entitled  '  Edwin  and 
Elgitha,'  which  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane, 
and  possessed  at  least  one  novelty  —  there  were 
three  bishops  among  the  dramatis  personce.  Mrs. 
Siddons  personated  the  heroine,  but  in  the  dying 
scene,  where  the  lady  is  brought  from  behind  a 
hedge  to  expire  before  the  audience,  and  is  after- 
wards carried  once  more  to  the  back  of  the  hedge, 
the  house  was  convulsed  with  laughter !  Her  next 
efi^ort  was  her  novel  of  '  Camilla,'  which  she  pub- 
lished by  subscription,  and  realized  by  it  no  less 
than  three  thousand  guineas.  In  1802  Madame 
D'Arblay  accompanied  her  husband  to  Paris.  The 
count  joined  the  army  of  Napoleon,  and  his  wife 
was  forced  to  remain  in  France  till  1812,  when 
she  returned  and  purchased,  from  the  proceeds  of 
her  novel,  a  small  but  handsome  villa,  named  Ca- 
milla Cottage.  Her  success  in  prose  fiction  urged 
her  to  another  trial,  and  in  1814  she  produced 
'  The  Wanderer,'  a  tedious  tale  in  five  volumes, 
which  had  no  other  merit  than  that  of  bringing 
the  authoress  the  large  sum  of  £1500.  The  only 
other  literary  labour  of  Madame  D'Arblay  was  a 
memoir  of  her  father.  Dr.  Burney,  published  in 
1832.  Her  husband  and  her  son  (the  Rev.  A. 
D'Arblay  of  Camden  Town  chapel,  near  London) 
both  predeceased  her  —  the  former  in  1818,  and 
the  latter  in  1837.  Three  years  after  this  last 
melancholy  bereavement,  Madame  D'Arblay  her- 
self paid  the  debt  of  nature,  dying  at  Bath,  in 
January,  1840,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty-eight. 
Her    '  Diary  and   Letters  '  edited  by  her  niece, 

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were  published  in  1842,  in  five  volumes.  If  judi- 
ciously condensed,  this  work  would  have  been 
both  entertaining  and  valuable ;  but  at  least  one 
half  of  it  is  filled  with  small  unimportant  details 
and  private  gossip,  and  the  self-admiring  weakness 
of  the  authoress  shines  out  in  almost  every  page. 
The  early  novels  of  Miss  Burney  form  the  most 
pleasing  memorials  of  her  name  and  history.  In 
them  we  see  her  quick  in  discernment,  lively  in 
invention,  and  inimitable,  in  her  own  way,  in  por- 
traying the  humours  and  oddities  of  English  so- 
ciety. Her  good  sense  and  correct  feeling  are 
more  remarkable  than  her  passion.  Her  love 
scenes  are  prosaic  enough,  but  in  '  showing  up'  a 
party  of  '  vulgarly  genteel'  persons,  painting  the 
characters  in  a  drawing-room,  or  catching  the  fol- 
lies and  absurdities  that  float  on  the  surface  of 
fashionable  society,  she  has  rarely  be-en  equalled. 
She  deals  with  the  palpable  and  familiar ;  and 
though  society  has  changed  since  the  time  of 
'  Evelina,'  and  the  glory  of  Ranelagh  and  Mary- 
le-bone  Gardens  has  departed,  there  is  enough  of 
real  life  in  her  personages,  and  real  morality  in 
her  lessons,  to  interest,  amuse,  and  instruct.  Her 
sarcasm,  drollery,  and  broad  humour,  must  always 
be  relished." 

We  will  now  give  a  few  extracts  from  the  first 
and  the  last  works  of  this  interesting  writer. 

From  "  Evelina." 

A  PRETENDED  HIGHWAY  ROBBERY. 

"When  we  had  been  out  near  two  hours,  and 
expected  every  moment  to  stop  at  the  place  of  our 
destination,  I  observed  that  Lady  Howard's  ser- 
vant, who  attended  us  on  horseback,  rode  on  for- 
ward till  he  was  out  of  sight,  and  soon  after  re- 
turning, came  up  to  the  chariot  window,  and  deli- 
vering a  note  to  Madame  Duval,  said  he  had  met 
a  boy  who  was  just  coming  with  it  to  Howard 
Grove,  from  the  clerk  of  Mr.  Tyrell. 

"While  she  was  reading  it,  he  rode  round  to 
the  other  window,  and,  making  a  sign  for  secresy, 
put  into  my  hand  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  was 
written,  '  Whatever  happens,  be  not  alarmed,  for 
you  are  safe,  though  you  endanger  all  mankind  I' 

"  I  really  imagined  that  Sir  Clement  must  be 
the  author  of  this  note,  which  prepared  me  to  ex- 
pect some  disagreeable  adventure :  but  I  had  no 
time  to  ponder  upon  it,  for  Madame  Duval  had  no 
sooner  read  her  own  letter,  than,  in  an  angry  tone 
of  voice,  she  exclaimed,  '  Why,  now,  what  a  thing 
is  this ;  here  we're  come  all  this  way  for  nothing!' 

"  She  then  gave  me  the  note,  which  informed 
her  that  she  need  not  trouble  herself  to  go  to  Mr. 
Tyrell's,  as  the  prisoner  had  had  the  address  to 
escape.  I  congratulated  her  upon  this  fortunate 
incident ;  but  she  was  so  much  concerned  at  hav- 
ing rode  so  far  in  vain,  that  she  seemed  less  pleased 
than  provoked.  However,  she  ordered  the  man 
to  make  what  haste  he  could  home,  as  she  hoped 
at  least  to  return  before  the  captain  sliould  suspect 
what  had  passed. 

"  The  carriage  turned  about,  and  we  joui-neyed 
so  quietly  for  near  an  hour  that  I  began  to  flatter 
myself  we  should  be  suff'ered  to  proceed  to  Howard 
Grove  without  further  molestation,  when,  sudden- 


ly, the  footman  called  out,  'John,  ai-e  we  going 
right  ?' 

"  'Why,  I  ain't  sure,'  said  the  coachman;  'but 
I'm  afraid  we  tui-ned  wrong.' 

"'What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sirrah?'  said 
Madame  Duval ;  '  why,  if  you  lose  your  way,  we 
shall  be  all  in  the  dark.' 

"  '  I  think  we  should  turn  to  the  left,'  said  the 
footman. 

"  '  To  the  left!'  answered  the  other;  '  No,  no; 
I  'm  pretty  sure  we  should  turn  to  the  right.' 

'"You  had  better  make  some  inquiry,'  said  I. 

"'3/a/o^,"  cried  Madame  Duval,  'we're  in  a 
fine  hole  here  ;  they  neither  of  them  know  no  more 
than  the  post.  However,  I  '11  tell  my  lady  as  sure 
as  you  're  born,  so  you  'd  better  find  the  way.' 

"  '  Let's  try  this  road,'  said  the  footman. 

"  'No,'  said  the  coachman,  'that's  the  road  to 
Canterbury  ;   we  had  best  go  straight  on.' 

"'Why,  that's  the  direct  London  road,'  re- 
turned the  footman,  '  and  will  lead  us  twenty  miles 
about.' 

'^ '  Pardie,'  cried  Madame  Duval;  'why,  they 
won't  go  one  way  nor  t'other;  and,  now  we're 
come  all  this  jaunt  for  nothing,  I  suppose  we  shan't 
get  home  to  night.' 

"  '  Let's  go  back  to  the  public-house,'  said  the 
footman,  '  and  ask  for  a  guide.' 

"'No,  no,'  said  the  other;  'if  we  stay  here  a 
few  minutes,  somebody  or  other  will  pass  by ;  and 
the  horses  are  almost  knocked  up  already.' 

"'Well,  I  protest,'  cried  Madame  Duval,  'I'd 
give  a  guinea  to  see  them  sots  horse-whipped.  As 
sure  as  I'm  alive  they're  drunk.  Ten  to  one  but 
tlrey '11  overturn  us  next.' 

"After  much  debating,  they  at  length  agreed  to 
go  on  till  we  came  to  some  inn,  or  met  with  a  pas- 
senger who  could  direct  us.  We  soon  arrived  at 
a  small  farm-house,  and  the  footman  alighted  and 
went  into  it. 

"  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  and  told  us  we 
might  proceed,  for  that  he  had  procured  a  direc- 
tion. '  But,'  added  he,  '  it  seems  there  are  some 
thieves  hereabouts,  and  so  the  best  way  will  be  for 
you  to  leave  your  watches  and  purses  with  the 
farmer,  whom  I  know  very  well,  and  who  is  an 
honest  man,  and  a  tenant  of  my  lady's.' 

"'Thieves!'  cried  Madame  Duval,  looking 
aghast ;  '  the  Lord  help  us !  I  've  no  doubt  but  we 
shall  be  all  murdered  !' 

"  The  farmer  came  to  us,  and  we  gave  him  all 
we  were  worth,  and  the  servants  followed  our  ex- 
ample. We  then  proceeded,  and  ]Madame  Duval's 
anger  so  entirely  subsided,  that,  in  the  mildest 
manner  imaginable,  she  entreated  them  to  make 
haste,  and  promised  to  tell  their  lady  how  diligent 
and  obliging  they  had  been.  She  perpetually 
stopped  them  to  ask  if  they  apprehended  any  dan- 
ger, and  was  at  length  so  much  overpowered  by 
her  fears,  that  she  made  the  footman  fasten  his 
horse  to  the  back  of  the  carriage,  and  then  come 
and  seat  himself  within  it.  jSIy  endeavours  to  en- 
courage her  were  fruitless  ;  she  sat  in  the  middle, 
held  the  man  by  the  arm,  and  protested  that  if  he 
did  but  save  her  life,  she  would  make  his  fortune. 
Her  uneasiness  gave  me  much  concern,  and  it  was 

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with  the  utmost  difficulty  I  forbore  to  acquaint 
her  that  she  was  imposed  upon ;  but  the  mutual 
fear  of  the  captain's  resentment  to  me,  and  of  her 
own  to  him,  neither  of  which  would  have  any 
moderation,  deterred  me.  As  to  the  footman,  he 
was  evidently  in  torture  from  I'estraining  his 
laughter,  and  I  observed  that  he  was  frequently 
obliged  to  make  most  horrid  grimaces  from  pre- 
tended fear,  in  order  to  conceal  his  risibility. 

"Very  soon  after,  'The  robbers  are  coming!' 
cried  the  coachman. 

"  The  footman  opened  the  door,  and  jumped  out 
of  the  chariot. 

*'  Madame  Duval  gave  a  loud  scream. 

"  I  could  no  longer  preserve  my  silence.  '  For 
heaven's  sake,  my  dear  madam,'  said  I,  'don't  be 
alarmed ;  you  are  in  no  danger ;  you  are  quite 
safe  ;  there  is  nothing  but ' 

"  Here  the  chariot  was  stopped  by  two  men  in 
masks,  who,  at  each  side,  put  in  their  hands,  as  if 
for  our  purses.  Madame  Duval  sunk  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  chariot,  and  implored  their  mercy.  I 
shrieked  involuntai-ily,  although  prepared  for  the 
attack :  one  of  them  held  me  fast,  while  the  other 
toi'e  poor  Madame  Duval  out  of  the  carriage,  in 
spite  of  her  cries,  threats,  and  resistance. 

"  I  was  really  frightened,  and  trembled  exceed- 
ingly. '  My  angel !'  cried  the  man  who  held  me, 
'  you  cannot  surely  be  alarmed.  Do  you  not  know 
me  ?  I  shall  hold  myself  in  eternal  abhorrence 
if  I  have  really  terrified  you.' 

" '  Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  have,'  cried  I ;  '  but, 
for  heaven's  sake,  where  is  Madame  Duval  ? — why 


is  she  forced 


away  , 


"  'She  is  perfectly  safe;  the  captain  has  her  in 
charge ;  but  suffer  me  now,  my  adored  Miss  An- 
ville,  to  take  tlie  only  opportunity  that  is  allowed 
me  to  speak  upon  another,  a  much  dearer,  much 
sweeter  subject.' 

"  And  then  he  hastily  came  into  the  chariot,  and 
seated  himself  next  to  me.  I  would  fain  have 
disengaged  myself  from  him,  but  he  would  not  let 
me.  '  Deny  me  not,  most  charming  of  women,' 
cried  he — '  deny  me  not  this  only  moment  lent  me 
to  pour  forth  my  soul  into  your  gentle  ears,  to  tell 
you  how  much  I  suifer  from  your  absence,  how 
much  I  dread  your  displeasure,  and  how  cruelly  I 
am  afi"ected  by  your  coldness!' 

"'Oh,  sir,  this  is  no  time  for  such  language; 
pray,  leave  me ;  pray,  go  to  the  relief  of  Madame 
Duval ;  I  cannot  bear  that  she  should  be  treated 
with  such  indignity.' 

"'And  will  you  —  can  you  command  my  ab- 
sence ?  When  may  I  speak  to  you,  if  not  now  ? — 
does  the  captain  suffer  me  to  breathe  a  moment 
out  of  his  sight  ? — and  are  not  a  thousand  imper- 
tinent people  for  ever  at  your  elbow?' 

"  '  Indeed,  Sir  Clement,  you  must  change  your 
style,  or  I  will  not  hear  you.  The  impertinent 
people  you  mean  are  among  my  best  friends,  and 
you  would  not,  if  you  really  wished  me  well,  speak 
of  them  so  disrespectfully.' 

"  'Wish  you  well!  Oh,  Miss  Anville,  point  but 
out  to  me  how  in  what  manner  I  may  convince  you 
of  the  fervour  of  my  passion  —  tell  me  but  what 
services  you  will  accept  from  me,  and  you  shall 


find  my  life,  my  fortune,  my  whole  soul  at  your 
devotion.' 

"  '  I  want  nothing,  sir,  that  you  can  offer.  1 
beg  you  not  to  talk  to  me  so — so  strangely.  Pray, 
leave  me ;  and  pray,  assure  yourself  you  cannot 
take  any  method  so  successless  to  show  any  regard 
for  me,  as  entering  into  schemes  so  frightful  to 
Madame  Duval,  and  so  disagreeable  to  myself.' 

"'The  scheme  was  the  captain's;  I  even  op- 
posed it ;  though  I  own  I  could  not  refuse  myself 
the  so  long  wished-for  happiness  of  speaking  to 
you  once  more  without  so  many  of — your  friends 
to  watch  me.  And  I  had  flattered  myself  that  the 
note  I  charged  the  footman  to  give  you  would 
have  prevented  the  alarm  you  have  received.' 

"  '  Well,  sir,  you  have  now,  I  hope,  said  enough ; 
and  if  you  will  not  go  yourself  to  seek  for  Ma- 
dame Duval,  at  least  suflcr  me  to  inquire  what  is 
become  of  her.' 

"  '  And  when  may  I  speak  to  j'ou  again?' 

"  '  No  matter  when  ;  I  don't  know  ;  perhaps — ' 

"  '  Perhaps  what,  my  angel  ?' 

"  '  Perhaps  never,  sir,  if  you  torment  me  thus.' 

"'Never!  Oh,  Miss  Anville,  how  cruel,  how 
piercing  to  my  soul  is  that  icy  word !  Indeed  1 
cannot  endure  such  displeasure.' 

"  '  Then,  sir,  you  must  not  provoke  it.  Pray, 
leave  me  directly.' 

"  '  I  will,  madam;  but  let  me  at  least  make  a 
merit  of  my  obedience  —  allow  me  to  hope  that 
you  will  in  future  be  less  averse  to  trusting  your- 
self for  a  few  moments  alone  w'ith  me.' 

"  I  was  surprised  at  the  freedom  of  this  request; 
but  while  I  hesitated  how  to  answer  it,  the  other 
mask  came  up  to  the  chariot  door,  and,  in  a  voice 
almost  stifled  with  laughter,  said,  '  I  've  done  for 
her !  The  old  buck  is  safe ;  but  we  must  sheer 
off"  directly,  or  we  shall  be  all  a-ground.' 

"  Sir  Clement  instantly  left  me,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  rode  oif.  The  captain,  having  given 
some  directions  to  his  servants,  followed  him. 

"I  was  both  uneasy  and  impatient  to  know  the 
fate  of  Madame  Duval,  and  immediately  got  out 
of  the  chai'iot  to  seek  her.  I  desired  the  footman 
to  show  me  which  way  she  was  gone  ;  he  pointed 
with  his  finger,  by  way  of  answer,  and  I  saw  that 
he  dared  not  trust  his  voice  to  make  any  other.  I 
walked  on  at  a  very  quick  pace,  and  soon,  to  my 
great  consternation,  perceived  the  poor  lady  seated 
upright  in  a  ditch.  I  flew  to  her,  with  unfeigned 
concern  at  her  situation.  She  was  sobbing,  nay, 
almost  roaring,  and  in  the  utmost  agony  of  rage 
and  terror.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  redoubled 
her  cries,  but  her  voice  was  so  broken,  I  could  not 
understand  a  word  she  said.  I  was  so  much 
shocked,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  I  forbore  ex- 
claiming against  the  cruelty  of  the  captain  for 
thus  wantonly  ill-treating  her,  and  I  could  not  for- 
give myself  for  having  passively  suffered  the  de- 
ception. I  used  my  utmost  endeavours  to  comfort 
her,  assuring  her  of  our  present  safety,  and  beg- 
ging her  to  rise  and  return  to  the  chariot. 

"  Almost  bursting  with  passion,  she  pointed  to 
her  feet,  and  with  frightful  violence  she  actually 
beat  the  ground  with  her  hands. 

"I  then   saw  that  her  feet  were  tied  together 

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with  a  strong  rope,  wliich  was  fastened  to  the 
upper  branch  of  a  tree,  even  with  a  hedge  which 
ran  along  the  ditch  where  she  sat.  I  endeavoured 
to  untie  the  Ivnot,  but  soon  found  it  was  infinitely 
beyond  my  strength.  I  was  therefore  obliged  to 
apply  to  the  footman  ;  but  being  very  unwilling  to 
add  to  his  mirth  by  the  sight  of  Madame  Duval's 
situation,  I  desired  him  to  lend  me  a  knife.  I 
returned  with  it,  and  cut  the  rope.  Her  feet  were 
soon  disentangled,  and  then,  though  with  great 
diiSculty,  I  assisted  her  to  rise.  But  what  was 
my  astonishment  when,  the  moment  she  was  up, 
she  hit  me  a  violent  slap  on  the  face !  I  retreated 
from  her  with  precipitation  and  dread,  and  she 
then  loaded  me  with  reproaches  which,  though 
almost  unintelligible,  convinced  me  that  she  ima- 
gined I  had  voluntarily  deserted  her;  but  she 
seemed  not  to  have  the  slightest  suspicion  that  she 
had  not  been  attacked  by  real  robbers. 

"  I  was  so  much  surprised  and  confounded  at 
the  blow,  that  for  some  time  I  suffered  her  to  rave 
without  making  any  answer  ;  but  her  extreme  agi- 
tation and  real  suffering  soon  dispelled  my  anger, 
which  all  turned  into  compassion.  I  then  told  her 
that  I  had  been  forcibly  detained  from  following 
her,  and  assured  her  of  my  real  sorrow  at  her  ill- 
usage. 

"She  began  to  be  somewhat  appeased,  and  I 
again  entreated  her  to  return  to  the  carriage,  or 
give  me  leave  to  order  that  it  should  draw  up  to 
the  place  where  we  stood.  She  made  no  answer, 
till  I  told  her  that  the  longer  we  remained  still, 
the  greater  would  be  the  danger  of  our  ride  home. 
Struck  with  this  hint,  she  suddenly,  and  with 
hasty  steps,  moved  forward. 

"  Her  dress  was  in  such  disorder  that  I  was 
quite  sorry  to  have  her  figure  exposed  to  the  ser- 
vants, who,  all  of  them,  in  imitation  of  their  mas- 
ter, hold  her  in  derision ;  however,  the  disgrace 
was  unavoidable. 

"  The  ditch,  happily,  was  almost  dry,  or  she 
must  have  suffered  still  more  seriously ;  yet  so 
forlorn,  so  miserable  a  figure,  I  never  before  saw. 
Her  head-dress  had  fallen  off;  her  linen  was  torn; 
her  negligee  had  not  a  pin  left  in  it ;  her  petticoats 
she  was  obliged  to  hold  on ;  and  her  shoes  were 
perpetually  slipping  off.  She  was  covered  with 
dirt,  weeds,  and  filth,  and  her  face  was  really  hor- 
rible, for  the  pomatum  and  powder  from  her  head, 
and  the  dust  from  the  road,  were  quite  pasted  on 
her  skin  by  her  tears,  which,  with  her  rouge, 
made  so  frightful  a  mixture  that  she  hardly  looked 
human. 

"  The  servants  were  ready  to  die  with  laughter 
the  moment  they  saw  her ;  but  not  all  my  remon- 
strances could  prevail  on  her  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage till  she  had  most  vehemently  reproached 
them  both  for  not  rescuing  her.  The  footman, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  as  if  fearful  of  again 
trusting  himself  to  look  at  her,  protested  that  the 
robbers  avowed  they  would  shoot  him  if  he  moved 
an  inch,  and  that  one  of  them  had  stayed  to  watch 
the  chariot,  while  the  other  carried  her  off;  add- 
ing, that  the  reason  of  their  behaving  so  barba- 
rously, was  to  revenge  our  having  secured  our 
purses.     Notwithstanding  her  anger,  she  gave  im- 


mediate credit  to  what  he  said,  and  really  ima- 
gined that  her  want  of  money  had  irritated  the 
pretended  robbers  to  treat  her  with  such  cruelty. 
I  determined,  therefore,  to  be  carefully  on  my 
guard,  not  to  betray  the  imposition,  which  could 
now  answer  no  other  purpose  than  occasioning  an 
irreparable  breach  between  her  and  the  captain. 

"  Just  as  we  were  seated  in  the  chariot,  she  dis- 
covered the  loss  which  her  head  had  sustained, 
and  called  out,  '  My  God !  what  is  become  of  my 
hair?     AVhy,  the  villain  has  stole  all  my  curls!' 

"  She  then  ordered  the  man  to  run  and  see  if 
he  could  find  any  of  them  in  the  ditch.  He  went, 
and  presently  returning,  produced  a  great  quan- 
tity of  hair  in  such  a  nasty  condition,  that  I  was 
amazed  she  would  take  it ;  and  the  man,  as  he 
delivered  it  to  her,  found  it  impossible  to  keep  his 
countenance ;  which  she  no  sooner  observed,  than 
all  her  stormy  passions  were  again  raised.  She 
flung  the  battered  curls  in  his  face,  saying,  '  Sir- 
rah, what  do  you  grin  for  ?  I  wish  you  'd  been 
served  so  yourself,  and  you  wouldn't  have  found 
it  no  such  joke ;  you  are  the  impudentest  fellow 
ever  I  see,  and  if  I  find  you  dare  grin  at  me  any 
more,  I  shall  make  no  ceremony  of  boxing  your 
ears.' 

"  Satisfied  with  the  threat,  the  man  hastily  re- 
tired, and  we  drove  on." 

From  "  The  Diary." 
A    DAY    OF    H.iPPINESS    IN    A    PALACE. 

"  Tuesday,  March  10th,  1789.— This  was  a  day 
of  happiness  indeed  I  —  a  day  of  such  heartfelt 
public  delight  as  could  not  but  suppress  all  private 
disturbance. 

"  The  king  sent  to  open  the  house  of  lords  by 
commission. 

"  The  general  illumination  of  all  London  proved 
the  universal  joy  of  a  thankful  and  most  affection- 
ate people,  who  have  shown  so  largely,  on  this 
trying  occasion,  how  well  they  merited  the  monarch 
thus  benignantly  preserved. 

"  The  queen,  from  her  privy  purse,  gave  private 
orders  for  a  splendid  illumination  at  this  palace : 
Rebecca  painted  a  beautiful  transparency ;  and 
Mr.  Smelt  had  the  regulation  of  the  whole. 

"  The  King  —  Providence  —  Health  —  and  Bri- 
tannia, were  displayed  with  elegant  devices :  the 
queen  and  pi-incesses,  all  but  the  youngest,  went 
to  town  to  see  the  illumination  there ;  and  Mr. 
Smelt  was  to  conduct  the  surprise.  It  was  magni- 
ficently beautiful. 

"  When  it  was  lighted  and  prepared,  the  princess 
Amelia  went  to  lead  her  papa  to  the  front  window: 
but  first  she  dropped  on  her  knees,  and  presented 
him  a  paper  with  these  lines — which,  at  the  queen's 
desire,  I  had  scribbled  in  her  name,  for  the  happy 
occasion : — 

TO    TUE    KING. 
'  .4mid  a  rapt'rous  7iation's  praise 

Tttat  sees  thee  to  their  prayers  rostor'd, 
Turn  gently  from  the  tren'ral  blaze, — 
Thy  Charlotte  woos  her  bosom's  lord. 

Turn  and  behold  where,  brislit  and  elear, 

Depictur'd  with  transparent  art, 
The  emblems  of  her  thought  appear, 

The  tribute  of  a  grateful  heart. 

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O!  small  the  tribute,  were  it  weigh'd 

Witti  all  she  feels — or  half  she  owes! 
But  noble  minds  are  best  repaid 
From  the  pure  spring  whence  bounty  flows. 
P.  S.  The  little  bearer  begs  a  kiss 

From  dear  papa,  for  bringing  this. 

"I  need  not,  I  think,  tell  you,  the  little  bearer 
begged  not  in  vain.  The  king  was  extremely 
pleased.  He  came  into  a  room  belonging  to  the 
princesses,  in  which  we  had  a  party  to  look  at  the 
illuminations,  and  there  he  stayed  above  an  hour ; 
cheerful,  composed,  and  gracious  I  all  that  could 
merit  the  great  national  testimony  to  his  worth 
this  day  paid  him." 

A    ROYAL    READING    PARTY. 

"  In  one  of  our  Windsor  excursions  at  this  time, 
while  I  was  in  her  majesty's  dressing-room,  with 
only  Mr.  De  Luc  present,  she  suddenly  said,  '  Pre- 
pare yourself.  Miss  Barney,  with  all  your  spirits, 
for  to-night  you  must  be  reader.' 

"  She  then  added  that  she  recollected  what  she 
had  been  told  by  my  honoured  Mrs.  Delany,  of  my 
reading  Shakspeare  to  her,  and  was  desirous  that 
I  should  read  a  play  to  herself  and  the  princesses  ; 
and  she  had  lately  heard,  from  Mrs.  Schwellen- 
berg,  '  nobody  could  do  it  better,  when  I  would.' 

"  I  assured  her  majesty  it  was  rather  when  I 
could,  as  any  reading  Mrs.  Schwellenberg  had 
lieard  must  wholly  have  been  better  or  worse  ac- 
cording to  my  spirits,  as  she  had  justly  seemed  to 
suggest. 

"  The  moment  coffee  was  over  the  princess  Eli- 
zabeth came  for  me.  I  found  her  majesty  knot- 
ting, the  princess  royal  drawing,  princess  Augusta 
spinning,  and  lady  Courtown  I  believe  in  the  same 
employment ;  but  I  saw  none  of  them  perfectly 
well. 

"'Come,  ^liss  Burney,'  cried  the  queen,  'how 
are  your  spirits  ? — How  is  your  voice  V 

"  '  She  says,  ma'am,'  cried  the  kind  princess 
Elizabeth,  '  she  shall  do  her  best!' 

"  This  had  been  said  in  attending  her  royal 
highness  back.  I  could  only  confirm  it,  and  that 
cheerfully, — to  hide  fearfully. 

"  I  had  not  the  advantage  of  choosing  my  play, 
nor  do  I  know  what  would  have  been  my  decision 
had  it  fallen  to  my  lot.  Her  majesty  had  just  be- 
gun Colman's  works,  and  '  Polly  Honeycomb'  was 
to  open  my  campaign. 

"  '  I  think,'  cried  the  queen  most  graciously, 
'  Miss  Burney  will  read  the  better  for  drawing  a 
chair  and  sitting  down.' 

"  '  0  yes,  mamma!  I  dare  say  so!'  cried  prin- 
cess Augusta  and  princess  Elizabeth,  both  in  a 
moment. 

"  The  queen  then  told  me  to  draw  my  chair 
close  to  her  side.  I  made  no  scruples.  Heaven 
knows  I  needed  not  the  addition  of  standing !  but 
most  glad  I  felt  in  being  placed  thus  near,  as  it 
saved  a  constant  painful  effort  of  loud  reading. 

"' Lady  Courtown,'  cried  the  queen,  'you  had 
better  draw  nearer,  for  Miss  Burney  has  the  mis- 
fortune of  reading  rather  low  at  first.' 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  amiable  than  this  open- 
ing.    Accordingly,  I  did,  as  I  liad  promised,  my 


best;  and,  indifferent  as  that  was,  it  would  rather 
have  surprised  you,  all  things  considered,  that  it 
was  not  yet  worse.  But  I  exerted  all  the  courage 
I  possess,  and,  having  often  read  to  the  queen,  I 
felt  how  much  it  behooved  me  not  to  let  her  sur- 
mise I  had  any  greater  awe  to  surmount. 

"It  is  but  a  vulgar  performance;  and  I  was 
obliged  to  omit,  as  well  as  I  could  at  sight,  several 
circumstances  very  unpleasant  for  reading,  and  ill 
enough  fitted  for  such  hearers. 

"  It  went  off  pretty  flat.  Nobody  is  to  comment, 
nobody  is  to  interrupt ;  and  even  between  one  act 
and  another  not  a  moment's  pause  is  expected  to 
be  made. 

"  I  had  been  already  informed  of  this  etiquette 
by  Mr.  Turbulent  and  Miss  Planta ;  nevertheless, 
it  is  not  only  oppressive  to  the  reader,  but  loses  to 
the  hearers  so  much  spirit  and  satisfaction,  that  I 
determined  to  endeavour,  should  I  again  be  called 
upon,  to  introduce  a  little  break  into  this  tiresome 
and  unnatural  profundity  of  respectful  solemnity. 
My  own  embarrassment,  however,  made  it  agree 
with  me  for  the  present  uncommonly  well. 

"  Lady  Courtown  never  uttered  one  single  word 
the  whole  time ;  yet  is  she  one  of  the  most  loqua- 
cious of  our  est.ablishment.  But  such  is  the  set- 
tled etiquette. 

"  The  queen  has  a  taste  for  conversation,  ,iid 
the  princesses  a  good-humoured  love  for  it,  that 
doubles  the  regret  of  such  an  annihilation  of  all 
nature  and  all  pleasantry.  But  what  will  not 
prejudice  and  education  inculcate  ?  They  have 
been  brought  up  to  annex  silence  to  respect  and 
decorum :  to  talk,  therefore,  unbid,  or  to  differ 
from  any  given  opinion  even  when  called  upon, 
are  regarded  as  high  improprieties,  if  not  pre- 
sumptions. 

"  They  none  of  them  do  justice  to  their  own 
minds,  while  they  enforce  this  subjection  upon  the 
minds  of  others.  I  had  not  experienced  it  before ; 
for  when  reading  alone  with  the  queen,  or  listen- 
ing to  her  reading  to  me,  I  have  always  frankly 
spoken  almost  whatever  has  occurred  to  me.  But 
there  I  had  no  other  examples  before  me,  and 
therefore  I  might  inoffensively  be  guided  by  my- 
self; and  her  majesty's  continuance  of  the  same 
honour  has  shown  no  disapprobation  of  my  pro- 
ceeding. But  here  it  was  not  ea.'^y  to  make  any 
decision  for  myself:  to  h.ave  done  what  lady  Cour- 
town forbore  doing  would  have  been  undoubtedly 
a  liberty. 

"  So  we  all  behaved  alike ;  and  easily  can  I  now 
conceive  the  disappointment  and  mortification  of 
poor  Mr.  Garrick  when  he  read  '  Lethe'  to  a  royal 
audience.  Its  tameness  must  have  tamed  even 
him,  and  I  doubt  not  he  never  acquitted  himself 
so  ill. 

"The  next  evening  I  had  the  same  summons; 
but  '  The  English  Merchant'  was  the  play,  which 
did  far  better.  It  is  an  elegant  and  serious  piece, 
which  I  read  with  far  greater  ease,  and  into  which 
they  all  entered  with  far  greater  interest. 

"  The  princess  royal  was  so  gracious  when  the 
queen  left  the  room,  upon  our  next  coming  to 
town,  to  pay  me  very  kind  compliments  upon  my 
own  part  of  the  entertainment,  though  her  brother 

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the  duke  of  Clarence  happened  to  be  present.  And 
the  two  other  princesses  were  full  of  the  charac- 
ters of  the  comedy,  and  called  upon  me  to  say 
which  were  my  favourites,  while  they  told  me 
their  own,  at  all  our  subsequent  meetings  for 
some  time. 

This  is  all  I  have  been  able  to  recollect  of 
March  in  which  my  dearest  readers  might  not 
themselves  be  writers.  Chiefly  I  rejoice  they  wit- 
nessed the  long-wished,  long-dreaded  interview 
with  my  foi-merly  most  dearly  loved  Mrs.  Thrale — 
not  writing  it  saves  me  much  pang." 

POETRY    IN    A    PALACE. 

"  You  may  suppose  my  recovery  was  not  much 
forwarded  by  a  ball  given  at  the  Castle  on  Twelfth- 
Day.  The  queen  condescended  to  say  that  I  might 
go  to  bed,  and  she  would  content  herself  with  the 
wardrobe-woman,  in  consideration  of  my  weak 
state ;  but  then  she  exhorted  me  not  to  make  it 
known  to  the  Schwellenberg,  who  would  be  quite 
wi'etched  at  such  a  thing. 

I  returned  my  proper  thanks,  but  declined  the 
proposal,  so  circumstanced,  assuring  her  majesty 
that  it  would  make  me  wretched  to  have  an  indul- 
gence that  could  produce  an  impropriety  which 
would  make  Mrs.  Schwellenberg  so  through  my 
means. 

And  now  to  enliven  a  little :  what  will  you 
give  me,  fair  ladies,  for  a  copy  of  verses  written 
between  the  queen  of  Great  Britain  and  your  most 
small  little  journalist  ? 

The  morning  of  the  ball  the  queen  sent  for 
me,  and  said  she  had  a  fine  pair  of  old-fashioned 
gloves,  white,  with  stiff  tops  and  a  deep  gold 
fringe,  which  she  meant  to  send  to  her  new  master 
of  the  Horse,  loi'd  Harcourt,  who  was  to  be  at  the 
dance.  She  wished  to  convey  them  in  a  copy  of 
verses,  of  which  she  had  composed  three  lines,  but 
could  not  get  on.  She  told  me  her  ideas,  and  I 
had  the  honour  to  help  her  in  the  metre ;  and  now 
I  have  the  honour  to  copy  them  from  her  own 
royal  hand: — 

TO    THE    EARL    OF    HARCOURT. 

Go,  happy  gloves,  bedeck  earl  Harcourt's  hand, 
And  let  him  know  ihey  come  from  fairy-land, 
Where  ancient  customs  still  retain  their  reign  ; 
To  modernize  them  all  attempts  were  vain. 
Go,  cries  queen  Mab,  some  noble  owner  seek, 
Who  has  a  proper  taste  for  the  antique. 

Now,  no  criticising,  fair  ladies !  —  the  assistant 
was  allowed  neither  a  pen  nor  a  moment,  but 
called  upon  to  help  finish,  as  she  might  have  been 
to  hand  a  fan.  The  earl,  you  may  suppose,  was 
sufficiently  enchanted. 

How,  or  by  whom,  or  by  what  instigated,  I 
know  not,  but  I  heard  that  the  newspapers,  this 
winter,  had  taken  up  the  cause  of  my  apparent 
seclusion  from  the  world,  and  dealt  round  com- 
ments and  lamentations  profusely.  I  heard  of 
this  with  much  concern." 

LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND    IN    AFFLICTION. 

"  The  sad  turn  of  your  thoughts  softens  without 
surprising  me,  the  misfortune  was  so  unexpected; 
M 


nevertheless,  the  religious  view  in  which  your 
melancholy  places  it  convinces  me  your  grief  will 
give  way,  when  it  can,  and  not  be  nourished  re- 
piningly  or  without  effort.  How,  how  shall  I  wish 
and  pray,  my  dearest  M.,  that  a  scene  of  new 
and  permanent  maternal  comfort  may  repay,  in 
some  measure,  your  past  aflaictions,  and  awaken 
and  enliven  you  to  new  happiness !  I  only  fear 
the  terror  you  will  conceive  from  every  possible 
alarm  may  lessen  the  coming  consolation,  by  in- 
creasing its  anxiety.  Endeavour,  my  dear  friend, 
endeavour,  d' avarice,  to  prepare  your  mind  for  a 
confidence  without  which  you  can  enjoy  nothing, 
and  which,  without  exertion,  will  now  surely  fly 
you. 

A  singular  instance  of  the  unhappiness  of 
wanting  this  confidence  has  lately  fallen  under 
my  eyes.  The  mother  of  a  very  fine  child  felt  and 
indulged  a  solicitude  so  great  that,  by  degrees,  it 
became  a  part  of  her  existence ;  she  was  never 
without  it, — in  presence,  in  absence,  in  sickness, 
in  health, — no  matter  which, — prosperity  and  ad- 
versity made  no  difference ;  and  the  anxiety  grew 
to  such  a  height  that  slie  is  now  threatened  with 
a  consumption  herself,  from  no  other  cause.  You 
know,  and  may  perhaps  divine  her.  She  used  to 
walk  out  by  the  side  of  the  nurse  with  a  watch  in 
her  hand,  to  measure,  to  a  minute,  the  exact  time 
it  spent  in  the  air.  She  started  forward  to  meet 
every  passenger,  and  examine  their  appearance, 
before  she  suffered  the  child  to  proceed  in  its 
walk ;  and  turned  it  to  the  right  to  avoid  one  face, 
and  presently  back  to  the  left  that  it  might  not 
see  another.  She  rose  in  the  dead  of  night  to  go 
and  look  at  it ;  she  quitted  all  society  two  or  three 
times  in  a  visit,  to  examine  it ;  and,  in  short,  she 
made  herself,  her  husband,  and  all  her  friends 
miserable  by  this  constant  distrust  and  apprehen- 
sion, and  is  now,  in  a  languishing  and  declining 
state,  sent  southward  to  try  the  change  of  air  for 
herself,  while  all  the  time  the  child  is  one  of  the 
most  healthy,  beautiful,  and  robust  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life. 

What  a  world  is  this  !  can  one  help  to  exclaim, 
when  the  first  of  blessings  can  thus  be  rendered 
a  scourge  to  our  friends  and  an  infelicity  to  our- 
selves ?  For  this  lady,  who,  happy  in  her  conju- 
gal fate,  had  no  wish  but  for  a  child,  has  never 
known  a  tranquil  day  since  her  boon  has  been 
granted." 

THE    king's    BIRTHDAY. 

"June  4th,  1791.  —  Let  me  now  come  to  the 
4th,  the  last  birthday  of  the  good,  gracious,  be- 
nevolent king  I  shall  ever,  in  all  human  proba- 
bility, pass  under  his  royal  roof. 

The  thought  was  affecting  to  me,  in  defiance  of 
my  volunteer  conduct,  and  I  could  scarce  speak  to 
the  queen  when  I  first  went  to  her,  and  wished  to 
say  something  upon  a  day  so  interesting.  Tlie 
king  was  most  gracious  and  kind  when  he  came 
into  the  state  dressing-room  at  St.  James's,  and 
particularly  inquired  about  my  health  and  strength, 
and  if  they  would  befriend  me  for  the  day.  I 
longed  again  to  tell  him  how  hard  I  would  work 
them,  rather  than  let  them,  on  such  a  day,  drive 

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me  from  my  office ;  but  I  found  it  better  suited 
me  to  be  quiet ;  it  was  safer  not  to  trust  to  any 
expression  of  loyalty,  with  a  mind  so  full,  and  on 
a  day  so  critical. 

With  regard  to  health,  my  side  is  all  that  is 
attended  with  any  uneasiness,  and  that  is  some- 
times a  serious  business.  Certainly  there  is 
nothing  premature  in  what  has  been  done. 

And  — 0  picquet! — life  hardly  hangs  on  earth 
during  its  compulsion,  in  these  months  succeeding 
months,  and  years  creeping,  crawling,  after  years. 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Schwellenberg  presided,  attired 
magnificently.  Miss  Goldsworthj',  Mrs.  Stainforth, 
Messrs.  De  Luc  and  Stanhope  dined  with  us  ;  and 
while  we  were  still  eating  fruit,  the  duke  of  Cla- 
rence entered. 

He  was  just  risen  from  the  king's  table,  and 
waiting  for  his  equipage  to  go  home  and  prepare 
for  the  ball.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the  energy 
of  his  royal  highness's  language,  I  ought  to  set 
apart  a  general  objection  to  wi'iting,  or  rather  in- 
timating, certain  forcible  words,  and  beg  leave  to 
show  you,  in  genuine  colours,  a  royal  sailor. 

We  all  rose,  of  course,  upon  his  enti-ance,  and 
the  two  gentlemen  placed  themselves  behind  their 
chairs,  while  the  footman  left  the  room ;  but  he 
ordered  us  all  to  sit  down,  and  called  the  men 
back  to  hand  about  some  wine.  He  was  in  ex- 
ceeding high  spirits  and  in  the  utmost  good 
humour.  He  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  next  Mrs.  Schwellenberg,  and  looked  re- 
markably well,  gay,  and  full  of  sport  and  mischief, 
yet  clever  withal,  as  well  as  comical. 

"Well,  this  is  the  first  day  I  have  ever  dined 
with  the  king,  at  St.  James's  on  his  birthday. 
Pray,  have  you  all  drunk  his  majesty's  health?" 

"  No,  your  roy'l  highness  :  your  roy'l  highness 
might  make  dem  do  dat,"  said  Mrs.  Schwellen- 
berg. 

"  0,  by will  I !  Here,  you  (to  the  foot- 
man) ;  bring  champagne  !  I  '11  drink  the  king's 
health  again,  if  I  die  for  it !  Yet,  I  have  done 
pretty  well  already :  so  has  the  king,  yet  I  pro- 
mise you !  I  believe  his  majesty  was  never  taken 
such  good  care  of  before.  We  have  kept  his  spirits 
up,  I  promise  you ;  we  have  enabled  him  to  go 
through  his  fatigues ;  and  I  should  have  done 
more  still,  but  for  the  ball  and  Mary  —  I  have 
promised  to  dance  with  Mary!" 

Princess  Mary  made  her  first  appearance  at 
court  to-day  :  she  looked  most  interesting  and  un- 
afi'ectedly  lovely :  she  is  a  sweet  creature,  and 
perhaps,  in  point  of  beauty,  the  first  of  this  truly 
beautiful  race,  of  which  princess  Mary  may  be 
called  pendant  to  the  prince  of  Wales. 

Champagne  being  now  brought  for  the  duke, 
he  ordered  it  all  round.  AVhen  it  came  to  me  I 
whispered  to  AVcsterhaults  to  carry  it  on :  the 
duke  slapped  his  hand  violently  on  the  table,  and 
called  out,  "  0,  by ,  you  shall  drink  it !" 

There  was  no  resisting  this.  We  all  stood  up, 
the  duke  sonorously  gave  the  royal  toast. 

"  And  now,"  cried  he,  making  us  sit  down 
again,  "  where  are  my  rascals  of  servants  ?  I 
sha'nt  be  in  time  for  the  ball ;  besides,  I  've  got  a 
deuced   tailor  waiting   to   fix   on   my  epaulette ! 


Here,  you,  go  and  see  for  my  servants !  d'ye 
hear?     Scamper  off!" 

Off  ran  William. 

"Come,  let's  have  the  king's  health  again. 
De  Luc,  drink  it.     Here,  champagne  to  De  Luc !" 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Mr.  De  Luc's 
mixed  simper — half  pleased,  half  alarmed.  How- 
ever, the  wine  came  and  he  drank  it,  the  duke 
taking  a  bumper  for  himself  at  the  same  time. 

"  Poor  Stanhope!"  cried  he;  "Stanhope  shall 
have  a  glass  too !  Here,  champagne !  what  are 
you  all  about  ?  Why  don't  you  give  champagne 
to  poor  Stanhope  ?" 

Mr.  Stanhope,  with  great  pleasure,  comi^lied, 
and  the  duke  again  accompanied  him. 

"Come  hither,  do  you  hear?"  ciied  the  duke 
to  the  servants ;  and  on  the  approach,  slow  and 
submissive,  of  Mrs.  Stainforth's  man,  he  hit  him 
a  violent  slap  on  the  back,  calling  out,  "  Hang 
you !  why  don't  you  see  for  my  rascals  ?" 

Away  flew  the  man,  and  then  he  called  out  to 
Westerhaults,  "Hark'ee!  bring  another  glass  of 
champagne  to  Mr.  De  Luc!" 

Mr.  De  Luc  knows  these  royal  youths  too  well 
to  venture  at  so  vain  an  experiment  as  disputing 
with  them ;  so  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  drank  the  wine.     The  duke  did  the  same. 

"And  now,  poor  Stanhope,"  cried  the  duke; 
"  give  another  glass  to  poor  Stanhope,  d'ye  hear  ?" 

"  Is  not  your  royal  highness  afraid,"  cried  Mr. 
Stanhoi^e,  displaying  the  full  circle  of  his  borrowed 
teeth,  "  I  shall  be  apt  to  be  rather  up  in  the  world, 
as  the  folks  say,  if  I  tope  on  at  this  rate  ?" 

"Not  at  all!  you  can't  get  drunk  in  a  better 
cause.  I  'd  get  drunk  myself  if  it  was  not  for  the 
ball.  Here,  champagne !  another  glass  for  the 
philosoi^her !     I  keep  sober  for  Mary." 

"  0,  your  royal  highness!"  cried  Mr.  De  Luc, 
gaining  courage  as  he  drank,  "  you  will  make  me 
quite  droll  of  it  if  you  make  me  go  on, —  quite 
droll!" 

"  So  much  the  better  !  so  much  the  better  !  it 
will  do  you  a  monstrous  deal  of  good.  Here, 
another  of  champagne  for  the  queen's  philoso- 
pher!" 

Mr.  De  Luc  obeyed,  and  the  duke  then  ad- 
dressed Mrs.  Schwellenberg's  George.  "Here! 
you !  you !  why,  where  is  my  carriage  ?  run  and 
see,  do  you  hear  ?" 

Off  hurried  George,  grinning  irrepressibly. 

"  If  it  was  not  for  that  deuced  tailor,  I  would 
not  stir.  I  shall  dine  at  the  Queen's  house  on 
Monday,  Miss  Goldsworthy ;  I  shall  come  to  dine 
with  princess  royal.  I  find  she  does  not  go  to 
Windsor  with  the  queen." 

The  queen  meant  to  spend  one  day  at  Windsor, 
on  account  of  a  review  which  carried  the  king 
that  way. 

Some  talk  then  ensued  upon  the  duke's  new 
carriage,  which  they  all  agreed  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  that  day  at  court.  I  had  not  seen  it, 
which,  to  me,  was  some  impediment  against  prais- 
ing it. 

He  then  said  it  was  necessary  to  drink  the 
queen's  health. 

The  gentlemen  here   made  no  demur,  though 

178 


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Mr.  De  Luc  arched  his  eyebrows  in  expressive  fear 
of  consequences. 

"A  bumper,"  cried  the  duke,  "to  the  queen's 
gentleman-usher." 

They  all  stood  up  and  drank  the  queen's 
health. 

"Here  are  three  of  us,"  cried  the  duke,  "all 
belonging  to  the  queen ;  the  queen's  philosopher, 
the  queen's  gentleman-usher,  and  the  queen's  son ; 
but,  thank  Heaven,  I'm  nearest!" 

"  Sir,"  cried  Mr.  Stanhope,  a  little  affronted, 
"I  am  not  now  the  queen's  gentleman-usher;  I 
am  the  queen's  equerry,  sir." 

"A  glass  more  of  champagne  here!  AVhat  are 
you  all  so  slow  for  ?  Where  are  all  my  rascals 
gone  ?  They  've  put  me  in  one  passion  already 
tliis  morning.  Come,  a  glass  of  champagne  for 
the  queen's  gentleman-usher  !"  laughing  heartily. 

"No,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Stanhope;  "I  am 
equerry  now,  sir." 

"  And  another  glass  to  the  queen's  philoso- 
pher!" 

Neither  gentleman  objected ;  but  Mrs.  Schwel- 
lenberg,  who  had  sat  laughing  and  happy  all  this 
time,  now  grew  alarmed,  and  said,  "  Your  royal 
highness,  I  am  afraid  for  the  ball !" 

"  Hold  you  your  potato-jaw,  my  dear,"  cried 
the  duke,  patting  her ;  but,  recollecting  himself, 
he  took  her  hand  and  pretty  abruptly  kissed  it, 
and  then,  flinging  it  hastily  away,  laughed  aloud, 
and  called  out,  "  There !  that  will  make  amends 
for  anything,  so  now  I  may  say  what  I  will.  So 
here !  a  glass  of  champagne  for  the  queen's  phi- 
losopher and  the  queen's  gentleman-usher  !  Hang 
me  if  it  will  not  do  them  a  monstrous  deal  of 
good?" 

Here  news  was  brought  that  the  equipage  was 
in  order.  He  started  up,  calling  out,  "  Now,  then, 
for  my  deuced  tailor." 

"0,  your  royal  highness!"  cried  Mr.  De  Luc, 
in  a  tone  of  expostulation,  "  now  you  have  niaile 
us  droll,  you  go  !" 

Off,  however,  he  went.  And  is  it  not  a  curi- 
ous scene  ?  All  my  amaze  is,  how  any  of  their 
heads  bore  such  libations. 

In  the  evening,  I  had  by  no  means  strength  to 
encounter  the  ball-room.  I  gave  my  tickets  to 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Douglass. 

Mrs.  Stainforth  was  dying  to  see  the  princess 
Mary  in  her  court  dress.  jMr.  Stanhope  offered 
to  conduct  her  to  a  place  of  prospect.  She  went 
with  him.  I  thought  this  preferable  to  an  un- 
broken evening  with  my  fair  companion,  and,  Mr. 
De  Luc  thinking  the  same,  we  both  left  Mrs. 
Schwellenberg  to  unattire,  and  followed.  But  we 
were  rather  in  a  scrape  by  trusting  to  Mr.  Stan- 
hope after  all  this  champagne :  he  had  carried 
Mrs.  Stainforth  to  the  very  door  of  the  ball-room, 
and  there  fixed  her  —  in  a  place  which  the  king, 
queen,  and  suite,  must  brush  past  in  order  to  enter 
the  ball-room.  I  had  followed,  however,  and  the 
croivds  of  beef-eaters,  officers,  and  guards,  that 
lined  all  the  state-rooms  through  which  we  exhi- 
bited ourselves,  prevented  my  retreating  alone.  I 
stood,  therefore,  next  to  Mrs.  Stainforth,  and  saw 
the  ceremony. 


The  passage  was  made  so  narrow  by  attend- 
ants, that  they  were  all  forced  to  go  one  by  one. 
First,  all  the  king's  great  state-officers,  amongst 
whom  I  recognized  lord  Courtown,  Treasurer  of 
the  Household ;  lord  Salisbury  carried  a  candle ! 
— 'tis  an  odd  etiquette.  These  being  passed, 
came  the  king — he  saw  us  and  laughed ;  then  the 
queen's  Master  of  the  Horse,  loi'd  Harcourt,  who 
did  ditto  ;  then  some  more. 

The  Vice-Chamberlain  carries  the  queen's  can- 
dle, that  she  may  have  the  arm  of  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain to  lean  on ;  accordingly,  lord  Aylesbury, 
receiving  that  honom-,  now  preceded  the  queen : 
she  looked  amazed  at  sight  of  us.  The  kind  prin- 
cesses one  by  one  acknowledged  us.  I  spoke  to 
sweet  princess  Mary,  wishing  her  royal  highness 
joy ;  she  looked  in  a  delight  and  an  alarm  nearly 
equal.  She  was  to  dance  her  first  minuet.  Then 
followed  the  Ladies  of  the  Bedchamber,  and  lady 
Harcourt  was  particularly  civil.  Then  the  Maids 
of  Honour,  every  one  of  whom  knew  and  sjioke  to 
us.  I  peered  vainly  for  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  but 
none  of  the  princes  passed  us.  AVhat  a  crowd 
brought  up  the  rear !  I  was  vexed  not  to  see  the 
Prince  of  Wales. 

Well,  God  bless  the  king !  and  many  and  many 
siich  days  may  he  know ! 

I  was  now  so  tired  as  to  be  eager  to  go  back ; 
but  the  queen's  philosopher,  the  good  and  most 
sober  and  temperate  of  men,  was  really  a  little 
giddy  with  all  his  bumpers,  and  his  eyes,  which 
were  quite  lustrous,  could  not  fix  any  object  stea- 
dily:  while  the  poor  gentleman-usher — equerry,  I 
mean — kept  his  mouth  so  wide  open  with  one  con- 
tinued grin, — I  suppose  from  the  sparkling  beve- 
rage,— that  I  was  every  minute  afraid  its  pearly 
ornaments,  which  never  fit  their  case,  would  have 
fallen  at  our  feet.  Mrs.  Stainforth  gave  me  a  sig- 
nificant look  of  making  the  same  observation,  and, 
catching  me  fast  by  the  arm,  said,  "Come,  Miss 
Burney,  let's  you  and  I  take  care  of  one  another  ;" 
and  then  she  safely  toddled  me  back  to  Mrs. 
Schwellenberg,  who  greeted  us  with  saying,  "  Vel ! 
bin  jou  much  amused?  Dat  prince  Villiam  — 
oders  de  duke  de  Clarence — bin  raelly  ver  merry 
— oders  vat  you  call  tipsy." 

ARCHINTA,    MARGHERITA, 

Was  born  in  Milan  towards  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  She  was  of  noble  birth,  but 
more  distinguished  for  her  talent  than  for  this  ac- 
cident of  nature.  She  composed  many  lyric  poems, 
and  pieces  of  music,  according  to  the  taste  of 
that  age. 


ARMYNE,    LADY   MARY, 

Daughter  of  Henry  Talbot,  fourth  son  of 
George,  earl  of  Shrewsbury,  married  Sir  William 
Armyne,  and  distinguished  herself  by  her  know- 
ledge of  history,  divinity,  and  of  the  languages. 
She  was  very  liberal  to  the  poor,  and  contributed 
largely  to  the  support  of  the  missionaries  sent  to 
North  America.  She  endowed  three  hospitals ; 
and  died  in  1G7-^). 

179 


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ARNAUDE    DE    ROC  AS, 

0\E  of  the  daughters  of  Chypriotes,  who,  after 
the  taking  of  Nicosie,  in  1570,  was  carried  away 
by  the  Turks  and  held  in  captivity.  Arnaude, 
destined  by  her  beauty  for  the  seraglio  of  the  sul- 
tan, was,  with  several  of  her  companions,  put  into 
a  vessel  about  to  sail  for  Constantinople.  But, 
preferring  death  to  dishonour,  the  heroic  maiden 
contrived,  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  convey  fire  to 
the  powder-room,  and  perished,  amidst  the  wreck 
of  the  vessel,  with  the  victims  of  her  desperation. 

ARNAULD,  MARIE  ANGELIQUE, 

Sister  of  Robert,  Antoine,  and  Henri  Arnauld, 
was  abbess  of  the  Port-Royal  convent,  and  distin- 
guished herself  by  the  reformation  and  sanctity 
she  introduced  there,  and  also  at  the  convent  of 
Maubuisson,  where  she  presided  five  years.  She 
returned  to  Port-Royal,  and  died  in  1661,  aged 
seventy.  Her  mother  and  six  of  her  sisters  passed 
the  evening  of  their  life  in  her  convent. 

She  was  early  distinguished  for  her  capacity 
and  her  virtues.  While  at  Maubuisson,  she  be- 
came acquainted  with  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  bishop 
of  Geneva,  who  continued  through  his  whole  life 
to  correspond  with  her.  She  disjjlayed  peculiar 
skill  and  sagacity  in  the  changes  she  introduced 
into  the  convents  under  her  control.  Careful  to 
exact  nothing  of  the  nuns  of  which  she  had  not  set 
the  example,  she  found,  in  the  respect  and  emula- 
tion she  inspired,  an  engine  to  which  constraint 
is  powerless.  Self-denial,  humility,  and  charity, 
were  among  the  most  prominent  of  her  virtues. 

ARNAULD,  ANGELIQUE, 
Niece  to  the  celebrated  Marie  Angelique  Ar- 
nauld, abbess  of  Port-Royal,  entered  the  cloister 
at  six  years  of  age,  and  formed  herself  upon  the 
model  of  her  aunts,  by  whom  she  was  educated. 
She  inherited  their  virtues  and  endowments,  and 
was  at  length  elevated  to  the  same  station,  which 
she  filled  with  equal  dignity  and  capacity.  She 
was  distinguished  for  her  taste  and  penetration, 
and  for  her  eloquence  and  facility  in  speaking  and 
composition.  She  died  January  2yth,  1684,  at 
the  age  of  fifty-nine. 

ARNAULD,  CATHARINE  AGNES, 

Was  chosen,  while  yet  in  her  no\-iciate,  by  her 
elder  sister,  Marie  Angelique,  to  be  the  mistress 
of  the  novices  at  the  convent  of  Port-Royal. 
During  the  five  years  that  Marie  Angelique  passed 
in  the  abbey  at  Maubuisson,  Catharine  was  en- 
trusted with  the  government  of  Port-Royal,  and 
appointed  coadjutrix  with  her  sister,  who  was  de- 
sirous of  resigning  it  wholly  to  her  management. 
Agnes,  respected  and  beloved  by  the  nuns,  in- 
structed them  no  less  by  her  example  than  by  her 
eloquent  discourses.  She  was  equally  celebrated 
for  her  talents  and  her  piety.  She  was  the  author 
of  two  small  treatises,  entitled  "  Le  Chapelet  Se- 
cret du  Saint  Sacrament,"  and  "  L'Image  de  la 
R61igeuse,  parfaite  et  imparfaite."  The  former 
was  censured  by  some  members  of  the  Sorbonne, 
and  it  was  suppressed. 


Catharine  Agnes  Arnauld  died  February  19th, 
1671,  at  the  age  of  seventy-seven. 

ARNOULT,  SOPHIE, 
A  Parisian  actress,  born  at  Paris,  February 
17th,  1740.  Her  father  kept  a  hotel  garni,  and 
gave  her  a  good  education.  Nature  endowed  her 
with  wit,  sensibility,  a  charming  voice,  and  great 
personal  attractions.  Chance  brought  her  upon 
the  stage,  where  she  delighted  the  public  from 
1757  to  1778.  The  princess  of  Modena  happened 
to  be  in  retirement  at  the  Val  de  Grace,  and  was 
struck  with  a  very  fine  voice  that  sang  at  evening 
mass.  Sophie  Arnoult  was  the  songstress ;  and 
on  the  princess  speaking  of  her  discovery,  she  was 
obliged,  against  her  mother's  wish,  to  join  the 
royal  choir.  This  paved  the  way  for  Sophie  to 
the  Parisian  opera,  where  she  soon  became  queen. 
All  persons  of  rank,  and  all  the  litei-ati,  sought 
her  society ;  among  the  latter,  were  D'Alembert, 
Diderot,  Helv^tius,  Duclos,  and  Rousseau.  She 
was  compared  to  Aspasia  and  Ninon  de  I'Enclos. 
Her  wit  was  so  successful,  that  her  bons  mots  were 
collected.  It  was  sometimes  severe,  yet  it  made 
her  no  enemies.  She  died  in  1802.  In  the  be- 
ginning of  the  revolution,  she  bought  the  par- 
sonage at  Luzarche,  and  transformed  it  into  a 
country-house,  with  this  inscription  over  the  door, 
Ite  missa  est.  Her  third  son,  Constant  Dioville  de 
Brancas,  colonel  of  cuirassiers,  was  killed  at  the 
battle  of  Wagram. 


ARl!  \<.  ()  \  JOAN  OF, 
Was  the  wife  of  Ascanio  Colonna,  prince  of 
Tagliacozza,  who  was  made  grand  constable  of  the 
kingdom  of  Naples  by  Charles  V.,  in  1520.  He 
assisted  the  imperial  forces  when  Rome  was  be- 
sieged, under  the  command  of  Bourbon,  in  1527, 
and  obtained  a  great  reputation  for  bravery  and 
military  skill.  Like  all  the  petty  sovereigns  of 
that  age  of  war  and  violence,  his  life  was  one  of 
vicissitude  and  agitation.  He  died  in  the  state 
prison  of  Castel  Nuovo,  at  Naples,  in  1557.  He 
has  been  accused  of  traitorous  practices  with  the 
French,  at  that  time  at  war  with  his  country  ; 
other  authorities  say  that  he  was  incarcerated  by 
orders  of  the  Inquisition.     His  son,  Marc  Antonio 

180 


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AS 


Colonna,  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  hei'oes, 
"  Impiger  iracundus,  inexorabilis  acer,"  born  to 
give  and  take  blows  all  his  life.  His  gallantry  at 
the  battle  of  Lepanto,  and  daring  actions  while 
viceroy  of  Sicily,  merit  the  praise  of  a  good  soldier. 
He  died,  it  is  supposed,  by  poison ;  no  unusual 
close  of  the  stormy  existences  of  the  leaders  of 
that  time. 

Of  Joan  herself,  there  are  no  anecdotes  recorded. 
Nothing  is  known  of  the  events  of  her  life ;  but  a 
more  widely-spread  contemporary  celebrity  is  at- 
tached to  few  women.  All  the  writers  of  her 
epoch,  speak  of  her  in  terms  that  appear  hyper- 
bolical, so  very  extravagant  are  their  epithets — 
divine,  perfect,  adorable,  are  the  least  of  these. 
She  is  very  much  commended  for  her  good  judg- 
ment, practical  sense,  courage,  and  fortitude ;  but 
we  are  no  where  told  how  or  where  she  exei-ted 
these  qualities.  Agostine  Ninfo,  a  physician  and 
philosophic  wi'iter,  in  speaking  of  perfect  beauty, 
proposes  Joan  of  Arragon  as  an  example.  Eulogies 
were  composed  to  her  honour  by  the  greatest  wits 
of  her  time ;  and  in  most  languages,  as  Greek, 
Latin,  Italian,  French,  Spanish,  Sclavonic,  Polo- 
nese,  Hungarian,  and  even  Hebrew  and  Chaldean ; 
one  of  the  most  singular  monuments,  undoubtedly, 
that  gallantry  ever  raised  to  female  merit.  This 
homage  was  decreed  her  in  1555,  at  Venice,  in 
the  Academy  of  Dubbiosi,  and  a  volume  was  pub- 
lished there  in  1558,  a  few  years  before  her  death, 
with  this  magnificent  title,  "  Temple  to  the  divine 
Lady  Signora  Joan  of  Arragon  —  constructed  by 
all  the  most  elegant  minds,  in  all  the  polite  lan- 
guages of  the  world."     She  died  in  1577. 

ARRAGON,    TULLIA   D', 

An  Italian  poetess,  who  lived  about  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  centurj^,  was  the  natural  daughter 
of  Peter  Tagliava  d' Arragon,  archbishop  of  Pa- 
lermo and  a  cardinal,  himself  an  illegitimate  de- 
scendant of  the  royal  house  of  Arragon.  She  was 
a  woman  of  great  beauty,  genius,  and  education, 
so  that  the  first  scholars  of  the  age  celebrated  her 
praises  with  enthusiastic  admiration.  Girolamo 
Muzio,  by  whom  she  was  passionately  beloved, 
expatiates,  in  the  third  book  of  his  letters,  on  her 
talents  and  virtues ;  her  perfections  are  the  con- 
stant theme  of  his  poems,  in  which  she  is  some- 
times spoken  of  under  the  name  of  Thalia  and 
Syrrhenie. 

One  of  her  most  celebrated  productions  was  a 
poem,  entitled  "Dell  'Infinita  d'Amor."  She  also 
wrote  "II  Meschino,"  or  "The  Unfortunate  One," 
a  poetical  romance.  In  her  early  years,  she  re- 
sided at  Ferrara,  Rome  and  Venice ;  but  the  latter 
part  of  her  life  she  spent  at  Florence,  where  she 
died. 

ARUNDEL,  LADY  BLANCHE, 
A  DAUGHTER  of  the  earl  of  Worcester,  and  wife 
of  lord  Arundel  of  Wardour,  is  celebrated  for  her 
heroic  defence  of  Wardour  Castle,  in  Wiltshire, 
England.  She  was  summoned  to  surrender.  May 
2d,  1G43,  by  Sir  Edward  llungerford,  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  parliamentary  forces  in  Wiltshire, 
at  the  head  of  about  thirteen  hundred  men  ;  but 


lady  Arundel,  whose  husband  was  then  at  Oxford, 
replied,  that  she  had  the  orders  of  her  lord  to 
keep  the  castle,  and  those  orders  she  was  deter- 
mined to  obey.  On  this  reply  the  battery  com- 
menced, and  continued  without  intermission  for 
nearly  six  days.  The  castle  contained  but  twenty- 
five  fighting-men  ;  and  wearied  with  exertion  their 
strength  began  to  fail,  when  the  ladies  and  their 
maid-servants  took  their  place  in  keeping  watch, 
and  loading  their  muskets.  The  women  and  chil- 
dren were  repeatedly  offered  safety  if  the  besieged 
would  surrender,  but  they  chose  rather  to  perish 
than  to  buy  their  own  lives  at  the  expense  of  those 
of  their  brave  soldiers. 

At  length,  reduced  to  extremity,  lady  Arundel 
was  forced  to  surrender,  after  making  stipulations 
that  the  lives  of  all  in  the  fortress  should  be 
spared,  &c.  The  conditions  were  agreed  to,  but 
all  excepting  that  relating  to  their  personal  safety 
were  violated.  Lady  Arundel,  and  her  children, 
were  carried  prisoners  to  Shaftesbm-y,  where  her 
two  sons,  children  of  seven  and  nine,  were  taken 
from  her.  She  died  October  29th,  1649,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-six.  Her  husband  had  died  at  Oxford, 
in  1643,  of  wounds  he  received  in  the  battle  of 
Lansdown,  in  the  service  of  Charles  I. 

Lady  Arundel  is  buried  with  her  husband,  near 
the  altar  of  an  elegant  chapel,  at  Wardour  Castle. 
On  the  monument  is  an  inscrijition,  which,  after 
giving  their  titles  and  ancestry,  thus  concludes  : 
"  This  lady,  as  distinguished  for  her  courage  as 
for  the  splendour  of  her  birth,  bravely  defended, 
in  the  absence  of  her  husband,  the  castle  of  War- 
dour, with  a  spirit  above  her  sex,  for  nine  days, 
with  a  few  men,  against  Sir  Edward  llungerford, 
Edmund  Ludlow,  and  their  army,  and  then  deliv- 
ered it  up  on  honourable  terms.  Obit.  28  October, 
1649,  Etat.  66.  Requiescat  in  pace.  '  Who  shall 
find  a  valiant  woman  ?  The  price  of  her  is  as 
things  brought  from  afar  oiF,  and  from  the  utter- 
most coast.  The  heart  of  her  husband  trusteth 
in  her.' — Prov.  31." 

ARUNDEL,    ]\IARY, 

Was  the  daughter  of  sir  Thomas  Arundel,  knight. 
She  was  married,  first  to  Robert  Ratcliif,  who  died 
without  issue,  1 566 ;  secondly,  to  Henry  Howard, 
earl  of  Arundel. 

She  translated  from  English  into  Latin  "  The 
AVise  Sayings  and  Eminent  Deeds  of  the  Emperor 
Alexander  Severus."  This  translation  is  dedicated 
to  her  father ;  the  manuscript  is  in  the  royal 
libraiy  at  Westminster.  She  translated  also  from 
Greek  into  Latin,  select  "Sentences  of  the  seven 
wise  Grecian  Philosophers."  In  the  same  library 
are  preserved,  of  her  writing,  "  Similies  collected 
from  the  books  of  Plato,  Aristotle,  Seneca,  and 
other  philosophers,"  which  she  also  dedicated  to 
her  father. 

ASCHAM,  MARGARET, 
Was  married  in  1554  to  Roger  Aschani,  tlie 
celebrated  preceptor  of  queen  Elizabeth.  Mar- 
garet brouglit  a  considerable  fortune  to  her  lius- 
band,  and  what  was  of  more  worth,  a  heart  and 
mind  willing  and  qualified  to  aid  him.     To  her 

181 


AS 


AS 


care  the  world  is  indebted  for  Mr.  Ascliam's  book, 
entitled  "The  Schoolmaster ;"  to  which  she  pi-e- 
fixed  an  epistle  dedicatory,  to  the  honourable  Sir 
AVilliam  Cecill,  knight.  The  work  was  published 
in  4to,  1570,  London,  and  reprinted  in  1589.  Mrs. 
Ascham  is  supposed  to  lie  interred  with  her  hus- 
band, in  the  church  of  St.  Sepulchre,  London. 

ASKEW,    ANNE, 

Daughter  of  Sir  "William  Askew,  of  Kelsay,  in 
Lincolnshire,  England,  was  born  in  1529.  She 
received  a  liberal  and  learned  education,  and  early 
manifested  a  predilection  for  theological  studies. 
Her  eldest  sister,  who  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Kyme 
of  Lincolnshire,  died  before  the  nuptials  were  com- 
pleted. Sir  "William  Askew,  unwilling  to  lose  a 
connexion  which  promised  pecuniary  advantages, 
compelled  his  second  daughter,  Anne,  notwith- 
standing her  remonstrances  and  resistance,  to  fulfil 
the  engagement  entered  into  by  her  sister.  But, 
however  reluctantly  she  gave  her  hand  to  Mr. 
Kyme,  to  whom  she  bore  two  children,  she  rigidly 
fulfilled  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother. 

Though  educated  in  the  Roman  Catholic  religion, 
Anne  became  interested  in  the  Reformation,  which 
was  causing  great  excitement  in  the  minds  of  all 
persons  of  thought  and  education  at  that  time ; 
and  devoted  herself  to  the  examination  of  the 
Bible  and  other  works  from  which  both  parties 
aiFected  to  derive  their  faith.  She  was  at  length 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  doctrine  of  the  re- 
formers, and  declared  herself  a  convert  to  their 
principles.  Her  presumption  in  daring  to  exer- 
cise her  own  judgment  so  incensed  her  husband, 
that,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  priest,  he  drove  her 
with  ignominy  from  his  house.  Anne,  conceiving 
herself  released  by  this  treatment  from  the  obliga- 
tions that  had  been  imposed  on  her,  determined 
to  sue  for  a  separation,  and  for  this  purpose  she 
went  to  London. 

Here  she  met  with  a  favourable  reception  at 
court,  and  was  particularly  distinguished  by  the 
queen,  Catharine  Parr,  who  favoured  in  secret  the 
doctrines  of  the  reformation.  But  her  husband 
and  the  priest  accused  her  to  Henry  "V^IIL,  ren- 
dered more  than  usually  irritable,  vindictive,  and 
tyrannical  by  declining  health,  of  dogmatising  on 
the  subject  of  the  real  presence,  a  doctrine  of 
which  he  was  particularly  tenacious.  The  sex 
and  youth  of  the  heretic  aggravated  the  bitterness 
of  her  adversaries,  who  could  not  forgive  a  woman 
the  presumption  of  opposing  argument  and  reason 
to  their  dogmas. 

Anne  was  seized,  in  IVIarch,  1545,  and  taken 
into  custody.  She  was  repeatedly  examined  re- 
specting her  faith,  transubstantiation,  masses  for 
departed  souls,  &c.  &c.  Her  answers  to  the 
questions  proposed  to  her  were  more  clear  and 
sensible  than  satisfactory  to  her  inquisitors.  The 
substance  and  particulars  of  this  examination  were 
written  by  herself  and  published  after  her  death. 

On  the  twenty-third  of  March,  a  relation  suc- 
ceeded, after  several  ineffectual  attempts,  in  bail- 
ing her.  But  she  was  soon  apprehended  again, 
and  summoned  before  the  king's  council  at  Green- 
wich.   She  replied  to  their  inquiries  with  firmness, 


and  without  prevarication.  She  was  remanded  to 
Newgate,  and  not  allowed  to  receive  visits  from 
any  one,  even  from  Dr.  Latimer.  She  wrote  her- 
self to  the  king  and  chancellor,  explaining  her 
opinions ;  but  her  letter  served  only  to  aggravate 
her  crime.  She  was  then  taken  to  the  Tower,  and 
interrogated  respecting  her  patrons  at  court,  but 
she  heroically  refused  to  betray  them.  Her  mag- 
nanimity served  but  to  incense  her  persecutors, 
who  endeavoured  to  extort  a  confession  from  her 
by  the  rack ;  but  she  sustained  the  torture  with 
fortitude  and  resignation.  The  chancellor,  Wrio- 
thesely,  commanded  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower 
to  strain  the  instrument  of  his  vengeance ;  on 
receiving  a  refusal,  he  threw  off  his  gown,  and 
exercised  himself  the  office  of  executioner.  "When 
Anne  was  released  from  the  rack,  every  limb  was 
dislocated  and  she  fainted  with  anguish.  After 
she  recovered,  she  remained  sitting  on  the  ground 
for  two  hours,  calmly  reasoning  with  her  tor- 
mentors. She  was  carried  back  to  her  confine- 
ment, and  pardon  and  life  were  offered  to  her  if 
she  would  recant ;  but  she  refused,  and  was  con- 
demned to  the  stake. 

A  report  having  been  circulated,  that  the  pri- 
soner had  yielded,  Anne  wrote  a  letter  to  John 
Lascelles,  her  former  tutor,  and  to  the  public, 
justifying  herself  of  the  charge.  She  also  drew 
up  a  confession  of  her  faith,  and  an  attestation  of 
her  innocence,  which  she  concluded  by  a  prayer 
for  fortitude  and  perseverance.  A  gentleman  who 
saw  her  the  day  previous  to  her  execution,  ob- 
serves, that  amidst  all  her  pains  and  weakness, 
(being  unable  to  rise  or  stand  without  assistance) 
her  expression  of  mingled  enthusiasm  and  resig- 
nation showed  a  sweetness  and  serenity  inexpress- 
ibly affecting. 

At  the  stake,  letters  were  brought  to  her  from 
the  chancellor,  exhorting  her  to  recant,  and  pro- 
mising her  pardon.  Averting  her  eyes  from  the 
paper,  she  replied,  that  "  She  came  not  thither  to 
deny  her  Lord  and  Master."  The  same  proposi- 
tion was  made  to  her  four  fellow-sufferers,  but 
without  success.  "Wliile  Shaxton,  an  apostate  from 
his  principles,  harangued  the  prisoners,  she  lis- 
tened attentively,  nicely  distinguishing,  even  at 
that  terrible  moment,  between  what  she  thought 
true  and  what  erroneous.  She  was  burnt  at 
Smithfield,  July  16th,  1546,  in  the  twenty-fifth 
year  of  her  age. 

ASTELL,  MARY, 
An  ornament  of  her  sex  and  country,  was  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Astell,  a  merchant  at  Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne,  where  she  was  born,  about  1668.  She 
was  well  educated,  and  amongst  other  accomplish- 
ments was  mistress  of  the  French,  and  had  some 
knowledge  of  the  Latin  tongue.  Her  uncle,  a 
clergyman,  observing  her  uncommon  genius,  took 
her  under  his  tuition,  and  taught  her  mathematics, 
logic,  and  philosophy.  She  left  the  place  of  her 
nativity  when  she  was  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
and  spent  the  remaining  part  of  her  life  at  London 
and  Chelsea.  Here  she  pursued  her  studies  with 
assiduity,  made  great  proficiency  in  the  above 
sciences,  and  acquired  a  more  complete  knowledge 

182 


AS 


AY 


of  tlie  classic  authors.  Among  these,  Seneca, 
Epictetus,  Hierocles,  Antoninus,  Tully,  Plato,  and 
Xenophon,  were  her  favourites. 

Her  life  was  spent  in  writing  for  the  advance- 
ment of  learning,  religion,  and  virtue  ;  and  in  the 
practice  of  those  devotional  duties  which  she  so 
zealously  and  pathetically  recommended  to  others, 
and  in  which,  perhaps,  no  one  was  ever  more  sin- 
cere and  devout.  Her  sentiments  of  piety,  cha- 
rity, humility,  friendship,  and  other  Christian 
graces,  were  very  refined  and  sublime ;  and  she 
possessed  them  in  such  a  distinguished  degree,  as 
would  have  done  her  honour  even  in  primitive 
times.  But  religion  sat  very  gracefully  upon  her, 
unattended  with  any  forbidding  airs  of  soui-ness 
and  bigotry.  Her  mind  was  generally  calm  and 
serene  ;  and  her  conversation  was  not  only  inte- 
resting, but  highly  entertaining.  She  would  say, 
"The  good  Christian  alone  has  reason,  and  he 
always  ought  to  be  cheerful ;"  and,  "  That  de- 
jected looks  and  melancholy  airs  were  very  un- 
seemly in  a  Christiai^"  But  these  subjects  she 
has  treated  at  large  in  her  excellent  writings. 
Some  very  great  men  bear  testimony  to  the  merit 
of  her  works  ;  such  as  Atterbury,  Hickes,  Walker, 
Norris,  Dodwell,  and  Evelyn. 

She  was  remarkably  abstemious,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  an  uninterrupted  state  of  health,  till  a  few 
years  before  her  death ;  when,  having  a  severe 
operation  performed  on  her,  for  a  cancer  in  the 
breast,  it  so  much  impaired  her  constitution,  that 
she  did  not  survive  it.  When  she  was  confined  to 
her  bed  by  a  gradual  decay,  and  the  time  of  her 
dissolution  drew  nearer,  she  ordered  her  shroud 
and  coffin  to  be  made,  and  brought  to  her  bed-side, 
and  there  to  remain  in  her  view,  as  a  constant 
memento  of  her  approaching  fate,  and  to  keep  her 
mind  fixed  on  proper  contemplations.  She  died 
in  1731,  in  the  sixty-third  year  of  her  age,  and 
was  buried  at  Chelsea. 

Her  writings  are  as  follow:  "  Letters  Concern- 
ing the  Love  of  Gad,"  published  1695  ;  "  An  Essay 
in  Defence  of  the  Female  Sex,  in  a  Letter  to  a 
Lady,  written  by  a  Lady,"  1696;  "A  Serious 
Proposal  to  the  Ladies,  for  the  Advancement  of 
their  true  and  greatest  Interest,"  &c. ;  and  a 
second  part  to  the  same,  1697 ;  "An  Impartial 
Enquiry  into  the  Causes  of  Rebellion  and  Civil 
War  in  this  kingdom,  in  an  Examination  of  Dr. 
Rennet's  Sermon,"  1703-4;  "Moderation  Truly 
Stated  ;  or,  a  Review  of  a  late  Pamphlet  intituled 
Moderation  a  Virtue,  or  the  Occasional  Conformist 
Justified  from  the  Imputation  of  Hypocrisy,"  1704. 
The  prefatory  discourse  is  addressed  to  Dr.  Dave- 
nant,  author  of  the  pamphlet,  and  of  essays  on 
peace  and  war,  &c.  "A  Fair  Way  with  the  Dis- 
senters and  their  Patrons,  not  writ  by  Mr.  Lind- 
say, or  any  other  furious  Jacobite,  whether  a  Cler- 
gyman or  Layman ;  but  by  a  very  Moderate  Per- 
son, and  a  Dutiful  Subject  to  the  Queen,"  1704. 
While  this  treatise  was  in  press.  Dr.  Davenant 
published  a  new  edition  of  his  "  Moderation  still 
a  Virtue ;"  to  which  she  immediately  returned  an 
answer,  in  a  postscript  in  this  book.  Her  next 
work  was  "  Reflections  upon  Marriage,"  to  which 
is  added  a  preface  in  answer  to  some  objections, 


1705.  She  next  published  "  The  Christian  Reli- 
gion as  Professed  by  a  Daughter  of  the  Church  of 
England,"  &c.,  1705.  This  pamphlet  was  attri- 
buted to  Bishop  Atterbury.  Her  next  work  was 
"  Six  Familiar  Essays  on  Marriage,  Crosses  in 
Love  and  Friendship,  wi-itten  by  a  Lady,"  1706. 
"  Bartlemy  Fair;  or,  an  Enquiry  after  it,"  was 
her  last,  published  in  1709,  and  occasioned  by 
Colonel  Hunter's  celebrated  Letter  on  Enthusiasm. 
It  was  republished  in  1722,  without  the  words 
"  Bartlemy  Fair." 

ASTORGAS,  MARCHIONESS  OF, 
A  LADY  who  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  in  Spain,  during  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  killed  with  her  own  hands  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  the  mistress  of  her  husband,  and  hav- 
ing prepared  the  heart  of  her  victim,  placed  it  at 
dinner  before  her  husband.  AVhen  he  had  eaten 
it,  she  rolled  the  head  of  the  woman  to  him  on  the 
table.  She  then  took  refuge  in  a  convent,  where 
she  became  insane  through  rage  and  jealousy. 

AUBESPINE,    MAGDALEN    DE    L', 

A  French  lady,  celebrated  for  her  wit  and 
beauty ;  was  the  wife  of  Nicholas  de  Neuville, 
seignieur  de  Villeroi.  She  composed  several  works 
in  verse  and  prose,  and  died  on  her  own  demesne, 
in  1596.  Ronsard  held  her  in  high  estimation. 
She  is  also  complimented  by  Francis  Grudd,  by 
whom  we  are  informed,  that  she  translated,  in 
verse,  the  epistles  of  Ovid. 

AUNOY,  MARIE  CATHARINE  JUNELLE  DE 
BARNEVILLE,  COMTESSE  D', 
Widow  of  the  Count  D'Aunoy,  and  niece  of  the 
celebrated  Madame  Destoges,  died  in  1705.  She 
wrote  with  ease,  though  negligently,  in  the  de- 
partment of  romance.  People  of  a  frivolous  taste 
still  read  with  pleasure  her  "  Tales  of  the  Fairies," 
four  volumes  in  duodecimo,  and  especially  her 
"  Adventures  of  Ilippolytus,  Earl  of  Douglas,"  a 
story  natural  and  interesting  in  the  style,  with 
abundance  of  the  marvellous  in  the  adventures. 
Her  "  Memoires  Historiques  de  ce  qui  c'est  j^ass^ 
de  plus  Remarquable  en  Europe  depuis  1672  jus 
qu'en,  1679,"  are  a  medley  of  truth  and  falsehood. 
She  wrote  also  "  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  Spain," 
where  she  had  lived  with  her  mother,  a  work  which 
presents  us  with  no  favourable  idea  of  the  Spanish 
nation.  Her  "  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  England" 
was  rather  better  arranged ;  and  a  "  History  of 
John  de  Boui-bon,  Prince  de  Karency,"  in  three 
volumes  duodecimo,  which  is  one  of  those  histori- 
cal romances  that  are  the  offspring  of  slender  abi- 
lities joined  to  a  warm  imagination.  Her  hus- 
band, the  Count  D'Aunoj-,  being  accused  of  high 
treason,  by  three  Normans,  very  narrowly  escaped 
with  his  head.  One  of  his  accusers,  struck  with 
remorse  of  conscience,  declared  the  whole  charge 
to  be  groundless.  The  countess  left  four  daugh- 
ters. 

AVOGADRO,    LUCIA, 
An  Italian  poetess,  displayed  early  poetical  ta- 
lents, and  won  the  praise  even  of  Tasso.     Only  a 

1S3 


AU 


AU 


few  of  lier  lyrics  still  reniaiu,  but  they  justify  tlie 
praise  that  was  bestowed  upon  her.  She  died  in 
1568. 

AUSTEN,    JANE, 

An  English  novelist,  was  born  at  Steventon,  in 
Hampshire,  on  the  16th  of  December,  1775,  her 
father  being  the  rector  of  that  parish.  He  died 
while  Miss  Austen  was  still  young,  and  his  widow 
and  two  daughters  retired  to  Southampton,  and 
subsequently  to  the  village  of  Chawton,  in  the 
same  county,  where  the  novels  of  Jane  Austen 
were  written.  "  Sense  and  Sensibility ;"  "Pride 
and  Prejudice;"  "Mansfield  Park;"  and  "Em- 
ma," were  published  anonymously  during  the  au- 
thor's life.  Her  other  two  works,  "  Northanger 
Abbey"  and  "Persuasion,"  were  published  after 
her  death.  In  May,  1817,  Miss  Austen's  health 
rendered  it  necessary  that  she  should  remove  to 
some  place  where  constant  medical  aid  could  be 
procured,  and  she  went  to  Winchester,  where  she 
died  on  the  24th  of  July,  aged  forty-two.  Her 
beauty,  worth,  and  genius,  made  her  death  deeply 
lamented.  The  consumption,  of  which  she  died, 
seemed  only  to  increase  her  mental  powers.  She 
wrote  while  she  could  hold  a  pen,  and  the  day  be- 
fore her  death  composed  some  stanzas  replete 
with  fancy  and  vigour.  The  great  charm  of  Miss 
Austen's  works  lie  in  their  truth  and  simplicity, 
and  in  their  high  finish  and  naturalness.  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  speaks  of  her  in  the  highest  terms.  An- 
other writer,  who  appears  to  have  known  her  well, 
thus  describes  her : 

"  Of  personal  attractions,  she  possessed  a  con- 
siderable share.  Her  stature  was  that  of  true 
elegance.  It  could  not  have  been  increased  with- 
out exceeding  the  middle  height.  Her  carriage 
and  deportment  were  quiet,  yet  graceful.  Her 
features  were  separately  good.  Their  assemblage 
produced  an  unrivalled  expression  of  that  cheer- 
fulness, sensibility,  and  benevolence,  which  were 
her  real  characteristics.  Her  complexion  was  of 
the  finest  texture.  It  might  with  truth  be  said, 
that  her  eloquent  blood  spoke  through  her  modest 
cheek.  Her  voice  was  extremely  sweet.  She  de- 
livered herself  with  fluency  and  precision.  In- 
deed, she  was  formed  for  elegant  and  rational 
society,  excelling  in  conversation  as  much  as  in 
composition.  In  the  present  age,  it  is  hazardous 
to  mention  accomplishments.  Our  authoress 
would,  probably,  have  been  inferior  to  few  in  such 
acquirements,  had  she  not  been  so  superior  to 
most  in  higher  things.  She  had  not  only  an  ex- 
cellent taste  for  drawing,  but,  in  her  earlier  days, 
evinced  great  power  of  hand  in  the  management 
of  the  pencil.  Her  own  musical  attainments  she 
held  very  cheap.  Twenty  years  ago,  they  would 
have  been  thought  more  of,  and  twenty  years 
hence,  many  a  parent  will  expect  her  daughter  to 
be  applauded  for  meaner  performances.  She  was 
fond  of  dancing,  and  excelled  in  it.  It  remains 
now  to  add  a  few  observations  on  that  which  her 
friends  deemed  more  important ;  on  those  endow- 
ments, which  sweetened  every  hour  of  their  lives. 

If  there  be  an  opinion  current  in  the  world, 
that  perfect  placidity  of  temper  is  not  reconcilable 


to  the  most  lively  imagination,  and  the  keenest 
relish  for  wit,  such  an  opinion  will  be  rejected  for 
ever  by  those  who  have  had  the  happiness  of 
knowing  the  authoress  of  the  following  works. 
Though  the  frailties,  foibles,  and  follies  of  others 
could  not  escape  her  immediate  detection,  yet  even 
in  their  vices  did  she  never  trust  herself  to  com- 
ment with  unkindness.  The  affectation  of  candour 
is  not  uncommon ;  but  she  had  no  affectation. 
Faultless  herself,  as  nearly  as  human  nature  can 
be,  she  always  sought,  in  the  faults  of  others, 
something  to  excuse,  to  forgive,  or  forget.  Where 
extenuation  was  impossible,  she  had  a  sure  refuge 
in  silence.  She  never  uttered  either  a  hasty,  a 
silly,  or  a  severe  expression.  In  short,  her  tem- 
per was  as  polished  as  her  wit.  Nor  were  her 
manners  inferior  to  her  temper.  They  were  of 
the  happiest  kind.  No  one  could  be  often  in  her 
company  without  feeling  a  strong  desire  of  obtain- 
ing her  friendship,  and  cherishing  a  hope  of  hav- 
ing obtained  it.  She  was  tranquil  without  reserve 
or  stiffness ;  and  communicative  without  intrusion 
or  self-sufiiciency.  She  became  an  authoress  en- 
tirely from  taste  and  inclination.  Neither  the 
hope  of  fame  nor  profit  mixed  with  her  early  mo- 
tives. ]Most  of  her  works,  as  before  observed, 
were  composed  many  years  previous  to  their  jjub- 
lication.  It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  her 
friends,  whose  partiality  she  suspected,  whilst  she 
honoured  their  judgment,  could  prevail  on  her  to 
publish  her  first  work.  Nay,  so  persuaded  was 
she  that  its  sale  would  not  repay  the  expense  of 
publication,  that  she  actually  made  a  reserve  from 
her  very  moderate  income  to  meet  the  expected 
loss.  She  could  scarcely  believe  what  she  termed 
her  great  good  fortune  when  '  Sense  and  Sensi- 
bility' produced  a  clear  profit  of  about  £150. 
Few  so  gifted  were  so  truly  unpretending.  She 
regarded  the  above  sum  as  a  prodigious  recom- 
pense for  that  which  had  cost  her  nothing.  Her 
readers,  perhaps,  will  wonder  that  such  a  work 
produced  so  little  at  a  time  when  some  other  au- 
thors have  received  more  guineas  than  they  have 
written  lines.  The  works  of  our  authoress,  how- 
ever, may  live  as  long  as  those  which  have  burst 
on  the  world  with  more  eclat.  But  the  public  has 
not  been  unjust ;  and  our  authoress  was  far  from 
thinking  it  so.  Most  gratifying  to  her  was  the 
applause  which,  from  time  to  time,  reached  her 
ears  from  those  who  were  competent  to  discrimi- 
nate. Still,  in  spite  of  such  applause,  so  much 
did  she  shrink  from  notoriety,  that  no  accumula- 
tion of  fame  would  have  induced  her,  had  she 
lived,  to  affix  her  name  to  any  productions  of  her 
pen.  In  the  bosom  of  her  own  family  she  talked 
of  them  freely,  thankful  for  praise,  open  to  re- 
mark, and  submissive  to  criticism.  But  in  public 
she  turned  away  from  any  allusion  to  the  character 
of  an  authoress.  She  read  aloud  with  very  great 
taste  and  effect.  Her  own  works,  probably,  were 
never  heard  to  so  much  advantage  as  from  her  own 
mouth ;  for  she  partook  largely  in  all  the  best 
gifts  of  the  comic  muse.  She  was  a  warm  and 
judicious  admirer  of  landscape,  both  in  nature 
and  on  canvass.  At  a  very  early  age,  she  was 
enamoured  of  Gilpin  on  the  Picturesque ;  and  she 

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seldom  changed  lier  opinions  either  on  books  or 
men. 

"  Her  reading  was  very  extensive  in  history  and 
belles  lettres ;  and  her  memory  extremely  tena- 
cious. Her  favourite  moral  writers  were  Johnson, 
in  prose,  and  Cowper,  in  verse.  It  is  diiBcult  to 
say  at  what  age  she  was  not  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  merits  and  defects  of  the  best  essays  and 
novels  in  the  English  language.  Richardson's 
power  of  creating,  and  preserving  the  consistency 
of  his  characters,  as  particularly  exemplified  in 
'  Sir  Charles  Grandison,'  gratified  the  natural  dis- 
crimination of  her  mind,  whilst  her  taste  secured 
her  from  the  errors  of  his  prolix  style  and  tedious 
narrative.  She  did  not  rank  any  work  of  Fielding 
quite  so  high.  Without  the  slightest  aflfectation, 
she  recoiled  from  evei'ything  gross.  Neither  na- 
ture, wit,  nor  humour,  could  make  her  amends 
for  so  very  low  a  scale  of  morals. 

"  Her  powers  of  inventing  characters  seems  to 
have  been  intuitive,  and  almost  unlimited.  She 
drew  from  nature ;  but,  whatever  may  have  been 
surmised  to  the  contrary,  never  from  individuals. 
The  style  of  her  familiar  correspondence  was  in 
all  respects  the  same  as  that  of  her  novels.  Eve- 
rything came  finished  from  her  pen ;  for,  on  all 
subjects,  she  had  ideas  as  clear  as  her  expressions 
were  well  chosen.  It  is  not  hazarding  too  much 
to  say,  that  she  never  despatched  a  note  or  letter 
unworthy  of  publication. 

"  One  trait  onlj^  remains  to  be  touched  on.  It 
makes  all  others  unimportant.  She  was  thoroughly 
religious  and  devout ;  fearful  of  giving  offence  to 
God,  and  incapable  of  feeling  it  towards  any  fel- 
low-creature. 

"  She  retained  her  faculties,  her  memory,  her 
fancy,  her  temper,  and  her  affections,  warm,  clear, 
and  unimpaired,  to  the  last.  Neither  her  love  of 
God,  nor  of  her  fellow-creatures,  flagged  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  made  a  point  of  receiving  the  sacra- 
ment before  excessive  bodily  weakness  might  have 
rendei'ed  her  perception  unequal  to  her  wishes. 
She  wrote  whilst  she  could  hold  a  pen,  and  with  a 
pencil  when  a  pen  was  become  too  laborious.  Her 
last  voliuitai'y  speech  conveyed  thanks  to  her  medi- 
cal attendant ;  and  to  the  final  question  asked  of 
her,  purporting  to  know  her  wants,  she  replied, 
'  I  want  nothing  but  death.'  " 

In  our  selection  from  the  writings  of  this  esti- 
mable lady,  we  quote  from  "  Northanger  Abbey  ;" 
it  is  simple  in  plot,  and  the  heroine  may  be  found 
in  every-day  life.  She  is  nevertheless  an  exquisite 
creation  of  fancy,  but  her  naturalness  makes  her 
loveliest  charm ;  and  first,  we  have  her  manner  of 
training  at  home,  or  rather  how  she  was  permitted 
to  grow  up,  like  a  wild  flower,  in  her  own  sweet 
way: 

THE    heroine's    CHILDHOOD. 

"No  one  who  had  ever  seen  Catherine  Morland 
in  her  infancy  would  have  supposed  her  born  to 
be  a  heroine.  Her  situation  in  life,  the  character 
of  her  father  and  mother,  her  own  person  and  dis- 
position, were  all  equally  against  her.  Her  father 
was  a  clergyman,  without  being  neglected,  or  poor, 
and  a  very  respectable  man,  though  his  name  was 


Richard  —  and  he  had  never  been  handsome.  He 
had  a  considerable  independence,  besides  two  good 
livings  —  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  addicted  to 
locldng  up  his  daughters.  Her  mother  was  a  wo- 
man of  useful  plain  sense,  with  a  good  temper, 
and,  what  is  more  remarkable,  with  a  good  consti- 
tution. She  had  three  sons  before  Catherine  was 
born ;  and  instead  of  dying  in  bringing  the  latter 
into  the  world,  as  any  body  might  expect,  she  still 
lived  on — lived  to  have  six  children  more  —  to  see 
them  growing  up  around  her,  and  to  enjoy  excel- 
lent health  herself.  A  family  of  ten  children  will 
be  always  called  a  fine  family,  where  there  are 
heads  and  arms  and  legs  enough  for  the  number; 
but  the  Morlands  had  little  other  right  to  the 
word,  for  they  were  in  general  very  plain,  and 
Catherine,  for  many  years  of  her  life,  as  plain  as 
any.  She  had  a  thin  awkward  figure,  a  sallow 
skin,  without  colour,  dark  lank  hair,  and  strong 
features  ; — so  much  for  her  person ; — and  not  less 
unpropitiovis  for  heroism  seemed  her  mind.  She 
was  fond  of  all  boys'  plays,  and  greatly  preferred 
cricket,  not  merely  to  dolls,  but  to  the  more  he- 
roic enjoyments  of  infancy,  nursing  a  dormouse, 
feeding  a  canary-bird,  or  watering  a  rose-bush. 
Indeed  she  had  no  taste  for  a  garden ;  and  if  she 
gathered  flowers  at  all,  it  was  chiefly  for  the  plea- 
sure of  mischief — at  least,  so  it  was  conjectured 
from  her  always  preferring  those  which  she  was 
forbidden  to  take.  Such  were  her  propensities  — 
her  abilities  were  quite  as  extraordinary.  She 
never  could  learn  or  understand  anything  before 
she  was  taught ;  and  sometimes  not  even  then,  for 
she  was  often  inattentive,  and  occasionally  stupid. 
Her  mother  was  three  months  in  teaching  her  only 
to  repeat  the  'Beggar's  Petition;'  and,  after  all, 
her  next  sister,  Sally,  could  say  it  better  than  she 
did.  Not  that  Catherine  was  always  stupid  —  by 
no  means ;  she  leai'ned  the  fable  of  '  The  Hare 
and  many  Friends,'  as  quickly  as  any  girl  in  Eng- 
land. Her  mother  wished  her  to  learn  music  ;  and 
Catherine  was  sure  she  should  like  it,  for  she  was 
very  fond  of  tinkling  the  keys  of  the  old  forlorn 
spiunet ;  so,  at  eight  years  old,  she  began.  She 
learned  a  year,  and  could  not  bear  it ;  — and  Mrs. 
Morland,  who  did  not  insist  on  her  daughters  be- 
ing accomplished  in  spite  of  incapacity  or  distaste, 
allowed  her  to  leave  off.  The  day  which  dismissed 
the  music-master  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  Ca- 
therine's life.  Her  taste  for  drawing  was  not 
superior ;  though  whenever  she  could  obtain  the 
outside  of  a  letter  from  her  mother,  or  seize  upon 
any  other  odd  piece  of  paper,  she  did  what  she 
could  in  that  way,  by  drawing  houses  and  trees, 
hens  and  chickens,  all  vei-y  much  like  one  another 
Writing  and  accounts  she  was  taught  by  her  father ; 
French  by  her  mother :  her  proficiency  in  either 
was  not  remarkable,  and  she  shirked  her  lessons 
in  both  whenever  she  could.  What  a  strange,  un- 
accovmtable  character!  for  with  all  these  symp- 
toms of  profligacy  at  ten  years  old,  she  had  neither 
a  bad  disposition  nor  a  bad  temper ;  was  seldom 
stubborn,  scarcely  ever  quarrelsome,  and  very  kind 
to  the  little  ones,  with  few  interruptions  of  tyranny; 
she  was  moreover  noisy  and  wild,  hated  confine- 
ment and  cleanliness,  and  loved  nothing  so  well  in 

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the  world  as  rolling  down  the  green  slope  at  the 
back  of  the  house. 

Such  was  Catherine  Morland  at  ten.  Atiifteen, 
appearances  were  mending ;  she  began  to  curl  her 
hair  and  long  for  balls  ;  her  complexion  improved, 
her  features  were  softened  by  plumpness  and  co- 
lour, her  eyes  gained  more  animation,  and  her 
figure  more  consequence.  Her  love  of  dirt  gave 
way  to  an  inclination  for  finery,  and  she  grew 
clean  as  she  grew  smart ;  she  had  now  the  plea- 
sure of  sometimes  hearing  her  father  and  mother 
remark  on  her  personal  improvement.  '  Catherine 
grows  quite  a  good-looking  girl- — she  is  almost 
pretty  to-day,'  were  words  which  caught  her  ears 
now  and  then ;  and  how  welcome  were  the  sounds ! 
To  look  almost  pretty,  is  an  acquisition  of  higher 
delight  to  a  girl  who  has  been  looking  plain  the 
first  fifteen  years  of  her  life,  than  a  beauty  from 
her  cradle  can  ever  receive. 

Mrs.  Morland  was  a  very  good  woman,  and 
wished  to  see  her  childi-en  everything  they  ought 
to  be ;  but  her  time  was  so  much  occupied  in 
lying-in  and  teaching  the  little  ones,  that  her  elder 
daughters  were  inevitably  left  to  shift  for  them- 
selves ;  and  it  was  not  very  wonderful  that  Cathe- 
rine, who  had  by  nature  nothing  heroic  about  her, 
should  prefer  cricket,  base-ball,  riding  on  horse- 
back, and  running  about  the  country  at  the  age 
of  fourteen,  to  books  —  or  at  least  books  of  infor- 
mation—  for,  provided  that  nothing  like  useful 
knowledge  could  be  gained  from  them,  provided 
they  were  all  story  and  no  reflection,  she  had  never 
any  objection  to  books  at  all,  but  from  fifteen  to 
seventeen  she  was  in  train  for  a  heroine  ;  sJie  read 
all  such  works  as  heroines  must  read  to  supply 
their  memories  with  those  quotations  which  are  so 
serviceable  and  so  soothing  in  the  vicissitudes  of 
their  eventful  lives. 

From  Pope,  she  learnt  to  censure  those  who 
'  bear  about  the  mockery  of  wo.' 

From  Gray,  that 

'  Many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  fragrance  on  the  desert  air.' 


From  Thomson,  that 


It  is  a  delightful  task 


To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot.' 

And  from  Shakspeare,  she  gained  a  great  store 
of  information  —  among  the  rest,  that 

'  Trifles,  light  as  air. 


Are,  to  the  jealous,  confirmation  strong. 
As  proofs  of  Holy  Writ.' 


That 


'  Tlie  poor  beetle,  which  we  tread  upon. 
In  corporal  sufferance,  feels  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies.' 

And  that  a  young  woman  in  love  always  looks 

'  like  Patience  on  a  monument 

Smiling  at  Grief.' 

So  far,  her  improvement  was  sufficient  —  and 
in  many  other  points,  she  came  on  exceedingly 
well ;  for  thougli  she  could  not  write  sonnets,  she 
brought  herself  to  read  them ;  and  though  there 
seemed  no  chance  of  her  throwing  a  whole  party 
into  raptures  by  a  prelude  on  the  pianoforte  of 
her  own  composition,  she  could  listen  to  other 


people's  performance  with  very  little  fatigue.  Her 
greatest  deficiency  was  in  the  pencil  —  she  had  no 
notion  of  drawing — not  enough  even  to  attempt  a 
sketch  of  her  lover's  profile,  that  she  might  be 
detected  in  the  design.  There  she  fell  miserably 
short  of  the  true  heroic  height.  At  present,  she 
did  not  know  her  own  poverty,  for  she  had  no  lover 
to  pourtray.  She  had  reached  the  age  of  seventeen 
without  having  seen  one  amiable  youth  who  could 
call  forth  her  sensibility ;  without  having  inspired 
one  real  passion,  and  without  having  exerted  even 
any  admiration  but  what  was  very  moderate  and 
very  transient.  This  was  strange  indeed !  But 
strange  things  may  generally  be  accounted  for  if 
their  cause  be  fairly  searched  out.  There  was  not 
one  lord  in  the  neighbourhood ;  no,  not  even  a 
baronet.  There  was  not  one  family  among  their 
acquaintance  who  had  reared  and  supported  a  boy 
accidentally  found  at  their  door  —  not  one  young 
man  whose  origin  was  unknown.  Her  father  had 
no  ward,  and  the  'squire  of  the  parish  no  children. 
But  when  a  young  lady  is  to  be  a  heroine,  the 
perverseness  of  forty  surrounding  families  cannot 
prevent  her.  Something  must  and  will  happen  to 
throw  a  hero  in  her  way." 

Mr.  Allen,  who  owned  the  chief  of  the  pro- 
perty about  Fullerton,  the  village  in  WUtshire 
where  the  Morlands  lived,  was  ordered  to  Bath 
for  the  benefit  of  a  gouty  constitution ;  and  his 
lady,  a  good-humoured  woman,  fond  of  Miss  Mor- 
land, and  probably  aware  that  if  adventures  will 
not  befall  a  young  lady  in  her  own  village,  she 
must  seek  them  abroad,  invited  her  to  go  with 
them.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morland  were  all  compliance, 
and  Catherine  all  happiness. 

THE    HEROINE    AT    A    BALL. 

"  So  they  went  to  Bath,  and  Catherine  made  her 
first  appearance  in  the  ball-room,  anticipating  a 
most  deliglttful  evening ;  for  she  had  come  to  be 
happy.  But  the  party  was  late,  and  poor  Miss 
Morland  never  had  the  offer  of  a  jjartner.  But 
there  was  good  fortune  in  store  for  her ;  and  this 
is  the  history  of  the  second  ball. 

"  They  made  their  appearance  in  the  lower 
rooms ;  and  here  fortune  was  more  favourable  to 
our  heroine.  The  master  of  the  ceremonies  intro- 
duced to  her  a  very  gentleman-like  young  man  as 
a  i)artner.  His  name  was  Tilney.  He  seemed  to 
be  about  four  or  five-and-twenty,  was  rather  tall, 
had  a  pleasing  countenance,  a  very  intelligent  and 
lively  eye,  and,  if  not  quite  handsome,  was  very 
near  it.  His  address  was  good,  and  Catherine  felt 
herself  in  high  luck.  There  was  little  leisure  for 
speaking  while  they  danced  ;  but  when  they  were 
seated  at  tea,  she  found  him  as  agreeable  as  she 
had  already  given  him  credit  for  being.  He  talked 
with  fluency  and  spirit — and  there  was  an  archness 
and  pleasantry  in  his  manner  which  interested, 
though  it  was  hardly  understood  by  her.  After 
chatting  some  time  on  such  matters  as  naturally 
arose  from  the  objects  around  them,  he  suddenly 
addressed  her  with  —  '  I  have  hitherto  been  very 
remiss,  madam,  in  the  proper  attentions  of  a  part- 
ner here ;  I  have  not  yet  asked  you  how  long  you 

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have  been  in  Bath ;  whether  you  were  ever  here  be- 
fore ;  whether  you  have  been  at  the  Upper  Rooms, 
the  theatre,  and  the  concert ;  and  how  you  like 
the  phice  altogether.  I  have  been  very  negligent 
— but  are  you  now  at  leisure  to  satisfy  me  in  these 
particulars  ?    If  you  are,  I  will  begin  directly." 

"  You  need  not  give  yourself  that  trouble,  sir." 

"  No  trouble,  I  assure  you,  madam."  Then 
forming  his  features  into  a  set  smile,  and  affect- 
edly softening  his  voice,  he  added,  with  a  simper- 
ing air,  "  Have  you  been  long  in  Bath,  madam  V 

"About  a  week,  sir,"  replied  Catherine,  trying 
not  to  laugh. 

"  Really  !"  with  affected  astonishment. 

"  Why  should  you  be  sm-prised,  sir?" 

"  Why,  indeed !"  said  he,  in  his  natural  tone — 
"but  some  emotion  must  appear  to  be  raised  by 
your  reply,  and  sm-prise  is  more  easily  assumed, 
and  not  less  reasonable  than  any  other.  Now  let 
us  go  on.    Were  you  never  here  before,  madam?" 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  Indeed  !  Have  you  yet  honoured  the  Upper 
Rooms?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was  there  last  Monday." 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  theatre  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was  at  the  play  on  Tuesday." 

"  To  the  concert  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  on  Wednesday." 

"And  are  you  altogether  pleased  with  Bath?" 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  very  well." 

"  Now  I  must  give  one  smirk,  and  then  we  may 
be  rational  again." 

Catherine  turned  away  her  head,  not  knowing 
whether  she  might  venture  to  laugh. 

"  I  see  wliat  you  think  of  me,"  said  he  gravely 
— "  I  shall  make  but  a  poor  figure  in  your  journal 
to-morrow." 

"  My  journal !" 

"Yes,  I  know  exactly  what  you  will  say;  Fri- 
day, went  to  the  Lower  Rooms  ;  wore  my  sprigged 
muslin  robe  with  blue  trimmings  —  plain  black 
shoes  —  appeared  to  much  advantage ;  but  was 
strangely  harassed  by  a  queer,  half-witted  man, 
who  would  make  me  dance  with  him,  and  distress- 
ed me  by  his  nonsense." 

"Indeed,  I  shall  say  no  such  thing." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  say?" 

"  If  you  please." 

"I  danced  with  a  very  agreeable  young  man, 
introduced  by  Mr.  King — had  a  great  deal  of  con- 
versation with  him  —  seems  a  most  extraordinary 
genius ;  hope  I  may  know  more  of  him.  That, 
madam,  is  what  I  wish  you  to  say." 
"  But,  perhaps,  I  keep  no  journal." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  sitting  in  this  room,  and 
I  am  not  sitting  by  you.  These  are  points  in 
which  a  doubt  is  equally  possible.  Not  keep  a 
journal !  How  are  your  absent  cousins  to  under- 
stand the  tenor  of  your  life  in  Bath  without  one  ? 
How  are  the  civilities  and  compliments  of  every 
day  to  be  related  as  they  ought  to  be,  unless  noted 
down  every  evening  in  a  journal?  How  are  your 
various  dresses  to  be  remembered,  and  the  parti- 
cular state  of  your  complexion,  and  curl  of  your 
hair  to  be  described  in  all  their  diversities,  with- 
out having  constant  recourse  to  a  journal  ?     My 


dear  madam,  I  am  not  so  ignorant  of  young  ladies' 
ways  as  you  wish  to  believe  me ;  it  is  this  delight- 
ful habit  of  journalising  which  largely  contributes 
to  form  the  easy  style  of  writing  for  which  ladies 
are  so  generally  celebrated.  Everybody  allows 
that  the  talent  of  writing  agreeable  letters  is  pecu- 
liarly female.  Nature  may  have  done  something, 
but  I  am  sure  it  mixst  be  essentially  assisted  by 
the  practice  of  keeping  a  journal." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  said  Catherine, 
doubtingly,  ' '  whether  ladies  do  write  so  much 
better  letters  than  gentlemen !  That  is — I  should 
not  think  the  supei-iority  was  always  on  our 
side." 

"  As  far  as  I  have  had  opportunity  of  judging, 
it  appears  to  me  that  the  usual  style  of  letter- 
writing  among  women  is  faultless,  except  in  three 
parti  ciilars." 

"  And  what  are  they  ?" 

"A  general  deficiency  of  subject,  a  total  inat- 
tention to  stops,  and  a  very  frequent  ignorance  of 
grammar." 

"  Upon  my  word !  I  need  not  have  been  afraid 
of  disclaiming  the  compliment.  You  do  not  think 
too  highly  of  us  in  that  way." 

"  I  should  no  more  lay  it  down  as  a  general  rule 
that  women  write  better  letters  than  men,  than 
that  they  sing  better  duets,  or  draw  better  land- 
scapes. In  every  power,  of  which  taste  is  the 
foundation,  excellence  is  pretty  fairly  divided  be- 
tween the  sexes." 

They  were  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Allen :  "  My  dear 
Catherine,"  said  she,  "  do  take  this  pin  out  of  my 
sleeve  ;  I  am  afraid  it  has  torn  a  hole  already ;  I 
shall  be  quite  sorry  if  it  has,  for  this  is  a  favourite 
gown,  tliough  it  cost  but  nine  shillings  a  yard." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  should  have  guessed 
it,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Tilney,  looking  at  the 
muslin. 

"  Do  you  understand  muslins,  sir?" 
"  Particularly  well ;  I  always  buy  my  own  cra- 
vats, and  am  allowed  to  be  an  excellent  judge ; 
and  my  sister  has  often  trusted  me  in  the  choice 
of  a  gown.  I  bought  one  for  her  the  other  day, 
and  it  was  pronounced  to  be  a  prodigious  bargain 
by  every  lady  who  saw  it.  I  gave  but  five  shillings 
a  yard  for  it,  and  a  true  Indian  muslin." 

Mrs.  Allen  was  quite  struck  by  his  genius.  "  Men 
commonly  take  so  little  notice  of  those  things," 
said  she  :  "I  can  never  get  Mr.  Allen  to  know  one 
of  my  gowns  from  another.  You  must  be  a  great 
comfort  to  your  sister,  sir." 
"  I  hope  I  am,  madam." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  Miss  Mor- 
land's  gown!" 

"It  is  very  pretty,  madam,"  said  he,  gravely, 
examining  it;  "but  I  do  not  think  it  will  wash 
well ;  I  am  afraid  it  will  fray." 

"How  can  you,"  said  Catherine,  laughing,  "be 

so "  she  had  almost  said  strange. 

"  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir,"  replied  Mrs. 
Allen;  "and  so  I  told  Miss  Morland  when  she 
bought  it." 

"But  then,  you  know,  madam,  muslin  always 
turns  to  some  account  or  other;  Miss  Morland 
will  get  enough  out  of  it  for  a  handkerchief,  or  a 

187  ' 


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cap,  or  a  cloak.  Musliu  can  never  be  said  to  be 
wasted.  I  have  heard  my  sister  say  so  forty  times, 
when  she  has  been  extravagant  in  buying  more 
than  she  wanted,  or  careless  in  cutting  it  to 
pieces.' 

"  Bath  is  a  charming  place,  sir ;  there  are  so 
many  good  shops  here.  We  are  sadly  off  in  the 
country ;  not  but  what  we  have  very  good  shops 
in  Salisbury,  but  it  is  so  far  to  go ;  eight  miles  is 
a  long  way ;  Mr.  Allen  says  it  is  nine,  measured 
nine ;  but  I  am  sure  it  cannot  be  more  than  eight ; 
and  it  is  such  a  fag  —  I  come  back  tired  to  death. 
Now  here  one  can  step  out  of  doors  and  get  a  thing 
in  five  minutes." 

Mr.  Tilney  was  polite  enough  to  seem  inter- 
ested in  what  she  said ;  and  she  kept  him  on  the 
subject  of  muslins  till  the  dancing  recommenced. 
Catherine  feared,  as  she  listened  to  their  discourse, 
that  he  indulged  himself  a  little  too  much  with  the 
foible  of  others.  —  "  What  are  you  thinking  of  so 
earnestly  ?"  said  he,  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
ball-room  ;  "  not  of  your  partner,  I  hope  ;  for  by 
that  shake  of  the  head,  your  meditations  are  not 
satisfactory." 

Catherine  coloured,  and  said,  "I  was  not  think- 
ing of  any  thing." 

"  That  is  artful  and  deep,  to  be  sure;  but  I  had 
rather  be  told  at  once  that  you  will  not  tell  me." 

"  Well  then,  I  will  not." 

"Thank  you;  for  now  we  shall  soon  be  ac- 
quainted, as  I  am  authorised  to  tease  you  on  this 
subject  whenever  we  meet ;  and  nothing  in  the 
world  advances  intimacy  so  much." 

They  danced  again ;  and,  when  the  assembly 
closed,  parted,  on  the  lady's  side  at  least,  with  a 
strong  inclination  for  continuing  the  acquaintance. 
Whether  she  thought  of  him  so  much  while  she 
drank  her  warm  wine  and  water,  and  prepared 
herself  for  bed,  as  to  dream  of  him  when  there, 
cannot  be  ascertained ;  but  I  hope  it  was  no  more 
than  in  a  slight  slumber,  or  a  morning  doze  at 
most ;  for  if  it  be  true,  as  a  celebrated  writer  has 
maintained,  that  no  young  lady  can  be  justified  in 
falling  in  love  before  the  gentleman's  love  is  de- 
clared, it  must  be  very  improper  that  a  young 
lady  should  dream  of  a  gentleman  before  the  gen- 
tleman is  first  known  to  have  dreamed  of  her." 

Mr.  Tilney  proved  to  be  a  young  clergyman, 
with  a  very  lovely  sister,  Eleanor,  and  a  very  sel- 
fish, proud  father.  General  Tilney.  After  several 
disappointments,  which,  to  the  romantic  fancy  of 
our  little  heroine,  appeared  like  the  scenes  in  a 
novel,  Mr.  Tilney  and  his  sister  took  the  happy 
Catherine  out  for  a  walk. 

A    WALK    AND    CONVERSATION. 

"  The  next  morning  was  fair,  and  Catherine 
almost  expected  another  attack  from  the  assem- 
bled party.  AVith  Mr.  Allen  to  support  her,  she 
felt  no  dread  of  the  event ;  but  she  would  gladly 
be  spared  a  contest,  where  victory  itself  was  pain- 
ful; and  was  heartily  lejoiced,  therefore,  at  neither 
seeing  nor  hearing  any  thing  of  them.  The  Til- 
nej's  called  for  her  at  the  appointed  time  ;  and  no 
new  difficulty  arising,  no  sudden  recollection,  no 


unexpected  summons,  no  impertinent  intrusion  to 
disconcert  their  measures,  my  heroine  was  most 
unnaturally  able  to  fulfil  her  engagement,  though 
it  was  made  with  the  hero  himself.  They  deter- 
mined on  walking  round  Beechen  Cliff,  that  noble 
hill,  whose  beautiful  verdure  and  hanging  coppice 
render  it  so  striking  an  object  from  almost  every 
opening  in  Bath. 

"I  never  look  at  it,"  said  Catherine,  as  they 
walked  along  the  side  of  the  river,  "  without  think- 
ing of  the  south  of  France." 

"You  have  been  abroad,  then?"  said  Henry,  a 
little  surprised. 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  only  mean  what  I  have  i-ead  about. 
It  always  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  country  that 
Emily  and  her  father  travelled  through,  in  the 
'  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.'  But  you  never  read  no- 
vels, I  dare  say?" 

"  Why  not?" 

"Because  they  are  not  clever  enough  for  you 
— gentlemen  read  better  books." 

"  The  person,  be  it  gentleman  or  lady,  who  has 
not  pleasure  in  a  good  novel,  must  be  intolerably 
stupid.  I  have  read  all  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  works, 
and  most  of  them  with  great  pleasure.  The  Mys- 
teries of  Udolpho,  when  I  had  once  begun  it,  I 
could  not  lay  down  again ;  I  remember  finishing  it 
in  two  days — my  hair  standing  on  end  the  whole 
time." 

"  Yes,"  added  Miss  Tilney,  "  and  I  remember 
that  you  undertook  to  read  it  aloud  to  me,  and 
that  when  I  was  called  away  for  only  five  minutes, 
to  answer  a  note,  instead  of  waiting  for  me,  you 
took  the  volume  in  the  Hermitage-walk,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  stay  till  you  had  finished  it." 

"Thank  you,  Eleanor; — a  most  honourable 
testimony.  You  see.  Miss  Morland,  the  injustice 
of  your  suspicions.  Here  was  I,  in  my  eagerness 
to  get  on,  refusing  to  wait  only  five  minutes  for 
my  sister ;  breaking  the  promise  I  had  made  of 
reading  it  aloud,  and  keeping  her  in  suspense  at 
a  most  interesting  part,  by  running  away  with  the 
volume,  which,  you  are  to  observe,  was  her  own, 
particularly  her  own.  I  am  proud  when  I  reflect 
on  it,  and  I  think  it  must  establish  me  in  your 
good  opinion." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  indeed,  and  now  I 
shall  never  be  ashamed  of  liking  Udolpho  myself. 
But  I  really  thought,  before,  young  men  despised 
novels  amazingly." 

"It  is  amazingly;  it  may  well  suggest  amaze- 
ment,  if  they  do— for  they  read  nearly  as  many  as 
women.  I  myself  have  read  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds. Do  not  imagine  that  you  can  cope  with 
me  in  a  knowledge  of  Julias  and  Louisas.  If  we 
proceed  to  particulars,  and  engage  in  the  never- 
ceasing  inquiry  of  '  Have  you  read  this  ? '  and 
'  Have  you  read  that  ? '  I  shall  soon  leave  you  as 
far  behind  me  as  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  I  want  an 
appropriate  simile  ;  —  as  far  as  your  friend  Emily 
herself  left  poor  Valancourt  when  she  went  with 
her  aunt  into  Italy.  Consider  how  many  years  I 
have  had  the  start  of  you.  I  had  entered  on  my 
studies  at  Oxford,  while  you  were  a  good  little 
girl,  working  your  sampler  at  home  !" 

"Not  very  good,  I  am  afraid.    But  now,  reallv, 

188 


AU 


AU 


do  not  you  think  Udolpho  the  nicest  book  in  the 
world  ?" 

"  The  nicest; — by  which,  I  suppose,  you  mean 
the  neatest.    That  must  depend  upon  the  binding." 

"Henry,"  said  Miss  Tihiey,  "you  are  very  im- 
pertinent. Miss  Morland,  he  is  treating  you  ex- 
actly as  he  does  his  sister.  He  is  for  ever  finding 
fault  with  me,  for  some  incorrectness  of  language, 
and  now  he  is  taking  the  same  liberty  with  you. 
The  word  'nicest,'  as  you  used  it,  did  not  suit 
him ;  aud  you  had  better  change  it  as  soon  as  you 
can,  or  we  shall  be  overpowered  with  Johnson  and 
Blair  all  the  rest  of  the  way." 

"  I  am  sure,"  cried  Catherine,  "  I  did  not  mean 
to  say  any  thing  wrong ;  but  it  is  a  nice  book,  and 
why  should  not  I  call  it  so  ?" 

"Very  true,"  said  Henry,  "and  this  is  a  very 
nice  day,  and  we  are  taking  a  very  nice  walk,  and 
you  are  two  very  nice  young  ladies.  Oh !  it  is  a 
vei-y  nice  word,  indeed  !  —  it  does  for  every  thing. 
Originally,  perhaps,  it  was  applied  only  to  express 
neatness,  propriety,  delicacy,  or  refinement ;  — 
people  were  nice  in  their  dress,  in  their  senti- 
ments, or  their  choice.  But  now  every  commen- 
dation on  every  subject  is  comprised  in  that  one 
word." 

"  While,  in  fact,"  cried  his  sister,  "  it  ought  only 
to  be  applied  to  you,  without  any  commendation 
at  all.  You  are  more  nice  than  wise.  Come, 
Miss  Morland,  let  us  leave  him  to  meditate  over 
our  faults  in  the  utmost  propriety  of  diction,  while 
we  praise  Udolpho  in  whatever  terms  we  like  best. 
It  is  a  most  interesting  work.  You  are  fond  of 
that  kind  of  reading  ?" 

"  To  say  the  truth,  I  do  not  much  like  any 
other." 

"  Indeed!" 

"  That  is,  I  can  read  poetry  and  plays,  and 
things  of  that  sort,  and  do  not  dislike  travels. 
But  history,  real  solemn  history,  I  cannot  be  in- 
terested in.     Can  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  fond  of  history." 

"  I  wish  I  were,  too.  I  read  it  a  little  as  a 
duty,  but  it  tells  me  nothing  that  does  not  either 
vex  or  weary  me.  The  quarrels  of  popes  and 
kings,  with  wars  or  pestilences,  in  every  page. 
The  men  all  so  good  for  nothing,  and  hardly  any 
women  at  all — it  is  very  tiresome:  and  yet  I  often 
think  it  odd  that  it  should  be  so  dull,  for  a  great 
deal  of  it  must  be  invention.  The  speeches  that 
are  put  into  the  heroes'  mouths,  their  thoughts 
and  designs  —  the  chief  of  all  this  must  be  inven- 
tion, and  invention  is  what  delights  me  in  other 
books." 

"  Historians,  you  think,"  said  Miss  Tilney,  "are 
not  happy  in  their  flights  of  fancy.  They  display 
imagination  without  raising  interest.  I  am  fond 
of  history  —  and  am  very  well  contented  to  take 
the  false  with  the  true.  In  the  principal  facts, 
they  have  sources  of  intelligence  in  former  his- 
tories and  records,  which  may  be  as  much  de- 
pended on,  I  conclude,  as  any  thing  that  does  not 
actually  pass  under  one's  own  observation ;  and, 
as  for  the  little  embellishments  you  speak  of,  they 
are  embellishments,  and  I  like  them  as  such.  If 
a  speech  be  well  drawn  up,  I  read  it  with  pleasure, 


by  whomsoever  it  may  be  made  —  and  probably 
with  much  greater,  if  the  production  of  Mr.  Hume 
or  Mr.  Robertson,  than  if  the  genuine  words  of 
Caractacus,  Agricola,  or  Alfred  the  Great." 

"  You  are  fond  of  history!  and  so  are  Mr.  Allen 
and  my  father ;  and  I  have  two  brothers  who  do 
not  dislike  it.  So  many  instances  within  my  small 
circle  of  friends  is  remarkable !  At  this  rate,  I 
shall  not  pity  the  writers  of  history  any  longer. 
If  people  like  to  read  their  books,  it  is  all  very 
well ;  but  to  be  at  so  much  trouble  in  filling  great 
volumes,  which,  as  I  used  to  think,  nobody  would 
willingly  ever  look  into,  to  be  labouring  only  for 
the  torment  of  little  boys  and  girls,  always  struck 
me  as  a  hard  fate;  and  though  I  know  it  is  all 
very  right  and  necessary,  I  have  often  wondered 
at  the  person's  courage  that  could  sit  down  on 
purpose  to  do  it." 

"  That  little  boys  and  girls  should  be  tor- 
mented," said  Henry,  "is  what  no  one  at  all  ac- 
quainted with  human  nature  in  a  civilized  state 
can  deny ;  but  on  behalf  of  our  most  distinguished 
historians,  I  must  observe  that  they  might  well 
be  offended  at  being  supposed  to  have  no  higher 
aim ;  and  that,  by  their  method  and  style,  they 
are  perfectly  well  qualified  to  torment  readers  of 
the  most  advanced  reason  and  mature  time  of  life. 
I  use  the  vei'b,  '  to  torment,'  as  I  observed  to  be 
your  own  method,  instead  of  'to  instruct,'  sup- 
posing them  to  be  now  admitted  as  synonymous." 

"  You  think  me  foolish  to  call  instruction  a  tor- 
ment ;  but  if  you  had  been  as  much  used  as  my- 
self to  hear  poor  little  children  first  learning  their 
letters  and  then  learning  to  spell,  if  you  had  ever 
seen  how  stupid  they  can  be  for  a  whole  morning 
together,  and  how  tired  my  poor  mother  is  at  the 
end  of  it,  as  I  am  in  the  habit  of  seeing  almost 
every  day  of  my  life  at  home,  you  would  allow 
that  to  torment  and  to  instruct,  might  sometimes 
be  used  as  synonymous  words." 

"  Very  probably.  But  historians  are  not  ac- 
countable for  the  difficulty  of  learning  to  read ; 
and  even  you  yourself,  who  do  not  altogether  seem 
particularly  friendly  to  very  severe,  very  intense 
application,  may  perhaps  be  brought  to  acknow- 
ledge that  it  is  very  well  worth  while  to  be  tor- 
mented for  two  or  three  years  of  one's  life,  for  the 
sake  of  being  able  to  read  all  the  rest  of  it.  Con- 
sider— if  reading  had  not  been  taught,  Mrs.  Rad- 
clifFe  would  have  written  in  vain  —  or  perhaps 
might  not  have  written  at  all." 

Catherine  assented  —  and  a  very  warm  pane- 
gyric from  her  on  that  lady's  merits  closed  the 
subject.  The  Tilneys  were  soon  engaged  in 
another,  on  which  she  had  nothing  to  say.  They 
were  viewing  the  country  with  the  eyes  of  persons 
accustomed  to  drawing,  and  decided  on  its  capa- 
bility of  being  formed  into  pictures,  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  real  taste.  Here  Catherine  was  quite 
lost.  She  knew  nothing  of  drawing — nothing  of 
taste — and  she  listened  to  them  with  an  attention 
which  brought  her  little  profit,  for  they  talked  in 
phrases  which  conveyed  scarcely  any  idea  to  her. 
The  little  which  she  could  understand,  however, 
appeared  to  contradict  the  very  few  notions  she 
had  entertained  on  the  matter  before.     It  seemed 

189 


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as  if  a  good  view  were  no  longer  to  be  taken  from 
the  top  of  a  high  bill,  and  that  a  clear  blue  sky 
was  no  longer  a  proof  of  a  fine  day.  She  was 
heartily  ashamed  of  her  ignorance.  A  misplaced 
shame.  Where  people  wish  to  attach,  they  should 
always  be  ignorant.  To  come  with  a  well-infoi'med 
mind,  is  to  come  with  an  inability  of  administer- 
ing to  the  vanity  of  others,  which  a  sensible  per- 
son would  always  wish  to  avoid.  A  woman, 
especially  if  she  have  the  misfortune  of  know- 
ing any  thing,  should  conceal  it  as  well  as  she 
can. 

The  advantages  of  natural  folly  in  a  beautiful 
girl  have  been  already  set  forth  by  the  capital  pen 
of  a  sister  author ; — and  to  her  treatment  of  the 
subject  I  will  only  add,  in  justice  to  men,  that 
though  to  the  larger  and  more  trifling  part  of  the 
sex,  imbecility  in  females  is  a  great  enhancement 
of  their  personal  charms,  there  is  a  portion  of 
them  too  reasonable  and  too  well-informed  them- 
selves to  desire  any  thing  more  in  woman  than 
ignorance.  But  Catherine  did  not  know  her  own 
advantages  —  did  not  know  that  a  good-looking 
girl,  with  an  affectionate  heart  and  a  very  ignorant 
mind,  cannot  fail  of  attracting  a  clever  young 
man,  unless  circumstances  are  particularly  unto- 
ward. In  the  present  instance,  she  confessed  and 
lamented  her  want  of  knowledge  ;  declared  that 
she  would  give  any  thing  in  the  world  to  be  able 
to  draw ;  and  a  lecture  on  the  picturesque  imme- 
diately followed,  in  which  his  instructions  were  so 
clear  that  she  soon  began  to  see  beauty  in  every 
thing  admired  by  him,  and  her  attention  was  so 
earnest,  that  he  became  perfectly  satisfied  of  her 
having  a  great  deal  of  natural  taste.  He  talked 
of  fore-grounds,  distances,  and  second  distances— 
side-screens,  and  perspectives — lights  and  shades ; 
— and  Catherine  was  so  hopeful  a  scholar,  that 
when  they  gained  the  top  of  Beechen  Cliff,  she 
voluntarily  rejected  the  whole  city  of  Bath,  as 
unworthy  to  make  part  of  a  landscape.  Delighted 
with  her  progress,  and  fearful  of  wearying  her 
with  too  much  wisdom  at  once,  Henry  suffered  the 
subject  to  decline,  and  by  an  easy  transition  from 
a  piece  of  rocky  fragment  and  the  withered  oak 
which  he  had  placed  near  its  summit,  to  oaks  in 
general,  to  forests,  the  enclosure  of  them,  waste- 
lands, crown-lands  and  government,  he  shortly 
found  himself  arrived  at  politics ;  and  from  poli- 
tics, it  was  an  easy  step  to  silence.  The  general 
pause  which  succeeded  his  short  disquisition  on 
the  state  of  the  nation,  was  put  an  end  to  by  Ca- 
therine, who,  in  rather  a  solemn  tone  of  voice, 
uttered  these  words: — "I  have  heard  that  some- 
thing very  shocking,  indeed,  will  soon  come  ovtt  in 
London." 

Miss  Tilney,  to  whom  this  was  chiefly  addressed, 
was  startled,  and  hastily  replied,  "Indeed! — and 
of  what  nature  ?" 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  nor  who  is  the  author. 
I  have  only  heard  that  it  is  to  be  more  horrible 
than  any  thing  we  have  met  with  yet." 

*'■'■  Good  heaven  ! — Where  could  you  hear  of  such 
a  thing  ?" 

"  A  particular  friend  of  mine  had  an  account 
of  it  in  a  letter  from  London  yesterday.     It  is  to 


be  uncommonly  dreadful.     I  shall  expect  murder 
and  every  thing  of  the  kind." 

"You  speak  with  astonishing  composure!  But 
I  hope  your  friend's  accounts  have  been  exagge- 
rated ; — and  if  such  a  design  is  known  beforehand, 
proper  measures  will  undoubtedly  be  taken  by 
government  to  prevent  its  coming  to  effect." 

"  Government,"  said  Henry,  endeavouring  not 
to  smile,  "  neither  desires  nor  dares  to  interfere 
in  such  matters.  There  must  be  murder ;  and 
government  cares  not  how  much." 

The  ladies  stared.  He  laughed,  and  added, 
"  Come,  shall  I  make  you  understand  each  other, 
or  leave  you  to  puzzle  out  an  explanation  as  you 
can  ?  No  —  I  will  be  noble.  I  will  prove  myself 
a  man,  no  less  by  the  generosity  of  my  soul  than 
the  clearness  of  my  head.  I  have  no  patience 
with  such  of  my  sex  as  disdain  to  let  themselves 
sometimes  down  to  the  comprehension  of  yours. 
Perhaps  the  abilities  of  women  are  neither  sound 
nor  acute — neither  vigorous  nor  keen.  Pei'haps 
they  may  want  observation,  discernment,  judg- 
ment, fire,  genius,  and  wit." 

"Miss  Morland,  do  not  mind  what  he  says; 
but  have  the  goodness  to  satisfy  me  as  to  thic 
dreadful  riot?" 

"Riot!— what  riot?" 

"  My  dear  Eleanor,  the  riot  is  only  in  your 
own  brain.  The  confusion  there  is  scandalous. 
Miss  Morland  has  been  talking  of  nothing  more 
dreadful  than  a  new  publication  which  is  shortly 
to  come  out,  in  three  duodecimo  volumes,  two 
hundred  and  seventy-six  pages  in  each,  with  a 
frontispiece  to  the  first,  of  two  tombstones  and  a 
lantern  —  do  you  understand  ?  —  And  you,  Miss 
Morland  —  my  stupid  sister  has  mistaken  all  your 
clearest  expressions.  You  talked  of  expected 
horrors  in  London  —  and  instead  of  instantly  con- 
ceiving, as  any  rational  creature  would  have  done, 
that  such  words  could  relate  only  to  a  circulating 
library,  she  immediately  pictured  to  herself  a  mob 
of  three  thousand  men  assembling  in  St.  George's 
Fields ;  the  bank  attacked,  the  Tower  threatened, 
streets  of  London  flowing  with  blood,  a  detachment 
of  the  12th  Light  Dragoons,  (the  hopes  of  the  na- 
tion,) called  up  from  Northampton  to  quell  the 
insurgents,  and  the  gallant  captain  Frederick 
Tilney,  in  the  moment  of  charging  at  the  head  of 
his  troop,  knocked  off  his  horse  by  a  brickbat 
from  an  upper  window.  Forgive  her  stupidity. 
The  fears  of  the  sister  have  added  to  the  weakness 
of  the  woman ;  but  she  is  by  no  means  a  simpleton 
in  general." 

Cathei-ine  looked  grave.  "  And  now,  Henry," 
said  Miss  Tilney,  "  that  you  have  made  us  under- 
stand each  other,  you  may  as  well  make  ISIiss 
Morland  understand  yourself —  unless  you  mean 
to  have  her  think  you  intolerably  rude  to  your 
sister,  and  a  great  brute  in  your  opinion  of  women 
in  general.  Miss  Morland  is  not  used  to  your 
odd  ways." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  make  her  better 
acquainted  with  them." 

"No  doubt; — but  that  is  no  explanation  of 
the  present." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

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"You  know  what  you  ought  to  do.  Clear 
your  character  handsomely  before  her.  Tell  her 
that  you  think  very  highly  of  the  understanding 
of  women." 

"  Miss  Morland,  I  think  very  highly  of  the 
understanding  of  all  the  women  in  the  world  — 
especially  of  those  —  whoever  they  may  be  — with 
whom  I  happen  to  be  in  company." 

"  That  is  not  enough.     Be  more  serious.' ' 

"Miss  Morland,  no  one  can  think  more  highly 
of  the  understanding  of  women  than  I  do.  In  my 
opinion,  nature  has  given  them  so  much,  that  they 
never  find  it  necessary  to  use  more  than  half." 

' '  We  shall  get  nothing  more  serious  from  him 
now.  Miss  Morland.  He  is  not  in  a  sober  mood. 
But  I  do  assure  you  that  he  must  be  entirely  mis- 
understood, if  he  can  ever  appear  to  say  an  unjust 
thing  of  any  woman  at  all,  or  an  unkind  one  of 
me." 

It  was  no  effort  to  Catherine,  to  believe  that 
Henry  Tilney  could  never  be  wrong.  His  manner 
might  sometimes  surpi-ise,  but  his  meaning  must 
always  be  just: — and  what  she  did  not  understand, 
she  was  almost  as  ready  to  admire,  as  what  she 
did.  The  whole  walk  was  delightful,  and  though 
it  ended  too  soon,  its  conclusion  was  delightful 
too  ;  —  her  friends  attended  her  into  the  house, 
and  Miss  Tilney,  before  they  parted,  addressing 
herself  with  respectful  form,  as  much  to  Mrs. 
Allen  as  to  Catherine,  petitioned  for  the  pleasure 
of  her  company  to  dinner  on  the  day  after  the 
next.  No  diificulty  was  made  on  Mrs.  Allen's 
side  —  and  the  only  difficulty  on  Catherine's  was 
in  concealing  the  excess  of  her  pleasure." 

THE    ROMANCE    OF    MYSTERY. 

The  tendency  to  exaggerate  every  occurrence, 
so  common  with  enthusiastic  and  undisciplined 
minds,  and  to  invest  commonplace  occurrences 
with  the  rainbow  tints  of  fancy,  is  well  depicted 
in  the  scene  we  shall  now  give. 

General  Tilney,  who  had  been  informed  Cathe- 
rine was  a  great  heiress,  wished  to  obtain  her 
wealth,  and  for  that  purpose  planned  a  marriage 
between  his  son  Henry  and  her.  To  make  this 
sure,  he  invited  her  to  go  with  the  family  to  North- 
anger  Abbey,  and  pass  a  few  weeks.  The  idea 
was  delightful  to  Catherine,  who  longed  to  see  an 
old  abbey  or  castle,  where,  she  was  sure,  strange 
things  must  have  occurred.  She  found,  in  the 
room  appropriated  to  her  use,  an  old  chest — 

"She  advanced  and  examined  it  closely;  it  was 
of  cedar,  curiously  inlaid  with  some  darker  wood, 
and  raised  about  a  foot  from  the  ground,  on  a 
carved  stand  of  the  same.  The  lock  was  silver, 
though  tarnished  from  age ;  at  each  end  were  the 
imperfect  remains  of  handles,  also  of  silver,  broken, 
perhaps,  prematurely,  by  some  strange  violence ; 
and,  on  the  centre  of  the  lid,  was  a  mysterious 
cipher  in  the  same  metal.  Catherine  bent  over  it 
intently,  but  without  being  able  to  distinguish  any 
thing  with  certainty.  She  could  not,  in  whatever 
direction  she  took  it,  believe  the  last  letter  to  be 
a  T:  and  that  it  should  be  any  thing  else  in  that 
house  was  a  circumstance  to  raise  no  common  de- 


gree of  astonishment.  If  not  oi'iginally  theirs,  by 
what  strange  events  could  it  have  fallen  into  the 
Tilney  family  ? 

Her  fearful  curiosity  was  every  moment  grow- 
ing greater ;  and  seizing,  with  trembling  hands, 
the  hasp  of  the  lock,  she  resolved  at  all  hazards 
to  satisfy  herself  at  least  as  to  its  contents.  With 
difficulty,  for  something  seemed  to  resist  her  ef- 
foi'ts,  she  raised  the  lid  a  few  inches ;  but  at  that 
moment  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
room  made  her,  starting,  quit  her  hold,  and  the 
lid  closed  with  alarming  violence.  This  ill-timed 
intruder  was  Miss  Tilney's  maid,  sent  by  her  mis- 
tress to  be  of  use  to  Miss  Morland ;  and  though 
Catherine  immediately  dismissed  her,  it  recalled 
her  to  the  sense  of  what  she  ought  to  be  doing, 
and  forced  her,  in  spite  of  her  anxious  desire  to 
penetrate  this  mystery,  to  proceed  in  her  dressing 
without  farther  delay.  Her  progress  was  not 
quick,  for  her  thou£;lits  and  her  eyes  were  still 
bent  on  the  object  so  well  calculated  to  interest 
and  alarm ;  and  though  she  dared  not  waste  a 
moment  upon  a  second  attempt,  she  could  not  re- 
main many  paces  from  the  chest.  At  length,  how- 
ever, having  slipped  one  arm  in  her  gown,  her 
toilette  seemed  so  nearly  finished,  that  the  impa- 
tience of  her  curiosity  might  safely  be  indulged. 
One  moment  surely  might  be  spared  ;  and,  so  des- 
perate should  be  the  exertion  of  her  strength,  that, 
unless  secured  by  supernatural  means,  the  lid  in 
one  moment  should  be  thrown  back.  With  this 
spirit  she  sprang  forward,  and  her  confidence  did 
not  deceive  her.  Her  resolute  effort  threw  back 
the  lid,  and  gave  to  her  astonished  eyes  the  view 
of  a  white  cotton  counterpane,  properly  folded, 
reposing  at  one  end  of  the  chest  in  undisputed 
possession ! 

She  was  gazing  on  it  with  the  first  blush  of 
surprise,  when  Miss  Tilney,  anxious  for  her  friend's 
being  ready,  entered  the  room,  and  to  the  rising 
shame  of  having  harboured  for  some  minutes  an 
absurd  expectation,  was  then  added  the  shame  of 
being  caught  in  so  idle  a  search.  "  That  is  a  cu- 
rious old  chest,  is  not  it?"  said  Miss  Tilney,  as 
Catherine  hastily  closed  it,  and  turned  away  to 
the  glass.  "It  is  impossible  to  say  how  many 
generations  it  has  been  here.  How  it  came  to  be 
first  put  in  this  room  I  know  not,  but  I  have  not 
had  it  moved,  because  I  thought  it  might  some- 
times be  of  use  in  holding  hats  and  bonnets.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  its  weight  makes  it  difficult  to 
open.  In  that  corner,  however,  it  is  at  least  out 
of  the  way." 

Catherine  had  no  leisure  for  speech,  being  at 
once  blushing,  tying  her  gown,  and  forming  wise 
resolutions  with  the  most  violent  despatch.  Miss 
Tilney  gently  hinted  her  fear  of  being  late ;  and 
in  half  a  minute  they  ran  down  stairs  together,  in 
an  alarm  not  wholly  unfounded,  for  General  Til- 
ney was  pacing  the  drawing-room,  his  watch  in 
his  hand,  and  having,  on  the  very  instant  of  their 
entering,  pulled  the  bell  with  violence,  ordered 
"  dinner  to  be  on  the  table  directly!" 

Catherine  trembled  at  the  emphasis  with  which 
he  spoke,  and  sat  pale  and  breathless,  in  a  most 
humble  mood,  concerned  for  his  children,  and  de- 

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testing  old  chests ;  and  the  general,  recovering 
his  politeness  as  he  looked  at  her,  spent  the  rest 
of  his  time  in  scolding  his  daughter,  for  so  fool- 
ishly hurrying  her  fair  friend,  who  was  absolutely 
out  of  breath  from  haste,  when  there  was  not  the 
least  occasion  for  hurry  in  the  world :  but  Cathe- 
rine could  not  at  all  get  over  the  double  distress 
of  having  involved  her  friend  in  a  lecture  and  been 
a  great  simpleton  herself,  till  they  were  happily 
seated  at  the  dinner  table,  when  the  general's 
complacent  smiles,  and  a  good  appetite  of  her 
own,  restored  her  to  peace.  The  dining-parlour 
was  a  noble  room,  suitable  in  its  dimensions  to  a 
much  larger  drawing-room  than  the  one  in  com- 
mon use,  and  iitted  up  in  a  style  of  luxury  and 
expense  which  was  almost  lost  on  the  unpractised 
eye  of  Catherine,  who  saw  little  more  than  its 
spaciousness  and  the  number  of  their  attendants. 
Of  the  former,  she  spoke  aloud  her  admiration ; 
and  the  general,  with  a  very  gracious  countenance, 
acknowledged  that  it  was  by  no  means  an  ill-sized 
room  ;  and  farther  confessed,  that,  though  as  care- 
less on  such  subjects  as  most  people,  he  did  look 
upon  a  tolerably  large  eating-room  as  one  of  the 
necessai'ies  of  life;  he  supposed,  however,  "that 
she  must  have  been  used  to  much  better  sized 
apartments  at  Mr.  Allen's  ?" 

"No,  indeed,"  was  Catherine's  honest  assu- 
rance ;  "  Mr.  Allen's  dining-parlour  was  not  more 
than  half  as  large:"  and  she  had  never  seen  so 
large  a  room  as  this  in  her  life.  The  general's 
good  humour  increased.  Why,  as  he  had  such 
rooms,  he  thought  it  would  be  simple  not  to  make 
use  of  them ;  but,  upon  his  honour,  he  believed 
there  might  be  more  comfort  in  rooms  of  only 
half  their  size.  Mr.  Allen's  house,  he  was  sure, 
was  exactly  of  the  true  size  for  I'ational  happiness. 

The  evening  passed  without  any  farther  disturb- 
ance, and,  in  the  occasional  absence  of  General 
Tilney,  with  much  positive  cheerfulness.  It  was 
only  in  his  presence  that  Catherine  felt  the  small- 
est fatigue  from  her  journey;  and  even  then,  even 
in  moments  of  languor  or  restraint,  a  sense  of 
general  happiness  preponderated,  and  she  could 
think  of  her  friends  in  Bath  without  one  wish  of 
being  with  them. 

The  night  was  stormy  ;  the  wind  had  been  rising 
at  intervals  the  whole  afternoon ;  and  by  the  time 
the  party  broke  up,  it  blew  and  rained  violently. 
Catherine,  as  she  crossed  the  hall,  listened  to  the 
tempest  with  sensations  of  awe,  and,  when  she 
heard  it  rage  round  a  corner  of  the  ancient  build- 
ing and  close  Avith  sudden  fury  a  distant  door,  felt 
for  the  first  time  that  she  was  really  in  an  Abbey. 
Yes,  these  were  characteristic  sounds ;  —  they 
brought  to  her  recollection  a  countless  variety  of 
dreadful  situations  and  horrid  scenes,  which  svich 
buildings  had  witnessed,  and  such  storms  vishered 
in ;  and  most  heartily  did  she  rejoice  in  the  hap- 
pier circumstances  attending  her  entrance  within 
walls  so  solemn  ! — She  had  nothing  to  dread  from 
midnight  assassins  or  drunken  gallants.  "Henry 
had  certainly  been  only  in  jest  in  what  he  had  told 
her  that  morning.  In  a  house  so  furnished,  and 
so  guarded,  she  could  have  nothing  to  explore  or 
to  suffer ;  and  might  go  to  her  bed-room  as  se- 


curely as  if  it  had  been  her  own  chamber  at  Ful- 
lerton.  Thus  wisely  fortifying  her  mind,  as  she 
proceeded  up  stairs,  she  was  enabled,  especially, 
on  perceiving  that  Miss  Tilney  slept  only  two 
doors  from  her,  to  enter  her  room  with  a  tolerably 
stout  heart ;  and  her  spirits  were  immediately  as- 
sisted by  the  cheerful  blaze  of  a  wood  fire.  "  How 
much  better  is  this,"  said  she,  as  she  walked  to 
the  fender,  "  how  much  better  to  find  a  fire  ready 
lit,  than  to  have  to  wait  shivering  in  the  cold  till 
all  the  family  are  in  bed,  as  so  many  poor  girls 
have  been  obliged  to  do,  and  then  to  have  a  faith- 
ful old  servant  frightening  one  by  coming  in  with 
a  fagot !  How  glad  I  am  that  Northanger  is  what 
it  is !  If  it  had  been  like  some  other  places,  I  do 
not  know  that,  in  such  a  night  as  this,  I  could 
have  answered  for  my  courage ; — but  now,  to  be 
sure,  there  is  nothing  to  alarm  one." 

She  looked  around  the  room.  The  window  cur- 
tains seemed  in  motion.  It  could  be  nothing  but 
the  violence  of  the  wind  penetrating  through  the 
divisions  of  the  shutters  ;  and  she  stepped  boldly 
forward,  carelessly  humming  a  tune,  to  assure 
herself  of  its  being  so,  peeped  courageovisly  behind 
each  curtain,  saw  nothing  on  either  low  window- 
seat  to  scare  her,  and  on  placing  a  hand  against 
the  shutter,  felt  the  strongest  conviction  of  the 
wind's  force.  A  glance  at  the  old  chest,  as  she 
turned  away  from  this  examination,  was  not  with- 
out its  use ;  she  scorned  the  causeless  fears  of  an 
idle  fancy,  and  began  with  a  most  happy  indiffer- 
ence to  prepare  herself  for  bed.  "  She  should 
take  her  time;  she  should  not  hxirry  herself;  she 
did  not  care  if  she  were  the  last  person  up  in  the 
house.  But  she  would  not  make  up  her  fire  ;  that 
would  seem  cowardly,  as  if  she  wished  for  the 
protection  of  light  after  she  was  in  bed."  The 
fire,  therefore,  died  away,  and  Catherine,  having 
spent  the  best  part  of  an  hour  in  her  arrangements, 
was  beginning  to  think  of  stepping  into  bed,  when, 
on  giving  a  j^arting  glance  round  the  room,  she 
was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  high,  old-fa- 
shioned black  cabinet,  which,  though  in  a  situa- 
tion conspicuous  enough,  had  never  caught  her 
notice  before.  Henry's  words,  his  description  of 
the  ebony  cabinet  which  was  to  escape  her  obser- 
vation at  first,  immediately  rushed  across  her ; 
and  though  there  could  be  nothing  really  in  it, 
there  was  something  whimsical ;  it  was  certainly 
a  very  remarkable  coincidence !  She  took  her 
candle  and  looked  closely  at  the  cabinet.  It  was 
not  absolutely  ebony  and  gold ;  but  it  was  Japan, 
black  and  yellow  Japan  of  the  handsomest  kind  ; 
and  as  she  held  her  candle,  the  yellow  had  very 
much  the  effect  of  gold.  The  key  was  in  the  door, 
and  she  had  a  strange  fancy  to  look  into  it ;  not, 
however,  with  the  smallest  expectation  of  finding 
any  thing,  but  it  was  so  very  odd,  after  what  Henry 
had  said.  In  short,  she  could  not  sleep  till  she 
had  examined  it.  So,  placing  the  candle  with 
great  caution  on  a  chair,  she  seized  the  key  with 
a  very  tremulous  hand,  and  tried  to  turn  it ;  but 
it  resisted  her  utmost  strength.  Alarmed,  but  not 
discouraged,  she  tried  it  another  way ;  a  bolt  flew, 
and  she  believed  herself  successful;  but  how 
strangely  mysterious ! — the  door  was  still  immove- 

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able.  She  paused  a  moment  in  breathless  wonder. 
The  wind  roared  down  the  chimney,  the  rain  beat 
in  torrents  against  the  windows,  and  every  thing 
seemed  to  speak  the  awfulness  of  her  situation. 
To  retire  to  bed,  however,  unsatisfied  on  such  a 
point,  would  be  vain,  since  sleep  must  be  impossi- 
ble with  the  consciousness  of  a  cabinet  so  myste- 
riously closed  in  her  immediate  vicinity.  Again, 
therefore,  she  applied  herself  to  the  key,  and  after 
moving  it  every  possible  way  for  some  instants 
with  the  determined  celerity  of  hope's  last  effort, 
the  door  suddenly  yielded  to  her  hand :  her  heart 
leaped  with  exultation  at  such  a  victory,  and  hav- 
ing thrown  open  each  folding  door,  the  second 
being  secui-ed  only  by  bolts  of  less  wonderful  con- 
struction than  the  lock,  though  in  that  her  eye 
could  not  discern  any  thing  unusual,  a  double 
range  of  small  drawers  appeared  in  view,  with 
some  larger  drawers  above  and  below  them ;  and 
in  the  centre,  a  small  door,  closed  also  with  a  lock 
and  key,  secured  in  all  probability  a  cavity  of  im- 
portance. 

Catherine's  heart  beat  quickly,  but  her  courage 
did  not  fail  her.  With  a  cheek  flushed  by  hope, 
and  an  eye  straining  with  curiosity,  her  fingers 
grasped  the  handle  of  a  drawer  and  drew  it  forth. 
It  was  entirely  empty.  With  less  alarm  and 
greater  eagerness  she  seized  a  second,  a  third,  a 
fourth  ;  each  was  equally  empty.  Not  one  was  left 
unsearched,  and  in  not  one  was  any  thing  found. 
Well  read  in  the  art  of  concealing  a  treasure,  the 
possibility  of  false  linings  to  the  drawers  did  not 
escape  her,  and  she  felt  round  each  with  anxious 
acuteness  in  vain.  The  place  in  the  middle  alone 
remained  now  unexplored  ;  and  though  she  had 
"never  from  the  first  had  the  smallest  idea  of 
finding  any  thing  in  any  part  of  the  cabinet,  and 
was  not  in  the  least  disappointed  at  her  ill  success 
thus  far,  it  would  be  foolish  not  to  examine  it  tho- 
roughly while  she  was  about  it."  It  was  some 
time,  however,  before  she  could  unfasten  the  door, 
the  same  diflSculty  occurring  in  the  management 
of  this  inner  lock  as  of  the  outer ;  but  at  length  it 
did  open ;  and  not  in  vain,  as  hitherto,  was  her 
search ;  her  quick  eyes  directly  fell  on  a  roll  of 
paper  pushed  back  into  the  farther  part  of  the 
cavity,  apparently  for  concealment,  and  her  feel- 
ings at  that  moment  were  indescribable.  Her 
heart  fluttered,  her  knees  trembled,  and  her  cheeks 
grew  pale.  She  seized,  with  an  unsteady  hand, 
the  precious  manuscript,  for  half  a  glance  sufiiced 
to  ascertain  written  characters ;  and  while  she 
acknowledged  with  awful  sensations  this  striking 
exemplification  of  what  Henry  had  foretold,  re- 
solved instantly  to  peruse  every  line  before  she 
attempted  to  rest. 

The  dimness  of  the  light  her  candle  emitted 
made  her  turn  to  it  with  alarm ;  but  there  was  no 
danger  of  its  sudden  extinction,  it  had  yet  some 
hours  to  burn  ;  and  that  she  might  not  have  any 
greater  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the  writing 
than  what  its  ancient  date  might  occasion,  she 
hastily  snufi"ed  it.  Alas !  it  was  snuflTed  and  ex- 
tinguished in  one.  A  lamp  could  not  have  expired 
with  more  awful  effect.  Catherine,  for  a  few 
moments,  was  motionless  with  horror.  It  was 
N 


done  completely ;  not  a  remnant  of  light  in  the 
wick  could  give  hope  to  the  rekindling  breath. 
Darkness  impenetrable  and  immoveable  filled  the 
room.  A  violent  gust  of  wind,  rising  with  sudden 
fury,  added  fresh  horror  to  the  moment.  Cathe- 
rine trembled  from  head  to  foot.  In  the  pause 
which  succeeded,  a  sound  like  receding  foot-steps 
and  the  closing  of  a  distant  door  sti-uck  on  her 
aff'righted  ear.  Human  nature  could  support  no 
more.  A  cold  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead,  the 
manuscript  fell  from  her  hand,  and  groping  her 
way  to  the  bed,  she  jumped  hastily  in,  and  sought 
some  suspension  of  agony  by  creeping  far  under- 
neath the  clothes.  To  close  her  eyes  in  sleep  that 
night,  she  felt  must  be  entirely  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. With  a  curiosity  so  justly  awakened,  and 
feeling  in  every  way  so  agitated,  repose  must  be 
absolutely  impossible.  The  storm,  too,  abroad,  so 
dreadful !  She  had  not  been  used  to  feel  alarm 
from  wind,  but  now  every  blast  seemed  fraught 
with  awful  intelligence.  The  manuscript  so  won- 
derfully found,  so  wonderfully  accomplishing  the 
morning's  prediction,  how  was  it  to  be  accounted 
for?  What  could,  it  contain  ?  —  to  whom  could  it 
relate? — by  what  means  could  it  have  been  so 
long  concealed  ? — and  how  singularly  strange  that 
it  should  fall  to  her  lot  to  discover  it !  Till  she 
had  made  herself  mistress  of  its  contents,  how- 
ever, she  could  have  neither  repose  nor  comfort ; 
and  with  the  sun's  first  rays  she  was  determined 
to  peruse  it.  But  many  were  the  tedious  hours 
which  must  yet  intervene.  She  shuddered,  tossed 
about  in  her  bed,  and  envied  every  quiet  sleeper. 
The  storm  still  raged,  and  various  were  the  noises, 
more  terrific  even  than  the  wind,  which  struck  at 
intervals  on  her  startled  ear.  The  very  citrtains 
of  her  bed  seemed  at  one  moment  in  motion,  and 
at  another  the  lock  of  her  door  was  agitated,  as 
if  by  the  attempt  of  somebody  to  enter.  Hollow 
murmurs  seemed  to  creep  along  the  gallery,  and 
more  than  once  her  blood  was  chilled  by  the 
sound  of  distant  moans.  Hour  after  hour  passed 
away,  and  the  wearied  Catherine  had  heard  three 
proclaimed  by  all  the  clocks  in  the  house,  before 
the  tempest  subsided,  or  she  unknowingly  fell  fast 
asleep. 

The  housemaid's  folding  back  her  window-shut- 
ters at  eight  o'clock  the  next  day,  was  the  sound 
which  first  I'oused  Catherine ;  and  she  opened  her 
eyes,  wondering  that  they  could  ever  have  been 
closed  on  objects  of  cheerfulness ;  her  fire  was 
already  burning,  and  a  bright  morning  had  suc- 
ceeded the  tempest  of  the  night.  Instantaneously, 
with  the  consciousness  of  existence,  returned  her 
recollection  of  the  manuscript;  and,  springing 
from  the  bed  in  tlie  very  moment  of  the  maid's 
going  away,  she  eagerly  collected  every  scattered 
sheet  which  had  burst  from  the  roll  on  its  falling 
to  the  ground,  and  flew  back  to  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  their  perusal  on  her  pillow.  She  now  plainly 
saw  that  she  must  not  expect  a  manuscript  of 
equal  length  with  the  generality  of  what  she  had 
shuddered  over  in  books ;  for  the  roll,  seeming  to 
consist  entirely  of  small  disjointed  sheets,  was 
altogether  but  of  trifling  size,  and  much  less  than 
she  had  supposed  it  to  be  at  first. 

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Her  greedy  eye  glanced  rapidly  over  a  page. 
She  started  at  its  import.  Could  it  be  possible, 
or  did  not  her  senses  play  her  false  ?  An  inven- 
tory of  linen,  in  coarse  and  modern  characters, 
seemed  all  that  was  before  her.  If  the  evidence 
of  sight  might  be  trusted,  she  held  a  washing-bill 
in  her  hand.  She  seized  another  sheet,  and  saw 
the  same  articles  with  little  variation ;  a  third,  a 
fourth,  and  a  fifth  presented  nothing  new.  Shirts, 
stockings,  cravats,  and  waistcoats  faced  her  in 
each.  Two  others,  penned  by  the  same  hand, 
marked  an  expenditure  scarcely  more  interesting, 
in  letters,  hair-powder,  shoe-string,  and  breeches- 
ball.  And  the  larger  sheet,  which  had  enclosed 
the  rest,  seemed  by  its  first  cramp  line,  "  To 
poultice  chesnut  mare,"  —  a  farrier's  bill !  Such 
was  the  collection  of  papers,  (left,  perhaps,  as  she 
could  then  suppose,  by  the  negligence  of  a  servant 
in  the  place  whence  she  had  taken  them,)  which 
had  filled  her  with  expectation  and  alarm,  and 
robbed  her  of  half  her  night's  rest.  She  felt  hum- 
bled to  the  dust.  Could  not  the  adventure  of  the 
chest  have  taught  her  wisdom  ?  A  corner  of  it 
catching  her  eye  as  she  lay,  seemed  to  rise  up  in 
judgment  against  her.  Nothing  could  now  be 
clearer  than  the  absurdity  of  her  recent  fancies. 
To  suppose  that  a  manuscript  of  many  genera- 
tions back  could  have  remained  undiscovered  in  a 
room  such  as  that,  so  modern,  so  habitable ;  or 
that  she  should  be  the  first  to  possess  the  skill  of 
unlocking  a  cabinet,  the  key  of  which  was  open  to 
all! 

How  could  she  have  so  imposed  upon  herself? 
Heaven  forbid  that  Hemy  Tilney  should  ever 
know  her  folly !  And  it  was,  in  a  great  measure, 
his  own  doing,  for  had  not  the  cabinet  appeared 
so  exactly  to  agree  with  his  description  of  her  ad- 
ventures, she  should  never  have  felt  the  smallest 
curiosity  about  it.  This  was  the  only  comfort 
that  occurred.  Impatient  to  get  rid  of  those  hate- 
ful evidences  of  her  folly,  those  detestable  papers 
then  scattered  over  the  bed,  she  rose  directly,  and 
folding  them  up  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  same 
shape  as  before,  returned  them  to  the  same  spot 
within  the  cabinet,  with  a  very  hearty  wish  that 
no  untoward  accident  might  ever  bring  them  for- 
ward again  to  disgrace  her  even  with  herself. 

AYhy  the  locks  should  have  been  so  difficult  to 
open,  however,  was  still  something  remarkable, 
for  she  could  now  manage  them  with  perfect  ease. 
In  this  there  was  surely  something  mysterious, 
and  she  indulged  in  the  flattering  suggestion  for 
half  a  minute,  till  the  possibility  of  the  door's 
having  been  at  first  unlocked,  and  of  being  herself 
its  fastener,  darted  into  her  head,  and  cost  her 
another  blush. 

She  got  away  as  soon  as  she  could  from  a  room 
in  which  her  conduct  produced  such  unpleasant 
reflections,  and  found  her  way  with  all  speed  to 
the  breakfast  parlour,  as  it  had  been  pointed  out 
to  her  by  Miss  Tilney  the  evening  before.  Henry 
was  alone  in  it ;  and  his  immediate  hope  of  her 
having  been  undistiu'bed  by  the  tempest,  with  an 
arch  reference  to  the  character  of  the  building 
they  inhabited,  was  rather  distressing.  For  the 
world  would  she  not  have  her  weakness  suspected ; 


and  yet,  unequal  to  an  absolute  falsehood,  was 
constrained  to  acknowledge  that  the  wind  had 
kept  her  awake  a  little.  "  But  we  have  a  charm- 
ing morning  after  it,"  she  added,  desiring  to  get 
rid  of  the  subject,  "and  storms  and  sleeplessness 
are  nothing  when  they  are  over.  What  beautiful 
hyacinths !  I  have  just  learned  to  love  a  hya- 
cinth." 

"And  how  might  you  learn?  By  accident  or 
argument?" 

"  Your  sister  taught  me ;  I  cannot  tell  how. 
Mrs.  Allen  used  to  take  pains,  year  after  year,  to 
make  me  like  them ;  but  I  never  could  till  I  saw 
them  the  other  day  in  Milsom-street ;  I  am  natu- 
rally indiS'erent  about  flowers." 

"  But  now  you  love  a  hyacinth.  So  much  the 
better.  You  have  gained  a  new  source  of  enjoy- 
ment, and  it  is  well  to  have  as  many  holds  upon 
happiness  as  possible.  Besides,  a  taste  for  flowers 
is  always  desirable  in  your  sex,  as  a  means  of 
getting  you  out  of  doors  and  tempting  you  to  more 
frequent  exercise  than  you  would  otherwise  take. 
And  though  the  love  of  a  hyacinth  may  be  rather 
domestic,  who  can  tell,  the  sentiment  once  raised, 
but  you  may  in  time  come  to  love  a  rose  ?" 

"  But  I  do  not  want  any  such  pursuit  to  get  me 
out  of  doors.  The  pleasure  of  walking  and  breath- 
ing fi-esh  air  is  enough  for  me,  and  in  fine  weather 
I  am  out  more  than  half  my  time.  Mamma  says, 
I  am  never  within." 

"  At  any  rate,  however,  I  am  pleased  that  you 
have  learnt  to  love  a  hyacinth.  The  mere  habit 
of  learning  to  love  is  the  thing ;  and  a  teachable- 
ness of  disposition  in  a  young  lady  is  a  great 
blessing." 

A  Y  S  A , 
A  Moorish  female,  taken  pi-isoner  by  the  Span- 
iards under  Charles  V.,  at  the  siege  of  Tunis, 
lived  in  the  sixteenth  century.  She  rejected  with 
indignation  the  off'er  of  Muley-Haseen,  who  wished 
to  redeem  her  from  captivity,  saying  that  she  dis- 
dained to  owe  her  liberty  to  so  great  a  coward. 

AZZI  DE  FORTI,  FAUSTINA, 
A  NATIVE  of  Arezzo,  distinguished  for  her  poeti- 
cal talents,  and  admitted  into  the  academy  of 
Arcadia  under  the  name  of  Eurinomia.  She  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  Italian  poems,  and  died  in 
1724. 


BABOIS,  MADAME  VICTOIRE, 
A  French  poetess,  was  born  in  1759  or  1760, 
and  died  in  1839.  She  was  the  niece  of  Ducis, 
the  celebrated  French  dramatist  and  translator 
of  Shakespeare.  This  lady  spent  her  whole  life 
at  Versailles,  in  the  midst  of  her  family  and 
friends ;  and  having  but  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  men  of  letters,  she  was  never  taught  the 
rules  of  style  and  composition,  but  wrote  as  nature 
dictated.  Her  poetry  is  very  popular  in  France, 
and  she  is  also  the  author  of  several  little  prose 
works.    Her  elegies  were  particularly  appropriate, 

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for  she  had  much  true  feeling,  and  always  sym- 
pathized with  tlie  sorrows  she  described.  The 
following  was  written  the  evening  of  her  own  de- 
cease, addressed  to  her  friend  Madame  Waldon : 

"  La  mort  enfiii  m'ordonne  de  la  suivre, 
Et  dans  sa  froiiie  nuit  je  nie  sens  enfermer  ; 

Mais  mon  coeur  seinble  me  survivre: 
Vns  chants  si  donx  savent  le  raninier; 

Je  n'ai  plus  le  pouvoir  de  vivre  : 

Je  sens  encor  celiii  d'aimer. 


BACCIOCCHI,   MARIE   ANNE    ELISE, 

Sister  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  formerly  prin- 
cess of  Lucca  and  Piombino,  was  boi'n  at  Ajaccio, 
January  8th,  1777,  and  educated  at  the  royal  in- 
stitution for  noble  ladies  at  St.  Cyr.  She  lived  at 
Marseilles,  with  her  mother,  during  the  revolution. 
In  1797,  with  her  mother's  consent,  but  against 
her  brother's  wish,  she  married  Felix  Pascal  Bac- 
ciocchi,  a  captain  in  Napoleon's  army  in  Italy.  In 
1799,  she  went  to  Paris,  and  resided  with  her 
brother  Lucien,  where  she  collected  around  her 
the  most  accomplished  men  of  the  capital.  Ge- 
nerous, as  she  ever  was  towards  distinguished 
talents,  she  conferred  particular  favours  on  Cha- 
teaubriand and  Fontanes.  Conscious  of  her  intel- 
lectual superiority,  she  kept  her  husband  in  a  very 
subordinate  position.  It  was  she,  in  fact,  who  go- 
verned the  principalities  of  Lucca  and  Piombino. 
When  she  reviewed  the  troops  of  the  duchy  of 
Tuscany,  her  husband  acted  as  aide-de-camp. 
She  introduced  many  improvements. 

In  1817  she  retired  to  Bologna,  but  the  follow- 
ing year  she  was  obliged  to  go  to  Austria.  Here 
she  lived,  at  first,  with  her  sister  Caroline  ;  after- 
wards with  her  own  fiimily  at  Trieste,  where  she 
called  herself  the  countess  Compignano.  She  died 
August  7th,  1820,  at  her  country-seat.  Villa  Vi- 
centina,  near  Trieste.  In  that  city  she  was  dis- 
tinguished for  her  benevolence.  She  left  a  daugh- 
ter, Napoleona  Elise,  born  June  3d,  1806,  and  a 
son,  who  remained  under  the  guardianship  of  their 
father,  although  she  requested  that  her  brother 
Jerome  might  have  the  charge  of  them. 

This  princess  was  endowed  with  superior  abili- 
ties, but  she  suUied  them  by  great  faults.  Subju- 
gated by  imperious  passions,  and  surrounded  by 


unworthy  flatterers,  she  has  been  accused  of  many 
immoralities,  and  her  conduct  was  certainly  de- 
serving of  great  censure.  But  had  she  belonged 
to  the  old  regime  her  character  would  have  suf- 
fered less  from  public  scandal.  The  family  of  Na- 
poleon had  to  share  with  him  in  the  obloquy  of 
being  parvenues. 

BAG  HE,    SARAH, 

The  only  daughter  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  was 
born  at  Philadelphia,  September  1744.  But  little 
is  known  of  her  early  years,  yet  as  her  father 
knew  well  the  advantages  of  education,  it  is  pro- 
bable that  hers  was  not  neglected.  In  1767,  ISIiss 
Franklin  was  mai-ried  to  Richard  Bache,  a  mer- 
chant of  Philadelphia,  but  a  native  of  Yorkshire, 
England.  In  the  troublous  times  which  preceded 
the  American  Revolutionary  War,  Dr.  Franklin 
had  acted  a  conspicuous  part ;  his  only  daughter 
was  thus  trained  in  the  duty  of  patriotism,  and 
she  was  prepared  to  do  or  to  suflFer  in  the  cause 
of  her  country.  ISIrs.  Bache  took  an  active  part 
in  providing  clothing  for  the  American  soldiers, 
during  the  severe  winter  of  1780.  The  marquis 
de  Chastellux  thus  notices  a  visit  he  made  to  her 
about  this  time.  After  detailing  the  prelimina- 
ries of  the  visit,  he  goes  on: — "  Mrs.  Bache  me- 
rited all  the  anxiety  we  had  to  see  her,  for  she  is 
the  daughter  of  Mr.  Franklin.  Simple  in  her 
manners,  like  her  respected  fixther,  she  possesses 
his  benevolence.  She  conducted  us  into  a  room 
filled  with  work,  lately  finished  by  the  ladies  of 
Philadelphia.  This  work  consisted  neither  of  em- 
broidered tambour  waistcoats,  nor  of  net-work 
edging,  nor  of  gold  and  silver  brocade.  It  was  a 
quantity  of  shirts  for  the  soldiers  of  Pennsylvania. 
The  ladies  bought  the  linen  from  their  own  private 
purses,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  cutting  them  out 
and  sewing  themselves.  On  each  shirt  was  the 
name  of  the  lady  who  made  it,  and  they  amounted 
to  twenty-two  hundred." 

A  letter  of  M.  de  Marbois  to  Dr.  Franklin,  the 
succeeding  year  —  thus  speaks  of  his  daughter: 
"If  there  are  in  Europe  any  women  who  need  a 
model  of  attachment  to  domestic  duties  and  love 
for  their  country,  Mrs.  Bache  may  be  pointed  out 
to  them  as  such.  She  passed  a  part  of  the  last 
year  in  exertions  to  rouse  the  zeal  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania ladies,  and  she  made  on  this  occasion 
such  a  happy  use  of  the  eloquence  which  you 
know  she  possesses,  that  a  large  part  of  the  Ame- 
rican army  was  provided  with  shirts,  bought  with 
their  money,  or  made  by  their  hands.  In  her  ap- 
plications for  this  purpose,  she  showed  the  most 
indefatigable  zeal,  the  most  unwearied  perseve- 
rance, and  a  courage  in  asking,  which  surpassed 
even  the  obstinate  reluctance  of  the  Quakers  in 
refusing." 

Such  were  the  women  of  America  during  the 
long  and  fearful  struggle  which  preceded  the  In- 
dependence of  the  United  States.  Few,  indeed, 
had  the  talents  and  opportunities  to  perform  so 
many  benevolent  deeds  as  Mrs.  Bache ;  her  pa- 
triotism has  made  her  an  example  for  her  coun- 
trywomen. She  died  in  1808,  aged  sixty-four 
years. 

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BACON,  ANNE, 
A  LADY  distinguished  by  her  piety,  virtue,  and 
learning,  was  the  second  daugliter  of  Sir  Anthony 
Cook,  preceptor  to  king  Edward  VI.,  and  was  born 
about  the  year  1528.  She  had  a  very  liberal  edu- 
cation, and  became  eminent  for  her  skill  in  the 
Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian  languages.  She  was 
married  to  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  by  whom  she  had 
two  sons,  Anthony  and  Francis,  whose  distin- 
guished abilities  were  greatly  improved  by  the 
tender  care  of  so  accomplished  a  mother.  Her  task 
was,  however,  rendered  very  easy,  because  her 
daughter,  Lady  Bacon,  displayed,  at  an  early  age, 
her  capacity,  application,  and  industry,  by  translat- 
ing from  the  Italian  of  Bernardine  Octine,  twenty- 
five  sermons,  on  the  abstruse  doctrines  of  predesti- 
nation and  election.  This  performance  was  pub- 
lished about  the  year  1550.  A  circumstance  took 
place  soon  after  her  marriage,  which  again  called 
forth  her  talents  and  zeal.  The  Catholics  of  that 
period,  alarmed  at  the  progress  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, exerted,  in  attacking  it  and  throwing  an 
odium  upon  the  Reformers,  all  their  leai-ning  and 
activity.  The  Council  of  Trent  was  called  by 
pope  Pius  IV.,  to  which  queen  Elizabeth  was  in- 
vited. The  princes  of  Christendom  pressed  her, 
by  their  letters,  to  receive  and  entertain  the  nun- 
cio, urging  her,  at  the  same  time,  to  submit  to  the 
Council.  Bishop  Jewell  was  employed,  on  this  oc- 
casion, to  give  an  account  of  the  measures  taken 
in  the  preceding  parliament,  and  to  retort  upon 
the  Romanists,  in  '  An  Apology  for  the  Church  of 
England,'  the  charges  brought  against  the  refonu- 
ers.  The  work  of  the  bishop  obtained  great  repu- 
tation, but,  being  written  in  Latin,  was  confined 
to  the  learned.  A  translation  was  loudly  called 
for  by  the  common  people,  who  justly  considered 
their  own  rights  and  interests  in  the  controversy. 
Lady  Bacon  undertook  to  translate  the  bishop's 
'Apology,'  a  task  which  she  accomplished  with 
fidelity  and  elegance.  She  sent  a  copy  of  her 
work  to  the  primate,  whom  she  considered  as  most 
interested  in  the  safety  of  the  church ;  a  second 
copy  she  presented  to  the  author,  lest,  inadver- 
tently, she  had  in  any  respect  done  injustice  to  his 
sentiments.  Her  copy  was  accompanied  by  an 
epistle  in  Greek,  to  which  the  bishop  replied  in 
the  same  language.  The  translation  was  carefully 
examined,  both  by  the  primate  and  author,  who 
found  it  so  chastely  and  correctly  given,  as  to 
stand  in  no  need  of  the  slightest  emendation. 
The  translator  received,  on  this  occasion,  a  letter 
from  the  primate,  full  of  high  and  just  compli- 
ments to  her  talents  and  erudition. 

Lady  Bacon  survived  her  husband,  and  died 
about  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  James  I.,  at 
Gerhamburg,  near  St.  Albans,  in  Hertfordshire. 

BANDETTINI,  THERESA, 
An  improvisatrice,  was  born  at  Lucca,  about 
1756 ;  she  was  carefully  educated,  but  was  obliged, 
from  loss  of  property,  to  go  on  the  stage.  She 
made  her  first  appearance  in  Florence,  and  was 
unsuccessful.  Some  time  after  this,  while  listen- 
ing to  an  improvisatore  of  Verona,  she  broke  forth 


into  a  splendid  poetical  panegyric  on  the  poet. 
Encouraged  by  him,  she  devoted  herself  entirely 
to  this  art.  Her  originality,  fervid  imagination, 
and  the  truth  and  harmony  of  her  expressions, 
soon  gained  for  her  great  celebrity.  In  1789,  she 
married  Pietro  Landucci,  upon  whose  persuasions 
she  abandoned  the  stage,  travelled  through  Italy, 
and  was  chosen  a  member  of  several  academies. 
One  of  her  most  celebrated  poems  was  an  im- 
promptu, delivered  in  1794,  before  prince  Lam- 
bertini,  at  Bologna,  on  the  death  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette of  France.  In  1813,  she  returned  to  Lucca, 
where  she  lived  retired  on  her  small  property. 
She  published  Ode  tre,  or  Three  Odes ;  of  which 
the  first  celebrates  Nelson's  victory  at  Aboukir, 
the  second,  Suwarroflf's  victories  in  Italy,  and  the 
third,  the  victories  of  the  arch-duke  Charles  in 
Germany.  She  also  published,  under  the  name 
of  Cimarilli  Etrusca,  Saggio  di  Versi  Extemporanci, 
among  which  the  poem  on  Petrarch's  interview 
with  Laura,  in  the  church,  is  especially  celebrated. 
She  also  wrote  a  tragedy  called  "Polidoro,"  which 
obtained  great  success  at  Milan,  and  an  epic  poem, 
"  La  Deseide."  She  was  an  excellent  classic  scholar, 
and  made  many  translations  from  the  Latin  and 
Greek.  Nor  were  the  qualities  of  her  heart  sur- 
passed by  these  mental  advantages.  She  was  be- 
loved by  all  around  her  for  her  amiable,  benevo- 
lent character,  and  a  piety  sincere  and  cheerful 
while  it  regulated  her  in  the  most  brilliant  part 
of  her  career — broiight  comfort,  resignation,  and 
tranquillity  to  her  death-bed.    She  expired  in  1837. 


BARBAULD,    ANNA   LETITIA, 

To  whom  the  cause  of  rational  education  is 
much  indebted,  was  the  eldest  child,  and  only 
daughter,  of  the  Rev.  John  Aiken,  D.  D.  She  was 
born  on  the  20th  of  June,  1743,  at  Kibworth  Har- 
court,  in  Leicestershire,  England,  where  her  father 
was  at  that  time  master  of  a  boys'  school.  From 
her  childhood,  she  manifested  great  quickness  of 
intellect,  and  her  education  was  conducted  with 
much  care  by  her  parents.  In  1773,  she  was  in- 
duced to  publish  a  volume  of  her  poems,  and 
within  the  year  four  editions  of  the  work  were 
cjilled  for.     And  in  the  same  year  she  published, 

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in  conjunction  with  her  brother,  Dr.  Aiken,  a  vol- 
ume called  "  Miscellaneous  Pieces  in  Prose."  In 
1774,  Miss  Aiken  married  the  Rev.  Rochemont 
Barbauld,  a  dissenting  minister,  descended  from  a 
family  of  French  Protestants.  He  had  charge,  at 
that  time,  of  a  congregation  at  Palgrave,  in  Suf- 
folk, where  he  also  opened  a  boarding-school  for 
boys,  the  success  of  which  is,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  be  attributed  to  Mrs.  Barbauld's  exertions. 
She  also  took  several  very  young  boys  as  her  own 
entire  charge,  among  whom  were,  lord  Denman,  af- 
terwards Chief  Justice  of  England,  and  Sir  William 
Gell.  It  was  for  these  boys  that  she  composed  her 
"  Hymns  in  Prose  for  Children."  In  1775,  she  pub- 
lished a  volume  entitled  "  Devotional  Pieces,  com- 
piled from  the  Psalms  of  David,"  with  "  Thoughts 
on  the  Devotional  Taste,  and  on  Sects  and  Es- 
tablishments;"  and  also  her  "Early  Lessons," 
which  still  stands  unrivalled  among  children's 
books. 

In  1786,  after  a  tour  to  the  continent,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bai-bauld  established  themselves  at  Hamp- 
stead,  and  there  several  tracts  proceeded  from  the 
pen  of  our  authoress  on  the  topics  of  the  day,  in 
all  which  she  espoused  the  principles  of  the  Whigs. 
She  also  assisted  her  father  in  preparing  a  series 
of  tales  for  children,  entitled  '  Evenings  at  Home,' 
and  she  wrote  critical  essays  on  Akenside  and 
Collins,  prefixed  to  editions  of  their  works.  In 
1802,  Mr.  Barbauld  became  pastor  of  the  congre- 
gation (formerly  Dr.  Price's)  at  Newington  Green, 
also  in  the  vicinity  of  London ;  and,  quitting 
Hampstead,  they  took  up  their  abode  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Stoke  Newington.  In  1803,  Mrs.  Barbauld 
compiled  a  selection  of  essays  from  the  '  Specta- 
tor,' '  Tatler,'  and  '  Guardian,'  to  which  she  pre- 
fixed a  preliminary  essay ;  and,  in  the  following 
year,  she  edited  the  correspondence  of  Richardson, 
and  wrote  an  interesting  and  elegant  life  of  the 
novelist.  Her  husband  died  in  1808,  and  Mrs. 
Barbauld  has  recorded  her  feelings  on  this  melan- 
choly event  in  a  poetical  dirge  to  his  memory,  and 
also  in  her  poem  of  "  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Ele- 
ven." Seeking  relief  in  literary  occupation,  she 
also  edited  a  collection  of  the  British  novelists, 
published  in  1810,  with  an  inti'oductoi-y  essay,  and 
biographical  and  critical  notices.  After  a  gradual 
decay,  this  accomplished  and  excellent  woman 
died  on  the  9th  of  March,  1825.  Some  of  tlie 
lyrical  pieces  of  Mrs.  Bai-bauld  are  flowing  and 
harmonious,  and  her  "  Ode  to  Spring"  is  a  happy 
imitation  of  Collins.  She  wrote  also  several  poems 
in  blank  verse,  characterized  by  a  serious  tender- 
ness and  elevation  of  thouglit.  "  Her  earliest 
pieces,"  says  her  niece.  Miss  Lucy  Aiken,  "  as  well 
as  her  more  recent  ones,  exhibit,  in  their  imagery 
and  allusions,  the  fruits  of  extensive  and  varied 
reading.  In  youth,  the  power  of  her  imagination 
was  counterbalanced  by  the  activity  of  her  intel- 
lect, which  exercised  itself  in  rapid  but  not  un- 
profitable excursions  over  almost  every  field  of 
knowledge.  In  age,  when  this  activity  abated, 
imagination  appeared  to  exert  over  her  an  undi- 
minished sway."  Charles  James  Fox  is  said  to 
have  been  a  great  admirer  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's 
songs,  but  they  are  by  no  means  the  best.of  her 


compositions,  being  generally  artificial,  and  unim- 
passioned  in  their  character. 

Her  works  show  great  powers  of  mind,  an  ar- 
dent love  of  civil  and  religious  liberty,  and  that 
genuine  and  practical  piety  which  ever  distin- 
guished her  character. 

In  many  a  bosom  has  Mrs.  Barbauld,  "  by  deep, 
strong,  and  permanent  association,  laid  a  founda- 
tion for  practical  devotion"  in  after  life.  In  her 
highly  poetical  language,  only  inferior  to  that  of 
Holy  Writ,  when  "the  winter  is  over  and  gone, 
and  buds  come  out  on  the  trees,  the  crimson  blos- 
soms of  the  peach  and  the  nectarine  are  seen,  and 
the  green  leaves  sprout,"  what  heart  can  be  so 
insensible  as  not  to  join  in  the  grand  chorus  of 
nature,  and  "  on  every  hill,  and  in  every  green 
field,  to  offer  the  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  and  the 
incense  of  praise." 

With  each  revolving  year,  the  simple  lessons  of 
infancy  are  recalled  to  our  minds,  when  we  watch 
the  beautiful  succession  of  nature,  and  think, 
"  How  doth  every  plant  know  its  season  to  put 
forth  ?  They  are  marshalled  in  order  ;  each  one 
knoweth  his  place,  and  standeth  up  in  his  own  rank. " 
"  The  snowdrop  and  the  primrose  make  haste  to 
lift  their  heads  above  the  ground.  When  the  spring 
Cometh  they  say,  here  we  are !  The  carnation 
waiteth  for  the  full  strength  of  the  year ;  and  the 
hardy  laurustinus  cheereth  the  winter  months." 

Who  can  observe  all  this,  and  not  exclaim  with 

her,   "Every  field  is  like  an  open  book;  every 

painted  flower  hath  a  lesson  written  on  its  leaves. 

"Every  murmuring  brook  hath  a  tongue;    a 

voice  is  in  every  whispering  wind. 

"  They  all  speak  of  him  who  made  them  ;  they 
all  tell  us  he  is  very  good." 

Such  sentiments,  instilled  into  tlie  hearts  of 
children,  have  power,  witli  the  blessing  of  God,  to 
preserve  the  moral  feelings  pure  and  holy ;  and  also 
to  keep  the  love  of  nature  and  the  memories  of  early 
life  among  the  sweetest  pleasui-es  of  mature  life. 

In  a  memoir  written  by  Miss  Lucy  Aiken,  the 
niece  of  Mrs.  Barbauld,  and  kindred  in  genius  as 
well  as  in  blood,  we  find  this  beautiful  and  just 
description  of  the  subject  of  our  sketch : 

"  To  claim  for  Mrs.  Barbauld  the  praise  of 
puritj'  and  elevation  of  mind  may  well  appear 
superfluoiis.  Her  education  and  connections,  the 
course  of  her  life,  the  whole  tenour  of  her  writings, 
bear  abundant  testimony  to  this  part  of  her  cha- 
racter. It  is  a  higher,  or  at  least  a  rarer  com- 
mendation to  add,  that  no  one  ever  better  loved 
"  a  sister's  praise,"  even  that  of  such  sisters  as 
might  have  been  peculiarly  regarded  in  the  light 
of  rivals.  She  was  acquainted  with  almost  all  the 
principal  female  wi'iters  of  her  time ;  and  there 
was  not  one  of  the  number  whom  she  failed  fre- 
quently to  mention  in  terms  of  admiration,  esteem 
or  affection,  whether  in  conversation,  in  letters  to 
her  friends,  or  in  print.  To  humbler  aspirants  in 
the  career  of  letters,  who  often  applied  to  her  for 
advice  or  assistance,  she  was  invariably  courteous, 
and  in  many  instances  essentially  serviceable.  The 
sight  of  youth  and  beauty  was  peculiarly  gratify- 
ing to  her  fancy  and  her  feelings ;  and  children 
and  young  persons,  especially  females,  were  ac- 

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cordingly  large  sharei's  in  hei'  benevolence :  she 
loved  their  society,  and  would  often  invite  them 
to  pass  weeks  or  months  in  her  house,  when  she 
spared  no  pains  to  amuse  and  instruct  them ;  and 
she  seldom  failed,  after  they  had  quitted  her,  to 
recall  herself  from  time  to  time  to  their  recollec- 
tion, by  affectionate  and  playful  letters,  or  wel- 
come presents. 

In  the  conjugal  relation,  her  conduct  was  guided 
by  the  highest  principles  of  love  and  duty.  As  a 
sister,  the  uninterrupted  flow  of  her  affection, 
manifested  by  numberless  tokens  of  love,  —  not 
alone  to  her  brother,  but  to  every  member  of  his 
family, — will  ever  be  recalled  by  them  with  emo- 
tions of  tenderness,  respect,  and  gratitude.  She 
passed  through  a  long  life  without  having  dropped, 
it  is  said,  a  single  friend." 

Since  the  decease  of  Mrs.  Barbauld,  her  pro- 
ductions have  been  collected,  published  in  three 
volumes,  and  circulated  widely  both  in  England 
and  the  United  States.  Some  of  the  prose  articles 
are  of  extraordinary  merit ;  the  one  which  we 
here  insert,  has  rarely  been  excelled  for  originality 
of  thought  and  vigour  of  expression.  Its  senti- 
ments will  never  become  obsolete,  nor  its  truths 
lose  their  value. 

ON    EDUCATION. 

"  The  other  day  I  paid  a  visit  to  a  gentleman 
with  whom,  though  greatly  my  superior  in  fortune, 
I  have  long  been  in  habits  of  an  easy  intimacy. 
He  rose  in  the  world  by  honourable  industry,  and 
married,  rather  late  in  life,  a  lady  to  whom  he  had 
been  long  attached,  and  in  whom  centered  the 
wealth  of  sevei-al  expiring  families.  Their  earnest 
wish  for  children  was  not  immediately  gratified. 
At  length  they  were  made  happy  by  a  son,  who, 
from  the  moment  he  was  born,  engrossed  all  their 
care  and  attention.  My  friend  received  me  in  his 
library,  where  I  found  him  busied  in  turning  over 
hooks  of  education,  of  which  he  had  collected  all 
that  were  worthy  notice,  from  Xenophon  to  Locke, 
and  from  Locke  to  Catharine  Macauley.  As  he 
knows  I  have  been  engaged  in  the  business  of  in- 
struction, he  did  me  the  honour  to  consult  me  on 
the  subject  of  his  researches,  hoping,  he  said,  that, 
out  of  all  the  systems  before  him,  we  should  be 
able  to  form  a  plan  equally  complete  and  compre- 
hensive ;  it  being  the  determination  of  both  him- 
self and  his  lady  to  choose  the  best  that  could  be 
had,  and  to  spare  neither  pains  nor  expense  in 
making  their  child  all  that  was  great  and  good.  I 
gave  him  my  thoughts  with  the  utmost  freedom, 
and  after  I  returned  home,  threw  upon  paper  the 
observations  which  had  occurred  to  me. 

The  first  thing  to  be  considered,  with  respect  to 
education,  is  the  object  of  it.  This  appears  to  me 
to  have  been  generally  misunderstood.  Education, 
in  its  largest  sense,  is  a  thing  of  great  scope  and 
extent.  It  includes  the  whole  process  by  which  a 
human  being  is  formed  to  be  what  he  is,  in  habits, 
principles,  and  cultivation  of  every  kind.  But  of 
this,  a  very  small  part  is  in  the  power  even  of  the 
parent  himself;  a  smaller  still  can  be  directed  by 
purchased  tuition  of  any  kind.  You  engage  for 
your  child  masters  and  tutors  at  large  salaries ; 


and  you  do  well,  for  they  are  competent  to  Instruct 
him :  they  will  give  him  the  means,  at  least,  of 
acquiring  science  and  accomplishments ;  but  in 
the  business  of  education,  properly  so  called,  they 
can  do  little  for  you.  Do  you  ask,  then,  what  will 
educate  your  son  ?  Your  example  will  educate 
him ;  your  conversation  with  your  friends ;  the 
business  he  sees  you  transact;  the  likings  and 
dislikings  you  express  ;  these  will  educate  him  ; — 
the  society  you  live  in  will  educate  him  ;  your  do- 
mestics will  educate  him  ;  above  all,  your  rank 
and  situation  in  life,  your  house,  your  table,  your 
pleasure-grounds,  your  hounds  and  your  stables 
will  educate  him.  It  is  not  in  your  power  to 
withdraw  him  from  the  continual  influence  of  these 
things,  except  you  were  to  withdraw  yourself  from 
them  also.  You  speak  of  heginning  the  education 
of  your  son.  The  moment  he  was  able  to  form  an 
idea  his  education  was  already  begun ;  the  educa- 
tion of  circumstances — -insensible  education  — 
which,  like  insensible  perspiration,  is  of  more 
constant  and  powerful  eflect,  and  of  infinitely  more 
consequence  to  the  habit,  than  that  which  is  direct 
and  apparent.  This  education  goes  on  at  every 
instant  of  time ;  it  goes  on  like  time ;  you  can 
neither  stop  it  nor  turn  its  course.  What  these 
have  a  tendency  to  make  your  child,  that  he  will 
be.  Maxims  and  documents  are  good  precisely 
till  they  are  tried,  and  no  longer ;  they  will  teach 
him  to  talk,  and  nothing  more.  The  circumstances 
in  which  your  son  is  placed  will  be  even  more  pre- 
valent than  your  example ;  and  you  have  no  right 
to  expect  him  to  become  what  you  yourself  are, 
but  by  the  same  means.  You,  that  have  toiled 
during  youth,  to  set  your  son  upon  higher  ground, 
and  to  enable  him  to  begin  where  you  left  off,  do 
not  expect  that  son  to  be  what  you  were,  —  dili- 
gent, modest,  active,  simple  in  his  tastes,  fertile 
in  resources.  You  have  put  him  under  quite  a 
different  master.  Poverty  educated  you  ;  wealth 
will  educate  him.  You  cannot  suppose  the  result 
will  be  the  same.  You  must  not  even  expect  that 
he  will  be  what  you  now  are  ;  for  though  relaxed 
perhaps  from  the  severity  of  your  frugal  habits, 
you  still  derive  advantage  from  having  formed 
them  ;  and,  in  your  heart,  you  like  plain  dinners, 
and  early  hours,  and  old  fi'iends,  whenever  your 
fortune  will  permit  you  to  enjoy  them.  But  it 
will  not  be  so  with  your  son :  his  tastes  will  be 
formed  by  your  present  situation,  and  in  no  de- 
gree by  your  former  one.  But  I  take  great  care, 
you  will  say,  to  counteract  these  tendencies,  and 
to  bring  him  up  in  hardy  and  simple  manners  ;  I 
know  their  value,  and  am  resolved  that  he  shall 
acquire  no  other.  Yes,  you  make  him  hardy  ;  that 
is  to  say,  you  take  a  counting-house  in  a  good  air, 
and  make  him  run,  well  clothed  and  carefully  at- 
tended, for,  it  may  be,  an  hour  in  a  clear  frosty 
winter's  day  upon  your  gravelled  terrace  ;  or  per- 
haps you  take  the  puny  shivering  infant  from  his 
warm  bed,  and  dip  him  in  an  icy  cold  bath,  —  and 
you  think  you  have  done  great  matters.  And  so 
you  have ;  you  have  done  all  you  can.  But  you 
were  suffered  to  run  abroad  half  the  day  on  a 
bleak  heath,  in  weather  fit  and  unfit,  wading  bare- 
foot through  dirty  ponds,  sometimes  losing  your 

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way  benighted,  scrambling  over  hedges,  climbing  j 
trees,  in  perils  every  hour  both  of  life  and  limb. 
Your  life  was  of  very  little  consequence  to  any 
one ;  even  your  parents,  encumbered  with  a  numer- 
ous family,  had  little  time  to  indulge  the  softnesses 
of  aifection,  or  the  solicitude  of  anxiety ;  and  to 
every  one  else  it  was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  It 
is  not  possible  for  you,  it  would  not  even  be  right 
for  you,  in  your  present  situation,  to  pay  no  more 
attention  to  your  child  than  was  paid  to  you.  In 
these  mimic  experiments  of  education,  there  is 
always  something  which  distinguishes  them  from 
reality  ;  some  weak  part  left  unfortified,  for  the  ar- 
rows of  misfortune  to  find  their  way  into.  Achilles 
was  a  young  nobleman,  dios  Achilleus,  and  there- 
fore, though  he  had  Chiron  for  his  tutor,  there 
was  one  foot  left  undipped.  You  may  throw  by 
Rousseau ;  yoiu*  parents  practised  without  having 
read  it ;  you  may  read,  but  imperious  circum- 
stances forbid  you  the  practice  of  it. 

You  are  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  simplicity 
of  diet ;  and  you  make  a  point  of  restricting  that 
of  your  child  to  the  plainest  food,  for  yoii  are  re- 
solved that  he  shall  not  be  nice.  But  this  plain 
food  is  of  the  choicest  quality,  prepared  by  your 
own  cook ;  his  fruit  is  ripened  from  your  walls ; 
his  cloth,  his  glasses,  all  the  accompaniments  of 
the  table,  are  such  as  are  only  met  with  in  fami- 
lies of  opulence :  the  very  servants  who  attend 
him  are  neat,  well  dressed,  and  have  a  certain  air 
of  fashion.  You  may  call  this  simplicity ;  but  I 
say  he  will  be  nice, — for  it  is  a  kind  of  simplicity 
which  only  wealth  can  attain  to,  and  which  will 
subject  him  to  be  disgusted  at  all  common  tables. 
Besides,  he  will  from  time  to  time  partake  of  those 
delicacies  which  your  table  abounds  with ;  you 
yourself  will  give  him  of  them  occasionally ;  you 
■would  be  unkind  if  you  did  not :  your  servants, 
if  good-natured,  will  do  the  same.  Do  you  think 
you  can  keep  the  full  stream  of  luxury  running  by 
his  lips,  and  he  not  taste  of  it  ?    Vain  imagination  ! 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  inveigh  against 
wealth,  or  against  the  enjoyments  of  it ;  they  are 
real  enjoyments,  and  allied  to  many  elegancies  in 
manners  and  in  taste  ;  —  I  only  wish  to  prevent 
unprofitable  pains  and  inconsistent  expectations. 

You  are  sensible  of  the  benefit  of  early  rising ; 
and  you  may,  if  you  please,  make  it  a  point  that 
your  daughter  shall  retire  with  her  governess,  and 
your  son  with  his  tutor,  at  the  hour  when  you  are 
preparing  to  see  company.  But  their  sleep,  in  the 
first  place,  will  not  be  so  sweet  and  undisturbed 
amidst  the  rattle  of  carriages,  and  the  glare  of 
tapers  glancing  through  the  rooms,  as  that  of  the 
village  child  in  his  quiet  cottage,  protected  by 
silence  and  darkness  ;  and  moreover,  you  may  de- 
pend upon  it,  that  as  the  coercive  power  of  educa- 
tion is  laid  aside,  they  will  in  a  few  months  slide 
into  the  habitudes  of  the  rest  of  the  familj',  whose 
hours  are  determined  by  their  company  and  situa- 
tion in  life.  You  have,  however,  done  good,  as  far 
as  it  goes  ;  it  is  something  gained,  to  defer  perni- 
cious habits,  if  we  cannot  prevent  them. 

There  is  nothing  which  has  so  little  share  in 
education  as  direct  precept.  To  be  convinced  of 
this,  we  need  only  reflect  that  tliere  is  no  one  point 


we  labour  more  to  establish  with  children,  than 
that  of  their  speaking  truth  ;  and  there  is  not  any 
in  which  we  succeed  worse.  And  why  ?  Because 
children  readily  see  we  have  an  interest  in  it. 
Their  speaking  truth  is  used  by  us  as  an  engine 
of  govei-nment — "Tell  me,  my  dear  child,  when 
you  nave  broken  anything,  and  I  will  not  be  angry 
with  you."  "  Thank  you  for  nothing,"  says  the 
child;  "  if  I  prevent  you  from  finding  it  out,  I 
am  sure  you  will  not  be  angry:"  and  nine  times 
out  of  ten  he  can  prevent  it.  He  knows  that,  in 
the  common  intercourses  of  life,  you  tell  a  thou- 
sand falsehoods.  But  these  are  necessary  lies  on 
important  occasions. 

Your  child  is  the  best  judge  how  much  occasion 
he  has  to  tell  a  lie :  he  may  have  as  gi-eat  occasion 
for  it,  as  you  have  to  conceal  a  bad  piece  of  news 
from  a  sick  friend,  or  to  hide  your  vexation  from 
an  unwelcome  visitor.  That  authority  which  ex- 
tends its  claims  over  every  action,  and  even  every 
thought,  which  insists  upon  an  answer  to  every 
interrogation,  however  indiscreet  or  oppressive  to 
the  feelings,  will,  in  young  or  old,  produce  false- 
hood ;  or,  if  in  some  few  instances  the  deeply  im- 
bibed fear  of  future  and  unknown  punishment 
should  restrain  from  direct  falsehood,  it  will  pro- 
duce a  habit  of  dissimulation,  which  is  still  wprse. 
The  child,  the  slave,  or  the  subject,  who,  on  proper 
occasions,  may  not  say,  "  I  do  not  choose  to  tell," 
will  certainly,  by  the  circumstances  in  which  you 
place  him,  be  driven  to  have  recourse  to  deceit,  even 
should  he  not  be  countenanced  by  your  example. 

I  do  not  mean  to  assert,  that  sentiments  incul- 
cated in  education  have  no  influence  ; — they  have 
much,  though  not  the  most :  but  it  is  the  senti- 
ments we  let  drop  occasionally,  the  conversation 
they  overhear  when  playing  unnoticed  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  which  has  an  eflect  upon  children ; 
and  not  what  is  addressed  directly  to  them  in  the 
tone  of  exhortation.  If  you  would  know  pre- 
cisely the  efi"ect  these  set  discourses  have  upon 
your  child,  be  pleased  to  reflect  upon  that  which 
a  discourse  from  the  pulpit,  which  you  have  rea- 
son to  think  merely  professional,  has  upon  you. 
Children  have  almost  an  intuitive  discernment  be- 
tween the  maxims  you  bring  forward  for  their  use, 
and  those  by  which  you  direct  your  own  conduct. 
Be  as  cunning  as  you  will,  they  are  always  more 
cunning  than  you.  Every  child  knows  whom  his 
father  and  mother  love  and  see  with  pleasure,  and 
whom  they  dislike ;  for  whom  they  think  them- 
selves obliged  to  set  out  their  best  plate  and  china : 
whom  they  think  it  an  honour  to  visit,  and  upon 
whom  they  confer  honour  by  admitting  them  to 
their  company.  "  Respect  nothing  so  much  as 
virtue,"  says  Eugenio  to  his  son;  "virtue  and 
talents  are  the  only  grounds  of  distinction."  The 
child  presently  has  occasion  to  inquire  why  his 
father  pulls  off'  his  hat  to  some  people  and  not  to 
others ;  he  is  told,  that  outward  respect  must  be 
proportioned  to  different  stations  in  life.  This  is 
a  little  difficult  of  comprehension :  however,  by 
dint  of  explanation,  he  gets  over  it  tolerably  well. 
But  he  sees  his  father's  house  in  the  bustle  and 
hurry  of  preparation ;  common  business  laid  aside, 
everybody  in  movement,   an  unusual  anxiety  to 


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please  and  to  shine.  Nobody  is  at  leisure  to  re- 
ceive his  caresses  or  attend  to  his  questions ;  his 
lessons  are  interrupted,  his  hours  deranged.     At 

length  a  guest  arrives :   it  is  my  Lord ,  whom 

he  has  heard  you  speak  of  twenty  times  as  one  of 
the  most  worthless  characters  upon  earth.  Your 
child,  Eugenic,  has  received  a  lesson  of  educa'tion. 
Resume,  if  you  will,  your  systems  of  morality  on 
the  morrow,  you  will  in  vain  attempt  to  eradicate 
it.  "You  expect  company,  mamma:  must  I  be 
dressed  to-day?"  "No,  it  is  only  good  Mrs. 
Such-a-one."  Your  child  has  received  a  lesson  of 
education,  one  which  he  well  understands,  and 
will  long  remember.  You  have  sent  your  child  to 
a  public  school ;  but  to  secure  his  morals  against 
the  vice  which  you  too  justly  apprehend  abounds 
there,  you  have  given  him  a  private  tutor,  a  man 
of  strict  morals  and  religion.  He  may  help  him 
to  prepare  his  tasks ;  but  do  you  imagine  it  will 
be  in  his  power  to  form  his  mind  ?  His  schoolfel- 
lows, the  allowance  you  give  him,  the  manners  of 
the  age  and  of  the  place,  will  do  that ;  and  not 
the  lectures  which  he  is  obliged  to  hear.  If  these 
are  different  from  what  you  yourself  experienced, 
you  must  not  be  surprised  to  see  him  gradually 
recede  from  the  principles,  civil  and  religious, 
which  you  hold,  and  break  off  from  your  con- 
nexions, and  adopt  manners  different  from  your 
own.  This  is  remarkably  exemplified  amongst 
those  of  the  Dissenters  who  have  risen  to  wealth 
and  consequence.  I  believe  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  an  instance  of  families,  who  for  three  gene- 
rations have  kept  their  carriage  and  continued 
Dissenters. 

Education,  it  is  often  observed,  is  an  expensive 
thing.  It  is  so  ;  but  the  paying  for  lessons  is  the 
smallest  part  of  the  cost.  If  you  would  go  to  the 
price  of  having  your  son  a  worthy  man,  you  must 
be  so  yourself;  your  friends,  your  servants,  your 
company  must  be  all  of  that  stamp.  Suppose 
this  to  be  the  case,  much  is  done :  but  there  will 
remain  circumstances  which  perhaps  j'ou  cannot 
alter,  that  will  still  have  their  effect.  Do  you 
wish  him  to  love  simplicity  ?  Would  you  be  con- 
tent to  lay  down  your  coach,  to  drop  your  title  ? 
Where  is  the  parent  who  would  do  this  to  educate 
his  son  ?  You  can-y  him  to  the  workshops  of  arti- 
zans,  and  show  him  different  machines  and  fabrics, 
to  awaken  his  ingenuity.  The  necessity  of  get- 
ting his  bread  would  awaken  it  much  more  effec- 
tually. The  single  circumstance  of  having  a  for- 
tune to  get,  or  a  fortune  to  spend,  will  probably 
operate  more  strongly  iipon  his  mind,  not  only 
than  your  precepts,  but  even  than  your  example. 
You  wish  your  child  to  be  modest  and  unassum- 
ing ;  you  are  so,  perhaps,  yourself, — and  you  pay 
liberally  a  preceptor  for  giving  him  lessons  of  hu- 
mility. You  do  not  perceive,  that  the  very  cir- 
cumstance of  having  a  man  of  letters  and  accom- 
plishments retained  about  his  person,  for  his  sole 
advantage,  tends  more  forcibly  to  inspire  him  with 
an  idea  of  self-consequence,  than  all  the  lessons 
he  can  give  him  to  repress  it.  "  Why  do  not  you 
look  sad,  you  rascal  ?"  says  the  undertaker  to  his 
man  in  the  play  of  The  Funeral :  "I  give  you  I 
Know  not  how  much  money  for  looking  sad,  and 


the  more  I  give  you,  the  gladder  I  think  you  are." 
So  will  it  be  with  the  wealthy  heir.  The  lectures 
that  are  given  him  on  condescension  and  affability, 
only  prove  to  him  upon  how  much  higher  ground 
he  stands  than  those  about  him ;  and  the  very 
pains  that  are  taken  with  his  moral  character  will 
make  him  proud,  by  showing  him  how  much  he  is 
the  object  of  attention.  You  cannot  help  these 
things.  Your  servants,  out  of  respect  to  you,  will 
bear  with  his  petulance ;  your  company,  out  of 
respect  to  you,  will  forbear  to  check  his  impa- 
tience ;  and  you  yourself,  if  he  is  clever,  will  re- 
peat his  observations. 

In  the  exploded  doctrine  of  sympathies,  you  are 
directed,  if  you  have  cut  your  finger,  to  let  that 
alone,  and  put  your  plaster  upon  the  knife.  This 
is  very  bad  doctrine,  I  must  confess,  in  philosophy ; 
but  very  good  in  morals.  Is  a  man  luxurious, 
self-indulgent  ?  do  not  apply  your  physic  of  the  soul 
to  him,  but  cure  his  fortune.  Is  he  haughty  ? 
cure  his  rank,  his  title.  Is  he  vulgar  ?  cure  his 
company.  Is  he  diffident  or  mean-spirited  ?  cure 
his  poverty,  give  him  consequence — but  these  pre- 
scriptions go  far  beyond  the  family  recipes  of 
education. 

What  then  is  the  result  ?  In  the  first  jjlace,  that 
we  should  contract  our  ideas  of  education,  and 
expect  no  more  from  it  than  it  is  able  to  perform. 
It  can  give  instruction.  There  will  always  be  an 
essential  difference  between  a  human  being  culti- 
vated and  uncultivated.  Education  can  provide 
proper  instructors  in  the  various  arts  and  sciences, 
and  portion  out  to  the  best  advantage  those  pre- 
cious hours  of  youth  which  never  will  return.  It 
can  likewise  give,  in  a  great  degree,  personal  hab- 
its ;  and  even  if  these  should  afterwards  give  way 
under  the  influence  of  contrary  circumstances, 
your  child  will  feel  the  good  effects  of  them,  for 
the  later  and  the  less  will  he  go  into  what  is  wrong. 
Let  us  also  be  assured,  that  the  business  of  edu- 
cation, properly  so  called,  is  not  transferable. 
You  may  engage  masters  to  instruct  your  child  in 
this  or  the  other  accomplishment,  but  you  must 
educate  him  yourself.  You  not  only  ought  to  do 
it,  but  you  must  do  it,  whether  you  intend  it  or 
no.  As  education  is  a  thing  necessary  for  all ; 
for  the  poor  and  for  the  rich,  for  the  illiterate  as 
well  as  for  the  learned ;  Providence  has  not  made 
it  dependent  upon  systems  uncertain,  operose,  and 
difficult  of  investigation.  It  is  not  necessary, 
with  Rousseau  or  Madame  Genlis,  to  devote  to  the 
education  of  one  child  the  talents  and  the  time  of 
a  number  of  grown  men  ;  to  surround  him  with 
an  artificial  world  ;  and  to  counteract,  by  maxims, 
the  natm-al  tendencies  of  the  situation  he  is  placed 
in  in  society.  Every  one  has  time  to  educate  his 
child :  the  poor  man  educates  him  while  working 
in  his  cottage  —  the  man  of  business,  while  em- 
ployed in  his  counting-house. 

Do  we  see  a  father  who  is  diligent  in  his  pro- 
fession, domestic  in  his  habits,  whose  house  is  the 
resort  of  well-informed  intelligent  people — a  mo- 
ther whose  time  is  usefully  filled,  whose  attention 
to  her  duties  secures  esteem,  and  whose  amiable 
manners  attract  affection  ?  Do  not  be  solicitous, 
respectable  couple,  about  the  moral  education  of 

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your  offspring !  do  not  be  uneasy  because  you 
cannot  surround  them  with  the  apparatus  of  books 
and  systems  ;  or  fancy  that  you  must  retire  from 
the  world  to  devote  yourselves  to  their  improve- 
ment. In  your  world,  they  are  brought  up  much 
better  than  they  could  be  under  any  plan  of  facti- 
tious education  which  you  could  provide  for  them  : 
they  will  imbibe  affection  from  your  caresses ; 
taste  from  your  conversation ;  urbanity  from  the 
commerce  of  your  society ;  and  mutual  love  from 
your  example.  Do  not  regret  that  you  are  not 
rich  enough  to  provide  tutors  and  governors,  to 
watch  his  steps  with  sedulous  and  servile  anxiety, 
and  furnish  him  with  maxims  it  is  morally  impos- 
sible he  should  act  upon  when  grown  up.  Do  not 
you  see  how  seldom  this  over-culture  produces  its 
effect,  and  how  many  shining  and  excellent  charac- 
ters start  up  every  day,  from  the  bosom  of  ob- 
scurity, with  scarcely  any  care  at  all  ? 

Are  children  then  to  be  neglected  ?  Surely  not: 
but  having  given  them  the  instruction  and  accom- 
plishments which  their  situation  in  life  requires, 
let  us  reject  superfluous  solicitude,  and  trust  that 
their  characters  will  form  themselves  from  the 
spontaneous  influence  of  good  examples,  and  cir- 
cumstances which  impel  them  to  useful  action. 

But  the  education  of  your  house,  important  as 
it  is,  is  only  a  part  of  a  more  comprehensive  sys- 
tem. Providence  takes  your  child  where  you  leave 
him.  Providence  continues  his  education  upon  a 
larger  scale,  and  by  a  process  which  includes  means 
far  more  efficacious.  Has  your  son  entered  the 
world  at  eighteen,  opinionated,  haughty,  rash,  in- 
clined to  dissipation?  Do  not  despair;  he  may  yet 
be  cured  of  these  faults,  if  it  j^leases  Heaven. 
There  are  remedies  whicli  you  could  not  persuade 
yourself  to  use,  if  they  were  in  your  power,  and 
which  are  specific  in  cases  of  this  kind.  How 
often  do  we  see  the  presumptuous,  giddy  youth, 
changed  into*  the  wise  counsellor,  the  considerate, 
steady  friend !  How  often  the  thoughtless,  gay 
girl,  into  the  sober  wife,  the  affectionate  mother ! 
Faded  beauty,  humbled  self-consequence,  disap- 
pointed ambition,  loss  of  fortune,  —  this  is  the 
rough  physic  provided  by  Providence  to  meliorate 
the  temper,  to  correct  the  offensive  petulancies  of 
youth,  and  bring  out  all  the  energies  of  the  finished 
character.  Afl3ictions  soften  the  proud ;  difficulties 
push  forward  the  ingenious ;  successful  industry 
gives  consequence  and  credit,  and  developes  a 
thousand  latent  good  'qualities.  There  is  no  ma- 
lady of  the  mind  so  inveterate,  which  this  educa- 
tion of  events  is  not  calculated  to  cure,  if  life  were 
long  enough ;  and  shall  we  not  hope,  that  He,  in 
whose  hand  are  all  the  remedial  processes  of  na- 
ture, will  renew  the  discipline  in  another  state, 
and  finish  the  imperfect  man  ? 

States  are  educated  as  individuals  —  by  circum- 
stances :  the  prophet  may  cry  aloud,  and  spare  not; 
the  philosopher  may  descant  on  morals ;  eloquence 
may  exhaust  itself  in  invective  against  the  vices  of 
the  age :  these  vices  will  certainly  follow  certain 
states  of  poverty  or  riches,  ignorance  or  high  civi- 
lization. But  what  these  gentle  alteratives  fail 
of  doing,  may  be  accomplished  by  an  unsuccessful 
war,  a  loss  of  ti'ade,  or  any  of  those  great  calami- 


ties by  which  it  pleases  Providence  to  speak  to  a 
nation  iu  such  language  as  tnll  be  heard.  If,  as 
a  nation,  we  would  be  cured  of  pride,  it  must  be 
by  mortification ;  if  of  luxury,  by  a  national  bank- 
ruptcy, perhaps ;  if  of  injustice,  or  the  spirit  of 
domination,  by  a  loss  of  national  consequence. 
In  comparison  of  ihese  strong  remedies,  a  fast,  or 
a  sermon,  are  prescriptions  of  very  little  efficacy." 
A  short  extract  from  another  excellent  Essay 
we  will  here  introduce,  for  its  good  sense,  and 
striking  application  to  the  present  times. 

ON    INCONSISTENCY    IN    OUR    EXPECTATIONS. 

"  But  is  it  not  some  reproach  upon  the  economy 
of  Providence  that  such  a  one,  who  is  a  mean  dirty 
fellow,  should  have  amassed  wealth  enough  to  buy 
half  a  nation  ?"  Not  in  the  least.  He  made  him- 
self a  mean  dirty  fellow  for  that  very  end.  He 
has  paid  his  health,  his  conscience,  his  liberty,  for 
it ;  and  will  you  envy  him  his  bargain  ?  Will  you 
hang  your  head  and  blush  in  his  presence,  because 
he  outshines  you  in  equipage  and  show  ?  Lift  up 
your  brow  with  a  noble  confidence,  and  say  to 
yourself,  I  have  not  these  things,  it  is  true ;  but 
it  is  because  I  have  not  sought,  because  I  have 
not  desired  them ;  it  is  because  I  possess  some- 
thing better.  I  have  chosen  my  lot.  I  am  con- 
tent and  satisfied. 

You  are  a  modest  man — -You  love  quiet  and  in- 
dependence, and  have  a  delicacy  and  reserve  in 
your  temper  which  renders  it  impossible  for  you 
to  elbow  your  way  in  the  world,  and  be  the  herald 
of  your  own  merits.  Be  content  then  with  a  mo- 
dest retirement,  with  the  esteem  of  your  intimate 
friends,  with  the  praises  of  a  blameless  heart,  and 
a  delicate,  ingenuous  spirit ;  but  resign  the  splen- 
did distinctions  of  the  world  to  those  who  can  bet- 
ter scramble  for  them. 

The  man  whose  tender  sensibility  of  conscience 
and  strict  regard  to  the  rules  of  morality  makes 
him  scrupulous  and  fearful  of  offending,  is  often 
heard  to  complain  of  the  disadvantages  he  lies 
under  in  every  path  of  honour  and  profit.  "  Could 
I  but  get  over  some  nice  points,  and  conform  to 
the  practice  and  opinion  of  those  about  me,  I 
might  stand  as  fair  a  chance  as  others  for  dignities 
and  preferment."  And  why  can  you  not  ?  What 
hinders  you  from  discarding  this  troublesome 
scrupulosity  of  yours,  which  stands  so  grievously 
in  your  way  ?  If  it  be  a  small  thing  to  enjoy  a 
healthful  mind,  sound  at  the  very  core,  that  does 
not  shrink  from  the  keenest  inspection ;  inward 
freedom  from  remorse  and  perturbation ;  unsullied 
whiteness  and  simplicity  of  manners ;  a  genuine 
integrity 

"  Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind  ;" 

if  you  think  these  advantages  an  inadequate  re- 
compense for  what  you  resign,  dismiss  your  scru- 
ples this  instant,  and  be  a  slave-merchant,  a  para- 
site, or  —  what  you  please. 

"If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes;" 

and  as  you  have  not  spirit  to  assert  the  dignity  of 
virtue,  be  wise  enough  not  to  forego  the  emolu- 
ments of  vice, 

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I  much  admire  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  philo- 
sophers, in  that  they  never  attempted,  as  our  mo- 
ralists often  do,  to  lower  the  tone  of  philosophy, 
and  make  it  consistent  with  all  the  indulgences  of 
indolence  and  sensuality.  They  never  thought  of 
having  the  bulk  of  mankind  for  their  disciples; 
but  kept  themselves  as  distinct  as  possible  from  a 
worldly  life.  They  plainly  told  men  what  sacri- 
fices were  required,  and  what  advantages  they 
were  which  might  be  exj)ected. 

'Si  virtus  hoc  una  potest  dare,  fortis  omisses 
Hoc  age  deliciis ' 

If  you  would  be  a  philosopher,  these  are  the  terms. 
You  must  do  thus  and  thus :  there  is  no  other  way. 
If  not,  go  and  be  one  of  the  vulgar. 

There  is  no  one  quality  gives  so  much  dignity 
to  a  character  as  consistency  of  conduct.  Even 
if  a  man's  pursuits  be  wi-ong  and  unjustifiable, 
yet  if  they  are  prosecuted  with  steadiness  and 
vigour,  we  cannot  withhold  our  admiration.  The 
most  characteristic  mark  of  a  great  mind  is  to 
choose  some  one  important  object,  and  pursue  it 
through  life.  It  was  this  made  Cassar  a  great 
man.  His  object  was  ambition ;  he  pursued  it 
steadily,  aiid  was  always  ready  to  sacrifice  to  it 
every  interfering  passion  or  inclination. 

*  *  *  *  * 

There  is  a  difi"erent  air  and  complexion  in  cha- 
racters as  well  as  in  faces,  though  perhaps  each 
equally  beautiful ;  and  the  excellencies  of  one 
cannot  be  transferred  to  the  other.  Thus  if  one 
man  possesses  a  stoical  apathy  of  soul,  acts  inde- 
pendent of  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  fulfils 
every  duty  with  mathematical  exactness,  you  must 
not  expect  that  man  to  be  greatly  influenced  by 
the  weakness  of  pity,  or  the  partialities  of  friend- 
ship :  you  must  not  be  off"ended  that  he  does  not 
fly  to  meet  you  after  a  short  absence ;  or  require 
from  him  the  convivial  spirit  and  honest  eff"usions 
of  a  warm,  open,  susceptible  heart.  If  another  is 
remarkable  for  a  lively  active  zeal,  inflexible  in- 
tegrity, a  strong  indignation  against  vice,  and 
freedom  in  reproving  it,  he  will  probably  have 
some  little  bluntness  in  his  address  not  altogether 
suitable  to  polished  life  ;  he  will  want  the  winning 
arts  of  conversation ;  he  will  disgust  by  a  kind  of 
haughtiness  and  negligence  in  his  manner,  and 
often  hurt  the  delicacy  of  his  acquaintance  with 
harsh  and  disagreeable  truths." 

We  do  not  consider  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Barbauld 
equal  to  her  prose  writings; — but  there  is  a  be- 
nignity, mingled  with  vivacity,  in  some  of  her  po- 
etical productions  which  make  them  always  plea- 
sant, as  the  face  of  a  cheerful  friend. 

WASniNG-DAY. 

The  Muses  are  turn'd  gossips;  they  have  lost 
The  buskin'd  step,  and  clpar  high-sounding  phrase. 
Language  of  gods.    Come  then,  domestic  Muse, 
In  slipshod  measure  loosely  prattling  on 
Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream, 
Or  drowning  flies,  or  shoe  lost  in  the  mire 
By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face  ; 
Comn,  Muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  Washing  Day. 
ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend. 
With  bowed  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 


Which  week,  smooth  sliding  after  week,  brings  on 

Too  soon  ; — for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs 

Nor  comfort ; — ere  the  first  grey  streak  of  dawn, 

The  redarm'd  washers  come  and  chase  repose. 

Nor  pleasant  smile,  nor  quaint  device  of  mirth, 

E'er  visited  that  day:  the  very  cat, 

From  the  wet  kitchen  scared  and  reeking  heartli, 

Visits  the  parlour,— an  unwonted  guest. 

The  silent  breakfast  meal  is  soon  despatch'd ; 

Uninterrupted,  save  by  anxious  looks 

Cast  at  the  lowering  sky.  if  sky  should  lower. 

From  that  last  evil,  O  preserve  us,  heavens ! 

For  should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 

Remains  of  quiet :  then  expect  to  hear 

Of  sad  disasters,— dirt  and  gravel  stains 

Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 

Snapped  short,— and  linen-horse  by  dog  thrown  down, 

And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life.  • 

Saints  have  been  calm  wliile  stretch'd  upon  the  rack, 

And  Guatimozin  smiled  on  burning  coals; 

But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 

Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  vvasliing-day. 

— But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thou 

Who  call'sl  thyself  perchance  the  master  there, 

Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  coat. 

Or  usual  'tendance ;— ask  not,  indiscreet, 

Thy  stockings  mended,  though  the  yawning  rents 

Gape  wide  as  Erebus;  nor  hope  to  find 

Some  snug  recess  impervious  :  should'st  thou  try 

The  'custom'd  garden  walks,  thine  eye  shall  rue 

The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs, 

Myrtle  or  rose,  all  crushed  beneath  the  weight 

Of  coarse  check'd  apron,— with  impatient  hand 

Twitch'd  off  when  showers  impend  :  or  crossing  lines 

Shall  mar  thy  musings,  as  the  wet  cold  sheet 

Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.    Woe  to  the  friend 

Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 

On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites  ! 

Looks,  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy, 

Shall  he  receive.     Vainly  he  feeds  his  hapes 

With  dinner  of  roast  chicken,  savoury  pie. 

Or  tart  or  pudding: — pudding  he  nor  tart 

That  day  shall  eat;  nor,  though  the  husband  try. 

Mending  what  can't  be  help'd,  to  kindle  mirth 

From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  brow 

Clear  up  propitious: — the  unlucky  guest 

In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 

I  well  remen)ber,  w  hen  a  child,  the  awe 

This  day  struck  into  me;  for  then  the  maids 

I  scarce  knew  why,  look'd  cross,  and  drove  me  from  Uviui 

Nor  soft  caress  could  1  obtain,  nor  hope 

Usual  indulgences;  jelly  or  creams, 

Relic  of  costly  suppers,  and  set  by 

For  me  their  petted  one;  or  butter'd  toast, 

When  butter  was  forbid  ;  or  thrilling  tale 

Of  ghost  or  witch,  or  murder— so  I  went 

And  shelter'd  me  beside  the  jiarlour  fire  : 

There  my  dear  grandmother,  eldest  of  forms, 

Tended  the  little  ones,  and  watch'd  from  harm, 

Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 

With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 

Drawn  from  her  ravelPd  stocking,  might  have  sour'd 

One  less  indulgent. — 

At  intervals,  my  mother's  voice  was  heard. 

Urging  despatch:  briskly  the  work  went  on. 

All  hands  employ'd  to  wash,  to  rinse,  to  wring. 

To  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and  plait. 

Then  would  I  sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 

Why  washings  were.     Sometimes  through  hollow  bowl 

Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 

The  floating  bubbles;  little  dreaming  then 

To  see,  Mongolfier,  thy  silken  ball 

Ride  buoyant  through  the  clouds- so  near  approach 

The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 

Earth,  air,  and  sky,  and  ocean,  hath  its  bubbles. 

And  verse  is  one  of  them— this  most  of  all. 


PAINTED    FLOWEES. 

Flowers  to  the  fair:  To  you  these  flowers  1  bring. 
And  strive  to  greet  you  with  an  earlier  spring, 
Flowers,  sweet  and  gay  and  delicate  like  you, 
Emblems  of  innocence  and  beauty  too. 


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With  flowers  the  Graces  bind  tlieir  yellow  hair, 
And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 
Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  Nature  knew, 
In  Eden's  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 
To  loftier  forms  are  rougher  tasks  assign'd ; 
The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind, 
The  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes. 
And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  ; 
But  this  soft  family,  to  cares  unknown. 
Were  horn  for  pleasure  and  delight  alone  ; 
fJay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art. 
They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense,  and  glad  the  heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these, 
Vour  best,  your  sweetest  empire  is— to  please. 


BARBIER,    MARY   ANN, 

BoRX  at  Orleans,  cultivated  literatui-e  and 
poetry  with  much  success.  She  settled  at  Paris, 
where  she  published  several  tragedies  and  some 
operas.  It  has  been  said  that  her  name  was  only 
borrowed  by  the  Ahh6  I'ellegrin ;  but  it  is  a  mis- 
take. Mademoiselle  Barbier  had  talents  and 
learning ;  and  the  Abb^  Pellegrin  was  never  any- 
thing more  to  her  than  her  friend  and  adviser. 
She  died  in  1745.  The  conduct  of  the  tragedies 
of  Mademoiselle  Barbier  is  tolerably  regular,  and 
the  scenes  well  connected.  The  subjects  are  in 
general  judiciously  chosen ;  but  nothing  can  be 
more  commonplace  than  the  manner  in  which  she 
treats  them.  In  endeavouring  to  render  the  hero- 
ines of  her  plays  generous  and  noble,  she  degrades 
all  her  heroes.  We  perceive  the  weakness  of  a 
timid  pencil,  which,  incapable  of  painting  objects 
in  large,  strives  to  exaggerate  the  virtues  of  her 
sex ;  and  these  monstrous  pictures  produce  an 
interest  that  never  rises  above  mediocrity.  Never- 
theless, we  meet  with  some  affecting  situations, 
and  a  natural  and  easy  versification ;  but  too 
much  facility  renders  it  negligent,  diffuse  and 
prosaic.  Her  tragedies  are  entitled,  "  Arria  and 
Poetus;"  "Cornelia,  Mother  of  the  Gracchi;" 
"  Tomyris,  Queen  of  the  Mussagetes;"  "The 
Death  of  Coesar;"  and  a,  comedy,  called  "The 
Falcon."  She  also  wrote  three  operas,  which 
were  successful. 

BARNARD,    LADY   ANNE, 

Daughter  of  James  Lindsay,  fifth  earl  of  Bal- 
carres,  of  Fifeshire,  Scotland,  was  born  December 
8th,  1750;  and  married. in  1793  to  Sir  Andrew 
Barnard,  librarian  to  George  III.  She  died  with- 
out children  in  1825.  She  wrote  "Auld  Robin 
Gray,"  one  of  the  most  perfect,  tender,  and  affect- 
ing of  all  the  ballads  of  humble  life.  The  author- 
ship of  this  song  was  unknown  for  a  long  time. 
Lady  Anne  Barnard  wrote  very  little,  and  never 
anything  equal  in  true  pathos  or  poetry  to  this 
first  ballad. 

AULD    EOBIN    GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame. 
And  a'  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 
The  waes  o"  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
When  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

V'oung  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for  his  bride ; 
But  saving  a  croun,  he  had  naething  else  beside : 
To  mak  that  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea  ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa. 

When  rav  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the  cow  was  stown  awa ;   I 


IMy  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a  courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin  ; 
I  toiled  day  and  nicht,  but  their  bread  I  coulilna  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  Ihem  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  his  ee. 
Said,  Jeanie,  for  their  sakes.  Oh,  marry  nie ! 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  looked  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wreck: 
The  ship  it  was  a  wreck— why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae's  me  ? 

My  father  argued  sair :  my  mother  didna  speak  ; 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break: 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart  was  in  the  sea. 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door,  ' 

I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  I'm  come  back  for  to  marry  thee. 

Oh,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away: 
I  wish  I  were  dead  !  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae's  me? 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be. 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

BARONI,  ADRIANNE  BASILE, 
A  NATIVE  of  Mantua,  Italy,  sister  of  the  poet 
Basile.  She  was  so  much  admired  for  her  beauty, 
wit,  and  accomplishments,  that  volumes  were 
written  in  her  praise.  Her  daughter  Leonora 
possessed  equal  charms,  and  met  with  equal  admi- 
ration ;  and  in  1639  a  collection  of  poems  in  Latin, 
Greek,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  French,  was  pub- 
lished, in  which  her  beauty  and  perfections  were 
portrayed.  She  resided  long  at  Rome,  where  she 
appeared  occasionally  as  a  singer.  She  also  wrote 
some  poetical  trifles.  She  was  celebrated  for  her 
vocal  powers. 

BARRY,    MARIE   JEANNE   VAUBENIER, 

Countess  du,  was  born  at  Vancouleurs,  near 
the  native  place  of  Joan  d'Arc,  in  1744.  Her 
reputed  father  was  an  exciseman  of  the  name  of 
Vaubenier.  After  his  death  her  mother  went  with 
her  to  Paris,  where  she  was  placed  in  a  convent, 
but  soon  left  it  to  work  at  a  fashionable  milliner's. 
When  she  was  about  sixteen  she  became  mistress 
to  Count  Jean  du  Barry ;  and  soon  after  was  pre- 
sented to  Louis  XV.  of  France,  who  was  imme- 
diately fascinated  by  her  beauty.  In  order  that 
she  might  appear  at  court,  Guillaume  du  Barry, 
brother  of  Count  Jean,  consented  to  the  king's 
desire,  and  married  her,  after  which  she  was  in- 
troduced to  the  court  as  Countess  du  Barry.  Her 
influence  over  the  king  was  excessive  and  of  long 
duration,  and  she  often  used  it  to  lead  him  to 
commit  acts  of  injustice  and  imprudence.  After 
the  death  of  Louis  XV.,  Madame  du  Barry  was 
shut  up  in  a  convent ;  but  Louis  XVI.  allowed 
her  to  come  out,  and  restored  to  her  the  pension 
and  residence  left  her  by  the  late  king.  She 
showed  herself  grateful  for  this  kindness  when 
Louis  XVI.  and  his  family  were  imprisoned ;  for 
she  went,  regardless  of  her  own  danger,  to  Eng- 
land to  sell  her  jewels  for  the  use  of  the  queen 
and  her  children.     On  her  return  she  was  impri 


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soned  and  condemned,  on  the  charge  of  "being  a 
conspirator,  and  of  having  worn  mourning  in  Lon- 
don for  the  death  of  the  tyrant."  She  was  guil- 
lotined on  the  6th  of  November,  1793.  She  wept 
much  when  going  to  the  scaifold. 

BARTON,  ELIZABETH, 
A  RELIGIOUS  fanatic,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  of  England.  She  was  generally  called 
the  Holy  Maid  of  Kent,  and  was  originally  a  ser- 
vant at  Allington ;  but  was  taught  by  designing 
persons  to  throw  her  face  and  limbs  into  contor- 
tions, to  pretend  to  prophetical  powers,  and  to 
denounce  divine  vengeance  upon  heretics.  Ven- 
turing, however,  to  aim  her  predictions  against 
the  king,  by  announcing  that  if  he  should  proceed 
in  his  attempt  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  Catharine 
of  Arragon,  and  marry  another  woman,  he  would 
not  be  king  seven  months  after ;  she  was  appre- 
hended and  tried,  together  with  her  accomplices, 
for  high  treason,  and  executed  at  Tyburn,  in  1534. 
John  Fisher,  bishop  of  Rochester,  a  man  of 
great  learning  and  piety,  was  so  deceived  by  her 
pretended  sanctity  and  visions,  as  to  become  im- 
plicated with  her,  and  to  suffer  the  following  year 
the  same  fate. 

BASSEPORTE,  MADELEINE  FRANCES, 
A  French  lady,  celebrated  for  her  talent  in 
painting  plants  and  animals,  especially  birds,  in 
water-colours.  She  was  born  in  1701,  and  received 
instructions  from  the  celebrated  Robert.  In  1732, 
she  succeeded  Obriette,  the  painter  of  natural  his- 
tory in  the  royal  gardens,  with  a  salary  of  one 
hundred  pistoles  a  year.  She  died  in  1780. 
Madame  Basseporte  also  produced  some  good 
engravings. 


BASSI,   LAURA   MARIA  CATHERINE, 

By  marriage  Veratti,  a  learned  Italian  lady, 
was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1711.  She  was  placed 
in  that  happy  mediocrity  of  condition  equally  re- 
moved from  poverty  and  riches,  where  neither 
the  sordid  cares  of  living,  nor  the  futile  toys  of 
grandeur  absorb  the  leisure  for  intellectual  im- 


provement. The  first  person  who  noticed  Laura's 
extraordinary  talents,  was  the  priest  Don  Lorenzo 
Stregani,  who  visited  familiarly  at  the  house.  He 
amused  himself  with  teaching  the  little  girl  Latin 
and  French.  He  did  not  confine  himself  to  what 
is  usual, — simply  the  power  of  translating  and 
understanding  the  Latin  authors, — but  he  urged 
her  to  so  thorough  a  knowledge  of  the  language, 
that  she  spoke  and  wrote  it  with  the  utmost 
fluency. 

Another  man  of  learning,  a  professor  in  the 
college  of  medicine.  Dr.  Gaetano  Tacconi,  was  a 
friend  of  the  Bassi  family  ;  he  was  so  struck  with 
the  amazing  progress  of  Laura  in  the  languages, 
that  he  prevailed  upon  her  parents,  though  not 
without  much  discussion  and  delay,  to  let  her 
abandon  household  and  feminine  occupations,  and 
devote  herself  to  a  learned  education.  After 
having  exercised  her  in  logic,  he  carried  her  on 
to  metaphysics  and  natural  philosophy.  The 
master's  knowledge  on  these  subjects  was  limited 
to  what  was  taught  in  the  schools ;  but  the  pene- 
trating genius  of  the  pupil  was  not  to  be  confined 
to  these  limits  ;  her  scientific  studies,  and  even 
discoveries,  left  the  faculty  of  Bologna  far  behind 
her  in  the  career  of  knowledge.  The  gentlemen 
who  had  taken  pleasure  in  cultivating  this  rare 
mind,  began  to  feel  desirous  of  surprising  the 
public  by  a  display ;  but  they  determined  that,  as 
a  preparation,  some  unprejudiced  and  nice-judging 
scholars  should  examine  the  little  damsel,  certain 
of  their  sanction  for  presenting  her  to  any  trial. 
For  this  purpose  the  abbe  Giovanni  Trombelli  and 
Dr.  Zanotti,  were  selected.  They  termed  the 
young  person  a  prodigy ;  urgently  advised  her 
appearing  in  public,  to  manifest  to  the  world  her 
wonderful  acquirements. 

Her  natural  modesty  was  great,  and  she  felt 
very  averse  to  such  a  step ;  but  when  she  found 
the  self-love  of  her  masters  was  most  eager,  gra- 
titude to  them  put  aside  all  personal  feelings,  and 
it  was  determined  that  on  the  17th  of  April,  of 
that  year,  (1732,)  she  would,  according  to  the 
customs  of  those  days,  hold  a  pviblic  dispute  on 
philosophy.  The  palace  of  Anziani  was  select- 
ed for  the  assembly.  The  singularity  of  the 
case  brought  a  great  concourse :  all  the  learned 
men,  and  dignified  ecclesiastics  from  distant 
towns,  besides  the  noblemen  and  ladies  of  rank, 
crowded  to  listen  to  so  unusual  an  orator.  For- 
tunately her  powers  were  equal  to  the  occasion. 
Her  knowledge  seemed  vast  and  various,  and  the 
elegance  and  delicacy  of  her  Latin  speech  Avas 
truly  wonderful.  The  applause,  the  admiration, 
was  unbounded.  The  cardinal  archbishop  Lam- 
bertini  waited  upon  her  the  next  day,  with  the 
warmest  congratulations  upon  her  success.  At 
that  period,  and  particularly  at  Bologna,  nobody 
was  recognised  truly  learned  without  the  degree 
of  doctor.  To  reach  this  goal  it  was  necessary 
that  the  young  girl  should  enter  the  lists  again, 
and  submit  herself  to  the  trial  before  the  college 
of  philosophy.  This  examination  took  place  the 
12th  of  the  following  May.  The  candidate  was  ac- 
companied by  many  ladies  of  distinguished  rank. 
She  acquitted  herself  admirably,  and  obtained  the 

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most  complete  success.  Her  brow  was  encircled 
by  a  silver  crown,  ornamented  with  laurel  leaves, 
which  was  offered  by  Dr.  Bazzani  in  the  name  of 
the  faculty.  In  investing  her  with  the  gown  which 
was  the  ensign  of  her  degree,  he  addressed  her 
with  a  Latin  oration ;  to  which  she  made  a  most 
elegant  extemporaneous  reply  in  the  same  lan- 
guage. A  dinner  was  given  the  next  day,  at  the 
request  of  the  cardinal  de  Polignac,  when  all  the 
men  of  eminent  ability  were  confronted  with 
Laura,  and  every  effort  was  made  to  sound  her 
depths  ;  but  it  was  found  that  not  one  of  these  il- 
lustrious personages  could  compete  with,  or  meet 
her  at  all  points,  so  various  were  her  acquirements, 
so  subtle  her  wit,  and  so  solid  her  understanding. 

The  highest  honours  were,  after  this,  bestowed 
upon  her ;  and  the  senate,  considering  that  she 
reflected  honours  upon  the  city,  settled  a  pen- 
sion on  her,  to  enable  her  to  continue  her  studies 
without  anxiety.  The  attentions  she  received 
brought  her  into  the  world,  and  obliged  her  to 
make  many  visits,  and  go  to  assemblies.  Mingling 
in  society,  she  was  destined  to  give  up  her  life  of 
solitary  study.  She  formed  an  attachment  for 
Dr.  Veratti,  a  celebrated  physician,  and  professor 
of  the  institute  ;  this  ended  in  a  marriage,  when 
she  shone  as  a  wife  and  mother  with  admirable 
domestic  qualities,  equalling  her  scholastic  ones. 

It  may  here  be  remarked,  that  women,  who 
possess  some  trivial  accomplishments,  some  little 
skill  in  music,  or  futile  propensity  to  write  ephe- 
meral verses,  assume  that  these  occupations  place 
them  above  household  duties,  which  are  therefore 
neglected ;  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  which  is 
perhaps  a  more  general  error,  many  women  de- 
clare that  the  attention  due  to  their  families'  phy- 
sical comforts,  condemns  their  own  minds  to  in- 
tellectual barrenness,  and  so  clips  the  wings  of 
their  immortal  souls  that  they  can  reach  no  flight 
beyond  the  consideration  of  domestic  matters. 
They  trust  the  education  and  training  of  their 
children  to  hired  teachers ;  while  the  higher  duty 
of  stitching  seams,  and  superintending  joints  of 
meats,  must  be  reserved  for  their  own  superior 
intelligence  and  personal  vigilance. 

The  life  of  Laura  Bassi  offers  a  lesson  to  both 
of  these  classes.  She  was  mother  of  a  numerous 
offspring,  all  of  whom  were  most  carefully  attended 
to ;  as  a  wife,  she  was  a  model  of  tenderness. 
Mistress  of  a  household,  her  frugality,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  generous  hospitality  were  remarkable  ; 
in  fine,  her  abode  was  a  scene  of  domestic  comfort 
and  happiness.  But  these  essential  occupations 
did  by  no  means  interfere  with  her  scientific  pur- 
suits. Not  only  did  she  keep  up  with  the  other 
professors,  but  it  was  conceded  that  not  a  man  in 
the  university  could  read  and  speculate  to  the  ex- 
tent she  manifested,  by  her  experiments  in  natural 
philosophy,  and  her  treatises  on  logical  subjects. 
Besides  this,  for  twenty-eight  years,  she  carried 
on  in  her  own  house  a  course  of  experimental 
philosophy ;  until  the  senate  selected  her  to  give 
public  lectures  on  the  subject,  in  the  university, 
as  professor  of  this  science.  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  the  pedantic  custom  of  using  the  Latin  lan- 
guage for  scientific  and  literary  purposes  still  held 


sway  in  Bologna.  Had  Laura  written  in  Italian, 
her  writings  would  have  been  more  extensively 
known,  and  would  not  be  buried,  as  they  now  are, 
in  classic  dust.  Her  Latin  style  is  peculiarly  ex- 
cellent. 

She  was  modest  and  unaffected ;  her  memory 
was  very  great,  her  understanding  strong,  and  her 
conversation  enlivened  by  sallies  of  wit.  She  died 
in  1778,  of  a  disease  of  the  lungs. 

Her  mortal  remains  were  interred  with  solemn 
obsequies.  She  was  buried  with  the  doctor's 
gown,  and  silver  laurel.  Her  works  remaining 
are : — An  epic  poem  in  manusci-ipt ;  some  poems 
published  by  Gobbi ;  "  De  problemate  quodam  Hy- 
drometico,  De  problemate  quodam  ]\Iecanico,  pub- 
lished by  the  institute ;"  some  experiments  and 
discoveries  on  the  compression  of  the  air. 

BAYNARD,  ANNE, 

Only  daughter  of  Edward  Baynard,  an  eminent 
physician,  was  born  at  Preston,  Lancashire,  Eng- 
land, 1672.  She  was  well  instructed  in  the  clas- 
sics and  sciences,  and  wrote  Latin  with  ease  and 
correctness.  At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  she  had 
the  knowledge  of  a  profoimd  philosopher.  She 
often  said  "  that  it  was  a  sin  to  be  content  with  a 
little  knowledge." 

To  the  endowments  of  mind,  she  added  the  vir- 
tues of  the  heart ;  she  was  pious,  benevolent,  and 
simple  in  her  manners ;  retired,  and  perhaps  too 
rigid  in  her  habits.  She  always  put  aside  a  por- 
tion of  her  small  income  for  charitable  purposes  ; 
and  to  this  she  added  an  ardent  desire  and  strenu- 
ous efforts  for  the  mental  and  moral  improvement 
of  all  within  her  influence. 

About  two  years  previous  to  her  death,  her  spi- 
rits seem  to  have  been  impressed  with  an  idea  of 
her  early  dissolution ;  a  sentiment  which  first  sug- 
gested itself  to  her  mind  while  walking  alone, 
among  the  tombs,  in  a  church-yard ;  and  which 
she  indulged  with  a  kind  of  superstitious  compla- 
cency. On  her  death-bed,  she  earnestly  entreated 
the  minister  who  attended  her,  that  he  would  ex- 
hort all  the  young  people  of  his  congregation  to 
the  study  of  wisdom  and  knowledge,  as  the  means 
of  moral  improvement,  and  real  happiness.  "  I 
could  wish,"  says  she,  "that  all  young  persons 
might  be  exhorted  to  the  practice  of  virtue,  and 
to  increase  their  knowledge  by  the  study  of  phi- 
losophy ;  and  more  especially  to  read  the  great 
book  of  nature,  wherein  they  may  see  the  wisdom 
and  power  of  the  Creator,  in  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  in  the  production  and  preservation  of 
all  things."  "  That  women  are  capable  of  such 
improvements,  which  will  better  their  judgments 
and  understandings,  is  past  all  doiibt,  would  they 
but  set  about  it  in  earnest,  and  spend  but  half  of 
that  time  in  study  and  thinking,  which  they  do  in 
visits,  vanity,  and  folly.  It  would  introduce  a 
composure  of  mind,  and  lay  a  solid  basis  for  wis- 
dom and  knowledge,  by  which  they  would  be  better 
enabled  to  serve  God,  and  to  help  their  neigh- 
boui's." 

The  following  character  is  given  of  this  lady  in 
Mr.  Collier's  Historical  Dictionary.  "  Anne  Bay- 
nard, for  her  prudence,  piety,  and  learning,  de- 

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serves  to  have  her  memory  perpetuated :  she  was 
not  only  skilled  in  the  learned  languages,  but  in 
all  manner  of  literature  and  philosophy,  without 
vanity  or  affectation.  Her  words  were  few,  well 
chosen  and  expressive.  She  was  seldom  seen  to 
smile,  being  rather  of  a  reserved  and  stoical  dis- 
position ;  their  doctrine,  in  most  parts,  seeming 
agreeable  to  her  natural  temper,  for  she  never 
read  or  spake  of  the  stoics  but  with  a  kind  of  de- 
light. She  had  a  contempt  of  the  world,  espe- 
cially of  the  finery  and  gaiety  of  life.  She  had  a 
great  regard  and  veneration  of  the  sacred  name 
of  God,  and  made  it  the  whole  business  of  her 
life  to  promote  his  honour  and  glory ;  and  the 
great  end  of  her  study  was  to  encounter  atheists 
and  libertines,  as  may  appear  from  some  severe 
satires  written  in  the  Latin  tongue,  in  which  lan- 
guage she  had  great  readiness  and  fluency  of  ex- 
pression ;  which  made  a  gentleman  of  no  small 
parts  and  learning  say  of  her, 

"  ^nnam  gens  Solijmwa,  Jlnnam  gens  Be/g-ica  jactat, 
At  superas  Jinnas,  jinna  Baijnarda,  duas." 

'  Fam'd  Solyma  her  Anna  boasts, 

In  sacred  writ  renown'd; 
Another  Anna's  high  deserts. 

Tliroiigh  Belgians  coasts  resound : 
But  Britain  can  an  Anna  show, 

That  shines  more  bright  than  Ihey, 
Wisdom  and  piety  in  her 

Sheds  each  its  noblest  ray.' 

Anne  Baynard  died  at  Barnes,  in  the  county  of 
Surrey,  in  1697. 

BEALE,    MARY, 

An  English  portrait-painter,  was  born  in  Suf- 
folk, in  1632,  and  died  in  1697.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cradock,  minister  of 
Walton-upon-Thames,  and  was  instructed  in  her 
art  by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  whose  works,  and  those  of 
Vandyck,  she  studied  with  the  greatest  care.  Her 
style  was  formed  on  the  best  models  of  the  Italian 
school,  and  her  colouring  was  clear,  strong  and 
natural. 

She  also  paraphrased  some  of  the  Psalms  of 
David. 

BEAUHARNAIS,    FANNY,    COUNTESS 
DE, 

The  aunt  of  Josephine's  first  husband,  was  born 
at  Paris,  in  1738.  Her  father  was  receiver-general 
of  finances,  and  he  gave  her  a  brilliant  education. 
From  her  earliest  youth,  she  showed  a  great  taste 
for  poetry.  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  she  was 
married  to  count  de  Beauharnais,  whom  she  did 
not  love,  and  she  soon  separated  from  him  by  tak- 
ing up  her  residence  in  the  convent  of  the  Visita- 
tion. Here  she  assembled  around  her  the  most 
distinguished  literary  and  scientific  men  ;  but  she 
wa^  criticised  as  well  as  flattered ;  and  though 
Bufi'on  called  her  his  daughter,  Le  Brun  wrote 
epigrams  against  her. 

In  1773,  Madame  de  Beauharnais  published  a 
little  work  entitled  "A  Tons  les  penseurs  Salut," 
in  which  she  undertook  the  defence  of  female  au- 
thorship. But  this  was  considered  a  strange  in- 
stance of  audacity,  though  the  women  of  France 


then  ruled  everything  from  state  affairs  down  to 
fashionable  trifles.  Le  Brun,  a  bitter  and  satirical 
poet,  answered  Madame  de  Beauharnais  in  a  strain 
of  keen  invective.  "  Ink,"  said  he,  "  ill  becomes 
rosy  fingers." 

Madame  de  Beauharnais  published  a  volume  of 
fugitive  poems  ;  also  "  Lettres  de  Stephanie,"  an 
historical  romance,  several  other  romances,  and  a 
comedy  entitled  "La  Fausse  inconstance  ou  le 
triomphe  de  I'honn^tetg.  She  died  in  1813.  We 
insert  a  specimen  of  her  poetry. 

EPITRE    ArX    FEMMES. 
{Written  in  1773.) 
Men  sexe  parfois  est  injuste : 
Mais  j'absous  ce  sexe  charinant ; 
II  flit  ainsi  du  temps  d'Auguste, 
C'est  tenir  a  son  sentiment. 
Je  vondrois  le  flechir,  sans  doiite  ; 
Pour  des  litres,  j'en  ai  plus  d'un ; 
Mes  traits  n'ont  rien  que  de  comniun  ; 
Je  me  tais,  et  meme  j'^coute... 
N'imporle,  il  nie  fiiut  renonccr 
A  I'espoir  flatteur  du  lui  plaire; 
Aupres  de  lui  j'aurois  beau  faire . 
Tout  en  moi  paroit  I'offenser, 
Et  mes  jiiges,  dans  leur  colgre, 
M'otent  jusqu'au  droit  de  ponser. 
Un  jour  que  j'etois  bien  sincere, 
J'exercai  ma  plume  a  tracer 
Les  charmes  de  leur  caractere 
Par-la,  j'ai  su  les  courroucer. 
Cependant  j'exalte  ces  dames  , 
J'encourage  leurs  defenseurs ; 
Je  leur  donne  a  toutes  des  ames  ; 
Je  chante  leurs  graces,  leurs  mceurs, 
Et  leurs  combats,  et  leur  victoire ; 
Je  les  compare  aux  belles  fleurs 
Ciui  des  campagnes  font  la  gloire: 
Elles  rejetterit  mon  encens, 
Et,  ce  qu'on  aura  peine  a  croire. 
Me  traitent,  dans  leur  humeur  noire, 
Presque  aussi  mal  que  leurs  amans. 
Mes  vers  sont  pilles,  disent-elles ; 
Non,  Chlo6  n'en  est  pas  Tauteiir; 
Elle  fut  d'une  pesanteur. .. 
Le  temps  ne  donne  pas  des  ailes. 
Mon  Dieu  !  reprend  avec  aigreur, 
A  coup  sur  Tune  des  moins  belles, 
Jadis  je  la  voyois  le  soir; 
Alors  elle  ecrivoit  en  prose; 
Peut-etre,  h61as !  sans  le  savoir, 
Et  hasardoit  fort  pen  de  chose. 
Mesdames,  a  ne  point  inentir, 
Je  prise  fort  de  tels  suffrages  : 
Mais  craignez  de  m'enorgueillir 
En  me  disputant  mes  ouviages; 
Ne  me  donncz  point  le  plaisir 
De  me  croire  un  objet  d'envie ; 
Je  triomphe  quand  vous  doutez; 
Rendez-nioi  vite  vos  bont6s, 
Et  je  reprends  ma  modestie. 

BEAUMONT,  MADAME  LE  PRINCE  DE, 

An  able  and  lively  French  writer,  whose  works, 
in  the  form  of  romances,  letters,  memoirs,  &c., 
were  written  for  the  improvement  of  youth  in 
morals  and  religion.  She  was  born  at  Rouen, 
April  26th,  1711,  and  died  at  Anneci,  1780. 

BECTOR,  CLAUDE  DE, 
Descended  from  an  illustrious  hou.<^e  in  Dau- 
phiny,  abbess  of  St.  Honors  de  Tarascon,  was 
eminent  for  her  knowledge  of  Latin,  and  her  fine 
style  of  writing.  She  was  honoured  by  her  ad- 
mirers with  the  name  of  Scholastica.     She  gave 

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early  such  indications  of  genius,  that  a  monk, 
Denis  Fauchier,  undertook  the  care  of  her  educa- 
tion. In  a  little  time  she  made  so  great  a  progress, 
that  she  equalled  the  most  learned  men  of  the  age. 
Her  Latin  and  French  poems,  letters,  and  treatises, 
for  acuteness  and  solidity,  have  been  classed  with 
the  ancient  philosophers.  She  maintained  a  cor- 
respondence with  many  learned  men  in  France  and 
Italy.  Francis  I.  of  France  was  so  charmed  with 
the  letters  of  this  abbess,  that  he  carried  them 
about  him,  and  showed  them  as  models  worthy  of 
imitation.  He  went  with  his  sister,  Margaret  of 
Navarre,  to  Tarascon  on  purpose  to  see  this  cele- 
brated lady.     She  died  in  1547. 

BEHN,    APHRA, 

A  CELEBRATED  English  poetess,  was  descended 
from  a  good  family  in  the  city  of  Canterbury.  She 
was  born  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  but  in  what 
year  is  uncertain.  Her  father's  name  was  John- 
son. He  was  related  to  lord  Willoughby,  and  by 
his  interest  was  appointed  lieutenant-general  of 
Surinam  and  thirty-six  islands,  and  embarked  for 
the  West  Indies  when  Aphra  was  very  young.  Mr. 
Johnson  died  on  the  passage,  but  his  family  arrived 
at  Surinam,  where  Aphra  became  acquainted  with 
the  American  prince  Oroonoko,  whose  story  she 
has  given  in  her  celebrated  novel  of  that  name. 
She  relates  that  "  she  had  often  seen  and  con- 
versed with  that  gi-eat  man,  and  been  a  witness  to 
many  of  his  mighty  actions  ;  and  that  at  one  time, 
he  and  Imoinda  his  wife,  were  scarce  an  hour  in  a 
day  from  her  lodgings."  The  intimacy  between 
Oroonoko  and  the  poetess  occasioned  some  reflec- 
tions on  her  conduct,  from  which  she  was  subse- 
quently cleared. 

The  afflictions  she  met  with  at  Surinam,  in  the 
death  of  her  parents  and  relations,  obliged  her  to 
return  to  England,  where,  soon  after  her  arrival, 
she  married  Mr.  Behn,  an  eminent  merchant  in 
London,  of  Dutch  extraction.  King  Charles  II., 
whom  she  highly  pleased  by  the  entertaining  and 
accurate  account  she  gave  him  of  the  colony  of 
Surinam,  thought  her  a  proper  person  to  be  en- 
trusted with  the  management  of  some  aiFairs  dur- 
ing the  Dutch  war,  which  was  the  cause  of  her 
going  to  Antwerp.  Here  she  discovered  the  design 
formed  by  the  Dutch,  of  sailing  up  the  Thames, 
in  order  to  burn  the  English  ships ;  she  made  this 
discovery  through  her  lover,  Vander  Albert,  a 
Dutchman.  This  man,  who  had  been  in  love  with 
her  in  England,  no  sooner  heard  of  her  arrival  at 
Antwerp,  than  he  paid  her  a  visit;  and  after  a 
repetition  of  all  his  former  professions,  pressed 
her  extremely  to  allow  him  by  some  signal  means 
to  give  undeniable  proofs  of  his  passion.  She 
accepted  this  proposal,  and  employed  him  in  such 
a  manner  as  made  her  very  serviceable  to  king 
Charles  I. 

The  latter  end  of  the  year  1G6G,  Albert  sent  her 
word  by  a  special  messenger  that  he  would  be  with 
her  at  an  appointed  time,  when  he  revealed  to  her 
that  Cornelius  de  Witt  and  De  Ruyter  had  pro- 
posed the  abovementioned  expedition.  Mrs.  Behn 
could  not  doubt  the  truth  of  this  communication, 
and  sent  information  of  it  immediately  by  express 


to  England.  But  her  intelligence  (though  well 
grounded,  as  the  event  showed)  being  disregarded 
and  ridiculed,  she  renounced  all  state  affairs,  and 
amused  herself  during  her  stay  at  Antwerp,  with 
the  pleasures  of  the  city. 

After  some  time  she  embarked  at  Dunkii-k  for 
England,  and  in  the  passage  was  near  being  lost ; 
the  ship  was  driven  on  the  coast  for  four  days, 
but  by  the  assistance  of  boats  the  crew  were  all 
saved. 

Mrs.  Behn  published  three  volumes  of  poems ; 
the  first  in  1684,  the  second  in  1685,  the  third  in 
1688.  They  consist  of  songs  and  other  little 
pieces,  by  the  earl  of  Rochester,  sir  George  Eth- 
ei'age,  Mr.  Henry  Crisp,  and  others,  with  some 
pieces  of  her  own.  To  the  second  volume  is  an- 
nexed a  translation  of  the  duke  de  Rochefoucault's 
moral  reflections,  under  the  title  of  "  Seneca  Un- 
masked." She  wrote  also  seventeen  plays,  some 
histories  and  novels.  She  translated  Fontenelle's 
History  of  Oracles,  and  Plurality  of  Worlds,  to 
which  last  she  annexed  an  essay  on  translation 
and  translated  prose.  The  Paraphrase  of  ^Enone's 
Epistle  to  Paris,  in  the  English  ti-anslation  of 
Ovid's  Epistles,  is  Mrs.  Behn's ;  and  Mr.  Dryden, 
in  the  preface  to  that  work,  pays  her  the  following 
compliment:  —  "I  was  desii'ed  to  say,  that  the 
author,  who  is  of  the  fair  sex,  understood  not 
Latin ;  but  if  she  do  not,  I  am  afraid  she  has 
given  us  who  do,  occasion  to  be  ashamed."  She 
was  also  the  authoress  of  the  celebrated  Letters 
between  "  A  Nobleman  and  his  Sister,"  printed  in 
1684 ;  and  of  eight  love-letters  to  a  gentleman 
whom  she  passionately  loved,  and  with  whom  she 
corresponded  under  the  name  of  Lycidas.  She 
died,  after  a  long  indisposition,  April  16th,  1689, 
and  was  buried  in  the  cloisters  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 

BEKKER,  ELIZABETH, 
An  ornament  of  Dutch  literature,  was  born  at 
Flushing,  in  1738,  and  died  at  the  Hague,  in  1804. 
Few  female  authors  have  united  to  so  great  talents 
such  dignity  and  purity  of  morals.  Several  of  her 
numerous  works  are  considered  classics  in  Dutch 
literature;  especially  her  romances  of  "William 
Leevend;"  "Letters  of  A.  Blankhart  to  C.  Wild- 
scliut;"  and  the  "  History  of  Sara  Biirgerhart." 
She  wrote  her  most  important  works  in  conjunc- 
tion with  her  friend  Agatha  Deken,  and  the  share 
of  each  of  them  in  the  composition  is  unknown. 
Agatha  Deken  survived  her  friend  only  nine 
days. 

BELLAMY,  GEORGIANA, 
An  actress  of  some  celebrity,  was  born  in  1733. 
Her  mother  was  a  Miss  Searle,  the  mistress  of 
lord  Trelawny,  who  afterwards  married  captain 
Bellamy.  He  separated  from  her  on  discovering 
her  infidelity.  Miss  Bellamy  was  brought  out  by 
Mr.  Garrick  at  the  Covent-Garden  theatre  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  and  met  with  much  success  for 
some  years.  She  died  at  Edinburgh,  in  deep  dis- 
tress, in  1788.  Her  life  was  a  series  of  errors  and 
misfortunes.  She  wrote  her  own  memoirs  in  six 
volumes. 

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BELLINI,    GUISEPA,    COUNTESS, 

Was  born  at  Novara  in  1776,  of  one  of  the  most 
noble  families  of  Italy.  She  was  endowed  with  a 
good  understanding  and  great  benevolence  of  cha- 
racter, which  a  strong  sentiment  of  piety  guided 
and  maintained.     She  was  married  in  the  bloom 


of  youth  to  the  count  Marco  Bellini,  whose  cha- 
racter and  disposition  entirely  assimilated  with 
hers.  Crowned  with  all  worldly  advantages,  they 
were  doomed  to  the  affliction  of  losing  their  only 
son.  This  blow  was  sensibly  felt  by  the  bereaved 
parents,  who  thenceforth,  unable  to  enjoy  the  plea- 
sures of  society  and  idle  diversions,  resolved  to 
seek  alleviation  by  devoting  themselves  to  works 
of  beneficent  utility.  Already  extremely  opulent, 
a  large  accession  of  fortune  enabled  them  to 
mature  an  idea  they  had  planned  for  the  public 
utility;  when,  in  1831,  death  removed  from  the 
poor  their  friend  and  benefactor,  the  count  Bellini. 

The  widowed  countess,  remembering  her  hus- 
band's maxim  that  the  "  best  way  of  assisting  the 
poor  population  was  by  giving  them  the  abilities 
to  maintain  themselves,"  took  counsel  with  the 
most  intelligent  and  experienced  of  her  fellow- 
citizens,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  able  and  prac- 
tical heads,  planned  and  founded  a  gratuitous 
school  for  arts  and  trades,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
children  of  both  sexes  of  the  Novarese  poor.  This 
foundation  she  endowed  with  the  sum  of  100,000 
francs.  This  good  work  was  regularly  established 
by  royal  pei'mission  and  concurrence  of  the  muni- 
cipal authorities,  February  9th,  1833. 

The  countess  Bellini  died  in  1837. 

BENDISH,    BRIDGET, 

Wife  of  Thomas  Bendish,  Esq.,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  General  Ireton,  and  grand-daughter  of  Oli- 
ver Cromwell ;  whom  she  resembled  in  piety, 
dissimulation,  personal  arrogance,  and  love  of  dis- 
play. After  managing  her  salt-works  at  South- 
town,  in  Norfolk,  with  all  the  labour  and  exertion 
of  the  most  menial  servant,  she  would  sometimes 
spend  an  evening  at  the  public  assembly  at  Yar- 
mouth, where  her  princely  behaviour  and  dignified 


manners  ensured  her  the  respect  of  her  neigh- 
bours. This  remarkable  woman,  who,  in  public 
life,  would  have  become  famous  by  her  gi-eat  men- 
tal powers  and  self-command,  died  in  retu-ement 
in  1727. 

BENGER,  ELIZABETH  OGILVY, 
Was  born  at  Welles  in  England,  in  1778,  and 
had  to  struggle  with  many  difficulties  in  early  life. 
So  few  books  could  she  procure,  that  she  used  to 
read  the  open  pages  of  the  new  publications  in 
the  window  of  the  only  bookseller's  shop  in  the 
little  town  in  Wiltshire  in  which  she  lived,  and 
return,  day  after  day,  in  the  hope  of  finding 
another  page  turned  over.  She,  nevertheless, 
acquired  a  respectable  portion  of  learning.  On 
her  removal  to  London,  she  obtained  kind  literary 
friends  and  patronage,  and  was  generally  esteemed 
for  her  virtues,  manners,  and  talents.  She  died 
January  the  9th,  1827.  Besides  a  drama,  two 
novels,  and  poems,  she  wrote  "  Memoirs  of  Mrs. 
Hamilton;"  "  Lobin  and  Klopstock;"  and  "Lives 
of  Anne  Boleyn ;  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots ;  the 
Queen  of  Bohemia ;  and  Henry  IV.  of  France." 

BENWELL,    MARY, 

Was  an  English  portrait-painter.  Her  princi- 
pal works  were  in  crayons,  oil,  and  miniature, 
and  were  exhibited  to  the  public  in  the  Artists' 
and  Royal  Academy  Exhibitions  from  1622  till 
1783. 

BERNARD,  CATHARINE, 
Of  the  academy  of  the  Ricovrate  of  Padua,  was 
born  at  Rouen,  and  died  at  Paris  in  1712.  Her 
works  were  several  times  crowned  by  the  French 
academy,  and  by  that  of  the  Jeux-Floraux.  Two 
of  her  tragedies  were  represented  at  the  French 
theatre,  "Brutus,"  in  1691,  and  "  Laodamia."  It 
is  thought  she  composed  these  pieces  conjointly 
with  Fontenelle,  her  friend  and  countryman.  She 
wrote  several  other  works  in  verse,  showing  ease 
and  sometimes  delicacy.  She  acquired  some  cele- 
brity by  her  placet  to  Louis  XIV.,  to  petition  for 
the  two  hundred  crowns  given  to  her  annually  by 
that  prince ;  it  is  to  be  seen  in  the  "  Piecueil  de 
vers  Choisis  du  pfere  Bonhors."  She  discontinued 
writing  for  the  theatre  at  the  advice  of  Madame 
la  Chanceli6re  de  Pont-Chartrain,  who  gave  her  a 
pension ;  even  suppressing  several  little  pieces, 
which  might  have  given  wrong  impressions  of  her 
manners  and  religion.  Two  romances  are  like- 
wise ascribed  to  her ;  "  The  Count  d'Amboise," 
and  "  Ines  of  Cordova."  Some  of  the  journalists 
attributed  to  her,  others  to  Fontenelle,  the  account 
of  the  "  Island  of  Borneo." 

BETHMANN,    FREDERICA, 

One  of  the  first  ornaments  of  the  Berlin  National 
Theatre,  was  born  in  1760,  at  Gotha,  where  her 
father,  whose  name  was  Flittner,  had  an  income 
by  a  respectable  office.  After  his  death,  her 
mother  married  the  well-known  director  Gross- 
mann.  He  visited,  with  his  family,  the  cities  on 
the  Rhine,  Cologne,  Bonn,  INIentz,  &c.,  where 
Frederica  was  married  to  Mr.  Unselmann,  who 

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enjoyed  great  popularity  for  his  rich  comic  talent, 
and  she  then  made  her  first  appearance  on  the 
stage.  Her  agreeable  voice  induced  her  to  appear 
first  at  the  opera.  She  soon  acquired  by  her 
singing  and  acting,  in  naif  as  well  as  in  senti- 
mental parts,  the  undivided  approbation  of  the 
public  ;  and  was  called,  with  her  husband,  to  Ber- 
lin, where  she  became  one  of  the  first  actresses 
that  Germany  has  produced,  both  in  tragedy  and 
comedy.  In  1803  she  was  divorced  from  her  hus- 
band to  marry  the  renowned  ^Ir.  Bethmann.  She 
died  in  1814.  A  truly  creative  fancy,  deep  and 
tender  feeling,  and  an  acute  understanding,  were 
united  in  her  with  a  graceful,  slender  figure,  an 
expressive  countenance,  and  a  voice,  which,  from 
its  flexibility  and  melodiousness,  was  fit  to  touch 
the  deepest  chords  of  the  heart,  and  to  mark  with 
rare  perfection  the  nicest  shades  of  thought  and 
feeling. 


BERT  AN  A,    LUCIA. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  the  literary  annals  of 
Italy  shone  with  illustrious  names,  and  among 
these  may  be  found  many  women  assiduously  cul- 
tivating poetry  and  science,  and  attaining  no  mean 
proficiency  in  these  elevated  pursuits.  Naples 
boasted  Vittoria  Colonna,  and  a  few  years  after- 
wards, Laura  Terracini.  Padua  possessed  Gas- 
para  Stampa ;  Brescia,  Veronica  Gambai'a ;  and 
Modena,  Tarquenia  Molza.  At  Bologna,  among 
many  poetesses  at  that  time,  we  find  Ippolita 
Paleotti  writing  elegant  verses  in  Greek  and  in 
Latin  ;  the  nun  Febronia  Pannolini,  remarkable 
for  her  choice  prose,  and  flowing  hymns,  as  well 
in  Latin  as  in  Italian ;  and  Valeria  Miani,  who 
achieved  that  difficulty  some  male  sceptics  arro- 
gantly refuse  to  feminine  capacity  —  a  successful 
tragedy.  But  among  all  the  Bolognese  women, 
the  crown  must  be  yielded  to  Lucia  Bertana.  Not 
onlj'  contemporary  authorities  award  her  this 
praise,  but  Mafi'ei,  in  his  "  History  of  Italian  lite- 
rature," gives  her  the  thii-d  place  among  the  most 
admirable  poetesses  of  the  sixteenth  ccntui\y,  pre- 
ferring only  Vittoria  Colonna  and  Veronica  Gam- 
bara.  She  was  born  at  Bologna,  of  the  fiimilj' 
DairOro,  in  1521  ;  and  became  the  wife  of  Gerone 
0 


Bertana,  a  gentleman  of  Modena,  where  she  re- 
sided after  her  marriage.  She  was  not  only  cele- 
brated for  her  poetry,  but  possessed  a  vigorous 
and  polished  prose  style.  She  cultivated  music 
and  painting,  and  turned  her  attention  to  what 
was  at  that  time  a  respectable  and  sensible  object 
of  study,  astrology.  Besides  these  accomplish- 
ments, Lucia  was  gifted  with  all  the  virtues  of  her 
sex.  She  was  amiable  and  gentle,  and  her  excel- 
lent disposition  was  manifested  in  an  attempt  slie 
most  earnestly  made  to  cfiFect  a  reconciliation  be- 
tween two  rival  men  of  letters,  Caro  and  Castel- 
vetro.  She  conducted  the  matter  with  the  utmost 
delicacy  and  good  sense  —  appealed  to  the  bettei- 
feelings  of  each — and  tried  to  show  how  unworthy 
of  their  superior  abilities,  and  solid  reputation, 
was  this  unmeaning  bickering. 

She  died  in  Rome  in  1567.  Her  remains  were 
interred  in  the  church  of  St.  Sabina,  where  her 
husband  elevated  a  superb  monument  to  her 
memory.  The  estimation  of  various  learned  soci- 
eties endeavoured  to  immortalize  her  by  other 
means  —  medals  were  struck  to  her  fame,  whidi 
may  yet  be  found  in  Italian  Museums.  The  fol- 
lowing from  her  pen  has  been  much  admired : 

SONNET. 
Or  nuisa  mia  lieta  e  sicura  andrai 
Per  foiti  boschi  e  per  ameni  colli, 
Cngli  occhi  asciutti  clie  gia  furon  molli 
A\  cliiato  fonte  ove  merce  trovai. 

Gluivi  con  le  sorelle  canterai 

I  miei  peiisieri  per  letizia  folli, 
Pioche  i  desiri  niici  fatli  ha  satolli 
Uuesto  Aristarco,  e  ine  tralta  di  giiai. 

Ed  al  grail  Caslelvctro  in  atto  umile, 
Dirai,  se  il  ceil  mi  da  tanto  valore 
Degno  di  voi,  ed  al  gran  merto  egiiale, 

Che  posta  avrai  niai  senipre  e  lingua  e  stile 
In  celebrar  qnesto  chiaro  splendors 
Onde  mi  farai  furse  anche  immoriale. 

BLAKE,    KATHARINE, 

Wife  of  William  Blake,  the  artist,  was  born  in 
humble  life,  and  first  noticed  by  the  young  painter 
for  the  whiteness  of  her  hand  and  the  sylph-like 
beauty  of  her  form.  Her  maiden  name  was  Bout- 
cher,  not  a  prettj^  name  to  set  in  rhyme,  but  her 
lover  inscribed  his  lyrics  to  the  "  dark-eyed  Kate." 
He  also  drew  her  picture ;  and  finding  she  had 
good  domestic  qualities,  he  married  her.  They 
lived  long  and  happily  together.  A  writer,  wlio 
knew  them  intimately,  thus  describes  her: — 

"  She  seemed  to  have  been  created  on  purpose 
for  Blake :  she  believed  him  to  be  the  finest  genius 
on  earth  ;  she  believed  in  his  verse  ;  she  believed 
in  his  designs ;  and  to  the  wildest  flights  of  his 
imagination  she  bowed  the  knee,  and  was  a  woi- 
shipper.  She  set  his  house  in  good  order,  pre- 
pared his  frugal  meal,  learned  to  think  as  he 
thought,  and,  indulging  him  in  his  harmless  ab- 
surdities, became  as  it  were  bone  of  his  bone  and 
flesh  of  his  flesh.  She  learned — what  a  young  auvi 
handsome  woman  is  seldom  apt  to  learn  —  to  des- 
pise gaudy  dresses,  costly  meals,  pleasant  com- 
pany, and  agreeable  invitations  —  she  found  out 
the  way  of  being  happy  at  home,  living  on  the 
simplest  of  food,  and  contented  in  the  homeliest 

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of  clothing.  It  was  no  ordinary  mind  which  could 
do  all  this ;  and  she  whom  Blake  emphatically 
called  his  '  beloved,'  was  no,  ordinary  woman. 
She  wrought  off  in  the  press  the  impressions  of 
his  plates  —  she  coloured  them  with  a  light  and 
neat  hand  —  made  drawings  much  in  the  spirit  of 
his  compositions,  and  almost  rivalled  him  in  all 
things,  save  in  the  power  which  he  possessed  of 
seeing  visions  of  any  individual  living  or  dead, 
whenever  he  chose  to  see  them." 

William  Blake  died  in  1828,  without  any  visible 
pain,  his  faithful  wife  watching  over  him  to  the 
last.     She  died  a  few  years  afterwards. 

BLACK,    MRS., 

An  English  portrait-painter,  flourished  about  the 
year  1760,  and  was  a  member  of  the  Academy  in 
St.  Martin's-lane. 


BLACK,   , 

Daughter  of  the  preceding,  was  a  portrait- 
painter  in  oils  and  crayons.  She  acquired  much 
reputation  in  teaching  painting. 

BLACK  WELL,    ELIZABETH, 

An  English  woman  of  considerable  talent,  who, 
to  provide  subsistence  for  her  husband,  who  was 
in  prison  for  debt,  published,  in  two  folio  volumes, 
in  1737  and  1739,  an  Herbal,  containing  five  hun- 
dred plates,  drawn,  engraved,  and  coloured  by 
herself.  The  first  volume  was  published  in  1737, 
and  the  second  appeared  in  1739.  The  complete 
work  bore  the  following  title:  "A  curious  Herbal, 
containing  five  hundred  of  the  most  useful  plants 
which  are  now  used  in  the  practice  of  physic,  en- 
graved on  folio  copper-plates,  after  drawings  taken 
from  the  life.  To  which  is  added  a  short  descrip- 
tion of  the  plants,  and  their  common  uses  in 
Physic." 

While  Mrs.  Blackwell  was  completing  this  labo- 
rious undertaking,  she  resided  at  Chelsea,  near 
the  Garden  of  Medicinal  Plants ;  where  she  was 
frequently  visited,  and  much  patronized,  by  people 
of  distinguished  rank  and  learning.  The  College 
of  Physicians  gave  the  book  a  public  testimonial 
of  their  approbation,  and  made  the  author  a  pre- 
sent. Dr.  Pulteney,  speaking  of  this  work,  says, 
"  For  the  most  complete  set  of  drawings  of  medi- 
cinal plants,  we  are  indebted  to  the  genius  and 
industry  of  a  lady,  exerted  on  an  occasion  that 
redounded  highly  to  her  praise." 

Her  husband,  Alexander,  was  born  at  Aberdeen, 
brought  up  as  a  physician,  and  went  to  Sweden 
about  1740,  where  he  was  beheaded,  on  a  charge 
of  being  concerned  in  count  Tessin's  plot. 

BLAMIRE,    SUSANNA, 

Was  born  of  a  respectable  family  in  Cumberland, 
England,  at  Cardem  Hall,  near  Carlisle,  where  she 
resided  till  her  twentieth  year,  when  her  sister 
marrying  a  gentleman  from  Scotland,  she  accom- 
panied them  to  that  country,  where  she  remained 
some  years.  She  was  distinguished  for  the  excel- 
lence of  her  Scottish  poetry.     She  died  unmarried 


at  Carlisle,  in  1794,  at  the  age  of  forty-six.  Her 
lyrics  have  been  greatly  admired  for  their  harmo- 
nious versification,  and  their  truth  and  tenderness 
of  feeling.  Among  these,  "The  Nabob,"  "The 
Waefu'  Heart,"  and  "Auld  Robin  Forbes,"  are 
selected  as  most  beautiful.  Her  poetical  works 
were  collected  in  1842,  and  published  in  one 
volume,  with  a  memoir,  by  Patrick  Maxwell. 

THE    NABOB. 

When  silent  time,  \vi'  lightly  foot, 

Had  trod  on  thirty  years, 
I  Bought  again  my  native  land 

Wi'  niony  hopes  and  fears. 
Wha  kens  gin  the  dear  friends  1  left 

May  still  continue  mine? 
Or  gin  I  e'er  again  shall  taste 

The  joys  I  left  langsyne  ? 

As  I  drew  near  my  ancient  pile. 

My  heart  beat  a'  the  way ; 
Ilk  place  I  passed  seemed  yet  to  speak 

O"  some  dear  former  day  ; 
Those  days  that  followed  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o'  mine, 
VVhilk  made  me  think  the  present  joys 

A'  naething  to  langsyne! 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  my  eye. 

Where  minstrels  used  lo  blavv; 
Nae  friend  stepped  forth  wi'  open  hand, 

Nae  weel-kenned  face  I  saw  ; 
Till  Donald  tottered  to  the  door. 

Wham  I  left  in  his  prime. 
And  grat  to  see  the  lad  return 

He  bore  about  langsyne. 

I  ran  to  ilka  dear  friend's  room, 

As  if  to  find  them  there, 
1  knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit, 

And  hang  o'er  mony  a  chair; 
Till  soft  remembrance  threw  a  veil 

Across  these  een  o'  mine, 
1  closed  the  door,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

To  think  on  auld  langsyne  ! 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a  new  sprung  race. 

Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 
Wha  shuddered  at  my  Gothic  wa's. 

And  wished  my  groves  away. 
"Cut,  cut,"  they  cried,  ••  those  aged  elms. 

Lay  low  yon  mournfu'  pine." 
Na  !  na  !  our  fathers'  names  grow  there, 

Memorials  o'  langsyne. 

To  wean  me  frae  these  waefu'  thoughts, 

They  took  me  to  the  town  ; 
But  sair  on  ilka  weelkenned  face 

I  missed  the  youthfu'  bloom. 
At  balls  they  pointed  to  a  nymph 

Wham  a'  declared  divine  : 
But  sure  her  mother's  blushing  cheeks 

Were  fairer  far  langsyne ! 

In  vain  I  sought  in  music's  sound 

To  find  that  magic  art. 
Which  oft  in  Scotland's  ancient  lays 

Has  thrilled  through  a'  my  heart. 
The  sang  had  mony  an  artfu'  turn  ; 

My  ear  confessed  'twas  fine  ; 
But  missed  the  simple  melody 

I  listened  to  langsyne. 

Ye  sons  to  comrades  o'  my  youth, 

Forgie  an  auld  man's  spleen, 
Wha  'midst  your  gayest  scenes  still  mourns 

The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 
When  time  has  passed  and  seasons  fled, 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine; 
.\nd  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 

That  minds  ye  o'  langsyne! 

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THE    WAEFD     HEAKT. 

Gin  living  worth  could  win  my  heart, 

Ye  would  nae  speak  in  vain; 
But  in  the  darksome  grave  it 's  laid, 

Never  to  rise  again. 

My  waefu'  lieart  lies  low  wi'  his. 

Whose  heart  was  only  mine  ; 
And  O!  what  a  heart  was  that  to  love! 

But  I  maun  na  repine. 

Vet  O!  gin  heaven  in  mercy  soon 

Would  grant  the  boon  I  crave, 
And  take  the  life,  now  naething  worth, 

Since  Jamie 's  in  the  grave. 

And,  see,  his  gentle  spirit  comes 

To  speed  me  on  my  way, 
Surprised,  nae  doubt,  I  still  am  here  — 

Sair  wondering  at  my  stay. 

I  come,  I  come,  my  Jamie  dear; 

And  Ol   wi'  what  good  will 
I  follow  wheresoe'er  ye  lead ! 

Ve  canna  lead  to  ill. 

—  She  said;  and  soon  a  deadly  pale 

Her  faded  check  possessed ; 
Her  waefu'  heart  forgot  to  beat,  — 

Her  sorrows  soon  to  rest. 

AULD    ROBIN    FORBES. 

(In  the  Cumberland  dialect.) 

.And  auld  Robin  Forbes  hes  gien  tern  a  dance, 

I  pat  on  my  speckets  to  see  them  aw  prance  ; 

I  thout  o'  the  days  when  X  was  but  fifteen. 

And  skipp'd  wi'  the  best  upon  Forbes's  green. 

Of  aw  things  that  is  I  think  thout  is  meast  queer. 

It  brings  that  that's  by-past  and  sets  it  down  here; 

I  see  Willy  as  plain  as  I  dui  this  bit  leace. 

When  he  tuik  his  cwoat  lappet  and  deeghted  his  face. 

The  lasses  aw  wondered  what  Willy  cud  see 

In  yen  that  was  dark  and  hard-featured  leyke  me; 

.And  they  wondered  ay  mair  when  they  talked  o'  my  wit. 

And  slily  telt  Willy  that  cud'nt  be  it. 

But  Willy  he  laughed,  and  he  meade  me  his  vveyfe, 

.And  whea  was  mair  happy  thro'  aw  his  long  leyfe  ? 

It 's  e'en  my  great  comfort,  now  Willy  is  geane. 

That  he  offen  said  —  nea  pleace  was  leyke  his  awn  heame  ! 

(  mind  when  I  carried  my  vvark  to  yon  steyle. 

Where  Willy  was  deyken,  the  time  to  beguile, 

He  wad  fling  me  a  daisy  to  put  i'  my  breast. 

And  I  hammered  my  noddle  to  mek  out  a  jest. 

But  merry  or  grave,  Willy  often  wad  tell 

There  was  none  o'  the  leave  that  was  leyke  my  awn  sel ; 

And  he  spak  what  he  thout,  for  I'd  hardly  a  plack 

When  we  married,  and  nobbet  ae  gown  to  my  back. 

When  the  clock  had  struck  eight  I  expected  him  heame. 
And  wheyles  went  to  meet  him  as  far  as  Dumleane ; 
Of  aw  hours  it  telt,  eight  was  dearest  to  me. 
But  now  when  it  streykes  there  's  a  tear  i'  my  ee. 
O  Willy  !  dear  Willy  !  it  never  can  be 
That  age,  time,  or  death,  can  divide  thee  and  me ! 
For  that  spot  on  earth  that 's  aye  dearest  to  me, 
Is  the  turf  that  has  covered  my  Willie  frae  me. 

BLANCA,   N.    LE, 
A  YOUNG  woman  who  was  found  wild  at  Ligny, 
near  Chalons,  in  France,  in  1731,  when  about  ten 
years  of  age.     She  was  placed  in  a  convent,  and 
died  a  nun,  in  1760. 

BLANCHARD,  MADAME, 
Was  the  wife  of  Fran9ois  Blanchard,  one  of  the 
first  aeronauts,  a  Frenchman  by  birth,  who  died 
in  1809.  After  his  death  Madame  Blanchard 
continued  to  make  aerial  voyages.  In  1811,  she 
ascended  in  Rome,  and   after  going  sixty  miles. 


she  rose  again  to  proceed  to  Naples.  In  June, 
1819,  having  ascended  from  Tivoli,  in  Paris,  her 
balloon  took  fire  from  some  fireworks  she  had  with 
her,  the  gondola  fell  from  a  considerable  height 
into  the  street  de  Provence,  and  Madame  Blan- 
chard was  instantly  killed. 

BLAND,   ELIZABETH. 

This  lady  was  remarkable  for  her  knowledge 
of  the  Hebrew  language,  and  for  her  peculiar  skill 
in  writing  it. 

She  was  born  about  the  period  of  the  restora- 
tion of  Charles  II.,  and  was  daughter  and  heir  of 
Mr.  Robert  Fisher,  of  Long-Acre.  She  married 
Mr.  Nathaniel  Bland,  April  26th,  1681,  who  was 
then  a  linen-draper  in  London,  and  afterwards 
lord  of  the  manor  of  Beeston,  in  Yorkshire.  She 
had  six  children,  who  all  died  in  infancy,  except- 
ing one  son,  named  Joseph,  and  a  daughter,  Mar- 
tha, who  was  married  to  Mr.  George  Moore,  of 
Beeston.  Mrs.  Bland  was  taught  Hebrew  by 
Lord  Van  Helmont,  which  she  understood  so  tho- 
roughly as  to  be  competent  to  the  instruction  in 
it  of  her  son  and  daughter. 

Among  the  curiosities  of  the  Royal  Society  is 
preserved  a  phylactery  in  Hebrew,  written  by  her, 
of  which  Dr.  Grew  has  given  a  description  in  his 
accaunt  of  rarities  preserved  at  Gresham  college. 
"It  is  a  single  scroll  of  parchment,  fifteen  inches 
long,  three  quarters  of  an  inch  in  breadth,  with 
four  sentences  of  the  law  most  curiously  written 
upon  it  in  Hebrew ;  viz.  Exod.  xiii.  from  verse  7 
to  11,  and  from  13  to  17;  Deut.  vi.  from  verse  3 
to  10,  and  xi.  from  13  to  19.  Serarius,  from  the 
rabbles,  saith,  that  they  were  written  severally 
upon  so  many  scrolls,  and  that  the  Jews  do  to  this 
day  wear  them  over  their  foreheads  in  their  man- 
ner. So  that  they  are  of  several  sorts  or  modes, 
whereof  this  is  one."  Mrs.  Bland  having  written 
the  phylactery  described  by  Dr.  Grew,  at  the  re- 
quest of  Mr.  Thoresby,  presented  it  to  the  Royal 
Society. 

By  the  two  pedigrees  of  the  family,  printed  in 
Mr.  Thoresby's  Ducatus  Leodiensis,  pages  209 
and  587,  it  seems  she  was  living  in  1712. 

BLEECKER,    ANNE   ELIZA, 

One  of  the  early  poetesses  of  America,  was  born 
in  New  York,  in  1752.  Her  father  was  Brandt 
Schuyler,  of  that  city.  In  1769,  she  married  John 
J.  Bleecker,  and  afterwards  lived  chiefly  at  Tom 
hanick,  a  little  village  not  far  from  Albany.  K 
was  in  this  seclusion  that  most  of  her  poems  were 
written.  The  death  of  one  of  her  children,  and 
the  capture  of  her  husband,  who  was  taken  pri- 
soner by  a  party  of  tories,  in  1781,  caused  a  de- 
pression of  spirits  and  melancholy  from  which  she 
never  recovered.  She  died  in  1783.  Several  years 
after  her  death,  her  poems  were  collected  by  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Faugeres,  and  published  in  one 
volume.  There  are  no  wonderful  traces  of  genius 
in  these  poems  ;  but  they  show  a  refined  taste, 
and  talents  which  might  have  been  ctiltivated  to 
higher  efforts,  if  the  circumstances  surrounding 
the  author  had  been  propitious.  There  is  a  pure 
cui-rent  of  conjugal  and  maternal  feeling  to  be 

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traced  in  all  her  effusions.  In  her  descriptive 
poetry  she  seems  to  have  obsei-ved  nature  with  the 
loving  eye  of  a  woman,  rather  than  the  searching 
glance  of  the  artist;  and  she  appropriates  the 
scenery,  so  to  speak,  to  her  own  affections.  The 
following  was  written  to  commemorate  her  return 
to  her  home : 

RETUEN    TO    TOMANICK. 

Hail,  happy  shaties  !  though  clad  with  heavy  snows, 

At  sight  of  you  willi  joy  my  bosom  glows. 

Ye  arching  pines,  that  bow  with  every  breeze. 

Ye  poplars,  ehns,  all  hail  my  well  known  trees! 

And  now  my  peaceful  mansion  strikes  my  eye, 

And  now  the  tinkling  rivulet  I  spy; 

My  little  garden.  Flora,  hast  thou  kept, 

And  watch'd  my  pinks  and  lilies  while  I  wept  ? 

Or  has  the  grubbing  swine,  by  furies  led, 

The  enclosure  broke,  and  on  my  flowerets  fed? 

Ah  me  !  that  spot  with  blooms  so  lately  graced. 
With  storms  and  driving  snows  is  now  defaced ; 
Sharp  icicles  from  every  hush  depend, 
And  frosts  all  dazzling  o'er  the  beds  extend  : 
Yet  soon  fair  sjiring  shall  give  another  scene, 
.And  yellow  cowslips  gild  the  level  green ; 
My  little  orchard  sprouting  at  each  bough, 
Fragrant  with  clustering  blossoms  deep  shall  glow  . 
Ah  !  then  't  is  sweet  the  tufted  grass  to  tread, 
But  sweeter  slumbering  in  the  balmy  shade  ; 
The  rapid  hummingbird,  with  ruby  breast. 
Seeks  the  parterre  with  early  blue-bells  drest, 
Drinks  deep  the  honeysuckle  dew,  or  drives 
The  labouring  bee  to  her  domestic  hives: 
Then  shines  the  lupine  bright  with  morning  gems. 
And  sleepy  poppies  nod  upon  their  stems; 
The  humble  violet  and  the  dulcet  rose. 
The  stately  lily  then,  and  tulip  blows. 

Farewell,  my  Plutarch!  farewell,  pen  and  m  ise  I 
Nature  exults— shall  I  her  call  refuse? 
Apollo  fervid  glitters  in  my  face, 
.And  threatens  with  his  beam  each  feeble  grace  : 
Yet  still  around  the  lovely  plants  I  toil. 
And  draw  obnoxious  herbage  from  the  soil ; 
Or  with  the  lime-twigs  little  birds  surprise. 
Or  angle  for  the  trout  of  many  dyes. 

But  when  the  vernal  breezes  pass  away, 
And  loftier  Phcebus  darts  a  fiercer  ray. 
The  spiky  corn  then  rattles  all  around, 
And  dasliing  cascades  give  a  pleasing  sound  ; 
Shrill  sings  the  locust  with  prolonged  note. 
The  cricket  chirps  familiar  in  each  cot. 
The  village  children  rambling  o'er  yon  hill, 
With  berrres  all  their  painted  baskets  fill. 
They  rob  the  squirrel's  little  walnut  store. 
And  climb  the  half  exhausted  tree  for  more  ; 
Or  else  to  fields  of  maize  nocturnal  hie. 
Where  hid,  the  elusive  water-melons  lie; 
Sportive,  they  make  incisions  in  the  rinil. 
The  riper  from  the  immature  to  find  ; 
Then  load  their  tender  shoulders  with  the  prey. 
And  laughing  bear  the  bulky  fruit  away. 

BLESSING  TON,  COUNTESS  OF, 
Was  born  in  Ireland,  Sept.  1st,  1789.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Marguerite  Power ;  she  was  the 
second  daughter  of  Edmund  Power,  Esq.,  of  Car- 
rabeen,  in  the  county  of  Waterford.  iMarguerite 
Power  was  very  beautiful,  and  married,  at  the 
early  age  of  fifteen,  Captain  Farmer,  of  the  forty- 
seventh  regiment.  lie  died  in  1817  ;  and,  in  the 
following  year,  Mrs.  Farmer  married  her  second 
husband,  Charles  John  Gardner,  earl  of  Blessing- 
ton.  During  the  lifetime  of  the  earl  he  resided 
with  Lady  Blessington  chiefly  in  Italy  and  France  ; 
and  he  died  in  Paris,  in  1829.  Lady  Blessington 
returned  soon  afterwards  to  London,  and  devoted 
herself  to  literature.     She  was  so  prominent  in 


the  circle  her  rank,  talents,  accomplishments  and 
beauty  drew  around  her,  that  her  biography  is 
familiar  to  all.  She  resided  in  London,  till  the 
troubles  in  Ireland  had  so  embarrassed  her  estates 
in  that  ill-governed  country,  that  she  was  com- 
pelled to  dispose  of  her  house  and  all  her  property 


— her  most  cherished  "household  gods" — at  pub- 
lic sale.  In  the  spring  of  1849,  she  removed  to 
Paris,  where  she  intended  to  fix  her  residence, 
and  died  there,  early  in  June,  before  she  had  fully 
established  herself  in  her  new  home.  Among  the 
many  testimonials  to  the  natural  generosity  of  her 
disposition,  and  the  truth  of  her  zeal  in  the  ser- 
vice of  her  friends,  we  quote  from  a  notice  in  the 
Art-Journal : 

"She  was  largely  indebted  to  Nature  for  sur- 
passing loveliness  of  person  and  graceful  and 
ready  wit.  Circumstances  connected  with  the 
earlier  years  of  her  life  (to  which  it  is  needless  to 
refer)  '  told'  against  her  through  the  whole  of  her 
career ;  but  we  entirely  believe  that  the  Nature 
which  gave  her  beauty,  gave  her  also  those  desires 
to  be  good  which  constitute  true  virtue.  Those 
who  speak  lightly  of  this  accomplished  woman, 
might  have  better  means  to  do  her  justice  if  they 
knew  but  a  tithe  of  the  cases  that  might  be  quoted 
of  her  generous  sympathy,  her  ready  and  liberal 
aid,  and  her  persevering  sustenance  whenever  a 
good  cause  was  to  be  helped,  or  a  virtuous  prin- 
ciple was  to  be  promulgated." 

She  wrote  with  great  facility  and  elegance  of 
language,  but  her  style  is  too  diffuse,  particularly 
in  her  novels.  Her  "Idler  in  Italy,"  and  "Con- 
versations with  Lord  Byron,"  are  her  best  works  : 
the  last  is  very  interesting,  the  subjects  owing, 
probably,  much  to  the  spirit  with  which  the  hero 
of  the  book  discourses.  The  list  of  Lady  Bless- 
ington's  works  is  large,  comprising  the  following : 
— "The  Magic  Lantern,"  "Sketches  and  Frag- 
ments," "Tour  in  the  Netherlands,"  "Conversa- 
tions with  Lord  Byron,"  "The  lleyealers,"  "The 
Two  Friends,"  "  The  Victims  of  Society,"  "  The 
Idler  rn  France,"  "  The  Idler  in  Italy,"  "  The  Go- 
verness," "  Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Lady," 
"  Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman,"  "  Desul- 

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tory  Thoughts,"  "  The  Belle  of  a  Season,"  "  Lot- 
tery of  Life,"  "Meredith,"  "  Strathern,"  "Me- 
moirs of  a  Femme  de  Chambre."  She  wrote  also 
several  illustrated  books  of  poetry.  The  follow- 
ing is  from  the  "  Conversations,"  &c. : 

LORD    BYRON    IN    1823. 

"  Saw  Lord  Byron  for  the  first  time.  The  im- 
])ression  of  the  first  few  moments  disappointed  me, 
as  I  had,  both  from  the  portraits  and  descriptions 
given,  conceived  a  different  idea  of  him.  I  had 
fancied  him  taller,  with  a  more  dignified  and  com- 
manding air,  and  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  hero 
looking  sort  of  person  with  whom  I  had  so  long 
identified  him  in  imagination.  His  appearance  is 
highly  prepossessing ;  his  head  is  finely  shaped, 
and  the  forehead  open,  high,  and  noble ;  his  eyes 
are  grey  and  full  of  expression,  but  one  is  visibly 
larger  than  the  other ;  the  nose  is  large  and  well 
shaped,  but,  from  being  a  little  too  thick,  it  looks 
better  in  profile  than  in  front  face ;  his  mouth  is 
the  most  remarkable  feature  in  his  face,  the  upper 
lip  of  Grecian  shortness,  the  corners  descending, 
the  lips  full  and  finely  cut.  In  speaking,  he 
shows  his  teeth  very  much,  and  they  are  white  and 
even,  but  I  observed  that  even  in  his  frequent 
smiles  there  is  a  scornful  expression,  that  is  evi- 
dently natural,  and  not,  as  many  siippose,  affected. 
His  chin  is  large  and  well  shaped,  and  finishes  well 
the  oval  of  his  face.  He  is  extremely  thin,  in- 
deed so  much  so,  that  his  figure  has  almost  a  boy- 
ish air ;  his  face  is  pale,  but  not  the  paleness  of 
ill  health,  but  the  fairness  of  a  dark-haired  per- 
son, and  his  hair,  which  is  getting  rapidly  grey, 
is  of  a  dark  brown  and  curls  naturally ;  he  uses  a 
good  deal  of  oil  in  it,  which  makes  it  look  still 
darker.  His  countenance  is  full  of  expression,  it 
gains  on  the  beholder  the  more  it  is  seen,  and 
leaves  an  agreeable  impression.  I  should  say  that 
melancholy  was  its  prevailing  character,  as  I  ob- 
served that  when  any  observation  elicited  a  smile, 
it  appeared  to  linger  but  for  a  moment  on  his  lip, 
which  instantly  resumed  its  former  expression  of 
seriousness.  His  whole  appearance  is  remarkably 
gentlemanlike,  and  he  owes  nothing  of  this  to  his 
toilet,  as  his  coat  appears  to  have  been  many  years 
made,  is  much  too  large — and  all  his  garments 
convey  the  idea  of  having  been  purchased  ready- 
made,  so  ill  do  they  fit  him.  There  is  a  gaucherie 
in  his  movements,  which  evidently  proceeds  from 
the  perpetual  consciousness  of  his  lameness,  that 
appears  to  haunt  him,  for  he  tries  to  conceal  his 
foot  when  seated,  and  when  walking  has  a  nervous 
rapidity  in  his  manner.  He  is  very  slightly  lame, 
and  the  deformity  of  his  foot  is  so  little  remarka- 
ble, that  I  am  not  now  aware  which  foot  it  is. 
His  voice  and  accents  are  peculiarly  agreeable,  but 
effeminate,  clear,  harmonious,  and  so  distinct,  that 
though  his  general  tone  in  speaking  is  rather  low 
than  high,  not  a  word  is  lost.  His  manners  are 
as  unlike  my  preconceived  notions  of  them  as  his 
appearance.  I  had  expected  to  find  him  a  digni- 
fied, cold,  reserved,  and  haughty  person,  resem- 
bling those  mysterious  personages  he  so  loves  to 
paint  in  his  works,  and  with  whom  he  has  been  so 
often  identified  by  the  good-natured  world :  but 


nothing  can  be  more  different ;  for  were  I  to  point 
out  the  prominent  defect  of  Lord  Byron,  I  should 
say  it  was  flippancy,  and  a  total  want  of  that  na- 
tural self-possession  and  dignity  which  ought  to 
characterize  a  man  of  birth  and  education. 

LORD    BYKON's    ill-temper. 

Lord  Byron  dined  with  us  to-day ;  we  all  ob- 
served that  he  was  evidently  discomposed:  the 
dinner  and  servants  had  no  sooner  disappeared, 
than  he  quoted  an  attack  against  himself,  in  some 
newspaper,  as  the  cause.  He  was  very  much  irri- 
tated— much  more  so  than  the  subject  merited — 
and  showed  how  keenly  alive  he  is  to  censure, 
though  he  takes  so  little  pains  to  avoid  exciting  it. 
This  is  a  strange  anomaly  that  I  have  observed  in 
Byron  —  an  extreme  susceptibility  to  censoi'ious 
observations,  and  a  want  of  tact  in  not  knowing 
how  to  steer  clear  of  giving  cause  to  them,  that  is 
extraoixlinary.  He  winces  under  castigation,  and 
writhes  in  agony  under  the  infliction  of  ridicule, 
yet  gives  rise  to  attack  every  day. 

Ridicule  is,  however,  the  weapon  he  most 
dreads,  perhaps  because  it  is  the  one  he  wields 
with  most  power ;  and  I  observe  he  is  sensitively 
alive  to  its  slightest  approach.  It  is  also  the  wea- 
pon with  which  he  assails  all ;  fi'iend  and  foe  alike 
come  imder  its  cutting  point ;  and  the  laugh  which 
accompanies  each  sally,  as  a  deadly  incision  is 
made  in  some  vulnerable  quarter,  so  little  accords 
with  the  wound  inflicted,  that  it  is  as  though  one 
were  struck  down  by  summer  lightning  while  ad- 
miring its  brilliant  play. 

Byron  likes  not  contradiction :  he  waxed  wroth 
to-day,  because  I  defended  a  friend  of  mine  whom 
he  attacked,  but  ended  by  taking  my  hand  and 
saying  he  honoured  me  for  the  warmth  with  which 
I  defended  an  absent  friend,  adding  with  irony, 
"Moreover,  when  he  is  not  a  poet,  or  even  a  prose 
writer,  by  whom  you  can  hope  to  be  repaid  by 
being  handed  down  to  posterity  as  his  defender." 

"  I  often  think,"  said  Byron,  "  that  I  inherit 
my  violence  and  bad  temper  from  my  poor  mother, 
not  that  my  father,  from  all  I  could  ever  learn, 
had  a  much  better ;  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  I  have 
such  a  very  bad  one.  As  long  as  I  can  remember 
anything,  I  recollect  being  subject  to  violent  pa- 
roxysms of  rage,  so  disproportioned  to  the  cause 
as  to  surprise  me  when  they  were  over;  and  this 
still  continues.  I  cannot  coolly  view  anything 
that  excites  my  feelings ;  and  once  the  lurking 
devil  within  me  is  roused,  I  lose  all  command  of 
myself.  I  do  not  recover  a  good  fit  of  rage  for 
days  after :  mind,  I  do  not  by  this  mean  that  the 
ill  humour  continues,  as,  on  the  contrary,  that 
quickly  subsides,  exhausted  by  its  own  violence ; 
but  it  shakes  me  terribly — and  leaves  me  low  and 
nervous  after.  Depend  on  it,  people's  tempers 
must  be  corrected  while  they  are  children ;  for 
not  all  the  good  resolutions  in  the  world  can  en- 
able a  man  to  conquer  habits  of  ill  humour  or 
rage,  however  he  may  regret  having  given  way  to 
them.  My  poor  mother  was  generally  in  a  rage 
every  day,  and  used  to  render  me  sometimes  al- 
most frantic  ;  particularly,  when,  in  her  passion, 
she  reproached  me  with  my  personal  deformity,  I 

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have  left  her  presence  to  rush  into  solitude,  when, 
unseeu,  I  could  vent  the  rage  and  mortification  I 
endured,  and  curse  the  deformity  that  I  now  be- 
gan to  consider  as  a  signal  mark  of  the  injustice 
of  Providence.  Those  were  bitter  moments ;  even 
now,  the  impression  of  them  is  vivid  in  my  mind ; 
and  they  cankered  a  heart  that  I  believe  was  na- 
turally aifectionate,  and  destroyed  a  temper  always 
disposed  to  be  violent.  It  was  my  feelings  at  this 
period  that  suggested  the  idea  of  '  The  Deformed 
Transformed.'  I  often  look  back  on  the  days  of 
my  childhood,  and  am  astonished  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  intensity  of  my  feelings  at  that  period : 
first  impressions  are  indelible.  My  poor  mother, 
and  after  her  my  school-fellows,  by  their  taunts, 
led  me  to  consider  my  lameness  as  the  greatest 
misfortune,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  conquer 
this  feeling.  It  requires  great  natural  goodness, 
of  disposition  as  well  as  reflection,  to  conquer  the 
corroding  bitterness  that  deformity  engenders  in 
the  mind,  and  which,  while  preying  on  itself,  sours 
one  towards  all  the  world.  I  have  read,  that 
where  personal  deformity  exists,  it  may  be  always 
traced  in  the  face,  however  handsome  the  face 
may  be.  I  am  sure  that  what  is  meant  by  this  is, 
that  the  consciousness  of  it  gives  to  the  counte- 
nance an  habitual  expression  of  discontent,  which 
1  believe  is  the  case ;  yet  it  is  too  bad  (added  By- 
ron with  bitterness,)  that,  because  one  has  a  de- 
fective foot,  one  cannot  have  a  perfect  face." 

LORD  BTRON's  EEGARD  FOR  HIS  WIFE. 

I  do  not  recollect  ever  having  met  Byron  that 
he  did  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  introduce  the 
subject  of  lady  Byron.  The  impression  left  on 
my  mind  was,  that  she  continually  occupied  his 
thoughts,  and  that  he  most  anxiously  desired  a 
reconciliation  with  her.  He  declared  that  his 
marriage  was  free  from  every  interested  motive ; 
and  if  not  founded  on  love,  as  love  is  generally 
viewed,  a  wild,  engrossing  and  ungovernable  pas- 
sion, there  was  quite  sufficient  liking  in  it  to  have 
insured  happiness  had  his  temper  been  better. 
He  said  that  lady  Byron's  appearance  had  pleased 
him  from  the  first  moment,  and  had  always  con- 
tinued to  jjlease  him  ;  and  that,  bad  his  pecuniary 
affairs  been  in  a  less  ruinous  state,  his  temper 
would  not  have  been  excited,  as  it  daily,  hourly 
was,  during  the  brief  period  of  their  union,  by  the 
demands  of  insolent  creditors,  whom  he  was  unable 
to  satisfy,  and  who  drove  him  nearly  out  of  his 
senses,  until  he  lost  all  command  of  himself,  and 
so  forfeited  lady  Byron's  affection.  "  I  must  ad- 
mit," said  he,  "that  I  could  not  have  left  a  very 
agreeable  impression  on  her  mind.  AVith  my  iras- 
cible temper,  worked  upon  by  the  constant  attacks 
of  duns,  no  wonder  that  I  became  gloomy,  violent, 
and  I  fear  often  personally  uncivil,  if  no  worse, 
and  so  disgusted  her ;  though,  had  she  really 
loved  me,  she  would  have  borne  with  my  infirm- 
ities, and  made  allowance  for  my  provocations.  I 
have  written  to  her  repeatedly,  and  am  still  in  the 
habit  of  writing  long  letters  to  her,  many  of  which 
I  have  sent,  but  without  ever  receiving  an  answer, 
and  others  that  I  did  not  send,  because  I  despaired 
of  their  doing  any  good.     I  will  show  you  some 


of  them,  as  they  may  serve  to  throw  a  light  on  my 
feelings."  The  next  day  Byron  sent  me  the  letter 
addressed  to  lady  Byron,  which  has  already  ap- 
peared in  "  Moore's  Life."  He  never  could  divest 
himself  of  the  idea  that  she  took  a  deep  interest 
in  him  ;  he  said  that  their  child  must  always  be  a 
bond  of  union  between  them,  whatever  lapse  of 
years  or  distance  might  separate  them ;  and  this 
idea  seemed  to  comfort  him. 

From  Ihe  "  Tour  in  Italy." 
A    BIRTHDAY. 

I  could  be  (riste,  and  sentimental,  were  I  to  give 
way  to  the  reflections  which  particular  recollections 
awaken.  In  England  I  should  experience  these 
doleful  feelings,  but  at  Paris  iristesse,  and  senti- 
mentality would  be  misplaced ;  so  I  must  look 
coideur  de  rose,  and  receive  the  congratulations  of 
my  friends,  on  adding  another  year  to  my  age ;  a 
subject  far  from  meriting  congratulations,  when 
one  has  passed  thirty.  Youth  is  like  health,  we 
never  value  the  possession  of  either,  until  we  have 
begun  to  decline. 

A  NEW  TEAR. 

There  is  something  that  excites  grave  and  so- 
lemn reflections  in  this  new  page,  opened  in  the 
book  of  life.  I  never  could  understand  how  people 
can  dance  out  the  old  year,  and  welcome  in  the 
new  with  gaiety  and  rejoicings.  If  the  departed 
year  has  brought  us  sorrow,  (and  over  how  few 
does  it  revolve  without  bringing  it!)  we  look  on 
its  departure  with  chastened  feelings ;  and  if  its 
circle  has  been  marked  by  bright  days,  how  can 
we  see  it  die  without  indulging  a  tender  melan- 
choly ?  I  felt  all  this  last  night,  when  the  ghosts 
of  departed  joys  stood  before  my  mmd"s  eye  ;  and 
I  breathed  a  heartfelt  aspiration  that  the  coming 
year  may  pass  as  free  from  heavy  trials  as  the 
last.  AVhat  a  merciful  arrangement  of  Divine 
Providence  is  the  impenetrable  veil  which  covers 
our  destinies !  And  yet  there  are  mortals  who 
have  desired  to  pierce  it ;  who  have  thirsted  for 
that  knowledge  which,  if  obtained,  might  empoison 
the  present.  How  worse  than  vain  is  this  desire 
of  prying  into  futurity  !  Do  we  not  know  that  our 
lives,  and  those  of  all  dear  to  us,  hang  on  so  frail 
a  thread,  that  a  moment  may  see  it  cut  by  inexo- 
rable fate  ! — that  it  is  the  condition  of  our  being 
to  behold  our  friends  (the  links  that  bind  us  to 
existence,)  snapt  widely !  And  yet  we  would  wish 
to  lift  the  dread  veil  that  hides  the  yawning  graves, 
to  be  filled,  perhaps  in  a  few  days,  by  some  one 
whose  death  will  render  earth  a  desert.  Far,  far 
from  me  be  this  unenviable  prescience ;  and  let 
me  not  tremble  for  the  future  by  foreseeing  what 
it  contains. 

OF  DANCING  AND  DRESS  IN  FRANCE. 

All  we  have  heard  in  praise  of  French  dancing 
is  borne  out  by  what  I  have  seen  even  in  this  pro- 
vincial town.  Nothing  can  be  more  graceful,  or 
unaffected ;  no  attempt  at  display  is  visible ;  no 
entre-chats,  that  alarm  people  with  tender  feet  for 
their  safety  ;  and  no  exhibition  of  vigour  likely  to 
bring  its  practisers  to  the  melting  mood;  a  mood 

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never  sufiBciently  to  be  reprobated  in  refined  so- 
ciety. The  waltz  in  France  loses  its  objectionable 
familiarity,  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  perform- 
ed. The  gentleman  does  not  clasp  his  fair  partner 
round  the  waist  with  a  freedom  repugnant  to  the 
modesty  and  destructive  to  the  ceinture  of  the  lady  ; 
but  so  arranges  it,  that  he  assists  her  movements, 
without  incommoding  her  delicacy  or  her  drapery. 
In  short,  they  manage  these  matters  better  in  France 
than  with  us ;  and  though  no  advocate  for  this  exo- 
tic dance,  I  must  admit  that,  executed  as  I  have  seen 
it,  it  could  not  offend  the  most  fastidious  eye. 

The  French  toilette,  too,  even  at  this  distance 
from  the  capital,  is  successfully  attended  to ;  an 
elegant  simplicity  distinguishes  that  of  the  young 
ladies,  whose  robes  of  organd4  or  tulle,  of  a  snowy 
whiteness,  well  buckled  ceinture,  bouquet  of  flow- 
ers, well-cut  shoes,  and  delicately  white  gloves, 
defy  criticism,  and  convey  the  impression  of  having 
been  selected  by  the  Graces  to  be  worn  for  that 
night  only.    No  robe  of  materials  too  expensive  to 
be  quickly  laid  aside,  or  chijfonee  and  fanee  by  use, 
here  meets  the  sight ;  no  ceinture  that  betrays  the 
pressure  it  inflicts ;  and  no  gloves  that  indicate 
the  warmth  of  the  wearer's  feelings,  or  those  of 
her  partner,  are  to  be  seen.     The  result  is,  that 
the  young  ladies  are  simply  and  tastefully  attired, 
with  an  extreme  attention  to  ih&  freshness  of  their 
toilette,  and  a  total  avoidance  of  finery.     A  much 
greater  degree  of  prudery,  if  it  may  be  so  called, 
is  exercised  in  France  than  in  England,  with  re- 
gard to  dress  ;  the  robes  of  ladies  of  all  ages  con- 
ceal much  more  of  the  bust  and  shoulders.    They 
claim  some  merit  for  this  delicacy,  though  ill-na- 
tured people  are  not  wanting  who  declare  that 
prudence  has  more  to  say  to  the  concealment  than 
modesty ;  the  French  busts  and  shoulders  being 
very  inferior  to  the  English.    Of  the  former  I  have 
had  no  means  of  judging,  because  they  are  so 
covered  by  the  dress ;  but  of  the  latter,  all  must 
pronounce  that  they  are  charming.    Great  reserve 
is  maintained  by  the  French  ladies  in  society ; 
shaking  hands  with  gentlemen  is  deemed  indecor- 
ous ;  but  to  touch  a  lady's  hand  with  the  lips, 
while  bowing  over  it,   is   considered   respectful. 
The  conversation  of  young  ladies  with  their  part- 
ners in  the  dance,  is  nearly  confined  to  monosylla- 
bles ;  and  when  ended,  they  resume  their  seats  by 
the  side  of  their  respective  mothers,  or  chaperons, 
only  speaking  when  spoken  to,  and  always  with  an 
air  of  reserve,  which  is  never  laid  aside  in  public. 

BLOMBERG,  BARBARA, 

A  YOUNG  lady  of  noble  birth  in  Ratisbon,  mis- 
tress of  Charles  V.,  emperor  of  Germany.  She 
was  the  reputed  mother  of  the  natural  son  of 
Charles,  Don  John  of  Austria,  who,  dying  in  1578, 
recommended  her,  and  her  son,  Pyramus  Conrad, 
whom  she  afterwards  had  by  her  husband,  to  the 
protection  of  Philip  II.  Accordingly,  Philip  sent 
for  Barbara  into  Spain,  and  settled  her  with  a 
handsome  equipage  at  Mazote. 

BIBI  JAND, 
Queen  of  Dekan  in  Hindostan  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  was  a  wise  and  able  princess.    She  main- 


tained her  dominions  in  peace  and  prosperity,  and 
repulsed  with  success  the  attacks  of  the  Moguls, 
who  wished  to  subjugate  them. 

BILDERJIK,  KATHARINE  WILHELMINA, 

Wife  of  the  celebrated  poet  of  Holland,  died  at 
Haarlaem,  in  1831.  She  was  herself  distinguished 
for  her  poetic  abilities  ;  and,  in  1816,  obtained  a 
prize  offered  at  Ghent  for  the  best  poem  on  the 
battle  of  Waterloo. 

BILLINGTON,   ELIZABETH, 

The  most  celebrated  English  singer  of  her  day, 
was  born  in  England,  in  1770.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Mr.  Weichsell,  a  German.  At  the  age  of 
fourteen  she  made  her  first  appearance  as  a  singer, 
at  Oxford ;  and  two  years  afterwards  married  Mr. 
Billington,  whom  she  accompanied  to  Dublin. 
Here  she  made  her  debut  in  the  opera  of  "  Orpheus 
and  Eurydice."  On  returning  to  London,  she  ap- 
peared at  Covent  Garden  with  great  success,  and 
rapidly  acquired  a  high  reputation.  She  after- 
wards visited  the  continent  to  avail  herself  of  the 
instructions  of  the  masters  of  the  art  in  Paris  and 
Italy.  In  1796,  she  appeared  at  Venice  and  at 
Rome,  receiving  everywhere  the  loudest  expres- 
sions of  applause.  In  1801,  she  returned  to  the 
London  stage,  and  astonished  the  whole  world  by 
her  Mandane,  a  performance  that  has  hardly  ever 
been  equalled  in  English  opera.  The  last  exhibi- 
tion of  her  powers  was  for  the  benefit  of  a  charity 
at  Whitehall  chapel ;  the  queen,  the  prince-regent, 
and  most  of  the  branches  of  the  royal  family,  be- 
ing present.  She  left  England  in  1817,  and  died 
soon  after  at  an  estate  she  had  purchased  in  the 
Venetian  territories.  Her  character  as  a  private 
individual  was  very  bad. 

BILLIONI,   N.    BUSSA, 
A  celebrated  actress  at  the  theatres  of  France 
and  Brussels,  died  in  1783. 

BOCCAGE,    MARIE   ANNE   DU, 

A  celebrated  French  poetess,  member  of  the 
academies  of  Rome,  Bologna,  Padua,  Lyons,  and 
Rouen,  was  born  in  Rouen  in  1710,  and  died  in 
1802.  She  was  educated  in  Paris  in  a  nunnery, 
where  she  evinced  a  love  of  poetry.  She  became 
the  wife  of  a  receiver  of  taxes  in  Dieppe,  who  died 
soon  after  the  marriage,  leaving  her  a  youthful 
widow.  She  concealed  her  talents,  however,  till 
the  charms  of  youth  were  past,  and  first  published 
her  productions  in  1746.  The  first  was  a  poem 
"On  the  Mutual  Influence  of  the  Fine  Arts  and 
Sciences."  This  gained  the  prize  from  the  academy 
of  Rouen.  She  next  attempted  an  imitation  of 
Paradise  Lost,  in  six  cantos  ;  then  of  the  "  Death 
of  Abel ;"  next  a  tragedy,  the  "  Amazons  ;"  and  a 
poem  in  ten  cantos,  called  "  The  Columbiad." 
Madame  du  Boccage  was  praised  by  her  contem- 
poraries with  an  extravagance,  for  which  only  her 
sex  and  the  charms  of  her  person  can  account. 
Forma  Venus  arte  Minerva,  was  the  motto  of  her 
admirers,  among  whom  were  Voltaire,  Fontenelle. 
and  Clairaut.  She  was  always  surrounded  by  dis- 
tinguished men,  and  extolled  in  a  multitude  of 

215 


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poems,  which,  if  collected,  would  fill  several  vo- 
lumes. There  is  a  great  deal  of  entertaining 
matter  in  the  letters  which  she  wrote  on  her  tra- 
vels in  England  and  Holland,  and  in  which  one 
may  plainly  see  the  impression  she  made  upon  her 
contemporaries.  Her  works  have  been  translated 
into  English,  Spanish,  German  and  Italian. 

The  following  is  a  specimen  of  the  versification 
of  Madame  Boccage.  These  effusions  may  well 
be  styled  the  poetry  of  polite  life,  and  therefore 
we  insert  them  in  the  language  of  the  wx'iter. 
The  piquancy  and  grace,  which  give  effect  to  the 
original,  would  be  nearly  lost  in  a  translation  of 
these  i^retty,  sparkling  French  compliments  into 
plain  common  sense,  and  unsentimental  English 
rhyme. 

A.    M.    BAILLY, 

De  V Academie  des  Sciences, 

Sur  son  Histoire  de  rAstionomie  Aiicienne  et  Moderiie. 

O  toi  dont  le  savoir  etonne, 

Mais  qui  sais,  en  rornatit  de  fleurs, 

Instriiire  et  charmer  tes  lecteurs, 

Baily,  que  la  gloire  environne; 

Ton  style  enchaiiteur  et  profond, 

Des  lauriers  qui  couvrent  ton  front, 

Te  protnet  la  triple  couronne. 

Le  public  deja  te  la  donne. 

Du  Mus6e  oQ  brillaient  jadis 

Mairan,  Voltaire  el  les  Corneilles, 

La  palme  est  due  a  tes  merveilles. 

Le  Lyc6e,  oii  nos  trudits 

Du  vieux  tenis  vantont  les  Merits, 

Garde  un  prix  pour  tes  doctes  veilles. 

Des  long  tenis  tes  noms  sont  inscrits 

Dans  la  savante  Academie. 

La,  ton  (Eil,  que  guide  Uranie, 

Des  fastes  priuiitifs  instruit, 

Lit  dans  I'oubli  du  tenis  qui  fuit ; 

Et  si  ta  sublime  niagie 

A  voir  I'avenir  te  conduit, 

Sous  tes  crayons,  malgr6  I'envie, 

Les  traits  peints  au  regard  seduit, 

Y  prendront  la  forme  et  la  vie; 

Une  Sibylle  le  prSdil, 

La  pr6diction  est  accomplie. 

Tout  est  possible  a  ton  genie. 

BOIS  DE  LA  PIERRE,  LOUISE  MARIE, 

A  LADY  of  Normandy,  who  possessed  some  po- 
etical merit,  and  wrote  memoirs  for  the  history 
of  Normandy,  &c.  She  died  Sept.  14th,  1730, 
aged  sixty-seven. 

BONAPARTE,  RAMOLINA  MARIE 
LETITIA, 
Was  born  at  Ajaccio  in  the  island  of  Corsica,  in 
1748.  The  family  of  Ramolini  is  of  noble  origin, 
and  is  derived  from  the  counts  of  Colatto.  The 
founder  of  the  Corsican  branch  had  married  the 
daughter  of  a  doge  of  Genoa,  and  had  received 
from  that  republic  great  and  honourable  distinc- 
tions. The  mother  of  Madame  Letitia  married  a 
second  time  a  Swiss  named  Fesch,  whose  family 
was  from  Basle.  He  was  a  Protestant,  but  was 
proselyted  by  his  wife,  and  entered  the  Catholic 
church.  From  this  second  marriage  was  born  the 
cardinal  Fesch,  half-brother  of  Madame  Bonaparte. 
Letitia  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls  of  Cor- 
sica. She  married  Charles  Bonaparte  in  1766; 
he  was  a  friend  of  Paoli,  and  a  man  of  untarnished 


honour.  It  is  idle  to  insist  on  the  nobility  of  the 
Bonaparte  family,  since  nobody  can  deny  that  the 
deeds  of  Napoleon  were  at  least  equal  to  those  of 
the  founders  of  any  of  the  most  splendid  genealo- 
gies in  Europe ;  but  as  no  less  a  person  than 
Chateaubriand  has  condescended  to  second  the 
useless  falsehoods  of  those  who  represented  the 
emperor  as  springing  from  a  low  and  vulgar  race, 
it  may  here  be  stated,  that  from  Nicolao  Bona- 
parte, exiled  as  a  Ghibellin  from  Florence,  in  1268, 
to  Charles,  tlie  Bonapartes  can  count  seven  gene- 
rations of  nobility. 


:)  ^ 


Letitia  Ramolini  espoused  Charles  Bonaparte  in 
the  midst  of  civil  discords  and  wars ;  through 
every  vicissitude  she  followed  her  husband,  and 
as  few  persons  have  been  placed  in  more  difficult 
conjunctures,  few  have  exhibited  such  strength  of 
mind,  courage,  fortitude,  and  equanimity.  The 
most  unexampled  prosperity,  and  most  unlooked- 
for  adversity  have  found  her  equal  to  the  ditScul- 
ties  of  each.  Her  eight  children  who  lived  to 
maturity  were  the  following :  Joseph,  king  of 
Naples,  and  afterwards  of  Spain ;  Napoleon  ;  Eliza, 
grand-duchess  of  Tuscany ;  Lucien ;  Pauline, 
princess  Borghese  ;  Louis,  king  of  Holland  ;  Caro- 
line, queen  of  Naples ;  and  Jerome,  king  of  West- 
phalia. 

In  1785  Charles  Bonaparte  being  sent  to  France 
as  a  deputy  from  the  Corsican  nobility,  was  seized 
with  a  cancer  of  the  stomach,  and  died  at  Mont- 
pelier  in  the  arms  of  his  son  Joseph.  He  left  a 
widow  with  eight  children,  and  no  fortune.  Two 
of  the  family  were  educated  at  the  expense  of  the 
government  —  Napoleon  at  Brienne,  and  Eliza  at 
St.  Cyr  —  while  the  others  found  their  mother  an 
instructress  capable  and  energetic.  Hers  was  a 
character  that  displayed  its  resources  in  difficul- 
ties ;  and  she  always  managed  to  maintain  her 
children  in  the  position  to  which  they  were  natu- 
rally entitled.  She  was  fond  of  saying  of  Napo- 
leon, "  That  he  had  never  given  her  a  moment's 
pain,  not  even  at  the  time  which  is  almost  univer- 
sally woman's  hour  of  suffering."  The  15th  of 
August,  Madame  Bonaparte  was  coming  out  of 
church,  when  she  was  attacked  with  symptoms  of 

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an  approaching  event;  slie  had  barely  time  to 
enter  her  own  house  —  a  piece  of  tapestry  hang- 
ings was  hastily  thrown  on  the  marble  pavement 
of  the  hall,  and  there  Napoleon  was  born.  The 
tapestry  represented  a  scene  from  the  Iliad. 

Madame  Bonaparte  was  always  kind  and  gen- 
erous ;  in  trouble  she  was  the  advocate  and  pro- 
tectress of  the  unfortunate.  When  Jerome  incurred 
his  brother's  displeasure  for  his  American  mar- 
riage, his  mother  restored  him  to  favour ;  and 
when  Lucien,  for  a  fault  of  the  same  sort,  was 
exiled  to  Rome,  Madame  Letitia  accompanied  him. 
When  Napoleon  became  sovereign,  he  allotted  her 
a  suitable  income,  upon  which  she  maintained  a 
decorous  coui't.  After  the  disasters  of  181 G,  she 
retired  to  Rome,  where  she  lived  in  a  quiet  and 
dignified  manner,  seeing  nobody  but  her  own  con- 
nections, and  sometimes  strangers  of  high  rank, 
who  were  very  desirous  of  being  presented  to  her. 
She  never  laid  aside  her  black,  after  the  death  of 
Napoleon.  She  died  February  2d,  183G,  at  the 
age  of  eighty-six.  For  several  of  the  last  years 
of  her  life  she  was  deprived  of  her  sight,  and  was 
bedridden.  Madame  Letitia  was  always  honoured 
and  respected  by  those  who  were  able  to  appre- 
ciate her  rare  qualities. 

BONTEMS,  MADAME, 
BoEN  at  Paris  in  1718,  died  in  the  same  city, 
April  18th,  17G8;  had  received  from  nature  a 
good  understanding,  and  an  excellent  taste,  which 
were  cultivated  by  a  careful  education.  She  was 
acquainted  with  the  foreign  languages,  and  it  is 
to  her  that  the  French  are  indebted  for  the  accu- 
rate and  elegant  translation  of  "  Thomson's  Sea- 
sons." She  was  the  centre  of  an  amiable  and 
select  society  that  frequented  her  house.  Though 
she  was  naturally  very  witty,  she  only  made  use 
of  this  talent  for  displaying  that  of  others.  She 
was  not  less  esteemed  for  the  qualities  of  her 
heart  than  of  her  mind. 


BORGHESE,    MARIE    PAULINE, 

Princess,  originally  Bonaparte,  sister  of  Napo- 
leon, born  at  Ajaccio,  October  20th,  1780;  went 
when  the  English  occupied  Corsica  in  1793,  to 


Marseilles,  where  she  was  on  the  point  of  marry- 
ing Frdron,  a  member  of  the  Convention,  and  son 
of  that  critic  whom  Voltaire  made  famous,  when 
another  lady  laid  claim  to  his  hand.  The  beauti- 
ful Pauline  was  then  intended  for  general  Duphot, 
who  was  afterwards  murdered  at  Rome  in  Decem- 
ber, 1797  ;  but  she  bestowed  her  hand  from  choice 
on  General  Leclerc,  then  at  Milan,  who  had  been 
in  1795  chief  of  the  general  staff  of  a  division  at 
Marseilles,  and  had  then  fallen  in  love  with  her. 
AVhen  he  was  sent  to  St.  Domingo  with  the  rank 
of  captain-general,  Napoleon  ordered  her  to  ac- 
company her  husband  with  her  son.  She  embarked 
in  December,  1801,  at  Brest,  and  was  called  by 
the  poets  of  the  fleet  the  Galatea  of  the  Greeks, 
the  Venus  marina.  Her  statue  in  marble  has 
since  been  made  by  Canova  at  Rome,  a  successful 
image  of  the  goddess  of  beauty.  She  was  no  less 
courageous  than  beautiful,  for  when  the  negroes 
under  Christophe  stormed  Cape  Franyois,  where 
she  resided,  and  Leclerc,  who  could  no  longer 
resist  the  assailants,  ordered  his  lady  and  child 
to  be  carried  on  shipboard,  she  yielded  only  to 
force. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  November  23d, 

1802,  she  married  at  Morfontaine,  November  6, 

1803,  the  prince  Camillo  Borghese.  Her  son  died 
at  Rome  soon  after.  AVith  Napoleon,  who  loved 
her  tenderly,  she  had  many  disputes  and  as  many 
reconciliations ;  for  she  would  not  always  follow 
the  caprices  of  his  policy.  Yet  even  the  proud 
style  in  which  she  demanded  what  her  brothers 
begged,  made  her  the  more  attractive  to  Na- 
poleon. Once,  however,  when  she  forgot  herself 
towards  the  empress,  whom  she  never  liked,  she 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  court.  She  was  yet  in 
disgrace  at  Nice,  when  Napoleon  resigned  his 
crovm  in  1814 ;  upon  which  occasion  she  imme- 
diately appeared  a  tender  sister.  Instead  of  re- 
maining at  her  palace  in  Rome,  she  set  out  for 
Elba  to  join  her  brother,  and  acted  the  part  of 
mediator  between  him  and  the  other  members  of 
his  family.  When  Napoleon  landed  in  France, 
she  went  to  Naples  to  see  her  sister  Caroline,  and 
afterwards  returned  to  Rome.  Before  the  battle 
of  Waterloo  she  placed  all  her  diamonds,  which 
were  of  great  value,  at  the  disposal  of  her  brother. 
They  were  in  his  carriage,  which  was  taken  in 
that  battle,  and  was  shown  publicly  in  London. 
He  intended  to  have  returned  them  to  her. 

She  lived  afterwards  separated  from  her  hus- 
band at  Rome,  where  she  occupied  part  of  the 
palace  Borghese,  and  where  she  possessed,  from 
1816,  the  villa  Sciarra.  Her  house,  in  which  taste 
and  love  of  the  fine  arts  prevailed,  was  the  centre 
of  the  most  splendid  society  at  Rome.  She  often 
saw  her  mother,  her  brothers  Lucien  and  Louis, 
and  her  uncle  Fesch.  When  she  heard  of  the 
sickness  of  her  brother  Napoleon,  she  repeatedly 
requested  permission  to  go  to  him  at  St.  Helena. 
She  finally  obtained  her  request,  but  the  news  of 
his  death  arrived  immediately  after.  She  died 
June  9th,  1825,  at  Florence.  She  left  many  lega- 
cies, and  a  donation,  by  the  interest  of  which  two 
young  men  of  Ajaccio  will  be  enabled  to  study 
medicine  and  surgery.     The  rest  of  her  property 

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she  left  to  her  brothers,  the  count  of  St.  Leu  and 
the  prince  of  Montfort.  Her  whole  property 
amounted  to  2,000,000  francs. 

Pauline  was  very  fond  of  Italian  poetry,  and 
took  great  pleasure  in  listening  to  the  melancholy 
verses  of  Petrarch.  Among  her  accomplishments, 
the  most  remarkable  certainly  was  her  dramatic 
talent,  which  she  displayed  in  private  theatricals. 
Her  marriage  with  the  prince  Borghese  had  never 
given  anything  like  domestic  happiness  ;  they  had 
long  been  separated,  when,  shortly  before  her 
death,  in  1825,  a  reconciliation  was  eifected,  and 
they  established  their  residence  at  Florence.  She 
was  then  forty-five  years  old,  but  already  felt  the 
undermining  eifects  of  her  fatal  malady.  Pauline 
had  led  a  life  of  pleasure  and  folly,  but  her  death- 
bed presented  a  scene  that  is  sometimes  wanting 
at  the  close  of  better-ordered  lives.  She  exhibited 
the  utmost  tranquillity,  resignation,  and  courage. 
Calling  her  husband,  she  begged  his  pardon  for 
the  causes  of  displeasure  she  had  given  him.  She 
wrote,  with  her  own  hands,  a  will  in  which  nobody 
was  forgotten  —  even  mere  acquaintances  were 
mentioned  with  appropriate  bequests.  She  fulfilled 
all  those  duties  the  Roman  Catholic  church  enjoins 
with  every  mark  of  the  sincerest  repentance,  and 
warmest  devotion.  She  spoke  with  the  tenderest 
aifection  of  her  family,  only  one  of  whom,  Jerome, 
was  with  her ;  she  died  clasping  a  picture  of  the 
emperor,  and  her  last  worldly  thought  seemed  to 
be  with  him.  Let  us  hope  that  this  altered  frame 
of  mind  proceeded  from  real  penitence  for  the 
serious  errors  that  stained  her  early  days  ;  for  the 
truth  of  history  compels  the  acknowledgment  that 
this  princess,  beautiful,  accomplished,  high-minded, 
spirited,  and  generous,  had  deserved,  by  her  ill 
conduct,  the  repugnance  with  which  prince  Ca- 
millo  Borghese,  for  many  years,  regarded  her. 
He  appears  to  have  entirely  forgiven  her,  as  he 
manifested  a  deep  affliction  at  her  death. 

BOUGNET,    MADAME, 

Is  celebrated  for  her  humanity  daring  the 
French  revolution  of  1793,  in  concealing  some  of 
the  proscribed  deputies,  though  death  was  the 
consequence  of  this  mark  of  friendship.  After 
supporting  these  unfortunate  men  for  some  time, 
and  seeing  them  escape  from  her  abode  only  to 
perish  on  the  scaifold,  she  was  herself  dragged 
before  the  tribunal  of  Bordeaux,  and  suffered 
death  with  Christian  resignation. 

BOURETTE,  CHARLOTTE, 

Whose  first  husband  was  M.  Cur6,  was  a  French 
poetess  and  lemonade-seller,  called  la  3fnse  limona- 
dihre.  She  was  born  at  Paris  in  1714,  and  died 
there  in  1784.  Madame  Bourette  kept  the  Cafe 
Alhmand,  and  was  celebrated  for  her  numerous 
productions  in  prose  and  verse.  Her  writings  in- 
troduced her  to  the  notice  of  several  sovereigns, 
princes  and  princesses  of  the  blood  royal,  and 
many  of  the  most  celebrated  men  of  her  time. 
Her  poetry  is  careless  and  prosaic,  but  her  prose 
compositions  poetic  and  brilliant.  She  also  wrote 
a  comedy,  "The  Coquette  Punished,"  which  was 
acted  with  success  in  the  Theatre  Frangais. 


M.  de  Fontenelle,  visiting  Madame  Bourette, 
addressed  to  her  these  two  lines, 

"  Si  les  dames  ont  droit  d'introducire  des  modes. 
En  prose  disonnais  on  doit  faire  les  odes." 

To  this,  the  lady  replied  as  follows  : — 

TO    M.    DE    FONTENELLE. 

Cher  Anacreon  de  Neustrie, 
Dont  la  rare  et  sage  folie 
Joint  Epicure  avec  ZiSnon, 
Votre  visite  en  ma  maison, 
Malgre  le  poison  de  I'Eiivie, 
En  tout  terns,  en  toute  saison, 
Fera  le  plaisir  de  ma  vie. 
Mais  en  ce  saint  tenis  de  pardon 
Que  nous  accorde  le  Saint-Pere, 
Quel  compliment  puis-je  vous  faie 
Qui  n'ait  un  fumet  d'oraison  ? 
L'on  ne  parle  que  de  priere, 
De  conference  et  de  sermon. 
Vous  le  sgavez,  fils  d'Apollon, 
Je  peux  le  dire  sans  mystere, 
Nous  parlons  tout  autre  jargon. 
II  faut  done  sagement  me  taire, 
Ou  vous  dire  avec  onction  : 
Vous  m'avez  fait   faveur  insigne ; 
Ah  !  seigneur,  je  n'etois  pas  digue 
Que  vous  vinssiez  dans  ma  maison! 

BOULLOUGNE,  MAGDELAINE   DE, 

AVas  born  at  Paris  in  1644.  She  painted  histo- 
rical pieces,  but  excelled  in  flowers  and  fruits 
She  died  1710.  Her  sister,  Genevieve,  painted  in 
the  same  style,  and  with  equal  merit.  She  died 
1708,  aged  sixty-three. 

BOURGAIN,  THERESE, 
Engaged  at  the  Theatre  Fran9ais,  in  Paris, 
acted  the  parts  of  heroines  in  tragedy,  and  the 
young  artless  girls  in  comedy.  She  was  a  native 
of  Paris.  Palissot  encouraged  her,  and  the  cele- 
brated Dumesnil,  then  eighty  years  old,  gave  her 
instructions.  "  Pamela,"  (by  F.  de  Neufchateau), 
"  Melanie,"  (by  la  Harpe),  and  "  Monime,"  (a 
character  in  "  Mithridat,"  by  Voltaire),  were  her 
most  successful  parts  in  tragedy ;  but  in  comedy 
she  was  greater.  She  avoided  the  common  fault 
of  most  actresses  who  wish  to  excel  in  both  kinds, 
namely,  the  transferring  of  the  tragic  diction  to 
that  of  comedy,  which  latter  requires,  in  dialogue, 
an  easy,  free,  and  well-supported  style.  If  she 
did  not  reach  the  accomplished  Mile.  Mars,  her 
graceful  vivacity,  sufficiently  aided  by  study  and 
art,  had  peculiar  charms.  She  acted  also  male 
parts,  and  her  triumph  in  this  kind  was  the 
"Page,"  in  the  "Marriage  of  Figaro."  She  was 
one  of  the  members  of  the  Theatre  Franjais,  whom 
Napoleon  had  selected  to  entertain  the  congress 
of  kings  at  Erfurt ;  at  the  demand  of  Alexander 
I.,  she  went,  1809,  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  she 
was  much  applauded  as  Eugenia  ;  in  Konigsberg, 
she  gave  recitations  before  the  late  queen  Louisa 
of  Prussia,  who  rewarded  her  liberally ;  and  in 
the  same  year  she  returned  to  Paris,  where  justice 
has  always  been  done  to  her  eminent  talents. 

BOURGET,    CLEMENCE   DE, 
A  LADY  born  of  respectable  parents  at  Lyons. 
She  possessed  so  much  merit  as  a  writer,  a  musi- 
cian, and  a  poetess,  that  she  was  presented  to  two 

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monarchs,  who  passed  through  Lyons,  as  the 
greatest  ornament  of  her  native  city.  She  died 
of  a  broken  heart,  in  consequence  of  the  loss  of 
her  lover,  John  de  Peyi-at,  who  fell  at  the  siege 
of  Beaurepaire,  in  1561.  She  was  the  contempo- 
rary of  Louise  Labb^,  la  belle  Cordiere,  and  was 
very  much  attached  to  her,  but  the  conduct  of 
Louise  at  length  compelled  her  more  exemplary 
friend  to  withdraw  her  friendship. 

BOURIGNON,  ANTOINETTE, 
Was  a  celebrated  religious  enthusiast,  and 
founder  of  a  sect  which  acquired  so  much  import- 
ance that,  under  the  name  of  the  Bourignian  doc- 
trine, it  is  to  this  day  one  of  the  heresies  renounced 
by  candidates  for  holy  orders  in  the  Church  of 
Scotland.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Lille  mer- 
chant, and  was  born  in  1616;  she  was  so  singu- 
larly deformed  at  her  birth,  that  a  family  consul- 
tation was  held  on  the  propriety  of  destroying  the 
infant,  as  a  monster.  This  fate  she  escaped,  but 
remained  an  object  of  dislike  to  her  mother,  in 
consequence  of  which  her  childhood  was  passed  in 
solitude  and  neglect ;  and  the  first  books  she  got 
hold  of  chancing  to  be  "  Lives  of  the  Early  Chris- 
tians" and  mystical  tracts,  her  ardent  imagination 
acquired  the  visionary  turn  that  marked  her  life. 
It  has  been  asserted  that  her  religious  zeal  dis- 
played itself  so  early,  that  at  four  years  of  age 
she  entreated  to  be  removed  to  a  more  Christian 
country  than  Lille,  where  the  unevangelical  lives 
of  the  towns-people  shocked  her. 

As  Antoinette  grew  up,  her  appearance  im- 
proved in  a  measure,  and,  being  a  considerable 
heiress,  her  deformity  did  not  prevent  her  from 
being  sought  in  marriage  ;  and  when  she  reached 
her  twentieth  year,  one  of  her  suitors  was  accepted 
by  her  parents.  But  the  enthusiast  had  made  a 
vow  of  virginity ;  and  on  the  day  appointed  for 
celebrating  her  nuptials,  Easter-day,  in  1630,  she 
fled,  disguised  as  a  hermit.  She  soon  after  ob- 
tained admittance  into  a  convent,  where  she  first 
began  to  make  proselytes,  and  gained  over  so  many 
of  the  nuns,  that  the  confessor  of  the  sisterhood 
procured  her  expulsion  not  only  from  the  convent 
but  from  the  town.  Antoinette  now  wandered 
about  France,  the  Netherlands,  Holland  and  Den- 
mark, everywhere  making  converts,  and  support- 
ing herself  by  the  labour  of  her  hands,  till  1648, 
when  she  inherited  her  father's  property.  She 
was  then  appointed  governess  of  an  hospital  at 
Lille,  but  soon  after  was  expelled  the  town  by  the 
police,  on  account  of  the  disorders  that  her  doc- 
trines occasioned.  She  then  resumed  her  wander- 
ings. About  this  time,  she  was  again  persecuted 
with  suitors,  two  of  whom  were  so  violent,  each 
threatening  to  kill  her  if  she  would  not  marry  him, 
that  she  was  forced  to  apply  to  the  police  for  pro- 
tection, and  two  men  were  sent  to  guard  her  house. 
She  died  in  1680,  and  left  all  her  property  to  the 
Lille  hospital  of  which  she  had  been  governess. 

She  believed  that  she  had  visions  and  ecstatic 
trances,  in  which  God  commanded  her  to  restore 
the  true  evangelical  church  which  was  extinct. 
She  allowed  no  Liturgy,  worship  being  properly 
internal.    Her  doctrines  were  highly  mystical,  and 


she  required  an  impossible  degree  of  perfection 
from  her  disciples.  She  is  said  to  have  been  ex- 
traordinarily eloquent,  and  was  at  least  equally 
diligent,  for  slie  wrote  twenty-two  large  volumes, 
most  of  which  were  printed  at  a  private  press  she 
carried  about  with  her  for  that  purpose.  After 
her  death,  Poiret,  a  mystical,  Protestant  divine, 
and  a  disciple  of  the  Cartesian  philosophy,  wrote 
her  life,  and  reduced  her  doctrines  into  a  regular 
system.  She  made  numerous  proselytes,  among 
whom  were  many  men  of  ability. 

Though  wealthy,  she  was  by  no  means  benevo- 
lent, or  even  commonly  charitable ;  and  she  is  said 
to  have  exercised  over  her  family  and  servants, 
"a  government  as  cruel  as  that  of  the  Sicilian 
court,"  and  to  have  justified  herself,  by  maintain- 
ing that  anger  was  the  love  of  justice  and  true 
virtue,  and  alleging  the  severities  used  by  the 
prophets  and  apostles. 

BOVETTE  DE  BLEMUR,  JACQUELINE, 

Embkaced  early  a  religious  life,  and  died  at 
Chatillon,  in  1696,  aged  seventy-eight.  She  wrote 
several  theological  works. 

BOVEY,    CATHARINE, 

Maeeied,  at  fifteen,  William  Bovey,  an  English 
gentleman  of  opulence  and  respectability  in  Glou- 
cestershire. To  gi-eat  beauty,  she  added  the  highest 
degree  of  benevolence,  and  all  the  gentle  virtues 
of  pi'ivate  life ;  so  that  she  is  deservedly  extolled 
by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  his  dedication  of  the  two 
volumes  of  his  "  Ladies'  Library."  She  was  left 
a  widow  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  died  at 
Haxley,  in  1728,  aged  fifty-seven.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Riches. 

BRACHMAN,    LOUISE, 

Born  in  1778,  at  Rochlitz.  She  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  Schiller  and  Novalis,  and  conti-ibuted,  in 
1799,  over  the  signature  of  Louise,  a  number  of 
poems  to  the  Musen-Almcnach  (Calendar  of  the 
Muses),  a  periodical  edited  by  those  two  authors. 
She  was  of  a  very  uneven  temperament,  and  sub- 
ject to  long-continued  fits  of  melancholy.  Disap- 
pointed in  two  different  affairs  of  the  heart,  and 
afterwards  in  some  other  expectations  of  minor 
importance,  she  committed  suicide,  in  1822,  while 
on  a  visit  to  some  friends  in  Italy,  by  drowning 
herself  in  the  river  Saale.  She  has  written, 
"Poems,"  published  in  Dessau  and  Leipzig,  1800; 
"Blossoms  of  Romance,"  Vienna,  1816;  "The 
Ordeal,"  "Novelettes,"  "Scenes  from  Reality," 
and  "Errors." 

BRADSTREET,  ANNE, 
Datightee  of  Thomas  Dudley,  governor  of  Mas- 
sachusetts from  1634  to  1650,  and  wife  of  Simon 
Bradstreet,  is  entitled  to  remembrance  as  the 
author  of  the  first  volume  of  poetry  published  in 
America.  Her  work  was  dedicated  to  her  father, 
and  published  in  1642.  The  title  is,  "Several 
Poems,  compiled  with  great  variety  of  wit  and 
learning,  full  of  delight;  wherein  especially  is 
contained  a  complete  discourse  and  description  of 
the  four  elements,  constitutions,  ages  of  man,  sea- 

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sons  of  the  year,  together  with  an  exact  epitome 
of  the  three  first  monarchies,  viz :  the  Assyrian, 
Persian,  Grecian,  and  Roman  Commonwealth,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  their  last  king,  with 
divers  other  pleasant  and  serious  poems.  By  a 
Gentlewoman  of  New  England."  She  received 
for  her  poetical  talents  the  title  of  the  Tenth  JIuse, 
and  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  were 
her  friends,  and  the  admirers  of  her  genius.  When 
we  examine  the  poetry  of  that  period,  and  see  the 
miserable  attempts  at  rhyme,  made  by  the  male 
writers,  we  must  believe  Mrs.  Bradstreet  was  "  as 
learned  as  her  coadjutors,  and  vastly  more  poeti- 
cal." The  preface  to  the  third  edition,  printed 
in  1658,  thus  sketches  her  character  :  "  It  is  the 
work  of  a  woman  honoured  and  esteemed  where 
she  lives  for  her  gracious  demeanour,  her  eminent 
parts,  her  pious  conversation,  her  courteous  dis- 
position, her  exact  diligence  in  her  place,  and  dis- 
creet management  of  her  family  occasions ;  and 
more  so,  these  poems  are  the  fruits  of  a  few  hours 
curtailed  from  her  sleep,  and  other  refreshments." 
When  Mrs.  Bradstreet  wrote  her  poems,  she 
could  have  had  no  models,  save  Chaucer  and 
Spenser.  Milton  had  not  become  known  as  a 
writer  when  her  work  was  published,  and  Shak- 
speare  was  not  read  by  the  Puritans  of  New  Eng- 
land. On  the  whole,  we  think  Anne  Bradstreet 
fairly  entitled  to  the  place  assigned  her  by  one  of 
her  biographers,  "at  the  head  of  the  American 
poets  of  that  time."  She  died  in  1672,  aged 
sixty.  Mrs.  Bradstreet  was  mother  of  eight  child- 
ren, whom  she  trained  with  great  discretion. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "  LINES,"  ADDRESSED  TO  HER 
HUSBAND. 

If  ever  two  were  one,  tlien  surely  we  ; 
If  ever  man  were  loved  by  wife,  then  thee; 
If  ever  wife  were  happy  in  a  man, 
Compare  with  me,  ye  women,  if  ye  can. 

******* 
Phoebus,  make  haste— the  day  's  too  long— begone ! 
The  silent  night 's  the  fittest  time  for  moan. 
But  stay,  this  once— unto  my  suit  give  ear — 
And  tell  my  griefs  in  either  hemisphere: 
If  in  thy  swift  career  thou  canst  make  stay, 
I  crave  this  boon,  this  errand  by  the  way  : 
Commend  me  to  the  man,  more  loved  than  life  : 
Show  him  the  sorrows  of  his  widowed  wife; 
And  if  he  love,  how  can  he  there  abide  ? 
My  interest 's  more  than  all  the  world  beside.  .  . . 
Tell  him  the  countless  steps  that  thou  dost  trace 
That  once  a  day  thy  spouse  thou  mayst  embrace, 
.'Vrid  when  thou  canst  not  meet  by  loving  mouth. 
Thy  rays  afar  salute  her  from  the  south ; 
But  for  one  month,  1  see  no  day,  poor  soul! 
Like  those  tar  situate  beneath  the  pole, 
Which  day  by  day  long  wait  fur  thy  arise — 

0  how  they  joy  when  thou  dost  light  the  skies! 
Tell  him  I  would  say  more,  but  can  not  well; 
Oppressed  minds  abruptest  tales  do  tell. 

Now  part  with  double  speed,  mark  what  I  say, 
By  all  our  loves  conjure  him  not  to  stay ! 

******* 
How  soon,  my  dear,  death  may  my  steps  attend, 
How  soon  't  may  be  thy  lot  to  lose  thy  friend, 
We  both  are  ignorant ;  yet  love  bids  me 
These  farewell  lines  to  recommend  to  thee. 
That  when  that  knot's  untied  that  made  us  one, 

1  may  seem  thine,  who  in  effect  am  none. 
And  if  I  see  not  half  my  days  that's  due. 

What  Nature  would,  God  grant  to  yours  and  you  ; 
The  inany  faults  that  well  you  know  I  have 
Let  be  interred  in  my  oblivious  grave ; 


If  any  worth  or  virtue  is  in  me. 

Let  that  live  freshly  in  thy  memory; 

And  when  thou  feel'st  no  grief,  as  1  no  harms. 

Yet  love  thy  dead,  who  long  lay  in  thine  arms: 

And  when  thy  loss  shall  be  repaid,  with  gains, 

Look  to  my  little  babes,  my  dear  remains. 

EXTRACTS    FROM    "  CONTEMPLATIONS." 

Then  higher  on  the  glistering  sun  I  gaz'd. 
Whose  beams  were  shaded  by  the  leavie  tree. 
The  more  1  look'd,  the  more  I  grew  amaz'd. 
And  softly  said,  what  glory's  like  to  thee? 
Soul  of  this  world,  this  Universes  eye. 
No  wonder,  some  made  thee  a  deity; 
Had  I  not  better  known,  (alas)  the  same  had  I. 

Thou  as  a  bridegroom  from  thy  chamber  rushest, 

And  as  a  strong  man,  joyes  to  run  a  race. 

The  morn  doth  usher  thee,  with  smiles  and  blushes. 

The  earth  reflects  her  glances  in  thy  face. 

Birds,  insects,  animals  with  vegetive. 

Thy  heart  from  death  and  dulness  doth  revive: 

And  in  the  darksome  womb  of  fruitful  nature  dive. 

Thy  swift  annual,  and  diurnal  course. 

Thy  daily  straight,  and  yearly  oblique  path. 

Thy  pleasing  fervour,  and  thy  scorching  force, 

All  mortals  here  the  feeling  knowledge  hath. 

Thy  presence  makes  it  day,  thy  absence  night, 

Quatenial  seasons  caused  by  thy  might: 

Hail  creature,  full  of  sweetness,  beauty  and  delight. 

Art  thou  so  full  of  glory,  that  no  eye 

Hath  strength,  thy  shining  rayes  once  to  behold? 

And  is  thy  splendid  throne  erect  so  high? 

As  to  ajiproach  it,  can  no  earthly  mould. 

How  full  of  glory  then  must  thy  Creator  be. 

Who  gave  this  bright  light  lustre  unto  thee! 

.\dmir"d,  ador'd  for  ever,  be  that  Majesty. 

Silent  alone,  where  none  or  saw,  or  heard. 

In  pathless  paths  I  lead  my  wanderirjg  feet. 

My  humble  eyes  to  lofty  skyes  1  rear'd 

To  sing  some  song,  my  mazed  Muse  thought  meet. 

My  great  Creator  I  would  magnifie. 

That  nature  had,  thus  decked  liberally: 

But  Ah,  and  Ah,  again,  my  imbecility  ! 

I  heard  the  merry  grasshopper  then  sing, 

The  black  clad  cricket,  bear  a  second  part. 

They  kept  one  tune  and  plaid  on  the  same  string. 

Seeming  to  glory  in  their  little  art. 

Shall  creatures  abject,  thus  their  voices  raise? 

And  in  their  kind  resound  their  Maker's  praise  : 

Whilst  I  as  mute,  can  warble  forth  no  higher  layes. 

When  present  times  look  back  to  ages  past, 

And  men  in  being  fancy  those  are  dead, 

It  makes  thincs  gone  perpetually  to  last. 

And  calls  back  months  and  years  that  long  since  fled 

It  makes  a  man  more  aged  in  conceit. 

Than  was  Methuselah,  or  's  grand-sire  great : 

While  of  their  persons  and  their  acts  his  mind  doth  treat, 

******* 
When  I  behold  the  heavens  as  in  their  prime. 
And  then  the  earth  (though  old)  still  clad  in  green, 
The  stones  and  trees,  insensible  of  time. 
Nor  age  nor  wrinkle  on  their  front  are  seen; 
If  winter  come,  and  greenness  then  do  fade, 
A  Spring  returns,  and  they  more  youthful  made; 
But  man  grows  old,  lies  down,  remains  where  once  he  's  laid. 

By  birth  more  noble  than  those  creatures  all. 

Yet  seems  by  nature  and  by  custome  cursed. 

No  sooner  born,  but  grief  and  care  make  fall 

That  state  obliterate  he  had  at  first. 

Nor  youth,  nor  strength,  nor  v\  isdom  spring  again. 

Nor  habitations  long  their  names  retain, 

But  in  oblivion  to  the  final  day  remain. 

Shall  I  then  praise  the  heavens,  the  trees,  the  earth. 
Because  their  beauty  and  their  strength  last  longer  ? 
Shall  I  wish  their,  or  never  to  had  birth. 
Because  they  're  bigger,  and  their  bodyes  stronger  ? 

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Vay,  they  shall  darken,  perish,  fade  and  dye. 
And  when  unmade,  soever  shall  they  lye, 
But  man  was  made  for  endless  immortality. 

"elegy"  on  the  death  of  a  grandchild  who 

DIED    IN    1665. 

Farewell,  dear  child,  my  heart 's  too  much  content, 

Farewell,  sweet  babe,  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye. 
Farewell,  fair  flower,  that  for  a  space  was  lent, 

Then  ta'en  away  into  eternity. 
Blest  babe,  why  should  1  once  bewail  thy  fate. 
Or  sigh,  the  days  so  soon  were  terminate, 
Sith  thou  art  settled  in  an  everlasting  state? 

By  nature,  trees  do  rot  when  they  are  grown, 

And  plums  and  apples  thoroughly  ripe  do  fall, 
And  corn  and  grass  are  in  their  season  mown, 

And  time  brings  down  what  is  both  strong  and  tall. 
But  plants  new  set,  to  be  eradicate. 
And  buds  new  blown,  to  have  so  short  a  date. 
Is  by  His  hand  alone,  that  nature  guides,  and  fate. 

BRAMBATI,    EMILIA, 

Op  Bergamo,  was  the  wife  of  Ezechiello  Solza, 
distinguished  for  her  poetic  talent,  and  for  her 
eloquence.  She  became  the  pleader  for  the  life 
of  her  brother,  condemned  to  death  by  the  Tribu- 
nal of  Venice,  and  drew  tears  from  the  eyes  of  all 
the  bystanders.     Some  of  her  poems  remain. 

BRAMBATI,  ISOTTA, 
Or  Bergamo,  was  a  good  classical  scholar,  and 
understood  all  the  polite  languages  of  Europe. 
She  wrote  poetry  with  great  elegance ;  and  is  said 
to  have  managed  several  law-suits,  pleading  them 
herself,  in  the  Senate  of  Milan,  with  consummate 
ability,  and,  what  is  more  extraordinary,  without 
being  thought  ridiculous.  She  was  the  wife  of 
Girolamo  Grumelli.  She  died  in  1586.  Some  of 
her  letters  and  jjoems  were  published  by  Comir 
Ventura,  in  Bergamo,  in  1587. 

BRATTON,    MARTHA, 

A  native  of  Rowan  county,  N.  Carolina,  mar- 
ried William  Bratton,  of  South  Carolina,  and,  dur- 
ing the  Revolution,  a  colonel  in  the  American 
army.  While  her  husband  was  engaged  with  his 
troops  away  from  home,  Mrs.  Bratton  was  often 
left  to  defend  herself  and  the  stores  entrusted  to 
her  charge.  At  one  time,  she  blew  up  the  ammu- 
nition left  under  her  care,  when  she  saw  that 
otherwise  it  would  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  ene- 
my, and  boldly  avowed  the  deed,  that  no  one  else 
might  suffer  for  her  act.  When  threatened  with 
instant  death  by  a  British  soldier,  if  she  persisted 
in  refusing  to  give  information  concerning  her  hus- 
band's retreat,  she  continued  firm  in  her  resolu- 
tion. Being  rescued  by  the  intervention  of  an 
officer,  she  repaid  the  obligation  by  saving  him 
from  death,  when  taken  prisoner  by  the  American 
party,  and  by  entertaining  him  at  her  house  till 
he  was  exchanged.     She  died  in  1816. 

BREESE,    MARY, 

A  SINGULAR  character,  was  born  at  Lynn,  in 
Norfolk,  England,  in  1721.  She  regularly  took 
out  a  shooting  license,  kept  hounds,  and  was  a 
sure  shot.  She  died  in  1799.  By  her  desire,  her 
dogs  and  favourite  mare  were  killed  at  her  death 
and  buried  in  the  grave  with  her. 


BREGY,  CHARLOTTE  SAUMAISE  DE 
CHAZAN,  COMTESSE  DE, 

Niece  of  the  learned  Saumaise  (Salmasius),  was 
one  of  the  ladies  of  honour  to  queen  Anne  of  Aus- 
tria. She  was  distinguished  for  her  beauty  anfl 
wit,  both  of  which  she  preserved  to  an  advanced 
age;  she  died  at  Paris,  April  13th,  1693,  aged 
seventy-four.  She  wrote  a  collection  of  letter? 
and  verses  in  1688,  in  which  we  meet  with  many 
ingenious  thoughts ;  her  poems  turn  almost  en- 
tirely on  metaphysical  love,  which  employed  her 
mind  more  tlian  her  heart.  But  there  are  several 
pieces  on  other  subjects.  In  one  of  them,  she 
gives  the  following  portrait  of  herself:  "I  am 
fond  of  praise ;  and  therefore  return  it  with  inte- 
rest to  those  from  whom  I  receive  it.  I  have  a 
proud  and  scornful  heart ;  but  this  does  not  pre- 
vent me  from  being  gentle  and  civil.  I  never  op- 
pose the  opinions  of  any ;  but  I  must  own  that  I 
never  adopt  them  to  the  prejudice  of  my  own.  I 
may  say  with  truth  that  I  am  naturally  modest 
and  discreet,  and  that  pride  always  takes  care  to 
preserve  these  qualities  in  me.  I  am  indolent ;  I 
never  seek  pleasure  and  diversions,  but  when  my 
friends  take  more  pains  than  I  do  to  procure  them 
for  me,  I  feel  myself  obliged  to  appear  very  gay 
at  them,  though  I  am  not  so  in  fact.  I  am  not 
much  given  to  intrigue ;  but  if  I  were  involved  in 
one,  I  think  I  should  certainly  conduct  mj-self  off 
with  prudence  and  discretion.  I  am  constant, 
even  to  obstinacy,  and  secret  to  excess.  In  order 
to  form  a  friendship  with  me,  all  advances  must 
be  made  by  the  other  party  ;  but  I  amply  compen- 
sate this  trouble  in  the  end  ;  for  I  serve  my  friends 
with  all  the  warmth  usually  employed  in  selfish 
interests.  I  praise  and  defend  them,  without  once 
consenting  to  what  I  may  hear  against  them.  I 
have  not  virtue  enoiigh  to  be  free  from  all  desire 
of  the  goods  of  fortune  and  honours ;  but  I  have 
too  much  for  pursuing  any  of  the  ways  that  com- 
monly lead  to  them.  I  act  in  the  world  conform- 
ably to  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  too  little  accord- 
ing to  what  it  is."  Her  personal  appearance  she 
also  describes  as  attractive  ;  which  all  contempo- 
rary writers  confirm,  and  therefore  she  might 
mention  it  without  vanity.  She  corresponded  with 
Henrietta,  queen  of  England ;  with  Christina  of 
Sweden  :  and  with  most  of  the  illustrious  charac- 
ters of  Europe. 

BRENTANO,    SOPHIA, 

(Her  maiden  name  was  Schubart,)  was  born  in 
the  year  1770,  at  Altenbui-g.  She  married,  when 
quite  a  young  girl,  F.  E.  K.  Thereau,  professor  at 
the  University  of  Jena ;  in  1804,  she  was  divorced 
from  him,  and  married,  in  1805,  the  author  Clem. 
Brentano,  with  whom  she  lived  in  Frankford,  and 
afterwards  in  Heidelberg,  where  she  died  in  1806. 
As  a  poetess,  she  evinced  a  lively  and  highly  cul- 
tivated imagination,  great  harmony  in  versifica- 
tion, combined  with  a  high  polish  in  her  composi- 
tions. She  published  two  volumes  of  poetry,  at 
Berlin,  1800,  "Amanda  and  Edward,"  at  Frank- 
fort, 1803,  Spanish  and  Italian  novellettes,  iu 
1804,  and  various  other  minor  tales. 

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BRINVILLIERS,    MARIE    MARGUE- 
RITE,   MARCHIONESS   DE, 

Was  a  woman  whose  singular  atrocity  gives  her 
a  species  of  infamous  claim  to  notice  in  this  col- 
lection. She  was  born  at  Paris  in  1651,  being  the 
daughter  of  D'Aubrai,  lieutenant-civil,  of  Paris, 
who  married  her  to  N.  Gobelin,  marquis  of  Brin- 
villiers.  Although  possessed  of  attractions  to  cap- 
tivate lovers,  she  was  for  some  time  much  attached 


to  her  husband,  but  at  length  became  madly  in 
love  with  a  Gascon  officer,  named  Goden  St.  Croix. 
This  young  man  had  been  introduced  to  her  by  the 
marquis  himself,  who  was  adjutant  of  the  regi- 
ment of  Normandy.  Her  father,  being  informed 
of  the  affair,  imjirisoned  the  officer,  who  was  a 
mere  adventurer,  in  the  Bastile,  where  he  was  de- 
tained a  year.  This  punishment  of  her  lover 
made  the  marchioness,  apparently,  more  circum- 
spect; but  she  nourished  in  her  heart  the  most 
implacable  hatred  towards  her  father,  and  her 
whole  family. 

While  St.  Croix  was  in  the  Bastile,  he  learned, 
from  an  Italian  named  Exili,  the  art  of  composing 
the  most  subtle  and  mortal  poisons ;  and  the  re- 
sult, on  his  release,  was  the  destruction,  by  this 
means,  in  concurrence  with  the  marchioness,  of 
her  father,  sister,  and  two  brothers,  all  of  whom 
were  poisoned  in  the  same  year,  1670.  During 
the  whole  time,  the  marchioness  was  visiting  the 
hospitals,  outwardly  as  a  devotee,  but,  as  was  af- 
terwards strongly  suspected,  really  in  order  to  try 
on  the  prisoners  the  effect  of  the  poisons  produced 
by  her  paramour. 

The  discovery  of  these  monstrous  criminals 
happened  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner.  St. 
Croix,  while  at  work  distilling  poison,  accidentally 
dropped  the  glass  mask  which  he  wore  to  prevent 
inhaling  the  noxious  vapour ;  the  consequence  was 
his  instantaneous  death.  As  no  one  appeared  to 
claim  his  effects,  they  fell  into  the  hands  of  govern- 
ment, and  the  marchioness  imprudently  laid  claim 
to  a  casket.  She  seemed  so  very  anxious  to  obtain 
it,  that  the  authorities  ordered  it  to  be  opened, 
wlien  it  was  found  to  bo  filled  with  packets  of 


poison,  with  ticketed  descriptions  of  the  effects 
these  would  produce. 

When  this  wicked  woman  was  informed  of  the 
opening  of  the  casket,  she  fled  to  England  ;  from 
thence  she  went  to  Liege,  where  she  was  arrested 
and  brought  back  to  Paris.  She  was  tried  for  the 
murder  of  her  father,  sister,  and  brothers,  con- 
victed, and  condemned  to  be  beheaded  and  then 
burned.  In  this  dreadful  condition  she  evinced 
remarkable  courage,  or  rather  insensibility.  When 
she  entered  the  chamber  where  she  was  to  be  put 
to  the  question  by  the  torture  of  swallowing  water, 
she  observed  three  buckets-full  provided,  and  ex- 
claimed—  "It  is  surely  intended  to  drown  me; 
for  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  one  of  my  size  can 
swallow  all  that." 

She  listened  to  her  sentence  without  exhibiting 
either  weakness  or  alarm,  and  showed  no  other 
emotion  on  her  way  to  execution,  than  to  request 
that  she  might  be  so  placed  as  to  see  the  officer 
who  had  apprehended  her.  She  ascended  the 
ladder,  unaided  and  barefoot,  and  stood  boldly  up 
on  the  scaffold.  What  adds  to  the  atrocity  of  this 
wretched  woman's  character,  she  was  proved  to 
have  had  connections  with  several  persons  suspected 
of  the  same  crimes,  and  to  have  provided  poisons 
for  the  use  of  others.  Many  persons  of  rank  and 
power  died  suddenly  about  this  period ;  and  the 
investigation  appeared  likely  to  unveil  so  much 
guilt  in  high  places,  that  it  was  from  policy, 
though  most  unjustly  and  disgracefully,  aban- 
doned. 

The  marchioness  of  Brinvilliers  seems  to  have 
been  by  nature  inclined  to  wickedness.  She  ac- 
knowledged in  her  last  confession,  that  at  the  age 
of  seven  she  set  fire  to  a  house,  urged  by  an  inex- 
plicable desire  to  commit  a  crime.  Yet  she  made 
I)retension  to  religion,  went  regularly  to  confes- 
sion, and  when  arrested  at  Leige,  a  sort  of  general 
form  was  found  in  her  jjossession,  which  suffi- 
ciently alluded  to  her  criminality  to  form  a  strong 
presumption  against  her.  She  probably  had  more 
respect  for  the  ceremonies  of  her  faith  than  for 
the  law  of  God. 

BROOKE,  FRANCES, 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Moore,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  English  clergyman,  and  the  wife  of  the 
Rev.  John  Brooke,  rector  of  Colny  in  Norfolk,  of 
St.  Augustine  in  the  city  of  Norwich,  and  chaplain 
to  the  garrison  of  Quebec.  She  was  as  remarkable 
for  her  gentleness  and  suavity  of  manners  as  for 
her  literary  talents.  Her  husband  died  on  the 
21st  of  January,  1789,  and  she  herself  expired  on 
the  26th  of  the  same  month,  at  Sleaford,  England, 
where  she  had  retired  to  the  house  of  her  son, 
who  had  a  rectorship  in  that  country.  Her  first 
literary  performance  was  "  The  Old  Maid,"  a  pe- 
riodical work,  begun  in  November,  1755,  and  con- 
tinued every  Saturday  until  about  the  end  of  July, 
1756.  In  the  same  year  she  published  "  Virginia," 
a  tragedy,  with  odes,  pastorals,  and  translations. 
In  the  preface  to  this  publication  she  assigns  as  a 
reason  for  its  appearance,  "  that  she  was  precluded 
from  all  hopes  of  ever  seeing  the  tragedy  brought 
upon  the  stage,  by  there  having  been  two  so  lately 


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on  the  same  subject."  Prefixed  to  this  publication 
were  proposals  for  printing  by  subscription  a 
poetical  translation,  with  notes,  of  "II  Pastor 
Fielo,"  a  work  which  was  probably  never  com- 
pleted. 

In  1763,  she  published  a  novel  called  "  The 
History  of  Lady  Julia  Mandeville,"  concerning 
the  plan  of  which  there  were  various  opinions, 
though  there  seems  to  have  been  but  one  of  the 
execution.  It  was  read  with  much  avidity  and 
approbation.  In  the  same  year  she  published 
"Letters  from  Juliet,  Lady  Catesby,  to  her  Friend 
Lady  Henrietta  Campley,  translated  from  the 
French."  She  soon  afterwards  went  to  Canada 
with  her  husband,  who  was  chaplain  to  the  garri- 
son at  Quebec ;  and  there  saw  those  romantic 
scenes,  so  admirably  painted  in  her  next  work, 
entitled  "  Emily  Montague,"  a  novel  in  four  vo- 
lumes, written  in  1769.  The  next  year  she  pub- 
lished "  Memoirs  of  the  Marquis  de  St.  Folaix," 
in  four  volumes.  On  her  return  to  England,  acci- 
dent brought  her  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Yates,  and 
an  intimacy  was  formed  that  lasted  as  long  as  that 
lady  lived ;  and  when  she  died,  Mrs.  Brooke  pub- 
lished an  eulogy  to  her  memory  in  the  "  Gentle- 
man's Magazine."  If  we  are  not  mistaken,  Mrs. 
Brooke  had,  with  Mrs.  Yates,  some  share  in  the 
opera-house.  She  certainly  had  some  share  of  the 
libellous  abuse  which  the  management  of  that 
theatre  at  that  time  produced.  Her  first  play, 
Virginia,  was  refused  by  Garrick.  After  several 
years  she  tried  her  fortune  once  more  at  the 
theatre ;  but  the  tragedy  she  wrote  had  not  the 
good  fortune  to  please  Mr.  Garrick,  whose  rejec- 
tion of  it  excited  the  authoress's  resentment  so 
much  that  she  took  a  severe  revenge  on  him,  in  a 
novel  published  in  1777,  in  two  volumes,  called 
"  The  Excursion."  This  invective  she  afterwards 
regretted  and  retracted.  In  1771,  she  translated 
"  Elements  of  the  History  of  England,  from  the 
invasion  of  the  Romans  to  the  reign  of  George  II., 
from  the  abbe  Millot,"  in  four  volumes.  In  1781, 
she  wrote  a  tragedy  called  "  The  Siege  of  Sinope," 
which  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden,  but  added 
little  to  her  reputation ;  it  wanted  energy  and 
originality.  Her  next  and  most  popular  piece  was 
"  Rosina,"  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1782.  Few 
pieces  have  been  equally  successful.  The  simpli- 
citj'  of  the  story,  the  elegance  of  the  language, 
and  the  excellence  of  the  music,  caused  it  to  be 
admired  for  a  long  time.  Her  last  work  was 
"  Marian,"  acted  in  1788,  at  Covent  Garden, 
with  some  success,  but  very  much  inferior  to 
Rosina. 

BROOKS,    MARIA, 

Known  as  a  poetess  under  the  name  (given  to 
her  by  Mr.  Southey)  of  Maria  del  Occidente,  was 
descended  from  a  Welsh  family,  settled  at  Medford, 
in  Massachusetts.  Her  maiden  name  was  Gowen. 
She  was  born  about  1795,  and  early  displayed  un- 
common powers  of  mind.  She  had  rather  favour- 
able opportunities  of  education,  yet  her  own  genius 
was  her  best  teacher.  When  quite  j-oung,  Maria 
Gowen  married  Mr.  Brooks,  a  merchant  of  Boston. 
A  few  years  after  their  marriage  he  lost  the  greater 


part  of  his  property,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  resorted  to 
poetry  for  occupation  and  amusement.  In  1820, 
she  published  "  Judith,  Esther,  and  other  Poems,'" 
which  show  considerable  genius.  Mr.  Brooks 
dying  in  1823,  liis  widow  went  to  reside  with  her 
relations  in  Cuba,  where  she  wrote  her  principal 
work,  "  Zophiel,  or  the  Bride  of  Seven,"  which 
was  published  by  her  at  London,  during  a  visit 
that  she  made  to  England,  in  1833.  Part  of  the 
time  that  she  spent  in  England  was  passed  by  her 
at  the  residence  of  Robert  Southey,  at  Keswick, 
who  appreciated  her  genius  very  highly.  In  1834 
i\Irs.  Brooks  returned  to  the  United  States.  In 
1843,  she  wrote  for  private  circulation,  "  Idomea, 
or  the  Vale  of  the  Yumari,"  being  simply  her  own 
history  under  a  diiferent  name.  In  the  same  year 
I\Irs.  Brooks  returned  to  Cuba,  to  take  charge  of 
the  estates  left  her  by  her  uncle.  She  died  at 
Matanzas,  in  November,  184.5. 

The  plot  of  "  Zophiel,  or  the  Bride  of  Seven," 
was  undoubtedly  borrowed  from  the  Book  of  To- 
bit,  in  the  Apocrypha,  and  may  be  fully  under- 
stood by  reading  that  curious  story.  Sara,  the 
heroine  in  Tobit,  is  married  to  seven  husbands, 
successively,  who  all  die  on  entering  the  bridal 
chamber,  each  one  "being  killed  by  Asmodeus, 
an  evil  spirit."  At  last  Tobias,  son  of  Tobit,  is 
taken  under  the  care  of  "  Raphael  that  was  an 
angel,"  and  instructed  how  to  overcome  the  evil 
spirit.  Tobias  marries  Sara,  and  drives  ofi"  As- 
modeus by  means  of  "  a  smoke"  made  of  the  liver 
and  heart  of  a  fish, — "  The  which  smell  when  the 
evil  spirit  had  smelled,  he  fled  into  the  utmost 
parts  of  Egypt,  and  the  angel  bound  him." 

Mrs.  Brooks  has,  however,  displayed  much  ar- 
tistic skill,  as  well  as  poetical  talent,  cultivated 
taste,  and  literary  research,  in  managing  these 
materials  of  her  poem.  "  The  Bride  of  Seven" 
has  many  beautiful  passages  ;  the  descriptions  are 
gorgeous  and  glowing ;  there  is  thrilling  incident 
and  burning  passion  ;  but  it  lacks  nature,  simpli- 
city, and  true  feeling.  It  excites  the  fancy,  leaving 
the  heart  unmoved,  comparatively ;  therefore  the 
poem  is  deficient  in  that  kind  of  interest  which 
insures  popularity :  though  praised  by  critics,  it 
will  never  be  read  by  the  people.  The  minor 
poems  of  Mrs.  Brooks  are  finished  with  much  care  ; 
some  of  these  evince  the  deep  afi"ections  of  wo- 
man's heart  with  great  pathos  and  beauty.  The 
"Ode  to  the  Departed"  is  one  of  the  last  of  her 
poems. 

ODE     TO     THE     DEPARTED. 

"  Con  Vistas  del  Cielo." 

The  dearth  is  sore  :  the  orange  leaf  is  curled. 
There  's  dust  upon  the  marble  o'er  thy  tunib, 
My  Edgar,  fair  and  dear; 
Though  the  fifth  sorrowing  year 
Hath  past,  since  first  1  knew  thine  early  doom, 
I  sec  thee  still,  though  dealli  thy  being  hence  hath  hurh^. 

I  could  not  bear  my  lot,  now  thou  art  gone  — 
With  heart  o'er-softened  by  the  many  tears 
Remorse  and  grief  have  drawn  — 
Save  that  a  gleam,  a  dawn, 
(Haply,  of  that  which  lights  thee  now,)  appears, 
To  uuveil  a  few  fair  scenes  of  life's  next  coming  morn. 

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What— wliere  is  heaven  ?  (earth's  sweetest  lips  exclaim  ;) 

In  all  the  holiest  seers  have  writ  or  saiil, 

Blurred  are  the  pictures  given  : 

We  know  not  what  is  heaven, 

Save  by  those  views,  mysteriously  spread. 

When  the  soul  looks  afar  by  light  of  her  own  flame. 

Yet  all  our  spirits,  while  on  earth  so  faint, 
By  glimpses  dim,  discern,  conceive,  or  know, 
The  Eternal  Power  can  mould 
Real  as  fruits  or  gold  — 
Bid  the  celestial,  roseate  matter  glow. 
And  forms  more  perfect  smile  than  artists  carve  or  paitit. 

To  realize  every  creed,  conceived 
In  mortal  brain,  by  love  and  beauty  charmed. 
Even  like  the  ivory  maid 
Who,  as  Pygmalion  prayed. 
Oped  her  white  arms,  to  life  and  feeling  warmed, 
Would  lightly  task  the  power  of  life's  great  Chief  believed. 

If  Grecian  Phidias,  in  stone  like  this, 
Thy  tomb,  could  do  so  much,  what  can  not  he 
Who  from  the  cold,  coarse  clod, 
By  reckless  labourer  trod. 
Can  call  such  tints  as  meeting  seraphs  see,  [kiss? 

And  give  them  breath  and  warmth  like  true  love's  soulfrit 

Wild  fears  of  dark  annihilation,  go  I 
Be  warm,  ye  veins,  now  blackening  with  despair! 
Years  o'er  thee  have  revolved. 
My  first-born  —  thou 'rt  dissolved  — 
All  — every  tint  —  save  a  few  ringlets  fair  — 
Still,  if  thou  didst  not  live,  how  could  I  love  tliee  so? 

Quirk  as  the  warmth  which  darts  from  breast  to  breast, 
When  lovers,  from  afar,  each  other  see, 
[faply,  thy  spirit  went. 
Where  mine  would  fain  be  sent, 
To  take  a  heavenly  form,  designed  to  be 
Meet  dwelling  for  the  soul  tliine  azure  eye  exprest. 

Thy  deep-blue  eye!  say,  can  heaven's  bliss  exceed 
The  joy  of  some  brief  moments  tasted  here  ? 
Ah!  could  I  taste  again  — 
Is  there  a  mode  of  pain 
Which,  for  such  guerdon,  could  be  deemed  severe? 
Be  ours  the  forms  of  heaven,  and  let  me  bend  and  bleed  ! 

If  one  lie  lost,  another  serves  as  well; 
Another  mantle,  or  another  fair. 
As  well  may  be  his  own 
If  one  dies  his  —  alone 
He  sighs  not  long ;  —  enter  his  home,  and  there. 
When  past  one  little  year,  another  fair  will  dwell. 

Or  see  yon  smiling  Creole  —  her  black  hair 
Braided  and  glittering,  with  one  lover's  gold  : 
Ere  the  quick  flower  has  grown 
O'er  where  ho  sleeps  alone. 
Already  to  some  other  lover  sold. 
Or  given,  what  both  call  love,  and  he  's  content  to  .=!iari\ 

Better  for  those  who  love  this  world,  to  be 
Even  as  such,  a  pure,  pure  flame,  intense, 
Edgar,  as  thine,  consumes 
The  cheek  its  light  illumes; 
And  he  whose  heart  enshrines  such  flame,  must  Innce, 
And  join  with  it,  betimes,  its  own  eternity. 

For  masculine  or  feminine  gave  nauglit 
Of  fuel  to  the  hallowed  Are,  that  burned 
And  urged  thee  on,  of  life. 
Reckless,  amid  the  strife 
For  worldly  wealth,  that  better  had  been  spiirporl: 
Thy  happiness  and  love,  alas!  were  all  I  sought. 

How  could  I  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  of  Fate, 
Were  it  but  mine  to  decorate  some  hall  — 
Here,  where  the  soil  I  tread 
Colours  my  feet  with  red  — 
Far  down  these  isles,  to  hear  your  voices  call. 
Then  haste  to  hear  and  tell  what  happ'd  while  separate  1 


Beautiful  isles!  beneath  the  sunset  skies 
TalJ  silver-shafted  palm  trees  rise  between 
Full  orange  trees  that  shade 
The  living  colonnade; 
Alas!  how  sad,  how  sickening  is  the  scene 
That  were  ye  at  my  side  would  be  a  paradise  ' 

E'en  one  of  those  cool  caves  which,  light  and  dry, 
In  many  a  leafy  hill-side,  near  this  spot, 
Seem  as  by  Nature  made 
For  shelter  and  for  shade 
To  such  as  bear  a  homeless  wanderer's  lot. 
Were  home  enough  for  me,  could  those  I  mourn  be  nigh. 

Palace  or  cave  (where  'neath  the  blossom  and  lime 
Winter  lies  hid  with  wreaths)  alike  may  be. 
If  love  and  taste  unite, 
A  dwelling  for  delight. 
And  kings  might  leave  their  silken  courts,  to  see 
O'er  such  wild,  garnished  grot,  the  grandiflora  climb. 

Thus,  thus,  doth  quick-eyed  Fancy  fondly  wait 
The  pauses  of  my  deep  remorse  between  ; 
Before  my  an.xious  eyes 
'Tis  thus  her  pictures  rise; 
They  show  what  is  not,  yet  what  might  have  been; 
Angels,  why  came  I  not?  —  why  have  I  come  too  late  ? 

The  cooling  beverage — strengthening  draught— as  craved 
The  needs  of  both,  could  but  these  hands  have  given  ; 
Could  I  have  watched  the  slow  — 
The  pulse,  too  quick,  or  slow  — 
My  earnest,  fond,  reiterate  prayers  to  Heaven, 
Some  angel  might  have  come,  besought,  returned,  and 
saved. 

To  stay  was  imbecility  —  nay,  more  — 
'T  was  crime  —  how  yearned  my  panting  heart  to  see. 
When,  by  mere  words  delayed, 
'Gainst  the  strong  wish,  I  stayed, 
(Trifling  with  that  which  inly  spoke  to  me.) 
And  longed,  and  hoped,  and  feared,  till  all  I  feared  was 
o'er! 

Mild,  pitying  George,  when  maple-leaves  were  red 

O'er  Ladaiianna*  in  his  much-loved  north. 

Breathed  here  his  last  farewell  — 

And  when  the  tears  that  fell 

From  April,  called  Mohecan'sf  violets  forth, 

Edgar,  as  following  his,  thy  friendly  spirit  fled. 

Now,  side  by  side,  'neath  cross  and  tablet  white 
Is  laid,  sweet  brothers,  all  of  you  that's  left ; 
Yet,  all  the  tropic  dew 
Can  damp,  would  seem  not  you  : 
Your  finer  particles  from  earth  are  reft. 
Haply,  (and  so  I  'II  hope,)  for  lovelier  forms  of  light. 

Myriads  of  beings,  (for  the  whole  that's  known 
III  all  this  world's  combined  philosophy,) 
Tlie  eternal  will  obeyed. 
To  finish  what  was  made. 
When,  warm  with  new-breathed  life,  new  earth  and  sea. 
Returned  the  smile  of  him  who  blessed  them  from  his 
throne. 

Such  beings,  haply,  hovering  near  us  now. 
When  flesh  or  flowers  in  beauty  fade  or  fail. 
Gather  each  precious  tint 
Once  seen  to  glow  and  glint, 
With  fond  economy  to  gladden  all : 
Heaven's  hands,  howe'er  profuse,  no  atom's  loss  allow. 

Yet,  brothers,  spirits,  loiter  if  ye  may 
A  little  while,  and  look  on  all  I  do  — 
Oh!  loiter  for  my  sake, 
Ere  other  tasks  ye  take. 
Toward  all  I  should  do  influence  my  \  iew. 
Then  haste,  to  hear  the  spheres  chime  with  heaven's  fa- 
vourite lay. 

*  Ladaiianna.  the  aboriginal  name  of  the  St.  Lawrence. 
t  .Mohecan,  the  aboriginal  name  of  the  Hudson. 

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Go,  hand  in  hand,  to  regions  new  and  fair. 
In  shapes  and  colours  for  the  scene  arrayed  — 
With  looks  as  bland  and  dear 
As  charms,  by  glimpses,  here. 
Receive  divine  commissions;  follow  —  aid 
Those  legions  formed  in  heaven  for  many  a  guardian  care. 

By  every  sigh,  and  throb,  and  painful  throe, 
Remembered  but  to  heighten  the  delight 
That  crowns  the  advancing  state 
Of  souls  emancipate  — 
Oh!  as  I  think  of  you,  at  lonely  night. 
Say  to  my  heart,  ye 're  blest,  and  I  can  bear  my  wo. 

HYMN. 
Sire,  Maker,  Spirit,  who  alone  canst  know 

My  soul,  and  all  the  deep  remorse  that's  there  — 
I  ask  no  mitigation  of  my  wo  ; 

Yet  pity  me,  and  give  me  strength  to  bear  I 

Remorse?— ah!  not  for  ill  designedly  done: 
To  look  on  pain,  to  me  is  pain  severe ; 

Yet,  yet,  dear  forms  which  Death  from  me  hath  won. 
Had  Love  been  Wisdom,  haply  were  ye  here  I 

Much  have  I  suffered  ;  yet  this  form,  unscathed, 
Declares  thy  kind  protection,  by  its  thrift  : 

With  secret  dews  the  wounded  plant  is  bathed ; 
My  ills  are  my  desert,  my  good  thy  gift. 

Three  years  are  flown  since  my  sore  heart  bereft 
Ilath  mourned  for  two,  ta'en  by  the  powers  on  high, 

Nor  tint  nor  atom  that  is  fair  is  left 
Beneath  the  marble  where  their  relics  lie. 

Yet  no  oblivious  veil  is  o'er  them  cast : 
Blent  with  my  blood,  the  sympathetic  glow 

Burns  brighter  now  their  mortal  lives  are  past, 
Than  when,  on  earth,  I  felt  their  joy  and  wo. 

Oh  !  may  their  spirits,  disembodied,  come. 
And  strong  though  secret  influence  dispense — 

Pitying  the  sorrows  of  an  earthly  doom. 
And  smoothing  pain  with  sweet  beneficence. 

Oh !  cover  them  with  forms  so  made  to  meet 
The  models  of  their  souls,  that,  when  they  see. 

They  cast  themselves  in  beauty  at  thy  feet. 
In  all  the  heaven  of  grateful  ecstasy 

Mcthinks  I  see  them,  side  by  side,  in  love, 

Lke  brothers  of  the  zodiac,  all  around 
Diftusing  light  and  fragrance,  as  they  move 

Harmonious  as  the  spheric  music's  sound. 

And  may  these  forms  in  warm  and  rosy  sleep, 
(In  some  fair  dwelling  for  such  forms  assigned,) 

Lie,  while  o'er  air,  earth,  sea,  their  spirits  sweep, 
Guick  as  the  changeful  glance  of  thought  and  mind. 

This  fond  ideal  which  my  grief  relieves. 
Father,  beneath  thy  throne  may  live,  may  be : 

For  more  than  all  my  feeble  sense  conceives, 
Thy  hand  can  give  in  blest  reality. 

Sire,  Maker,  Spirit!  source  of  all  that's  fair! 

Howe'er  my  poor  words  be  unworthy  thee. 
Oh!  be  not  weary  of  the  imperfect  prayer 

Breathed  from  the  fervor  of  a  wretch  like  me  1 

THE    MOON    OF    FLOWERS. 

On,  moon  of  flowers!  sweet  moon  of  flowers!* 
Why  dost  thou  mind  me  of  the  hours 
Which  flew  so  softly  on  that  night 
When  last  I  saw  and  felt  thy  light  ? 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers !  thou  moon  of  flowers ! 
Would  thou  couldst  give  me  back  those  hours 
Since  which  a  dull,  cold  year  has  fled. 
Or  show  me  those  with  whom  they  sped! 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers!  oh,  moon  of  flowers  I 
In  scenes  afar  were  passed  those  hours. 
Which  still  with  fond  regret  I  see. 
And  wish  my  heart  could  change  like  thee' 

*  The  savages  of  the  northern  part  of  .America  sometimes 
count  by  moons.    May  they  call  the  moon  of  flowers. 
P 


TO     NIAGARA. 

Spirit  of  Homer!  thou  whose  song  has  rung 
From  thine  own  Greece  to  this  supreme  abode 
Of  Nature  —  this  great  fane  of  Nature's  God  — 

Breathe  on  my  brain!  oh,  touch  the  fervid  tongue 
Of  a  fond  votaress  kneeling  on  the  sod! 

Sublime  and  Beautiful !  your  chapel 's  here — 

Here,  'neath  the  azure  dome  of  heaven,  ye 're  wed; 
Here,  on  this  rock,  which  trembles  as  I  tread, 

Vour  blended  sorcery  claims  both  pulse  and  tear. 
Controls  life's  source,  and  reigns  o'er  heart  and  head. 

Terrific,  but,  oh,  beautiful  abyss! 

If  I  should  trust  my  fascinated  eye. 

Or  hearken  to  thy  maddening  melody. 
Sense,  form,  would  spring  to  meet  thy  white  foam's  kiss. 

Be  lapped  in  thy  soft  rainbows  once,  and  die! 

Colour,  depth,  height,  extension  — all  unite 

To  chain  the  spirit  by  a  look  intense  ! 

The  dolphin  in  his  clearest  seas,  or  thence 
Ta'en,  for  some  queen,  to  deck  of  ivory  while, 

Dies  not  in  changeful  tints  more  delicately  bright. 

Look,  look !  there  comes,  o'er  yon  pale  green  expanse. 
Beyond  the  curtain  of  this  altar  vast, 
A  glad  young  swan  ;  the  smiling  beams  that  cast 

Light  from  her  plumes,  have  lured  her  soft  advance; 
She  nears  the  fatal  brink  :  her  graceful  life  has  past ! 

Look  up !  nor  her  fond,  foolish  fate  disdain  : 
An  eagle  rests  upon  the  wind's  sweet  breath  ; 
Feels  he  the  charm  ?  woos  he  the  scene  beneath  7 

He  eyes  the  sun  ;  nerves  his  dark  wing  again  ; 
Remembers  clouds  and  storms,  yet  flies  the  lovely  death. 

"  Niagara  !  wonder  of  this  western  world. 
And  half  the  world  beside!  hail,  beauteous  queen 
Of  cataracts  !"'  —  an  angel,  who  had  been 

O'er  heaven  and  earth,  spoke  thus,  his  bright  wings  furled. 
And  knelt  to  Nature  first, -on  this  wild  cliflf  unseen. 

SONG. 
D.\Y,  in  melting  purple  dying. 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing. 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying. 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing. 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness. 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken. 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee; 

Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent — 

Let  me  think  it  innocent! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure: 
All  I  ask  is  friendsliip's  pleasure; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling. 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling: 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me  , 

I  would  only  look  on  thee! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 
Ecstasy  but  in  revealing; 
Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 
Rapture  in  participation. 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 

In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still !     Ah  !  come  and  bless  me  I 
Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee ; 
Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee  : 
Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee; 

In  a  look  if  death  there  be. 

Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee ! 

FRIENDSHIP. 
To  meet  a  friendship  such  as  mine, 
Such  feelings  must  thy  soul  refine 
As  are  not  oft  of  mortal  birth: 
'Tis  love  without  a  stain  of  earth, 
Fratcllo  del  mio  cor. 

22;', 


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I/'oks  are  its  food,  its  nectar  sighs, 
Its  couch  the  lips,  its  throne  the  eyes, 
The  soul  its  breath :  and  so  possest, 
Heaven's  raptures  reign  in  mortal  breast, 
Pratello  del  mio  cor. 

Though  Friendship  be  its  earthly  name. 
Purely  from  highest  heaven  it  came; 
'T  is  seldom  felt  for  more  than  one. 
And  scorns  to  dwell  with  Venus'  son, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

Him  let  it  view  not,  or  it  dies 
Like  tender  hues  of  morning  skies, 
Or  morn's  sweet  flower  of  purple  glow. 
When  sunny  beams  too  ardent  grow, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

A  charm  o'er  every  object  plays ; 
All  looks  so  lovely,  while  it  stays, 
So  softly  forth  in  rosier  tides 
The  vital  flood  extatic  glides, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

That,  wrung  by  grief  to  see  it  part 
A  very  life-drop  leaves  the  heart: 
'-'uch  drop,  I  need  not  tell  thee,  fell. 
While  bidding  it,  for  thee,  farewell! 
Fratello  del  mio  ccr. 

PRAYER. 

Sire  of  the  universe — and  me^ 

Dost  thou  reject  my  midnight  prayer  I 
Dost  thou  withhold  me  even  from  thee, 

Thus  writhing,  struggling  'gainst  despair  I 
Thou  knowest  the  source  of  feeling's  gush. 

Thou  knowest  the  end  for  which  it  flows  : 
Then,  if  thou  bid'st  the  tempest  rush. 

Ah  I  heed  the  fragile  bark  it  throws  .' 

Fain  would  my  heaving  heart  be  still — 

But  Pain  and  Tumult  mock  at  rest : 
Fain  would  I  meekly  meet  thy  will, 

And  kiss  the  barb  that  tears  my  breast. 
Weak  I  am  formed,  I  can  no  more — 

Weary  I  strive,  but  find  not  aid  ; 
Prone  on  thy  threshold  1  deplore. 

But  ah  1  thy  succour  is  delayed. 

The  burning,  beauteous  orb  of  day, 

Amid  its  circling  host  upborne, 
Smiles,  as  life  quickens  in  its  ray  ; 

What  would  it,  were  thy  hand  withdrawn  !— 
Scorch — devastate  the  teeming  whole 

Now  glowing  with  its  warmth  divine  ; 
Spirit,  whose  powers  of  peace  control 

Great  Nature's  heart,  oh  1  pity  mine  1 

Extracts  from  Zophiel. 
DESCRIPTION    OF    EGLA. 

With  unassured  yet  graceful  step  advancing. 

The  light  vermilion  of  her  cheek  more  warm 
For  doubtful  modesty;  while  all  were  glancing 

Over  the  strange  attire  that  well  became  such  form. 
To  lend  her  space,  the  admiring  band  gave  way; 

The  sandals  on  her  silvery  feet  were  blue; 
Of  saffron  tint  her  robe,  as  when  young  day 

Spreads  softly  o'er  the  heavens,  and  tints  the  trembling 
dew. 
Light  was  that  robe  as  mist ;  and  not  a  gem 

Or  ornament  impedes  its  wavy  fold. 
Long  and  profuse,  save  that,  above  its  hem, 

'T  was  brojdi.'r'd  with  pomegranate  wreath,  in  gold. 
And,  by  a  silken  cincture,  broad  and  blue. 

In  shapely  guise  about  the  waist  confined. 
Blent  with  the  curls  that,  of  a  lighter  hue. 

Half  floated,  waving  in  their  length  behind; 

The  other  half,  in  braided  tresses  twined, 
Was  deck'd  with  rows  of  pearls,  and  sapphire's  azure  too. 
Arranged  with  curious  skill  to  imitate 

The  sweet  acacia's  blossoms;  just  as  live 
And  droop  those  tender  flowers  in  natural  state ; 

And  so  the  trembling  gems  seem'd  sensitive. 


And  pendent,  sometimes  touch'd  her  neck;  and  there 

Seem'd  shrinking  from  its  softness  as  alive. 
And  round  her  arms,  flour-white  and  round  and  fair. 

Slight  bandelets  were  twined  of  colours  five. 
Like  little  rainbows  seemly  on  those  arms; 

None  of  that  court  had  seen  the  like  before. 
Soft,  fragrant,  bright— so  much  like  heaven  her  charms. 

It  scarce  could  seem  idolatry  to  adore. 
He  who  beheld  her  hand  forgot  her  face  ; 

Vet  in  that  face  was  all  beside  forgot; 
And  he  who,  as  she  went,  beheld  her  pace, 

And  locks  profuse,  had  said.  "  Nay,  turn  thee  not." 
Placed  on  a  banquet  couch  beside  the  king, 

'Mid  many  a  sparkling  guest  no  eye  forbore; 
But,  like  their  darts,  the  warrior  princes  fling 

Such  looks  as  seem'd  to  pierce,  and  scan  her  o'er  and  o'er; 
Nor  met  alone  the  glare  of  lip  and  eye  — 

Charms,  but  not  rare:  the  gazer  stern  and  cool. 
Who  sought  but  faults,  nor  fault  or  spot  could  spy; 

In  every  limb,  joint,  vein,  the  njaid  was  beautiful. 
Save  that  her  lip,  like  some  bud-bursting  flower. 

Just  scorn'd  the  bounds  of  symmetry,  perchance, 
But  by  its  rashness  gain'd  an  added  power. 

Heightening  perfection  to  luxuriance. 
But  that  was  only  when  she  smiled,  and  when 

Dissolved  the  intense  expression  of  her  eye; 
And  had  her  spirit  love  first  seen  her  then. 

He  had  not  doubted  her  mortality. 

MELES    AND    EGLA    CONTRASTED. 

She  meekly  stood.     He  fasten'd  round  her  arms 

Rings  of  refulgent  ore;  low  and  apart 
Murmuring,  "  So,  beauteous  captive,  shall  thy  charms 

For  ever  thrall  and  clasp  thy  captive's  heart." 
The  air's  light  touch  seem'd  softer  as  she  moved, 

In  languid  resignation  ;  his  quick  eye 
Spoke  in  black  glances  how  she  was  approved. 

Who  shrank  reluctant  from  its  ardency. 
'Twas  sweet  to  look  upon  the  goodly  pair 

In  their  contrasted  loveliness:  her  height 
Might  almost  vie  with  his,  but  heavenly  fair. 
Of  soft  proportion  she,  and  sunny  hair; 

lie,  cast  in  manliest  mould,  with  ringlets  murk  as  night. 
And  oft  her  drooping  and  resigned  blue  eye 

She'd  wistful  raise  to  read  his  radiant  face; 
But  then,  why  shrunk  her  heart  ?— a  secret  sigh 

Told  her  it  most  required  what  there  it  could  not  trace. 

ZOPHIEL    LISTENING    'WHILE    EGLA    SINGS. 
His  wings  were  folded  o'er  his  eyes ;  severe 

As  was  the  pain  he'd  borne  from  wave  and  wind, 
The  dubious  warning  of  that  being  drear. 

Who  met  him  in  the  lightning,  to  his  mind 
Was  torture  worse;  a  dark  presentiment 

Came  o'er  his  soul  with  paralyzing  chill. 
As  when  Fate  vaguely  whispers  her  intent 

To  poison  mortal  joy  with  sense  of  coming  ill. 
He  search'd  about  the  grove  with  all  the  care 

Of  trembling  jealousy,  as  if  to  trace. 
By  track  or  wounded  flower,  some  rival  there  ; 

And  scarcely  dared  to  look  upon  the  face 
Of  her  he  loved,  lest  it  some  tale  might  tell 

To  make  the  only  hope  that  soothed  him  vain  : 
He  hears  her  notes  in  nun)bers  die  and  swell. 

But  almost  fears  to  listen  to  the  strain 
Himself  had  taught  her,  lest  some  hated  name 

Had  been  with  that  dear  gentle  air  enwreathed. 
While  he  was  far;  she  sighed — he  nearer  came — 

Oh,  transport  I  Zophiel  was  the  name  she  breathed, 

MORNING. 
How  beauteous  art  thou,  O  thou  morning  sun  ! — 

The  old  man,  feebly  tottering  forth,  admires 
As  much  thy  beauty,  now  life's  dream  is  done. 

As  when  he  moved  exulting  in  his  fires. 
The  infant  strains  his  little  arms  to  catch 

The  rays  that  glance  about  his  silken  hair; 
And  Luxury  hatigs  her  amber  lamps,  to  match 

Thy  face,  when  turn'd  away  from  bower  and  palace  fair 
Sweet  to  the  lip  the  draught,  the  blushing  fruit : 

Music  and  perfumes  mingle  with  the  soul  ; 
Hovi'  thrills  the  kiss,  when  feeling's  voice  is  mute  ! 

And  light  and  beauty's  lints  enhance  the  v.  hole. 

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Yet  each  keen  sense  were  dulness  but  for  thee  : 

Thy  ray  to  joy.  love,  virtue,  genius,  warms; 
Thou  never  weariest;  no  inconstancy 

But  comes  to  pay  new  homage  to  thy  charms. 
How  many  lips  have  sung  thy  praise,  how  long  ! 

Yet,  wlien  his  slumbering  harp  he  feels  thee  woo, 
The  pleasured  bard  pours  forth  another  song, 

And  finds  in  thee,  like  love,  a  theme  for  ever  new. 
Thy  dark-eyed  daughters  come  in  beauty  forth, 

In  thy  near  realms;  and,  like  their  snow-wreaths  fair, 
The  brighthair'd  youths  and  maidens  of  the  north 

Smile  in  thy  colours  when  thou  art  not  there. 
'Tis  there  thou  bid'st  a  deeper  ardor  glow, 

And  higlier,  purer  reveries  completest; 
As  drops  that  farthest  from  the  ocean  flow, 

Retiuing  all  the  way,  from  springs  the  sweetest. 
Haply,  sometimes,  spent  with  the  sleepless  night. 

Some  wretch,  impassion'd,  from  sweet  morning's  breath. 
Turns  his  hot  brow,  and  sickens  at  thy  light ; 

But  Nature,  ever  kind,  soon  heals  or  gives  liim  death 

AMBITION. 

Wo  to  thee,  wild  Ambition  !    I  employ 

Despair's  low  notes  thy  dread  effects  to  tell : 
Born  in  high  heaven,  her  peace  thou  could'st  destroy. 

And,  but  for  thee,  there  had  not  been  a  hell. 
Through  the  celestial  domes  thy  clarion  peald; 

Angels,  entranced,  beneath  thy  banners  ranged, 
And  straight  were  fiends  ;  hurl'd  from  the  shrinking  field. 

They  waked  in  agony  to  wail  the  change. 
Darting  through  all  her  veins,  the  subtle  fire. 

The  world's  fair  mistress  first  inhaled  thy  breath; 
To  lot  of  higher  beings  learn'd  to  aspire; 

Dared  to  attempt,  and  doom'd  the  world  to  deatli. 
The  thousand  wild  desires,  that  still  torment 

The  fiercely  struggling  soul  where  peace  once  dwelt. 
But  perish'd;  feverish  hope  ;  drear  discontent, 

Impoisoning  all  possess'd — oh  !  I  have  felt 
As  spirits  feel— yet  not  for  man  we  moan  : 

Scarce  o'er  the  silly  bird  in  state  were  he. 
That  builds  his  nest,  loves,  sings  the  morn's  return, 

And  sleeps  at  evening,  save  by  aid  of  thee. 
Fame  ne'er  had  roused,  nor  Song  her  records  kept, 

The  gem,  the  ore,  the  marble  breathing  life, 
The  pencil's  colours,  all  in  earth  had  slept, 

Now  see  them  mark  with  death  his  victim's  strife. 
Man  found  thee.  Death  :  but  Death  and  dull  Decay 

Baffling,  by  aid  of  thee,  his  mastery  proves  ; 
By  mighty  works  he  swells  his  narrow  day. 

And  reigns,  for  ages,  on  the  world  he  loves. 
Vet  what  the  price?     With  stings  that  never  cease. 

Thou  goad'st  him  on  :  and,  when  too  keen  the  smart, 
His  highest  dole  he'd  barter  but  for  peace — 

Food  thou  wilt  have,  or  feast  upon  his  heart. 

VIRTUE. 

Virtue!    how  many,  as  a  lowly  thing. 

Born  of  weak  folly,  scorn  thee  !  but  thy  name 
Alone  they  know  ;  upon  thy  soaring  wing 

They'd  fear  to  mount ;  nor  could  thy  sacred  flame 
Burn  in  their  baser  hearts  :  the  biting  thorn. 

The  flinty  crag,  flowers  hiding,  strew  thy  field; 
Yet  blest  is  he  whose  daring  bides  the  scorn 

Of  the  frail,  easy  herd,  and  buckles  on  thy  shield. 
Who  says  thy  ways  are  bliss,  trolls  but  a  lay 

To  lure  the  infant:  if  thy  paths,  to  view. 
Were  always  pleasant.  Crime's  worst  sons  would  lay 

Their  daggers  at  thy  feet,  and,  from  mere  sloth,  pursue. 

BROSSIER,  MARTHA, 
A  VERY  remarkable  woman,  who  pretended  to 
be  possessed  by  the  devil,  and  came  near  causing 
great  disorders  in  France,  about  the  end  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Iler  father  was  a  weaver  at 
Romozantin ;  but  as  Martha  had  the  art  of  making 
a  thousand  distortions,  he  found  it  more  profitable 
to  ramble  about  with  her,  than  to  stay  at  home 
and  mind  his  trade.  Going  from  town  to  town, 
and  showing  his  daughter,  as  a  woman  possessed 


by  the  devil,  and  needing  the  exorcism  of  the 
church,  a  great  number  of  people  resorted  to  him. 
The  cheat  was  discovered  at  Orleans,  in  1698,  and 
all  the  priests  of  that  diocese  were  forbidden  to 
proceed  to  exorcisms  on  pain  of  excommunication. 
Nor  was  the  bishop  of  Anglers  more  easily  imposed 
on ;  for,  having  invited  Martha  to  dinner,  he  caused 
holy  water  to  be  brought  to  her  instead  of  common 
water,  and  common  water  instead  of  holy  water. 
Martha  was  not  at  all  affected  when   she  drank 
the  holy  water,  but  made  a  great  many  distortions 
when  the  common  water  was  handed  to  her.     Upon 
this  the  prelate  called  for  the  book  of  Exorcisms, 
and  read  the  beginning  of  the  ^Eneid.     ISIartha, 
supposing  the  Latin  verses  to  be  the  exorcism,  put 
herself  into  violent  postures,  as  though  she  were 
tormented  by  the  devil.     The  bishop,  convinced 
that  she  was  an  impostor,  reproved  her  father  in 
private,  and  advised  him  to  go  back  with  her  to 
Romozantin.     But  Bros.sier,  on  the  contrary,  car- 
ried Martha  to  Paris,  as  a  better  theatre  for  her 
to  act  on,  where  he  hoped  to  be  supported  by  tlie 
credulous,  and  those  whom  the  edict  of  Nantes  had 
lately  exasperated  against  the  king.     He  pitched 
upon  the  church  of  St.  Genevieve  to  act  his  farce 
in,  and  it  succeeded  wonderfully.     The  capuchins 
took  up  the  business,  and  the  contortions  she  made 
while  the  exorcists  were  performing  their  office, 
easily  persuaded  the  people  that  she  was  a  real 
demoniac.     The  thing  was  quickly  noised  all  over 
the  city,  and  the  bishop  appointed  five  of  the  most 
famous  physicians  in  Paris  to  examine  into  it ; 
who  unanimously  reported,   "that  the  devil  had 
no  hand  in  the  matter,  but  that  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  imposture  and  some  distemper  in  it.'' 

Two  days  after,  two  of  the  physicians  seemed  to 
waver ;  and  before  they  answered  the  bishop,  de- 
sired that  the  three  others  might  be  sent  for,  and 
time  granted  them  till  the  next  day.  The  trial 
came  on,  on  the  first  of  April,  1599,  when  father 
Seraphin  renewed  his  exorcisms,  and  Martha  her 
convulsions.  She  rolled  her  eyes,  lolled  out  her 
tongue,  and  her  whole  body  trembled ;  and  when 
the  priest  uttered  the  words,  "  Et  homo  factus 
est"  (and  was  made  man),  she  fell  down,  and 
tossed  herself  from  the  altar  to  the  door  of  the 
chapel.  Upon  this,  the  exorcist  cried  out,  "  That 
if  any  one  persisted  in  his  incredulity,  he  needed 
only  to  fight  that  devil,  and  try  to  conquer  him,  if 
he  durst  venture  his  life."  Marescot,  one  of  the 
five  physicians,  accepted  the  challenge,  took  Mar- 
tha by  the  throat,  and  bade  her  stop.  She  obeyed, 
saying  that  the  evil  spirit  had  left  her,  which 
father  Seraphin  confirmed  ;  bttt  Marescot  insisted 
that  he  had  frightened  the  devil  away.  People 
were  divided  in  their  opinions  about  this  woman, 
many  believing  her  to  be  really  a  demoniac.  At 
length,  there  being  fears  that  she  might  cause  a 
sedition,  under  pretence  of  the  edict  granted  to 
the  Protestants,  Henry  IV.  enjoined  the  parlia- 
ment of  Paris  to  use  their  authority ;  upon  which 
the  parliament  ordered  her  to  be  confined.  She 
was  kept  in  prison  for  forty  days ;  during  which 
time  the  best  physicians  examined  her,  and  as- 
serted that  there  was  nothing  supernatural  in  her 
case.     In  the  mean  time,   the   priests  protested 

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against  this  proceeding,  saying  that  it  was  an  en- 
croachment on  the  privileges  of  the  church,  sug- 
gested by  the  heretics,  and  they  were  not  silenced 
without  much  difficulty.  On  the  27th  of  May, 
Brossier  was  sent  with  his  daughter  to  Romozantin, 
and  forbidden  to  allow  her  to  go  abroad,  without 
consent  of  the  judge,  under  pain  of  corporal  pun- 
ishment. However,  the  father  and  daughter  went, 
under  the  sanction  and  protection  of  Alexander  de 
la  Rochefoucauld,  abbot  of  St.  Martin's,  into  Au- 
vergne,  and  to  Avignon.  The  parliament  of  Paris 
summoned  the  abbot  twice,  and  at  last  ordered 
that  the  revenues  of  his  benefice  should  be  seized 
for  contempt  of  court ;  nevertheless,  these  people 
went  to  Rome.  The  bishop  of  Clermont,  brother 
to  the  abbot,  was  suspected  of  having  suggested 
this  foolish  undertaking  to  his  brother,  and  was 
also  deprived  of  his  ecclesiastical  revenues. 

Henry  IV.  countermined  them  at  Rome,  so  that 
the  pope  did  nothing  contrary  to  the  sentence 
given  by  the  parliament  of  Paris  against  the  pre- 
tended demoniac.  Not  long  after,  the  abbot  died, 
it  is  said,  of  grief,  for  having  undertaken  so  long 
a  journey  to  make  himself  despised ;  and  Martha 
and  her  father,  forsaken  by  everybody,  took  refuge 
in  the  hospitals. 

BROWN,    CATHERINE, 

Was  a  half-blooded  Cherokee,  born  at  Willis 
Valley,  in  the  state  of  Alabama,  about  the  year 
1800.  Her  father's  name,  in  the  Indian  language, 
was  Yau-nu-gung-yah-ski,  which  is,  "drowned  by 
a  bear."  His  English  name,  from  his  father,  was 
John  Brown.  Her  mother's  name  was  Tsa-luh, 
in  the  Cherokee.  Her  English  name  was  Sarah. 
They  were  people  of  property,  and  far  above  the 
level  of  their  race,  but  still  had  no  education — 
they  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English.  In  1816, 
the  American  Board  of  Foreign  Missions  sent  the 
Rev.  Cyrus  Kingsbury  to  the  Cherokee  nation,  for 
permission  to  establish  a  school  in  their  territory. 
This  was  granted,  and  a  school  opened  at  Chicka- 
maugah,  within  the  ten'itory  of  Tennessee.  Cathe- 
rine had  heard  of  the  school,  although  living  at 
the  distance  of  a  hundred  miles.  She  had  learned 
to  speak  English,  by  residing  at  the  house  of  a 
Cherokee  friend,  and  coiild  read  in  words  of  one 
syllable.  She  was  now  seventeen  years  of  age, 
possessing  very  fine  features,  and  of  roseate  com- 
plexion. She  was  decidedly  the  fii'st  of  Cherokee 
beauties.  She  was  modest,  gentle  and  virtuous, 
with  a  sweet  and  aflTectionate  disposition.  From 
her  wealth  and  beauty,  she  had  been  indulged  as 
the  pride  of  her  parents ;  but  she  was  the  most 
docile  of  all  the  missionary  pupils.  Her  progress 
was  wonderfully  rapid.  In  three  months,  she 
learned  to  read  and  write.  This  exceeds  the  pro- 
gress of  any  one  on  record,  in  this  or  any  other 
country.  She  soon  became  serious,  and  then  re- 
ligious; and  was  baptized  in  January,  1818.  In 
June,  1820,  she  undertook  to  teach  a  school  at 
Creek-path,  near  her  father's  house.  She  showed 
the  greatest  zeal  in  the  cause  of  enlightening  her 
countrywomen ;  for  those  of  all  ages  came  to  learn 
something  of  her.  She  established  religious  ex- 
ercises in  her  father's  house,  and  brought  many 


to  Christianity.  She  was  not  contented  with  the 
measure  of  information  she  had  acquired,  but  in- 
tended to  push  her  studies  into  higher  branches 
of  knowledge,  which  she  knew  to  exist ;  but  while 
she  was  contemplating  great  things  for  herself  and 
her  nation,  her  health  began  to  decline.  She  had 
probably  injured  herself  by  too  close  application 
to  her  studies.  The  change  from  flying  through 
the  groves  and  paddling  the  canoe  to  such  a  seden- 
tary life,  which  she  must  have  severely  felt,  and 
with  her  anxiety  for  the  conversion  of  her  family, 
particularly  of  a  brother,  who  had  died  the  pre- 
ceding year,  aggravated  her  disease.  She  bore 
her  sickness  with  great  resignation,  and  her  piety 
made  a  deep  impression  on  the  hearts  of  all  who 
knew  and  loved  her.  She  died  July  18th,  1823, 
and  was  buried  at  Creek-path,  beside  her  dear 
brother  John,  whom  she  had  been  instrumental  in 
converting  to  Christianity. 

BROWNE,  MARY  ANNE, 
Was  born  in  1812,  at  Maiden  Head,  Berkshire, 
England.  She  began  to  publish  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  and  her  poems  even  then  showed  great 
genius.  Her  father  removed  to  Liverpool  in  1830; 
and  in  1842,  Miss  Browne  was  married  to  James 
Gray,  a  Scotch  gentleman,  and  a  nephew  of  James 
Hogg,  the  shepherd-poet.  She  died  at  Cork,  in 
1844.  Her  first  work  was  "Mont-Blanc;"  her 
others  were,  "Ada,"  "Repentance,"  "The  Coro- 
nal," "Birth-Day  Gift,"  "Ignatia,"  volume  of 
"  Sacred  Poetry,"  and  a  great  number  of  fugitive 
pieces,  in  prose  as  well  as  verse.  She  was  as  well 
known  by  those  among  whom  she  lived  for  her 
active  benevolence,  as  for  her  poetical  talents, 
being  eminently  pious,  gentle,  and  benevolent. 
There  is  very  little  display  of  that  sort  of  tender 
and  flowery  description,  which  may  be  termed 
se7itimentalism,  in  the  poetry  of  Miss  Browne.  She 
is  reflective,  serious,  and,  at  times,  sublime.  Hu- 
man nature,  as  its  passions  and  changes,  hopes, 
fears  and  joys,  are  displayed  in  books  and  in  social 
life,  seems  to  have  been  her  study,  rather  than 
"running  brooks"  or  " flowery  meads."  Hence, 
her  style  is  modelled  on  the  manner  of  the  old 
bards ;  and  though  her  poetry  never  reaches  the 
height  she  evidently  sought  to  attain,  it  is  excel- 
lent for  its  pure  taste  and  just  sentiment;  while  a 
few  instances  of  bold  imagination  show  vividly  the 
ardour  of  a  fancy,  which  prudence  and  delicacy 
always  controlled. 

THE    HEART    AXD    LTKE. 

She  left  her  lyre  within  the  hall, 

When  last  she  parted  with  her  loved ; 
And  still  it  hangs  upon  the  wall — 

He  will  not  let  it  be  removed. 
Around  that  lyre  of  sweetest  tone 

She  twined  a  wreath  of  roses  fair  ; 
And,  though  their  lovely  hue  is  gone, 

The  withered  blossoms  still  are  there. 

No  hand  hath  touched  its  silver  string 

Since  last  she  waked  a  parting  lay; 
To  sweep  its  chords  would  only  bring 

A  tuneless  tale  of  its  decay. 
And  there  it  hangs,  slow  mouldering, 

Its  sweetness  gone,  its  passion  quelled; 
And  round  it  those  dead  roses  cling. 

Like  withered  hopes  still  fondly  held. 

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And  his  sad  mourning  heart  Is  such- 
No  happy  feeling  it  affords; 

It  cannot  bear  the  lightest  touch 
Of  mirth  upon  its  ruined  chords. 

Her  name  to  him  they  ne'er  repeat, 
It  would  but  waken  tlioughts  of  wo; 

And  though  't  was  once  so  very  svveet, 
He  could  not  brook  to  hear  it  now. 

He  fixes  on  that  lyre  his  eye 

For  hours,  but  never,  never  speaks  ; 
Unmoved  he  gazes,  silently. 

And  only  starts  when  some  chord  breaks. 
It  hath  an  echo  in  his  heart, 

Both  mutely  their  bereavement  bear: 
In  her  affections  both  had  part. 

And  both  are  left  to  perish  there. 

man's  love. 

When  woman's  eye  grows  dull, 

And  her  cheek  paleth. 
When  fades  the  beautiful. 

Then  man's  love  faileth; 
He  sits  not  beside  her  chair. 

Clasps  not  her  fingers. 
Twines  not  the  damp  hair. 

That  o'er  her  brow  lingers. 

He  comes  but  a  moment  in. 

Though  her  eye  lightens. 
Though  her  cheek,  pale  and  thin, 

Feverishly  briglitens : 
He  stays  but  a  moment  near, 

When  that  flash  fadeth. 
Though  true  affection's  tear 

Her  soft  eyelid  shadeth. 

He  goes  from  her  chamber  straight 

Into  life's  jostle, 
He  meets  at  the  very  gate 

Business  and  bustle; 
He  thinks  not  of  her  within. 

Silently  sighing, 
He  forgets,  in  that  noisy  din, 

That  she  is  dying! 

And  when  her  young  heart  is  still. 

What  though  he  mourneth. 
Soon  from  his  sorrow  chill 

Wearied  he  turneth, 
Soon  o'er  her  buried  head 

Memory's  light  setteth. 
And  the  true-hearted  dead 

Thus  man  forgetteth ! 

woman's  love. 

When  man  is  waxing  frail. 

And  his  hand  is  thin  and  weak. 

And  his  lips  are  parched  and  pale. 
And  wan  and  white  his  cheek, — 

Oh,  then  doth  woman  prove 

Her  constancy  and  love! 

She  sitteth  by  his  chair. 
And  holds  his  feeble  hand ; 

She  watcheth  ever  there. 
His  wants  to  understand; 

His  yet  unspoken  will 

She  hasteneth  to  fulfil. 

She  leads  him,  when  the  noon 
Is  bright  o'er  dale  or  hill, 

And  all  things,  save  the  tune 
Of  the  honey  bees,  are  still, 

Into  the  garden  bowers. 

To  sit  'midst  herbs  and  flowers. 

And  when  he  goes  not  there, 
To  feast  on  breath  and  bloom. 

She  brings  the  posy  rare 
Into  his  darkened  room  ; 

And  'neath  his  weary  head 

The  pillow  smooth  doth  spread. 


Until  the  hour  when  death 

His  lamp  of  life  doth  dim, 
She  never  wearicth. 

She  never  leaveth  him ; 
Still  near  him  night  and  day, 
She  meets  his  eye  alway. 

And  when  his  trial  's  o'er. 

And  the  turf  is  on  his  breast, 
Deep  in  her  bosom's  core 

Lie  sorrows  une.\pressed ; 
Her  tears,  her  sighs,  are  weak. 
Her  settled  grief  to  speak. 

And  though  there  may  arise 

Balm  for  her  spirit's  pain, 
And  though  her  quiet  eyes 

May  sometimes  smile  again; 
Still,  still  she  must  regret,— 
She  never  can  forget ! 

SHE    WAS    NOT    MADE    FOR    HAPPINESS. 

She  was  not  made  for  happiness ;  her  eyes 

Were  all  too  soft  and  deep. 
Shade  'midst  their  radiance — as  in  lovely  skies 

Of  April  when  they  weep. 
Yet  when  she  spake  with  earnest  eloquence. 

The  soul  beneath  them  burned 
As  if  her  thoughts,  concentred  and  intense, 

Them  into  stars  had  turned. 

She  was  not  made  for  happiness;  her  brow 

Had  lines  of  early  thought. 
Traced  e'en  in  childhood's  sunny  time,  and  now 

Still  daily  deeper  wrought. 
And  her  sweet  lips!  they  were  not  chiselled  forms, 

Such  as  the  sculptor  knows, 
The  quivering  smile,  that  saddens  while  it  warms, 

Hung  o'er  their  rose. 

She  was  not  made  for  happiness;  too  much 

She  felt  for  others'  woe, 
What  to  another's  heart  was  but  a  touch. 

Hers  felt  a  cruel  blow. 
No  tale  of  sufl"ering,  sorrow,  or  disease, 

But  found  an  echo  there— 
A  wounded  bird— a  broken  flower— e'en  these 

Her  sympathy  might  share. 

She  was  not  made  for  happiness  ;  and  yet 

Too  much  of  ours  she  made. 
With  what  unmingled  anguish  and  regret 

We  saw  her  droop  and  fade  ! 
Suffering  had  seemed  her  birthright  dower. 

Years  of  sad  pain  went  o'er. 
And  yet  we  loved  our  frail  and  feeble  flower 

Even  for  this  the  more. 

But  standing  by  her  dying  bed,  we  felt 

A  better  prospect  dawn  ; 
A  mist  around  her  spirit  seemed  to  melt, 

A  curtain  seemed  withdrawn. 
Bright  happy  glances  from  her  eyes  were  sent 

Up  through  the  summer  sky— 
Ah!  now  she  knew  her  own  true  element, 

The  better  world  on  high. 

And  hopefully  she  spake,  and  happily 

Of  communings  with  God — 
Of  light  and  glory,  that  we  could  not  see, 

Upon  the  path  she  trod. 
A  setting  sunbeam  from  her  cloudy  lot 

At  length  broke  brightly  forth— 
Oh !  she  was  made  for  happiness— but  not 

The  happiness  of  earth. 

MEMORY. 

"  Rather  than  have  one  bliss  forgrot, 
Be  all  my  pains  remembered  too." 

Monre. 

And  wonldst  thou  advise  me  to  mix  with  the  crowd. 
And  strive  to  efl'ace  the  remembrance  of  years : 

When,  though  mists  and  misfortune  too  often  might  shroud. 
One  smile  hath  repaid  mo  for  long  hours  of  tears? 

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And  say'st  thnii  that  memory  only  can  feed 
The  fever  tliat  preys  on  the  desolate  heart  ? 

Oh!  thou  knowest  not,  unless  thou  hast  felt  it  indeed, 
What  joy  the  remembrance  of  joy  can  impart! 

There  are  things  that  are  past,  which  I  would  not  forget 

For  the  brightest  of  pleasures  that  earth  can  now  give  ; 
Their  bliss  had  a  mixture  of  sorrow,  and  yet 

Like  stars  in  the  night  of  my  bosom  they  live. 
As  on  scenes  we  have  passed,  when  by  distance  made  soft. 

We  gaze  the  more  fondly  the  further  we  go. 
So,  when  years  of  our  prime  have  gone  over,  how  oft 

We  turn  with  delight  to  past  pleasure  and  wo. 

I  once  felt  affections,  more  gentle  and  fond, 

That  shone  o'er  my  soul,  like  the  stars  o'er  the  seas ; 
And  thiuk'st  thou  my  spirit  can  ever  despond. 

While  memory  revives  such  emotions  as  these? 
Oh!  how  many  a  smile  and  affectionate  word 

Remain  through  long  years  on  the  wo-blighted  mind. 
When  joy  hath  shot  over  its  wastes,  like  a  bird 

That  hath  left  a  bright  gift  from  its  plumage  behind ! 

An(i  what  though  the  vision  of  happiness  flies 

From  the  heart  that  had  cherished  it  fondly  before  ? 
Its  flowers  may  be  withered,  but  memory  supplies 

Their  vigour,  and  fragrance,  and  beauty  once  more. 
Oh  !  may  my  remembrances  never  depart ! 

May  I  still  feel  a  bliss  in  beholding  the  past- 
While  memory  over  the  gems  of  the  heart 

Shall,  sentinel-like,  keep  her  watch  to  the  last. 


KINDRED    SriRITS. 

Drops  from  the  ocean  of  eternity, 

Rays  from  the  centre  of  unfailing  light. 
Things  that  the  human  eye  caii  never  see. 

Are  spirits, — yet  they  dwell  near  human  sight ! 
But  as  the  shattered  magnefs  fragments  still, 

Though  far  apart,  will  to  each  other  turn, — 
So.  in  the  breast  imprisoned,  spirits  will 

To  meet  their  fellow  spirits  vainly  burn ; — 
And  yet  not  vainly.    If  the  drop  shall  pass 

Through  streams  of  human  sorrow  undefiled,— 
If  the  eternal  ray  that  heavenly  was. 

To  no  false  earthly  fire  be  reconciled, — 
The  drop  shall  mingle  with  its  native  main, 
The  ray  shall  meet  its  kindred  ray  again  ! 


JAQrES    BALJIOT. 

(He  was  the  first  guide  who  ever  reached  the  highest  summit 
of  Mount  Blanc.) 

The  mountain  reared  a  lofly  brow. 

Where  never  footstep  trod. 
It  stood  supreme  o'er  all  below, 

And  seemed  alone  with  God. 
The  lightnings  played  around  its  crest, 

Nor  touched  its  stainless  snow  ; 
The  glaciers  bound  its  mighty  breast, 

Seas  where  no  currents  flow  ! 

And  ever  and  anon  the  blast 

Blew  sternly  round  its  head, 
The  clouds  across  its  bosom  vast 

A  changeful  curtain  spread  ; 
But,  changeless  in  its  majesty. 

The  mountain  was  alone, 
No  voice  might  tell  what  there  might  be. 

Its  secrets  were  its  own. 

He  should  have  worshipped  poetry 

Who  trod  its  summit  first  ; 
He  should  have  h.ad  a  painter's  eye, 

On  whom  the  vision  burst  ; 
The  vision  of  the  lower  world 

Seen  from  that  mountain's  crown. 
Where  storms  midst  humbler  rocks  were  curled, 

To  molehills  dwindled  down. 

Yet  'twas  a  lowly  peasant's  lot 

To  find  the  upward  road, 
He  earliest  trod  that  lofty  spot 

Where  solitude  abode. 


Methinks,  if  naught  be  felt  beside. 

There  must  have  been  delight. 
And  the  strong  gush  of  natural  pride, 

When  he  had  gained  that  height. 

Thus  truth  sits  throned  in  lonely  power 

For  ages  long  and  lone. 
Till  opens  in  some  happy  hour 

A  pathway  towards  her  throne. 
And  let  this  thought  the  humble  sway, 

And  hope  their  bosoms  fill, 
"The  lowly  often  lead  the  way 

Up  to  her  sacred  hill !" 

BRUN,    FREDERIKE    CHRISTIANA, 

A  German  poetess,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Miinter,  was  born  at  Graefentoma,  in  the  princi- 
pality of  Gatha,  June  3d,  1765,  and  died  at  Co- 
penhagen, March  26th,  1835.  She  was  sister  to 
the  celebrated  and  learned  bishop  Miinter,  of 
Iceland,  and  wife  of  the  Danish  conference  coun- 
sellor Brun.  Encouraged  by  the  example  of  her 
husband  and  her  brother,  she  became  an  author, 
and  obtained  considerable  fame  as  a  writer  of 
lyrics.  Her  prose  wi'itings,  though  not  of  the  first 
order,  are  yet  far  above  mediocrity.  She  is  best 
known  as  the  author  of  songs  of  liberty,  written 
when  Philhellenic  enthusiasm  prevailed  all  over 
Germany.  Almost  all  her  poetic  productions  are 
tinctured  with  a  sad  and  melancholy  feeling. 

BRUN,    MADAME   LE, 

Was  a  French  artiste  or  painter,  who  gained 
considerable  reputation  at  Paris.  Her  paintings, 
historical  pieces  as  well  as  portraits,  were  exhibit- 
ed in  the  Louvre.  Madame  de  Genlis  speaks  of 
the  talents  of  Madame  le  Brun  with  much  warmth 
of  praise,  and  complains  that  the  men  sought  to 
depreciate  her  paintings  because  she  was  a  woman. 

BR  UN  TON,    MARY, 

Authoress  of  "  Self-Control"  and  "  Discipline," 
two  novels  of  superior  merit,  was  born  on  the  1st 
of  November,  1778.  She  was  a  native  of  Burrey, 
in  Orkney,  a  small  island  of  about  five  hundred 
inhabitants,  destitute  of  tree  or  shrub.  Her  father 
was  colonel  Balfour,  of  Elwick,  and  her  mother 
was  niece  of  field-marshal  lord  Ligonier,  in  whose 
house  she  had  resided  before  her  marriage.  Mary 
was  carefully  educated,  and  taught  French  and 
Italian  by  her  mother.  She  was  also  sent  to  Edin- 
burgh ;  but  when  she  was  sixteen  her  mother  died, 
and  the  whole  care  of  the  family  devolved  on  her. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  she  married  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Brunton,  minister  of  Bolton,  in  Haddingtonshire. 
In  1803,  Mr.  Brunton  was  called  to  Edinburgh, 
and  there  his  wife  had  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
literary  persons,  and  of  cultivating  lier  mind. 
"  Self-Control,"  her  first  novel,  was  published 
anonymously  in  1811.  The  first  edition  was  sold 
in  a  month,  and  a  second  and  third  called  for. 
Her  next  work  was  "  Discipline,"  a  novel  of  the 
religious  class,  to  which  "  Self-Control"  belonged. 
She  died  in  1818,  leaving  an  unfinished  novel 
called  "Emeline,"  afterwards  published  with  a 
memoir  of  the  authoress,  by  her  husband. 

Her  private  character  was  in  harmony  with  her 
writings ;  she  taught  all  within  the  circle  of  her 
influence,  by  her  amiable  deportment,  how  beauti- 

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ful  are  the  characteristics  of  the  true  Christian 
lady,  as  she  now  teaches  the  readers  of  her  ex- 
cellent works  the  theory  of  the  loveliness  of  virtue. 
We  give  a  few  selections  from  her  best  novel  — 
''  Self-Co7itroV' 

SKETCH    OF    THE    HEKOIXE. 

It  is  the  fashion  of  the  age  to  account  for  every 
striking  feature  of  a  character,  from  education  or 
external  circumstance.  Those  who  are  fond  of 
such  speculations  may  trace,  if  they  can,  the  self- 
denying  habits  of  Laura,  to  the  eagerness  with 
which  her  enthusiastic  mind  imbibed  the  stories 
of  self-devoting  patriots  and  martyrs,  and  may 
find,  in  one  lesson  of  her  preceptress,  the  tint 
which  coloured  her  future  days.  The  child  had 
been  reading  a  narrative  of  the  triumphant  death 
of  one  of  the  first  reformers  ;  and,  full  of  the 
emulation  which  the  tale  of  heroic  virtue  inspires, 
exclaimed,  her  eyes  flashing  through  their  tears, 
her  little  form  erect  with  noble  daring,  —  "Let 
them  persecute  me,  and  I  will  be  a  martyr." 
"  You  may  be  so  now,  to-day,  every  day,"  return- 
ed Mrs.  Douglas.  "It  was  not  at  the  stake  that 
these  holy  men  began  their  self-denial.  They  had 
before  taken  up  their  cross  daily  ;  and  whenever, 
from  a  regard  to  duty,  you  resign  anything  that 
is  pleasing  or  valuable  to  you,  you  are  for  the 
time  a  little  martyr." 

In  a  solitary  village,  remote  from  her  equals  in 
age  and  rank,  Laura  necessarily  lived  much  alone  ; 
and  in  solitude  she  acquired  a  grave  and  contem- 
plative turn  of  mind.  Far  from  the  scenes  of 
dissipation  and  frivolity,  conversant  with  the  grand 
and  the  sublime  in  nature,  her  sentiments  assumed 
a  corresponding  elevation.  She  had  heard  that 
there  was  vice  in  the  world ;  she  knew  that  there 
was  virtue  in  it ;  and  little  acquainted  with  other 
minds,  deeply  studious  of  her  own,  she  concluded 
that  all  mankind  were  like  herself  engaged  in  a 
constant  endeavour  after  excellence  ;  that  success 
in  this  struggle  was  at  once  virtue  and  happiness, 
while  failure  included  misery  as  well  as  guilt. 
The  habit  of  self-examination,  early  formed,  and 
steadily  maintained,  made  even  venial  trespass 
appear  the  worst  of  evils ;  while,  in  the  labours 
of  duty  and  the  pleasures  of  devotion,  she  found 
joys  which  sometimes  rose  to  rapture. 

THE  LOVER  AND  HIS  DECLARATION. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  mother's  funeral, 
captain  Montreville  prevailed  on  his  daughter  to 
take  a  solitary  walk.  Slowly  she  ascended  the 
hill  that  overlooked  the  village,  and  stopping  near 
its  brow,  looked  back  towards  the  church-yard,  to 
observe  a  brown  hillock  that  marked  the  spot 
where  her  mother  slept.  Tears  filled  her  eyes,  as 
passing  over  long  intervals  of  unkindness,  she  re- 
collected some  casual  proof  of  love ;  and  they  fell 
fast  as  she  remembered,  that  for  that  love  she 
could  now  make  no  return.  She  turned  to  pro- 
ceed ;  and  the  moist  eye  sparkled  with  pleasure, 
the  faded  check  glowed  with  more  than  the  flush 
of  health,  when  she  beheld  springing  towards  her 
the  elegant,  the  accomplished,  colonel  Hargrave. 
Forgotten  was  languor,  forgotten  was  sorrow ;  for 


Laura  was  just  seventeen,  and  colonel  Hargrave 
was  the  most  ardent,  the  most  favoured  of  lovers. 
His  person  was  symmetry  itself;  his  manners  had 
all  the  fascination  that  vivacity  and  intelligence, 
joined  to  the  highest  polish,  can  bestow.  His  love 
for  Laura  suited  with  the  impetuosity  of  his  cha- 
racter ;  and  for  more  than  a  year  he  had  laboured 
with  assiduity  and  success  to  inspire  a  passion 
corresponding  to  his  own.  Yet  it  was  not  Har- 
grave whom  Laura  loved ;  for  the  being  on  whom 
she  doted  had  no  resemblance  to  him,  except  in 
externals.  It  was  a  creature  of  her  imagination, 
pure  as  her  own  heart,  yet  impassioned  as  the 
wildest  dreams  of  fiction,  intensely  susceptible  of 
pleasure,  and  keenly  alive  to  pain,  yet  ever  ready 
to  sacrifice  the  one  and  to  despise  the  other.  This 
ideal  being,  clothed  with  the  fine  form,  and  adorn- 
ed with  the  insinuating  manners,  and  animated 
with  the  infectious  love  of  Hargrave,  what  heart 
of  woman  could  resist?  Laura's  was  completely 
captivated. 

Hargrave,  charmed  with  her  consummate  love- 
liness, pleased  with  her  cheerful  good  sense,  and 
fascinated  with  her  matchless  simplicity,  at  first 
sought  her  society  without  thought  but  of  present 
gratification,  till  he  was  no  longer  master  of  him- 
self. He  possessed  an  ample  fortune,  besides  the 
near  prospect  of  a  title  ;  and  nothing  was  further 
from  his  thoughts  than  to  make  the  poor  unknown 
Laura  a  sharer  in  these  advantages.  But  Har- 
grave was  not  yet  a  villain,  and  he  shuddered  at 
the  thought  of  seduction.  "  I  will  see  her  only 
once  more,"  said  he,  "and  then  tear  myself  from 
her  forever."  "  Only  this  once,"  said  he,  while 
day  after  day  he  continued  to  visit  her, — to  watch 
with  delight,  and  to  cherish  with  eager  solicitude 
the  tenderness  which,  amidst  her  daily  increasing 
reserve,  his  practised  eye  could  distinguish.  The 
passion  which  we  do  not  conquer  will,  in  time, 
reconcile  us  to  any  means  that  can  aid  its  gratifi- 
cation. "  To  leave  her  now  would  be  dishonour- 
able— it  would  be  barbarous,"  was  his  answer  to 
his  remonstrating  conscience,  as  he  marked  the 
glow  of  her  complexion  at  his  approach,  the  tre- 
mor of  her  hand  at  his  pressure.  "I  cannot  in- 
deed make  her  my  wife.  The  woman  whom  I 
marry  must  assist  in  supporting  the  rank  which 
she  is  to  fill.  But  Laura  is  not  made  for  high  life. 
Short  commerce  with  the  world  would  destroy  half 
her  witchery.  Love  will  compensate  to  us  for 
every  privation — I  will  hide  her  and  myself  from 
a  censorious  world :  she  loves  solitude ;  and,  with 
her,  solitude  will  be  delightful."  He  forgot  that 
solitude  is  delightful  to  the  innocent  alone. 

Meantime  the  artless  Laura  saw,  in  his  highly- 
coloured  pictures  of  happy  love,  only  scenes  of 
domestic  peace  and  literary  leisure ;  and,  judging 
of  his  feelings  by  her  own,  dreamed  not  of  aught 
that  would  have  disgraced  the  love  of  angels. 
Tedious  weeks  of  absence  had  intervened  since 
their  last  meeting ;  and  Hargrave's  resolution  was 
taken.  To  live  without  her  was  impossible,  and 
he  was  determined  to  try  whether  he  had  over- 
rated the  strength  of  her  affection,  when  he  ven- 
tured to  hope  that  to  it  she  would  sacrifice  her  all. 
To  meet  her  thus  unexpectedly  filled  him  with 

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joy;  and  the  heart  of  Laura  throbbed  quick  as 
he  expressed  his  rapture.  Never  had  his  profes- 
sions been  so  ardent ;  and  softened  by  sorrow  and 
by  absence,  never  had  Laura  felt  such  seducing 
tenderness  as  now  stole  upon  her.  Unable  to 
speak,  and  unconscious  of  her  path,  she  listened 
with  silent  rapture  to  the  glowing  language  of  her 
lover,  till  his  entreaties  wrung  from  her  a  reluc- 
tant confession  of  her  preference.  Unmindful  of 
the  feeling  of  humiliation  that  makes  the  moment 
of  such  a  confession,  of  all  others,  the  least  fa- 
vourable to  a  lover's  boldness,  Hargrave  poured 
'forth  the  most  vehement  expressions  of  passion ; 
while,  shrinking  into  herself,  Laura  now  first  ob- 
served that  the  shades  of  evening  were  closing 
fast,  while  their  lonely  path  led  through  a  wood 
that  climbed  the  rocky  hill. 

She  stopped.  "  I  must  return,"  said  she;  "my 
father  will  be  anxious  for  me  at  this  hour." 

"  Talk  not  now  of  returning,"  cried  Hargrave 
impetuously;  "trust  yourself  to  a  heart  that 
adores  you.  Reward  all  my  lingering  piains,  and 
let  this  happy  hour  begin  a  life  of  love  and  rap- 
ture." 

Laura,  wholly  unconscious  of  his  meaning, 
looked  up  in  his  face  with  an  innocent  smile:  "  I 
have  often  taxed  you  with  raving,"  said  she ;  "now, 
I  am  sure,  you  must  admit  the  charge." 

"Do  not  sport  with  me,  loveliest,"  cried  Har- 
grave, "  nor  waste  these  precious  moments  in  cold 
delay.  Leave  forms  to  the  frozen  hearts  that  wait 
them,  and  be  from  this  hour  mine,  wholly  and  for- 
ever." 

Laura  threw  a  tearful  glance  at  her  mourning 
habit.  "  Is  this  like  bridal  attire  ?"  said  she : 
"  would  you  bi"ing  your  nuptial  festivities  into  the 
house  of  death,  and  mingle  the  sound  of  your 
marriage  vow  with  my  mother's  dying  groans  ?" 

"Can  this  simplicity  be  affected?"  thought 
Hargrave.  "  Is  it  that  she  will  not  understand 
me  ?"  He  examined  her  countenance.  All  there 
was  candor  and  unsuspecting  love.  Her  arm 
rested  on  his  with  confiding  pressure ;  and,  for  a 
moment,  Hargrave  faltered  in  his  purpose.  The 
next,  he  imagined  that  he  had  gone  too  far  to  re- 
cede ;  and,  clasping  her  to  his  breast  with  all  the 
vehemence  of  passion,  he  urged  his  suit  in  lan- 
guage yet  more  unequivocal.  No  words  can  ex- 
press her  feelings,  when,  the  veil  thus  rudely  torn 
from  her  eyes,  she  saw  her  pure,  her  magnani- 
mous Hargrave  —  the  god  of  her  idolatry  —  de- 
graded to  a  sensualist,  a  seducer.  Casting  on  him 
a  look  of  mingled  horror,  dismay,  and  anguish, 
she  exclaimed,  "Are  you  so  base?"  and,  freeing 
herself,  with  convulsive  struggle,  from  his  grasp, 
sunk  without  sense  or  motion  to  the  ground. 

LAURA    REFUSES    COLONEL    HARGRAVE. 

Though  the  understanding  of  Laura  was  above 
her  years,  she  had  not  escaped  a  mistake  common 
to  the  youth  of  both  sexes,  when  smarting  under 
a  recent  disappointment  in  love — the  mistake  of 
supposing  that  all  the  interest  of  life  is,  with  re- 
spect to  them,  at  an  end,  and  that  their  days  must 
thenceforth  bring  only  a  dull  routine  of  duties 
without  excitement,   and  of  toils   without   hope. 


But  the  leading  principle  of  Laura's  life  was  ca- 
pable of  giving  usefulness  even  to  her  errors  ;  and 
the  gloom  of  the  wilderness  through  which  her 
path  seemed  to  lie,  only  brightened,  by  contrast, 
the  splendour  that  lay  beyond.  "The  world," 
thought  she,  "has  now  nothing  to  offer  that  I 
covet,  and  little  to  threaten  that  I  fear.  What 
then  remains  but  to  do  my  duty,  unawed  by  its 
threatenings,  unbribed  by  its  joj's  ?  Ere  this 
cloud  darkened  all  my  earthly  prospects,  I  was 
not  untaught,  though  I  had  too  much  forgotten 
the  lesson,  that  it  was  not  for  pastime  I  was  sent 
hither.  I  am  here  as  a  soldier  who  strives  in  an 
enemy's  land  ;  as  one  who  must  run — must  wrestle 
— must  strain  every  nerve,  exert  every  power,  nor 
once  shrink  from  the  struggle,  till  the  prize  is  my 
own.  Nor  do  I  live  for  myself  alone.  I  have  a 
fi'iend  to  gratify — the  poor  to  relieve — the  sorrow- 
ful to  console — a  father's  age  to  comfort — a  God 
to  serve.  And  shall  selfish  feelings  disincline  me 
to  such  duties  as  these  ?  No  ;  with  more  than 
seeming  cheerfulness,  I  will  perform  them  all.  I 
will  thank  Heaven  for  exempting  me  from  the  far 
heavier  task  of  honouring  and  obeying  a  profli- 
gate." 

A  profligate !  Must  she  apply  such  a  name  to 
Hargrave !  The  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  ex- 
pired at  the  word,  and  the  glow  of  virtuous  reso- 
lution faded  to  the  paleness  of  despondence  and 
pain. 

From  a  long  and  melancholy  reverie,  Laura  was 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  the  garden  gate ;  and 
she  perceived  that  it  was  entered  by  Colonel  Har- 
grave. Instinctively  she  was  retreating  from  the 
window,  when  she  saw  him  joined  by  her  father ; 
and,  trembling  lest  candour  was  about  to  confess, 
or  inadvertence  to  betray,  what  she  so  much  wished 
to  conceal,  she  continvied  with  breathless  anxiety 
to  watch  their  conference. 

Though  Colonel  Hargrave  was  certainly  one  of 
the  best  bred  men  in  the  kingdom,  and,  of  conse- 
quence, entirely  free  from  the  awkwardness  of 
mauvaise  Jionte,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  en- 
tered the  pi-esence  of  the  father  of  Laura  with 
rather  less  than  his  accustomed  ease ;  but  the 
cordial  salutation  of  Captain  Montreville  banishing 
all  fear  that  the  lady  had  been  too  communicative, 
our  lover  proceeded,  without  any  remaining  em- 
barrassment, to  unfold  the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

Captain  Montreville  listened  with  undisguised 
satisfaction  to  proposals  apparently  so  advan- 
tageous to  his  beloved  child ;  but,  while  he  ex- 
pressed his  entire  approbation  of  the  colonel's 
suit,  regard  to  feminine  decorum  made  him  add, 
"that  he  was  determined  to  put  no  constraint  on 
the  inclinations  of  his  daughter."  The  colonel 
felt  a  strong  conviction  that  no  constraint  would 
be  necessary ;  nevertheless,  turning  a  neat  period, 
importing  his  willingness  to  resign  his  love  rather 
than  interfere  with  the  happiness  of  Miss  Montre- 
ville, he  closed  the  conference  by  entreating  that 
the  captain  would  give  him  an  immediate  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  his  fate  from  the  lips  of  the  fair 
Laura  herself. 

Laura  had  continued  to  follow  them  with  her 
eyes,  till  they  entered  the  house  together:    and 

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the  next  minute  Captain  Montreville  knocked  at 
her  door. 

"If  your  headache  is  not  quite  gone,"  said  he, 
with  a  significant  smile,  "  I  will  venture  to  recom- 
mend a  physician.  Colonel  Hargrave  is  waiting 
to  prescribe  for  you ;  and  you  may  repay  in  kind, 
for  he  tells  me  he  has  a  case  for  your  considera- 
tion." 

Laura  was  on  the  point  of  protesting  against 
any  communication  with  Colonel  Hargrave ;  but, 
instantly  recollecting  the  explanation  which  would 
be  necessary,  "  I  will  go  to  him  this  instant,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  eagerness  that  astonished  her 
father. 

"  Surely  you  will  first  smooth  these  reddish 
locks  of  yours,"  said  he,  fondly  stroking  her  dark 
auburn  hair.  "  I  fear  so  much  haste  may  make 
the  colonel  vain." 

Laura  coloured  violently ;  for,  amidst  all  her 
fears  of  a  discovery,  she  found  place  for  a  strong 
feeling  of  resentment  at  the  easy  security  of  for- 
giveness that  seemed  intimated  by  a  visit  so  im- 
mediately succeeding  the  offence.  Having  em- 
ployed the  few  moments  she  passed  at  her  toilet 
in  collecting  her  thoughts,  she  descended  to  the 
parlour,  fully  resolved  to  give  no  countenance  to 
the  hopes  her  lover  might  have  built  on  her  sup- 
posed weakness. 

The  colonel  was  alone ;  and  as  she  opened  the 
door,  eagerly  advanced  towards  her.  "  My  adored 
Laura,"  cried  he,  "this  condescension — "  Had 
he  stayed  to  read  the  pale  but  resolute  counte- 
nance of  his  "  adored"  Laura,  he  would  have 
spared  his  thanks  for  her  condescension. 

She  interrupted  him.  "Colonel  Hargrave," 
said  she,  with  imposing  seriousness,  "I  have  a 
request  to  make  to  you.  Perhaps  the  peace  of 
my  life  depends  upon  your  compliance." 

"  Ah,  Laura !  what  request  can  I  refuse,  where 
I  have  so  much  to  ask  ?" 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  make  known 
to  my  father  —  that  you  will  take  every  means  to 
conceal  from  him  the — "  she  hesitated,  "the  — 
our  meeting  last  night,"  she  added,  rejoiced  to 
have  found  a  palliative  expression  for  her  meaning. 

"  Oh !  dearest  Laura !  forget  it  —  think  of  it  no 
more." 

"Promise — promise  solemnly.  If,  indeed," 
added  she,  shuddering,  while  an  expression  of 
sudden  anguish  crossed  her  features,  "if,  indeed, 
promises  can  weigh  with  such  a  one  as  you." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  speak  not  such  cutting  words 
as  those." 

"  Colonel  Hargrave,  will  you  give  me  your  pro- 
mise?" 

"I  do  promise — solemnly  promise.  Say  but 
that  you  forgive  me." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  so  far  insuring  the  safety 
of  my  dear  father,  since  he  might  have  risked  his 
life  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his  child.  You  can- 
not be  surprised  if  I  now  wish  to  close  our  ac- 
quaintance as  speedily  as  may  be  consistent  with 
the  concealment  so  unfortunately  necessary." 

Impatient  to  close  an  interview  which  tasked 
her  fortitude  to  the  utmost,  Laura  was  about  to 
retire.      Hargrave    seized   her   hand.      "Surely, 


Laura,  you  will  not  leave  me  thus.  You  cannot 
refuse  forgiveness  to  a  fault  caused  by  intempe- 
rate passion  alone.  The  only  atonement  in  my 
power,  I  now  come  to  offer ;  my  hand,  my  fortune 
—  my  future  rank." 

The  native  spirit  and  wounded  delicacy  of  Laura 
flashed  from  her  eyes,  while  she  replied,  "I  fear, 
sir,  I  shall  not  be  suitably  grateful  for  your  gene- 
rosity, while  I  recollect  the  alternative  you  would 
have  preferred." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Laura  had  ever  ap- 
peared to  her  lover  other  than  the  tender,  the 
timid  girl.  From  this  character  she  seemed  to 
have  started  at  once  into  the  high-spirited,  the 
dignified  woman:  and,  with  a  truly  masculine 
passion  for  variety,  Hargrave  thought  he  had 
never  seen  her  half  so  fascinating.  "  My  angelic 
Laura!"  cried  he,  as  he  knelt  before  her,  "love- 
lier in  your  cruelty,  suffer  me  to  prove  to  you  my 
repentance — my  reverence,  my  adoration  ; — suffer 
me  to  prove  them  to  the  world,  by  uniting  our 
fates  for  ever." 

"It  is  fit  the  guilty  should  kneel,"  said  Laura, 
turning  away,  "but  not  to  their  fellow-mortals. 
Rise,  sir;  this  homage  to  me  is  but  mockery." 

"  Say,  then,  that  you  forgive  me  ;  say  that  you 
will  accept  the  tenderness,  the  duty  of  my  future 
life." 

"  What !  rather  than  control  your  passions,  will 
you  now  stoop  to  receive,  as  your  wife,  her  whom 
so  lately  you  thought  vile  enough  for  the  lowest 
degradation  ?  Impossible  !  yours  I  can  never  be. 
Our  views,  our  principles  are  opposite  as  light 
and  darkness.  How  shall  I  call  Heaven  to  wit- 
ness the  prostitution  of  its  own  ordinances  ?  How 
shall  I  ask  the  blessing  of  my  Maker  on  my  union 
witli  a  being  at  enmity  with  him  ?" 

"Good  heavens,  Laura!  will  you  sacrifice  to  a 
punctilio  —  to  a  fit  of  Calvinistic  enthusiasm,  the 
peace  of  my  life,  the  peace  of  your  own  ?  You 
have  owned  that  you  love  me — I  have  seen  it,  de- 
lighted seen  it,  a  thousand  times  —  and  will  you 
now  desert  me  for  ever?" 

"  I  do  not  act  upon  punctilio,"  returned  Laura, 
calmly;  "I  believe  I  am  no  enthusiast.  What 
have  been  my  sentiments  is  now  of  no  importance; 
to  unite  myself  with  vice  would  be  deliberate 
wickedness  —  to  hope  for  happiness  from  such  a 
union  would  be  desperate  folly." 

"  Dearest  Laura,  bound  by  your  charms,  allured 
by  your  example,  my  reformation  would  be  cer- 
tain, my  virtue  seciire." 

"  Oh,  hope  it  not !  Familiar  with  my  form,  my 
only  hold  on  your  regard,  you  would  neglect,  for- 
sake, despise  me;  and  who  should  say  that  my 
punishment  was  not  just  ?" 

"And  will  you,  then,"  cried  Hargrave,  in  an 
agony,  "will  you,  then,  cast  me  off  for  ever? 
AVill  you  drive  me  for  ever  from  your  heart  ?" 

"I  have  no  choice — leave  me  —  forget  me  — 
seek  some  woman  less  fastidious ;  or  rather  en- 
deavour, by  your  virtue,  to  deserve  one  superior 
far.  Then  honoured,  beloved,  as  a  husband,  as  a 
father — "  The  fortitude  of  Laura  failed  before 
the  picture  of  her  fancy,  and  she  was  unable  to 
proceed.      Determined  to  conceal   her  weakness 

233 


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from  Hargrave,  she  broke  from  him,  and  hurried 
towards  the  door ;  but,  melting  into  tenderness  at 
the  thought  that  this  interview  was  perhaps  the 
last,  she  turned.  "Oh  Hargrave,"  she  cried, 
clasping  her  hands  in  supplication,  "have  pity  on 
yourself — have  pity  on  me — forsake  the  fatal  path 
on  which  you  have  entered,  that  though  for  ever 
torn  from  you  here,  I  may  meet  you  in  a  better 
world!" 

BUCHAN,  ELSPETH, 
Was  the  daughter  of  John  Simpson,  the  keeper 
of  an  inn  at  Fitmy  Can,  which  is  the  half-way 
house  between  Banflf  and  Portsoy  in  the  north  of 
Scotland;  where  he  was  still  living  in  1787  at  the 
age  of  ninety.  His  daughter  Elspeth  or  Elizabeth 
was  born  in  1738;  and  when  she  was  twenty-one 
was  sent  to  Glasgow  to  find  herself  a  place.  She 
there  entered  into  the  service  of  Mr.  Martin,  one 
of  the  principal  proprietors  of  the  delft-work  man- 
ufactory. She  was  not  long  in  this  situation  before 
she  married  Robert  Buchan,  one  of  the  workmen 
in  the  service  of  the  same  Mr.  Martin.  Robert 
and  Elspeth  Buchan  seem  to  have  lived  happily 
together,  and  had  many  children,  whom  they  edu- 
cated in  a  manner  suitable  to  their  station.  At 
the  time  of  her  marriage  Mrs.  Buchan  was  an 
episcopalian,  but  her  husband  being  a  burgher- 
seceder,  she  adopted  his  principles.  She  had 
always  been  a  constant  reader  of  the  scriptures, 
and  taking  many  passages  in  a  strictly  literal 
sense,  she  changed  her  opinions  greatly,  and, 
about  1778,  she  became  the  promulgator  of  many 
singular  doctrines,  and  soon  brought  over  to  her 
notions  Mr.  Hugh  White,  who  was  the  settled  re- 
lief minister  at  Irvine.  She  continued  to  make 
new  converts  till  April,  1790,  when  the  populace 
in  Irvine  rose,  assembled  round  jMr.  White's  house, 
and  broke  the  windows ;  and  Mrs.  Buchan  with 
all  her  converts,  to  the  number  of  forty-six  per- 
sons, left  Irvine.  The  Buchanites  (for  so  they 
were  called)  went  through  Mauchlin,  old  and  new 
Cumnock,  halted  three  days  at  Kirconnel,  passed 
through  Sangahar  and  Thornhill,  and  then  settled 
at  a  farm-house,  the  out-houses  of  which  they  had 
all  along  possessed,  paying  for  them,  and  for  what- 
ever they  wanted.  This  farm-house  is  two  miles 
south  of  Thornhill,  and  about  thirteen  miles  from 
Dumfries. 

The  Buchanites  paid  great  attention  to  the 
Bible,  always  reading  it  or  carrying  it  about  them. 
They  read,  sang  hymns,  preached,  and  conversed 
much  about  religion  ;  declaring  the  last  day  to  be 
near,  and  that  no  one  of  their  company  should 
ever  die  or  be  buried,  but  soon  should  hear  the 
sound  of  the  last  trumpet,  when  all  the  wicked 
would  be  struck  dead,  and  remain  so  one  thousand 
years.  At  the  same  time  the  Buchanites  would 
undergo  an  agreeable  change,  be  caught  up  to 
meet  the  Lord  in  the  air,  from  whence  they  should 
return  to  this  earth,  and  with  the  Lord  Jesus 
as  their  king,  posses.«  it  one  thousand  years, 
during  which  time  the  devil  should  be  chained. 
At  the  end  of  that  period,  the  devil  would  be 
loosed,  the  wicked  restored  to  life,  and  both 
would  assail  their  camp,  but  be  repulsed  by  the 


Buchanites,  fighting  manfully  with  Christ  for  their 
leader. 

The  Buchanites  neither  marry,  nor  consider 
themselves  bound  by  conjugal  duties,  nor  care  for 
carnal  enjoyments.  But  having  one  purse,  they 
live  like  brothers  and  sisters  a  holy  life  as  the 
angels  of  God.  They  follow  no  employment,  being 
commanded  to  take  no  thought  of  the  morrow, 
but,  observing  how  the  young  ravens  are  fed,  and 
the  lilies  grow,  they  assure  themselves  God  will 
much  more  feed  and  clothe  them.  They,  indeed, 
sometimes  worked  for  people  in  their  neighbour- 
hood, but  they  refused  all  kind  of  pajment,  and 
declared  that  their  whole  object  in  working,  was 
to  mix  with  the  world  and  inculcate  their  impor- 
tant doctrines. 

Mr.  Buchan  remained  in  the  burgher-secession 
communion,  and  had  no  intercourse  with  his  wife. 
Mrs.  Buchan  died  in  May,  1791 ;  and  before  her 
death  her  followers  were  greatly  reduced  in 
number. 

BURE,    CATHARINE, 

A  LEARNED  Swcdisli  lady,  whose  correspondence 
with  another  Swedish  lady,  Vandela  Skylte,  has 
been  printed.  It  is  characterized  by  elegance  of 
language,  correctness  of  style,  and  delicacy  of  ex- 
pression.    She  died  in  1079,  aged  seventy-seven. 

BUFFET,    MARGARET, 

A  Parisian  lady,  who  wrote  an  interesting 
eulogy  on  learned  women,  besides  observations  on 
the  French  language. 

BURLEIGH,    LADY   MILDRED, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Anthony  Cooke,  and 
sister  of  Anne  Bacon,  was  born  at  Milton,  Eng- 
land, in  1526.  Her  education  was  carefully  super- 
intended by  her  father,  and  she  learned  to  read 
and  wi'ite  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages  with 
ease  and  elegance.  On  presenting  the  Bible,  in 
Hebrew  and  other  languages,  to  the  university  of 
Cambridge,  she  sent  with  it  an  epistle  in  Greek 
of  her  own  composition. 

In  1546  she  married  Sir  William  Cecil,  after- 
wards Lord  Burleigh,  lord  high-treasurer  of  Eng- 
land, privj'-counsellor  to  queen  Elizabeth,  and 
Knight  of  the  Garter. 

Lady  Burleigh  was  very  happy  in  her  long  mar- 
riage of  forty-two  years ;  she  died,  April  4th, 
1589,  deeply  regretted  by  her  husband,  who  lost 
in  her  not  only  an  amiable  wife,  but  a  friend  ivhom 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  consxilt  on  the  most 
important  occasions,  and  whose  judgment  and 
knowledge  in  state  affairs  was  little  inferior  to  his 
own.     She  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

After  her  decease,  Lord  Burleigh  diverted  his 
sorrow  by  composing  "  Meditations"  on  his  irre- 
parable loss,  in  which,  after  expressing  his  high 
sense  of  the  admirable  virtues  of  his  wife,  he  enu- 
merates her  acts  of  beneficence  and  liberality, 
many  of  which  had,  during  her  life,  been  carefully 
concealed  from  himself.  In  these  "  Meditations," 
after  describing  many  of  her  wise  charities,  such 
as  loans  to  poor  mechanics,  and  gifts  of  meat  and 
bread  to  suffering  families,  he  says  : 

234 


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*'  Four  times  in  tlie  year  she  sent,  secretly,  to 
all  the  prisons  in  London,  money  to  buy  bread, 
cheese,  and  beer,  for  four  hundred  persons :  she 
also  frequently  distributed  shirts  and  linen  among 
the  poor,  both  at  Cheshunt  and  in  London.  To 
the  master  of  St.  John's  College  she  gave  a  sum 
of  money,  to  have  fires  in  the  hall  of  the  college 
upon  all  Sundays  and  holidays,  between  the  feasts 
of  All  Saints  and  Candlemas,  vrhen  there  were  no 
fires  at  the  charge  of  the  college.  She  gave 
money,  secretly,  towards  a  building,  "  for  a  new 
waye  at  Cambridge  to  the  common  scolles."  She 
procured  a  number  of  books,  some  of  which  she 
best6wed  on  the  university  of  Cambridge,  the 
Bible  in  Hebrew,  &c. :  she  also  gave  to  the  college 
of  St.  John  many  Greek  books  in  divinity,  phj'sics, 
and  the  sciences.  She  gave  similar  presents  to 
Christ  Church  and  St.  John's  college,  Oxford,  and 
to  the  college  of  Westminster.  She  provided  an- 
nually wool  and  flax,  which  were  distributed  to 
women  in  Cheshunt  parish,  to  work  into  yarn, 
which  was  overlooked  by  their  benefactress,  and 
frequently  presented  to  them  as  a  reward  of  their 
labour.  At  other  times  she  caused  it  to  be 
wrought  into  cloth,  and  gave  it  to  the  poor,  paying 
for  the  spinning  an  extraordinary  price.  A  short 
time  before  her  death,  she  purchased,  in  secret,  a 
quantity  of  wheat  and  rye,  to  be  given  to  the  in- 
digent in  a  time  of  scarcity :  these  stores  remained 
unexhausted  at  her  death,  but  were  afterwards 
employed  according  to  the  original  purpose." 

BURNET,   ELIZABETH, 

Third  wife  of  bishop  Burnet,  and  daughter  of 
Sir  Richard  Blake,  knight,  was  born  in  London, 
in  1661.  At  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  married 
Robert  Berkeley,  Esq.,  of  Spetchley,  with  whom 
she  went  to  Holland  to  reside  till  the  revolution 
in  England,  when  they  returned  to  Spetchley, 
where  her  husband  died.  After  being  a  widow 
seven  years,  she,  in  1700,  married  Gilbert  Burnet, 
bishop  of  Salisbury.  She  was  benevolent,  and 
exemplary  in  her  conduct.  She  published  a  book 
of  devotion,  which  showed  great  religious  know- 
ledge. It  was  called,  "A  Method  of  Devotion  ;  or, 
Rules  for  Holy  and  Devout  Living ;  with  Prayers 
on  several  occasions,  and  Advices  and  Devotions 
for  the  Holy  Sacrament:  written  by  Mrs.  Bui-net." 
She  died  in  1709,  and  was  buried  at  Spetchley, 
near  her  first  husband,  according  to  a  promise 
made  to  him  during  his  life. 

A  constant  journal  was  kept  by  Mrs.  Burnet  of 
her  life ;  every  evening  she  devoted  some  time  to 
the  recollection  of  the  past  day,  with  a  view  of 
avoiding  in  future  any  errors  into  which  she  might 
have  fallen.  Though  without  learning,  she  pos- 
sessed an  acute  and  active  mind ;  theology  con- 
tinued to  be  her  favourite  study,  to  which,  by  the 
circumstances  of  the  times  and  of  her  own  situa- 
tion, she  had  been  more  particularly  led.  She 
also  made  some  progress  in  geometry  and  philo- 
sophy :  but  she  valued  knowledge  as  a  means 
rather  than  as  an  end,  as  it  had  a  tendency  to  en- 
large and  purify  the  mind.  By  the  austerities  of 
her  piety,  which  was  exalted  to  enthusiasm,  she 
injured  her  constitution ;  but,  in  her  zeal  for  spe- 


culative opinions,  she  never  lost  sight  of  candour 
and  benevolence  ;  she  considered  the  regulation  of 
her  conduct,  and  the  purity  of  her  life,  as  the  best 
evidence  of  the  sincerity  of  her  faith.  Her  general 
manners  were  unaffected,  cheerful,  and  conciliat- 
ing ;  severe  to  herself  and  candid  to  others.  With- 
out external  pretence  or  ostentation,  humility, 
modesty,  and  kindness,  were  her  peculiar  charac- 
teristics. In  what  was  indifferent,  she  avoided 
singularity,  and  conformed  with  moderation  and 
simplicity  to  the  customs  suited  to  her  station  and 
rank. 

BURY,    ELIZABETH, 

Daughter  of  Captain  Lawi-ence,  was  born  at 
Linton,  Cambridgeshire,  England,  and  married  Mr. 
Lloyd,  of  Huntingdonshire;  and  after  his  death, 
Samuel  Bury,  a  dissenting  minister  of  Bristol.  She 
excelled  in  her  knowledge  of  divinity,  mathematics, 
and  the  learned  languages,  and  was  noted  for  her 
piety.  She  particularly  applied  herself  to  the 
study  of  Hebrew,  in  which,  by  unwearied  applica- 
tion and  practice,  she  became  proficient.  She 
wrote  critical  remarks  upon  the  idioms  and  pecu- 
liarities of  the  Hebrew  language,  which  were  found 
among  her  papers  after  her  decease.  She  was  a 
good  musician,  and  spoke  French  with  ease  and 
fluency.  She  took  great  interest  in  the  study  of 
anatomy  and  medicine,  which  she  frequently  made 
useful  among  those  by  whom  she  was  surrounded. 

Her  beneficence  and  generosity  were  habitual 
and  persevering,  and  often  exerted  on  an  exten- 
sive scale,  so  that  at  one  time  she  seriously  im- 
paired her  fortune.  She  died  at  Bristol,  in  1720, 
aged  seventy-six. 

Mrs.  Bury  often  regretted  the  disadvantages  of 
her  sex,  who,  by  their  habits  of  education,  and  the 
customs  of  society,  were  illiberally  excluded  from 
the  means  of  acquiring  knowledge.  She  contended 
that  mind  was  of  no  sex,  and  that  man  was  no  less 
an  enemy  to  himself  than  to  woman,  in  confining 
her  attention  to  frivolous  attainments.  She  often 
spoke  with  pleasure  and  gratitude  of  her  own 
obligations  to  her  father  and  her  preceptors,  for 
having  risen  superior  to  these  unworthy  preju- 
dices, and  opened  to  her  the  sources  of  intellectual 
enjoyment. 


c. 

CALAGE,   DE   PECH   DE, 
Was    a   native    of  Toulouse,   in   France.     She 
seems  to  have  lived  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII. 
She  obtained  the  prize  for  poetry,  at  the  Floral 
Games  of  Toulouse,  several  times. 

CALAVRESE,    MARIA, 
W^AS  born  at  Rome  in  1486,  and  was  thought  a 
good  historical  painter,  as  well  in  oil  as  in  fresco. 
She  worked  for  some  time  at  Naples,  but  died  at 
Rome  in  1542. 

CALLCETT,    LADY, 
Wife  of  Sir  Augustus  Callcett,  R.  A.,  was  the 
daughter  of  Rear-Admiral  George  Dundas.     She 

235 


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was  born  in  1788,  and  in  1809  married  Captain 
Thomas  Graliam  of  tlie  British  navy,  and  went 
with  him  to  India.  She  returned  to  England, 
after  having  travelled  over  a  great  part  of  India, 
and  published  her  travels  in  1812.  She  went  af- 
terwards to  Italy,  and  in  1820  published  a  work 
called  "  Three  Months  in  the  Environs  of  Rome  ;" 
and  also  "  The  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Poussin." 
In  1822,  Mrs.  Graham  accompanied  her  husband 
to  South  America ;  during  the  voyage.  Captain 
Graham  died  and  was  buried  at  Valparaiso.  While 
in  South  America,  Mrs.  Graliam  became  the  in- 
structress of  Donna  Maria,  novr  queen  of  Portu- 
gal. Some  years  after,  she  married  Mr.  Callcett. 
She  died  in  England,  1843.  Her  other  published 
works  were  "History  of  Spain;"  "Essays  to- 
wards the  History  of  Painting;"  "Scripture 
Herbal ;"  and  some  books  for  children. 

CAMARGO,  MARIE  ANNE  CUPI  DE, 
A  CELEBRATED  stage-danccr,  born  at  Brussels, 
1710.     She  appeared  on  the  theatres  in  Pai-is  and 
Brussels,  and  maintained  a  respectable  character. 
She  died  April  1770. 

CAMPBELL,  DOROTHEA   PRIMROSE, 

Was  a  native  of  Lenwick,  in  the  Shetland  Isl- 
ands. In  1816,  she  published  a  volume  of 
poems. 


CAMPAN,  JANE  LOUISA  HENRIETTA, 
Was  born  at  Paris,  1752.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  M.  Genet,  first  clerk  in  the  office  of  the 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs.  He  was  fond  of 
literature,  and  communicated  a  taste  for  it  to  his 
daughter,  who  early  displayed  considerable  talents. 
She  acquired  a  knowledge  of  foreign  languages, 
particularly  the  Italian  and  English,  and  was  dis- 
tinguished for  her  skill  in  reading  and  recitation. 
These  acquisitions  procured  for  her  the  j^lace  of 
reader  to  the  French  princesses,  daughters  of 
Louis  XV.  On  the  marriage  of  Maria  Antoinette 
to  the  Dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  XVI.,  Made- 
moiselle Genet  was  attached  to  her  suite,  and  con- 
tinued, during  twenty  years,  to  occupy  a  situation 
about  her  person. 


Her  general  intelligence  and  talent  for  observa- 
tion enabled  Madame  Campan,  in  the  course  of 
her  service,  to  collect  the  materials  for  her  "  Me- 
moirs of  the  Private  Life  of  the  Queen  of  France," 
first  published  in  Paris,  and  translated  and  printed 
in  London,  1823,  in  two  volumes.  This  work  is 
not  only  interesting  for  the  information  it  affords, 
but  is  also  very  creditable  to  the  litei-ary  talents 
of  the  authoress.  Soon  after  the  appointment  at 
court.  Mademoiselle  Genet  was  married  to  M. 
Campan,  son  of  the  Secretary  of  the  queen's  clo- 
set. When  Maria  Antoinette  was  made  a  pri- 
soner, Madame  Campan  begged  to  be  permitted  to 
accompany  her  royal  mistress  and  share  her  im- 
prisonment, which  was  refused.  Madame  Campan 
was  with  the  queen  at  the  storming  of  the  Tuille- 
ries,  on  the  10th  of  August,  when  she  narrowly 
escaped  with  her  life :  and  under  the  rule  of  Ro- 
bespierre, she  came  near  being  sent  to  the  guillo- 
tine. After  the  fall  of  that  tyrant,  she  retired  to 
the  country  and  opened  a  private  seminary  for 
young  ladies,  which  she  conducted  with  great  suc- 
cess. Josephine  Beauharnais  sent  her  daughter, 
Hortense,  to  the  seminary  of  Madame  Campan. 
She  had  also  the  sisters  of  the  Emperor  under  her 
care.  In  1806,  Napoleon  founded  the  school  of 
Ecouen,  for  the  daughters  and  sisters  of  the  ofl5- 
cers  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  and  appointed  Ma- 
dame Campan  to  superintend  it.  This  institution 
was  suppressed  at  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons, 
and  Madame  Campan  retired  to  Nantes,  where  she 
partly  prepared  her  "  Memoirs,"  and  other  works. 
She  died  in  1822,  aged  seventy.  After  her  de- 
cease, her  "  Private  .Journal"  was  published  ;  also, 
"  Familiar  Letters  to  her  Friends,"  and  a  work, 
which  she  considered  her  most  important  one,  en- 
titled "  Thoughts  on  Education."  We  will  give 
extracts  from  these  works. 

From  the  "Private  Journal." 
MESMEK    AND    HIS    MAGNETISM. 

At  the  time  when  Mesmer  made  so  much  noise 
in  Paris  with  his  magnetism,  M.  Campan,  my  hus- 
band, was  his  partizan,  like  almost  every  person 
who  moved  in  high  life.  To  be  magnetized  was 
then  a  fashion ;  nay,  it  was  more,  it  was  abso- 
lutely a  rage.  In  the  drawing-rooms,  nothing  was 
talked  of  but  the  brilliant  discovery.  There  was 
to  be  no  more  dying ;  people's  heads  were  turned, 
and  their  imaginations  heated  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. To  accomplish  this  object,  it  was  necessary 
to  bewilder  the  understanding ;  and  Mesmer,  with 
his  singular  language,  produced  that  eifect.  To 
put  a  stop  to  the  fit  of  public  insanity  was  the 
grand  difficulty;  and  it  was  proposed  to  have  the 
secret  purchased  by  the  court.  Mesmer  fixed  his 
claims  at  a  very  extravagant  rate.  However,  he 
was  offered  fifty  thousand  crowns.  By  a  singular 
chance,  I  was  one  day  led  into  the  midst  of  the 
somnambulists.  Such  was  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
spectators,  that,  in  most  of  them,  I  could  observe 
a  wild  rolling  of  the  eye,  and  a  convulsed  move- 
ment of  the  countenance.  A  stranger  might  have 
fancied  himself  amidst  the  unfortunate  patients 
of  Charenton.  Surprised  and  shocked  at  seeing 
so  many  people  almost  in  a  state  of  delirium,  I 

236 


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withdrew,  full  of  reflections  on  the  scene  which  I 
had  just  witnessed. 

It  happened  that  about  this  time  my  husband 
was  attacked  with  a  pulmonary  disorder,  and  he 
desired  that  he  might  be  conveyed  to  Mesmer's 
house.  Being  introduced  into  the  apartment  oc- 
cupied by  M.  Campan,  I  asked  the  worker  of  mi- 
racles what  treatment  he  proposed  to  adopt ;  he 
very  coolly  replied,  that  to  ensure  a  speedy  and 
perfect  cure,  it  would  be  necessary  to  lay  in  the 
bed  of  the  invalid,  at  his  left  side,  one  of  three 
things,  namely,  a  young  woman  of  brown  com- 
plexion ;  a  black  hen ;  or  an  empty  bottle. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  if  the  choice  be  a  matter  of  in- 
difference, pray  try  the  empty  bottle." 

M.  Campan's  side  grew  worse ;  he  experienced 
a  difficulty  of  breathing  and  a  pain  in  his  chest. 
All  magnetic  remedies  that  were  employed  pro- 
duced no  effect.  Perceiving  his  failure,  Mesmer 
took  advantage  of  the  periods  of  my  absence  to 
bleed  and  blister  the  patient.  I  was  not  informed 
of  what  had  been  done  until  after  M.  Campan's 
recovery.  Mesmer  was  asked  for  a  certificate,  to 
prove  that  the  patient  had  been  cured  by  means 
of  magnetism  only  ;  and  he  gave  it.  Here  was  a 
trait  of  enthusiasm !  Truth  was  no  longer  re- 
spected. When  I  next  presented  myself  to  the 
queen  (Marie-Antoinette),  their  majesties  asked 
what  I  thought  of  Mesmer's  discovery.  I  informed 
them  of  what  had  taken  place,  earnestly  express- 
ing my  indignation  at  the  conduct  of  the  bare- 
faced quack.  It  was  immediately  determined  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him. 

the  ejiperor  alexander's  visit  to  madame 

campan's  school. 
The  emperor  enquired  into  the  most  minute  par- 
ticulars respecting  the  establishment  at  Ecouen  ; 
and  I  felt  great  pleasure  in  answering  his  ques- 
tions. I  recollect  having  dwelt  on  several  points 
which  appeared  to  me  very  important,  and  which 
were  in  their  spirit  hostile  to  aristocratical  princi- 
ples. For  example,  I  informed  his  majesty  that 
the  daughters  of  distinguished  and  wealthy  indi- 
viduals, and  those  of  the  humble  and  obscure, 
were  indiscriminately  mingled  together  in  the 
establishment.  If,  said  I,  I  were  to  observe  the 
least  pretension  on  account  of  the  rank  or  fortune 
of  parents,  I  should  immediately  put  an  end  to  it. 
The  most  perfect  equality  is  preserved ;  distinc- 
tion is  awarded  only  to  merit  and  industry.  The 
pupils  are  obliged  to  cut  and  make  all  their  own 
clothes.  They  are  taught  to  clean  and  mend  lace ; 
and  two  at  a  time,  they  by  turns,  three  times  a 
week,  cook  and  distribute  victuals  to  the  poor  of 
the  village.  The  young  ladies  who  have  been 
brought  up  in  my  boarding-school  are  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  everything  relating  to  household 
business  ;  and  they  are  grateful  to  me  for  having 
made  it  a  part  of  their  education.  In  my  conver- 
sations with  them,  I  have  always  taught  them  that 
on  domestic  management  depends  the  preservation  or 
dissipation  of  their  fortunes.  I  impress  on  their  minds 
the  necessity  of  regulating  with  attention  the  most 
trifling  daily  expenses ;  but  at  the  same  time  I 
recommend  them  to  avoid  making  domestic  details 


the  subject  of  conversation  in  the  drawing-room; 
for  that  is  a  most  decided  mark  of  ill-breeding. 
It  is  proper  that  all  should  know  how  to  do  and  to 
direct;  but  it  is  only  for  ill-educated  women  to 
talk  about  their  carriages,  servants,  washing,  and 
cooking. 

These  are  the  reasons,  sire,  why  my  pupils  are 
generally  superior  to  those  brought  up  in  other 
establishments.  All  is  conducted  on  the  most  sim- 
ple plan  ;  the  young  ladies  are  taught  everything 
of  which  they  can  possibly  stand  in  need  ;  and  they 
are  consequently  as  much  at  their  ease  in  the  liril- 
liant  circles  of  fashion,  as  in  the  most  humble 
condition  of  life.  Fortune  confers  rank,  but  edu- 
cation teaches  how  to  support  it  properly. 

From  the  "  Letters,"  &c. 
TO     HER     ONLY     SON. 

You  are  now,  my  dear  Henry,  removed  from  my 
fond  care  and  instruction ;  and  young  as  you  are, 
you  have  entered  upon  the  vast  theatre  of  the 
world.  Some  years  hence,  when  time  shall  have 
matured  your  ideas,  and  enabled  you  to  take  a 
clear,  retrospective  view  of  your  steps  in  life,  you 
will  be  able  to  enter  into  my  feelings,  and  to  judge 
of  the  anxiety  which  at  this  moment  agitates  my 
heart. 

When  first  a  beloved  child,  releasing  itself  from 
its  nurse's  arms,  ventures  its  little  tottering  steps 
on  the  soft  carpet,  or  the  smoothest  grass-plot,  the 
poor  mother  scarcely  breathes  ;  she  imagines  that 
these  first  efforts  of  nature  are  attended  with  every 
danger  to  the  object  most  dear  to  her.  Fond  mo- 
ther, calm  your  anxious  fears !  Your  infant  son 
can,  at  the  worst,  only  receive  a  slight  hurt,  which, 
under  your  tender  care,  will  speedily  be  healed. 
Reserve  your  alarms,  your  heart-beatings,  your 
prayers  to  providence,  for  the  moment  when  your 
son  enters  upon  the  scene  of  tlie  world  to  select  a 
character,  which,  if  sustained  with  dignity,  judg- 
ment and  feeling,  will  render  him  universally 
esteemed  and  approved  ;  or  to  degrade  himself  by 
filling  one  of  those  low,  contemptible  parts,  fit 
only  for  the  vilest  actors  in  the  drama  of  life. 
Tremble  at  the  moment  when  your  child  has  to 
chooso  between  the  rugged  road  of  industry  and 
integrity,  leading  straight  to  honour  and  happi- 
ness ;  and  the  smootli  and  flowery  path  which  de- 
scends, through  indolence  and  pleasure,  to  the 
gulf  of  vice  and  misery.  It  is  then  that  the  voice 
of  a  parent,  or  of  some  faithful  friend,  must  direct 
the  right  course. 

***** 

Surrounded  as  you  doubtless  are,  by  thoughtless 
and  trifling  companions,  let  your  mother  be  the 
rallying  point  of  your  mind  and  heart ;  the  confi- 
dant of  all  your  plans. 

***** 

Learn  to  know  the  value  of  money.  This  is  a 
most  essential  point.  The  want  of  economy  leads 
to  the  decay  of  powerful  empires,  as  well  as  pri- 
vate families.  Louis  XVI.  pei'ished  on  the  scattokl 
for  a  deficit  of  fifty  millions.  There  would  have 
been  no  debt,  no  assemblies  of  the  people,  no  re- 
volution, no  loss  of  the  sovereign  authority,  no 
tragical  death,  but  for  this  fatal  deficit.     States 


CA 


CA 


are  ruined  through  the  mismanagement  of  millions, 
and  private  persons  become  bankrupts  and  end 
their  lives  in  misery  through  the  mismanagement 
of  crowns  ■worth  six  livres.  It  is  very  important, 
my  dear  son,  that  I  lay  down  to  you  these  tirst 
principles  of  right  conduct,  and  impress  upon  your 
mind  the  necessity  of  adhering  to  them.  Render 
me  an  account  of  the  expenditure  of  your  money, 
not  viewing  me  in  the  light  of  a  rigid  preceptress, 
but  as  a  friend  who  wishes  to  accustom  you  to  the 
habit  of  accounting  to  yourself. 

***** 
Happy  is  the  woman  who,  in  old  age,  can  say — 
"  I  am  the  mother  of  a  worthy  man,  a  useful  mem- 
ber of  society;"  and  he,  in  his  turn,  will  be  the 
parent  of  a  line  of  offspring  who  will  never  dis- 
grace the  honoui-able  name  they  inherit. 

***** 
A  man  should  seek  to  gain  information  by  tra- 
velling ;  he  must  encounter  and  endure  misfortune, 
contend  against  danger  and  temptation,  and  finally 
temper  his  mind  so  as  to  give  it  the  strength  and 
solidity  of  the  hardest  metal. 

***** 
Let  me  impress  upon  you  the  importance  of  at- 
tentive application  to  business ;   for  that  affords 
certain  consolation,  and  is  a  security  against  lassi- 
tude, and  the  vices  which  idleness  creates. 

***** 
Be  cautious  how  you  form  connexions ;  and 
hesitate  not  to  break  them  off  on  the  first  proposi- 
tion to  adopt  any  course  which  your  affectionate 
mother  warns  you  to  avoid,  as  fatal  to  your  real 
happiness,  and  to  the  attainment  of  that  respect  and 
esteem  which  it  should  be  your  ambition  to  enjoy. 

***** 
Never  neglect  to  appropriate  a  certain  portion 
of  your  time  to  useful  reading ;  and  do  not  imagine 
that  even  half  an  hour  a  day,  devoted  to  that  ob- 
ject, will  be  unprofitable.  The  best  way  of  ar- 
ranging and  employing  one's  time  is  by  calcula- 
tion ;  and  I  have  often  reflected  that  half  an  hour's 
reading  every  day,  will  be  one  hundred  and  eighty 
liours'  reading  in  the  course  of  the  year.  Great 
fortunes  are  amassed  by  little  savings ;  and  po- 
verty as  well  as  ignorance  are  occasioned  by  the 
extravagant  waste  of  money  and  time. 

***** 
My  affection  for  you,  my  dear  Henry,  is  still  as 
actively  alive  as  when,  in  yovir  infancy,  I  removed, 
patiently,  every  little  stone  from  a  cei'tain  space 
in  my  garden,  lest,  when  you  first  ran  alone,  you 
might  fall  and  hurt  your  face  on  the  pebbles. 
But  the  snares  now  spread  beneath  your  steps  are 
far  more  dangerous.  They  ai'e  strengthened  by 
seductive  appearances,  and  the  ardour  of  youth 
would  hurry  you  forward  to  the  allurement ;  but 
that  my  watchful  care,  and  the  confidence  you  re- 
pose in  me,  serve  to  counteract  the  influence  of 
this  twofold  power.  Your  bark  is  gliding  near  a 
rapid  current ;  but  your  mother  stands  on  the 
shore,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  dear  navi- 
gator, anxiously  exclaims,  in  the  moment  of  danger, 
" Reef  your  sails;  mind  your  helm."  Oh!  may 
you  never  forget,  or  cease  to  be  guided  by  these 
warnings,  which  come  from  my  inmost  heart. 


From  "  Thoughts  on  Education." 
woman's  influence. 

As  mothers,  as  wives,  as  sisters,  women  have 
the  greatest  influence  on  the  destiny  of  men. 
The  heroes  of  chivalry  made  the  approbation  of 
women  the  stimulus  and  aim  of  their  high  feats 
of  arms.  Under  absolute  monarchies  their  charms 
even  extended  over  the  fate  of  empires;  and  too 
often  the  boudoir  of  a  favourite  became  the  coun- 
cil-chamber of  kings.  In  a  constitutional  govern- 
ment, in  which  the  wisdom  of  the  sovereign,  and 
the  imderstanding  of  the  people,  promulgate  laws 
and  cause  them  to  be  executed,  the  education  of 
women  should  be  directed  to  a  useful  and  praise- 
Avorthy  object.  The  enlightened  understanding  of 
the  present  age  deprives  them  of  the  power  of  go- 
verning by  the  sole  attraction  of  beauty ;  a  solid 
education  must  now  render  them  capable  of  appre- 
ciating the  talents  and  virtues  of  their  husbands, 
of  preserving  their  fortune  by  a  wise  economy,  of 
partaking  of  their  elevation  without  ridiculous 
ostentation,  of  consoling  them  in  disgrace,  of 
bringing  up  their  girls  in  all  the  virtues  which 
ought  to  be  inseparable  from  their  sex,  and  direct- 
ing the  early  years  of  their  boys.  The  names  of 
women  will  figure  less  in  history :  and,  for  their 
happiness,  they  will  supply  still  fewer  subjects 
for  romances !  A  sentiment  truly  national  will 
lead  them  to  regard  their  own  homes  as  the  only 
theatre  of  their  glory,  and  public  morals  will  then 
soon  show  the  immense  steps  made  by  social  oi-der 
towards  a  better  state  of  society. 

THE    CULTIVATION    OF    THE    AKTS. 

For  myself,  I  should  make  a  powerful  objection 
to  the  cultivation  of  the  arts  in  female  education. 
I  have  remarked,  that  they  destroy  the  develop- 
ment of  thought;  the  prodigious  length  of  time 
which  they  demand  to  acquire  is  doubtless  the 
cause.  The  enthusiasm  which  they  inspire,  also, 
often  exalts  a  young  imagination,  and  in  females 
this  is  very  injurious. 

CAMPIGLIA,    M  ADD  ALE  N  A, 

Was  a  native  of  Vicenza,  and  born  in  1550.  She 
was  educated  in  a  nunnery,  and  celebrated  for  her 
literary  talents.  She  dedicated  one  of  her  works 
to  Torquato  Tasso,  with  whom  she  corresponded. 
She  wrote,  among  other  works,  "Azione  Dramatica," 
published  in  1588.     Her  death  occurred  in  1595. 

CANTARINI,    CHIARA, 

Was  boi-n  in  Lucca,  where  she  always  resided. 
She  was  well  versed  in  history  and  philosophy,  and 
held  an  extensive  correspondence  with  the  learned 
men  of  her  time.  A  collection  of  her  "  Poems,"  and 
a  volume  of  her  "  Letters,"  have  been  published. 
She  died  in  1597. 

CANTOFOLI,    GENEVRA, 

A  female  artist  of  Bologna,  pupil  of  Elizabeth 
Sirani.  She  practised  historical  painting  with 
success ;  and  in  the  church  of  St.  Procolo,  in  Bo- 
logna, is  a  picture  by  her  of  the  Lord's  Supper, 
of  which  good  judges  speak  favourably,  as  they 

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do  of  some  of  her  other  altar-pieces  ;  particularly 
of  St.  Tommaso  di  Villanuovo,  in  St.  Giacomo  Mag- 
giore.  Her  personal  history  is  unknown.  She 
lived  in  the  seventeenth  century. 


CAPELLO,    BIANCA, 

Descended  from  the  noble  house  of  the  Capelli 
at  Venice,  and  daughter  of  Bartolomeo  Capello, 
was  born  about  1545.  Opposite  to  her  father's 
house,  the  Sahdati,  a  great  mercantile  family  of 
Florence,  had  established  a  bank,  and  entrusted 
the  care  of  it  to  Pietro  Buonaventuri,  a  Florentine 
youth  of  obscure  extraction,  whom  they  had  en- 
gaged as  clerk.  Buonaventuri,  handsome,  adven- 
turous, and  addicted  to  intrigue,  gained  the  affec- 
tions of  Bianca,  whom  he  deceived  by  representing 
himself  as  one  of  the  principals  in  the  bank. 
After  their  intercourse  had  been  carried  on  for 
some  time  in  secresy,  the  effects  of  it  became  such 
as  could  not  be  concealed,  and  to  avoid  the  terrors 
of  a  life-long  imprisonment  in  a  cloister,  Bianca 
resolved  to  elope  with  her  lover.  Taking  a  casket 
of  jewels  that  belonged  to  her  father,  she  left 
Venice  by  night,  and  at  length,  safely  arrived 
with  Buonaventuri  at  Florence,  and  was  lodged  in 
his  father's  house,  where  she  gave  birth  to  a 
daughter.  She  had  been  married  to  Buonaventuri 
on  the  road,  at  a  village  near  Bologna.  She  lived 
for  some  time  with  her  husband  in  obscurity,  con- 
tinually under  apprehensions  of  being  discovered 
by  emissaries  from  Venice,  where  her  elopement 
had  excited  great  indignation,  not  only  in  her 
family,  but  among  all  the  aristocracy.  The  uncle 
of  her  husband,  who  was  accused  of  having  been 
aware  of  his  nephew's  presumption,  was  thrown 
into  a  dungeon,  where  he  died ;  and  Bianca's  at- 
tendant and  confidant,  whom  they  had  neglected 
to  take  with  them,  met  with  a  fate  equally  severe. 

At  length  accident,  or  contrivance,  introduced 
her  to  the  notice  of  Francis,  son  of  Francis,  grand- 
duke  of  Tuscany,  on  whom  his  father  had  devolved 
all  the  powers  and  dignity  of  the  sovereignty.  The 
wonderful  beauty  and  engaging  manners  of  Bianca 
made  such  an  impression  on  Francis,  that  he  of- 
fered to  protect  her,  negotiated  in  her  favour  with 
her  friends  at  Venice,  and  on  failure  of  success. 


drew  her  from  her  obscure  situation,  settled  her 
in  a  splendid  palace,  and  spent  the  greatest  part 
of  his  time  in  her  company.  He  created  Buona- 
venturi his  chamberlain,  and  consulted  him  on  all 
the  affairs  of  the  state.  This  greatly  offended  the 
Florentines,  whom  he  treated  with  the  tyranny 
and  haughtiness  usual  in  foreign  favourites  of  low 
origin. 

In  1566,  soon  after  the  marriage  of  Francis  to 
Donna  Joanna  of  Austria,  a  marriage  of  expe- 
diency, Bianca  was  introduced  at  court,  and  be- 
came the  centre  of  general  admiration ;  and  the 
captivated  Francis  solemnly  promised  to  make  her 
his  wife,  in  case  they  should  mutually  be  freed 
from  their  present  engagements. 

Buonaventuri,  having  formed  an  intrigue  with 
a  lady  of  high  rank,  which  he  openly  proclaimed, 
while  he  behaved  with  the  greatest  insolence  to 
her  family,  was  assassinated  in  the  sti-eets  one 
night,  in  1569.  Francis,  who  had  connived  at  his 
fate,  allowed  the  murderers  to  escape,  notwith- 
standing the  entreaties  of  Bianca,  who  seems  to 
have  retained  through  all  some  affection  for  her 
first  husband. 

Bianca  was  now  openly  proclaimed  the  mistress 
of  Francis,  who  could  hardly  separate  himself 
from  her  to  perform  the  necessai'y  duties  imposed 
on  him  by  his  station.  She  exerted  all  her  art  in 
gaining  over  to  her  interest  the  principal  persons 
in  the  Medici  family,  particularly  the  cardinal 
Ferdinand,  Francis's  next  brother;  and  she  suc- 
ceeded. As  the  want  of  a  male  heir  by  his  duch- 
ess, had  been  a  great  disappointment  to  Francis, 
and  even  a  natural  son  was  passionately  desired 
by  him,  Bianca,  who  had  borne  no  child  since  her 
first  daughter,  determined  to  introduce  a  supposi- 
titious child  to  him,  as  her  own.  This  scheme  she 
effected  in  1576,  and  presenting  to  her  lover  the 
new-born  male  infant  of  a  poor  woman,  he  joyfully 
received  it  as  his  own,  and  named  it  Antonio. 
Bianca  is  charged  with  several  secret  assassina- 
tions, perpetrated  for  the  purpose  of  removing  all 
those  who  were  privy  to  this  fraudulent  transac- 
tion. Francis,  however,  had  a  legitimate  son  born 
to  him  the  ensuing  year,  and  this  event  appeared 
to  reconcile  the  grand-duchess  to  him,  who  had 
been  greatly  disturbed  by  Bianca's  influence  over 
him.  Bianca,  for  a  time,  retired  from  court,  but 
her  intercourse  with  Francis  was  still  carried  on, 
though  more  secretly. 

At  length  the  death  of  the  grand-duchess,  sup- 
posed to  have  been  caused  by  the  grief  she  expe- 
rienced at  finding  herself  again  neglected,  placed 
the  ducal  crown  within  Bianca's  grasp;  and  not- 
withstanding the  hatred  of  the  Florentines,  who 
were  attached  to  the  memory  of  the  grand-duchess, 
and  the  opposition  of  his  relations  and  counsellors, 
she  persuaded  Francis  to  fulfil  his  promise  of  mar- 
riage. On  June  5th,  1579,  the  ceremony  was  per- 
formed privately ;  but  her  ambition  was  to  share 
publicly  with  him  the  ducal  throne,  and  she  per- 
suaded him  to  comply  with  her  wishes. 

He  sent  a  solemn  embassy  to  Venice,  to  inform 
the  senate  of  his  marriage  with  Bianca,  and  to 
request  them  to  confer  on  her  the  title  of  daughter 
of  the  Republic,  which  would  give  her  precedence 

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of  the  other  princesses  of  Italy.  That  crafty  go- 
vernment ghidly  received  the  proposal,  as  a  means 
of  extending  the  authority  of  the  Republic  ;  and  in 
one  of  the  most  magnificent  embassies  ever  sent 
from  Venice,  Bianca  was  solemnly  crowned  daugh- 
ter of  the  state  which  had  banished  and  persecuted 
her,  proclaimed  grand-duchess  of  Tuscany,  and 
installed  in  all  the  honours  and  dignity  of  sove- 
reignty.    This  event  occurred  Oct.  13th,  1579. 

Her  conduct  in  this  high  station  was  directed 
to  securing  herself  by  obtaining  the  good-will  of 
the  different  members  of  the  Medici  family,  and 
reconciling  their  differences ;  in  this  her  j^ersua- 
sive  manners,  and  great  prudence  and  judgment, 
rendered  her  successful.  But  she  never  conciliated 
the  affections  of  her  subjects,  who  had  always 
hated  her  as  the  seducer  of  their  pi-ince,  and  re- 
garded her  as  an  abandoned  woman,  capable  of 
every  crime.  A  thousand  absurd  stories  of  her 
cruelty  and  propensity  to  magical  arts  were  pro- 
pagated, some  of  which  are  still  part  of  the  popu- 
lar traditions  of  Florence.  In  return,  she  em- 
ployed a  number  of  spies,  who,  by  their  informa- 
tion, enabled  her  to  defeat  all  machinations  against 
herself  and  the  duke. 

In  1582,  the  son  of  Francis  by  his  former  gi'and- 
duchess  died,  and  soon  after  the  grand-duke  de- 
clared Antonio  his  lawful  heir.  Yet  it  is  said  Bi- 
anca had  confessed  to  Francis  that  he  was  only  a 
supposititious  child,  and  this  strange  contradiction 
throws  a  mystery  upon  the  real  parentage  of  An- 
tonio. Ferdinand,  brother,  and  next  heir  to 
Francis,  was  rendered  jealous  of  his  brother  by 
this  report ;  but  Bianca  effected  an  apparent  re- 
conciliation between  them,  and  Ferdinand  came 
to  Floi-ence,  in  October,  1587.  He  had  been  there 
but  a  short  time,  when  Francis  fell  ill  at  his  hunt- 
ing villa  of  Poggio  de  Cajano,  whither  he  had  been 
accompanied  by  his  brother  and  Bianca ;  and  two 
days  after,  Bianca  was  seized  with  the  same  com- 
plaint, a  kind  of  fever.  They  both  died  after  a 
week's  illness,  Francis  being  forty  and  Bianca 
forty-four  years  of  age.  Ferdinand  has  been  ac- 
cused, but  in  all  probability  unjustly,  of  having 
poisoned  them.  Their  remains  were  carried  to 
Florence,  where  Ferdinand  would  not  allow  the 
body  of  Bianca  to  be  interred  in  the  family  vault, 
and  treated  her  memory  otherwise  with  indignity  ; 
he  also  had  the  illegitimacy  of  Antonio  publicly 
recognised.  This  behaviour  was  probably  caused 
by  the  accusations  the  enemies  of  Bianca  poured 
into  his  ear.  His  subsequent  conduct  proves  the 
different  feelings  that  came  when  time  for  reflec- 
tion had  been  allowed  him.  He  solemnly  adopted 
Antonio  as  his  nephew,  gave  him  an  establishment 
suited  to  a  prince  of  the  house  of  Medici,  settled 
a  liberal  annuity  on  Bianca's  father,  and  made 
presents  to  the  officers  of  her  household. 

On  a  survey  of  the  life  of  Bianca  Capello,  what- 
ever may  be  thought  of  the  qualities  of  her  heart, 
which  it  must  be  confessed  are  doubtful,  it  is  im- 
possible not  to  be  struck  with  the  powers  of  her 
mind,  by  which,  amidst  innumerable  obstacles, 
she  maintained,  undiminished,  through  life,  that 
ascendency  which  her  personal  charms  had  first 
given  her  over  the  affections  of  a  capricious  prince. 


The  determination  and  perseverance  with  which 
she  prosecuted  her  plans,  sufficiently  testify  her 
energy  and  talents  ;  if,  in  effecting  the  end  pro- 
posed, she  was  little  scrupulous  respecting  the 
means,  the  Italian  character,  the  circumstances 
of  the  times,  the  disadvantages  attending  her  en- 
trance into  the  world,  subjected  to  artifice  and 
entangled  in  fraud,  must  not  be  forgotten.  Brought 
up  in  retirement  and  obscurity,  thrown  at  once 
into  the  most  trying  situations,  her  prudence,  her 
policy,  her  self-government,  her  knowledge  of  the 
human  mind,  and  the  means  of  subjecting  it,  are 
not  less  rare  than  admirable.  She  possessed  sin- 
gular penetration  in  discerning  characters,  and 
the  weaknesses  of  those  with  whom  she  conversed, 
which  she  skilfully  adapted  to  her  purposes.  By 
an  eloquence,  soft,  insinuating,  and  powerful,  she 
prevailed  over  her  friends ;  while,  by  ensnaring 
them  in  their  own  devices,  she  made  her  enemies 
subservient  to  her  views.  Such  was  the  fascina- 
tion of  her  manners,  that  the  prejudices  of  those 
by  whom  she  was  hated,  yielded,  in  her  presence, 
to  admiration  and  delight :  nothing  seemed  too 
arduous  for  her  talents  ;  inexhaustible  in  resource, 
whatever  she  undertook  she  found  means  to  ac- 
complish. 

If  she  was  an  impassioned  character,  she  was 
uniformly  animated  by  ambition.  In  her  first 
engagement  with  Buonaventuri,  she  seems  to  have 
been  influenced  by  a  restless,  enterprising  temper, 
disgusted  with  inactivity,  rather  than  by  love : 
through  every  scene  of  her  connection  with  the 
duke,  her  motives  are  sufficiently  obvious.  AVith 
a  disposition  like  that  of  Bianca,  sensibility  and 
tenderness,  the  appropriate  virtues  of  the  sex,  are 
not  to  be  expected.  Real  greatness  has  in  it  a 
character  of  simplicity,  with  which  subtlety  and 
craft  are  wholly  incompatible:  the  genius  of  Bi- 
anca was  such  as  fitted  her  to  take  a  part  in  poli- 
tical intrigues,  to  succeed  in  cotirts,  and  rise  to 
the  pinnacle  of  power;  but,  stained  with  cruelty, 
and  debased  by  falsehood,  if  her  talents  excite 
admiration,  they  produce  no  esteem ;  and  while 
accomplishments  dazzle  the  mind,  they  fail  to  in- 
terest the  heart. 

Majestic,  beautiful,  animated,  eloquent,  and  in- 
sinuating, Bianca  Capello  commanded  all  hearts ; 
a  power  of  which  the  coldness  and  tranquillity  of 
her  own  enabled  her  to  avail  herself  to  the  utmost. 
Though  she  early  lost  that  beauty  which  had 
gained  her  the  heart  of  the  capricious  Francis, 
the  powers  of  her  mind  enabled  her  to  retain  to 
the  last  an  undiminished  ascendency  over  him. 

We  learn  from  this  example  of  perverted  female 
influence  the  great  need  of  judicious  education 
for  the  sex.  Had  Bianca  Capello  been,  in  early 
youth,  blessed  with  such  opportunities  of  acquir- 
ing knowledge,  and  receiving  the  appreciation  her 
genius  deserved,  as  were  the  happy  lot  of  Laura 
Bassi,  what  a  difference  would  have  been  wrought 
in  the  character  and  history  of  the  brilliant  Vene- 
tian lady ! 

CARLEMIGELLI,   ASPASIE, 
"Was  born  in  Paris,  in  1775,  and  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  Priiice  de  Conde's  footmen.     Her 

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childhood  was  rendered  so  miserable,  by  the  bad 
treatment  she  received  from  her  mother,  that  she 
never  spoke  of  it  afterwards  without  the  utmost 
horror.  Obliged  very  early  to  labour  for  her  own 
support,  and  left  unprotected  by  her  parents,  she 
fell  so  violently  in  love,  that  she  became  danger- 
ously ill,  was  thought  deranged,  and  was  sent  to 
an  asylum  for  the  insane.  But  in  her  strongest 
paroxysms  she  never  lost  her  judgment ;  and  the 
physicians  were  accustomed  to  entrust  her  with 
the  care  of  the  other  insane  persons.  She  was 
released,  but  imprisoned  again  in  1 793,  for  having 
spoken  against  the  revolution.  She  was  soon  set 
free  again ;  but  they  had  taken  from  her  all  she 
possessed,  and,  tired  of  her  miserable  life,  she 
cried  aloud  in  the  streets,  "God  save  the  king!" 
But  though  she  was  again  tried,  she  was  acquitted. 
Aspasie  then  endeavoured  to  obtain  the  condem- 
nation of  her  mother,  but  in  vain.  She  next  turned 
her  fui-y  against  the  deputies  who  had  caused  so 
much  bloodshed,  and  attempted  the  life  of  two. 
She  was  tried  for  this,  and  boldly  avowed  her  in- 
tention. She  would  allow  no  one  to  defend  her, 
and  heard  her  condemnation  with  the  greatest  im- 
passibility. She  was  guillotined,  in  1798,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three. 

CARLISLE,   ANNE, 

An  ingenious  lady,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  and  is  said,  by  Walpole,  to  have  ob- 
tained great  credit  by  her  copies  of  the  works  of 
eminent  Italian  masters,  as  well  as  by  her  por- 
traits, taken  from  life.  She  died  about  the  year 
1680. 

CAROLINE  WILHELMINA  DOROTHEA, 

Wife  of  George  II.  of  England,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  John  Frederic,  marquis  of  Bi-andenburg-An- 
spach,  and  was  born  March  1st,  1683.  She  was 
sought  in  marriage  by  Charles  III.  of  Spain,  after- 
wards emperor  of  Germany,  whom  the  fame  of  her 
beauty  had  attracted ;  but  she  refused  to  change 
her  religion,  which  she  would  have  to  do  if  she  ac- 
cepted this  splendid  alliance ;  and  so  the  offer  was 
rejected.  Her  resolution  on  this  occasion  procured 
her  the  esteem  of  the  elector  of  Hanover,  after- 
wards George  I.,  and  induced  him  to  select  her  as 
the  wife  of  his  son,  to  whom  she  was  married,  at 
Hanover,  August  22d,  1705. 

Caroline  was  crowned  (with  her  husband)  queen 
consort  of  Great  Britain,  on  the  11th  of  October, 
1727.  Four  sons  and  five  daughters  were  the  fruit 
of  this  union.  She  took  a  great  interest  in  the 
political  affairs  of  the  kingdom,  and  her  interpo- 
sition was  often  beneficial  for  the  country.  She 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  English  constitution; 
and  often  prevailed  upon  the  king  to  consent  to 
measures  which  he  had  at  first  opposed.  Not- 
withstanding the  infidelity  of  the  king  towards 
her,  he  seems  to  have  loved  her  as  much  as  he 
was  capable  of  loving  any  one ;  a  distinction  she 
well  merited,  for  she  united  much  feminine  gentle- 
ness with  a  masculine  strengtli  of  understanding, 
which  often  came  in  aid  of  the  king's  feebler  intel- 
lect, and  quietly  indicated  the  right  course,  with- 
out assuming  nny  merit  for  the  service.  She  had 
Q 


also  the  rare  good  sense  to  see  and  acknowledge 
her  errors,  without  feeling  any  irritation  towards 
those  who  opposed  them.  She  once  formed  a  de- 
sign of  shutting  up  St.  James'  Park,  and  asked 
Sir  Robert  Walpole  what  it  would  cost  to  do  it. 
"  Only  a  crown,  madam,"  was  the  reply ;  and  she 
instantly  owned  her  imprudence  with  a  smile. 
When,  during  the  king's  absence  on  the  continent, 
she  found  her  authority  as  regent  insulted,  by  the 
outrageous  proceedings  of  the  Edinburgh  mob, 
who  had  violently  put  Captain  Porteus  to  death, 
she  expressed  herself  with  great  indignation. 
"Sooner,"  said  she  to  the  duke  of  Argyle,  "than 
submit  to  such  an  insult,  I  would'  make  Scotland 
a  hunting-field!"  "In  that  case,  madam,"  an- 
swered the  high-spirited  nobleman,  "  I  will  take 
leave  of  your  majesty,  and  go  down  to  my  own 
country  to  get  my  hounds  ready."  Such  a  reply 
would  have  irritated  a  weak  mind,  but  it  calmed 
that  of  the  queen.  She  disclaimed  the  influence 
she  really  possessed  over  her  husband,  always 
affecting,  if  any  one  were  present,  to  act  the 
humble  and  ignorant  wife.  Even  when  the  prime 
minister,  Walpole,  came  on  business  which  had 
previously  been  settled  between  him  and  the 
queen,  she  would  rise  and  ofi'er  to  retire.  "  There, 
you  see,"  the  king  would  exclaim,  "how  much  I 
am  governed  by  my  wife,  as  they  say  I  am."  To 
this  the  qiieen  would  reply,  "  Oh !  sir,  I  must  be 
vain  indeed  to  pretend  to  govern  your  majesty." 

She  was  not  only  the  king's  political  adviser, 
but  his  confidant  in  all  his  love  affairs,  of  which 
she  openly  approved ;  and  by  thus  consenting  to 
his  ruling  vice,  she  presei"ved  lier  influence  over 
him  undiminished,  and  made  herself  the  mistress 
of  his  mistresses.  He  always  preferred  her,  how- 
ever, to  any  other  woman ;  and  during  his  ab- 
sences on  the  continent,  though  she  often  wrote 
him  letters  of  nineteen  pages,  yet  he  would  com- 
plain of  their  brevity. 

Queen  Caroline  died  November  20th,  1737,  at 
the  age  of  fifty-five,  of  an  illness  brought  on  by 
imprudence  and  over-exertion.  She  made  it  au 
invariable  rule  never  to  refuse  a  desire  of  the 
king,  who  was  very  fond  of  long  walks ;  so  that 
more  than  once,  when  she  had  the  gout  in  her 
foot,  she  would  plunge  her  whole  leg  in  cold  water 
to  drive  it  away,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  attend  him. 
The  king  showed  the  greatest  sorrow  at  her  death, 
and  often  dwelt  on  the  assistance  he  had  found  in 
her  noble  and  calm  disposition,  in  governing  so 
inconstant  a  people  as  the  English. 

CAROLINE  MATILDA, 
Born  1751,  daughter  of  Frederic  Lewis,  prince 
of  Wales,  married,  17G6,  Christian  VII.,  king  of 
Denmark,  and  became  mother  of  Frederic,  after- 
wards Frederic  VII.  of  Denmark,  in  1768.  Though 
young,  beautiful,  and  beloved  by  the  nation,  she 
was  treated  with  neglect  and  hatred  by  the  grand- 
mother and  the  step-mother  of  her  husband,  who 
for  some  time  influenced  him  against  her.  Stru- 
ensee,  a  physician,  and  the  favourite  of  the  king, 
became  her  friend,  together  with  Brandt,  and 
they  endeavoured  to  gain  the  king  from  the  influ- 
ence of  the  party  opposed  to  the  queen.     The 

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reins  of  government  came  into  the  hands  of  Stru- 
ensee;  but,  in  1722,  the  party  of  the  king's  step- 
mother, and  her  son,  prince  Frederic,  procured 
the  imprisonment  of  the  queen  and  all  her  friends. 
Counts  Struensee  and  Brandt  were  tried,  and  exe- 
cuted for  high  treason.  Even  the  queen  was  at 
first  in  danger  of  death.  She  was  accused  of  too 
great  an  intimacy  with  Struensee,  was  separated 
from  her  husband,  and  confined  in  Alborg,  but  was 
released  by  the  interference  of  her  brother,  George 
III.  of  England.  She  died  May  10th,  1775,  at 
Zell,  in  Hanover,  in  consequence  of  her  grief. 
The  interesting  letter  in  which  she  took  leave  of 
her  brother,  George  III.,  is  to  be  found  in  a  small 
work,  "Die  lezten  Stunden  der  Konigin  von  Dane- 
mark."  She  was  mild  and  gentle,  and  much 
beloved ;  and  though  not  always  prudent,  yet 
there  is  no  doubt  that  she  was  perfectly  inno- 
cent. 

CAROLINE   MARIA, 

Wife  of  Ferdinand  I.,  king  of  the  two  Sicilies, 
daughter  of  the  emperor  Francis  I.,  and  of  Maria 
Theresa,  born  13th  August,  1752;  an  ambitious 
and  intelligent  woman,  but,  unfortunately,  without 
firmness  of  character.  According  to  the  terms  of 
her  marriage  contract,  the  young  queen,  after  the 
birth  of  a  male  heir,  was  to  have  a  seat  in  the 
council  of  state ;  but  her  impatience  to  participate 
in  the  government  would  not  allow  her  to  wait  for 
this  event,  previous  to  which  she  procured  the 
removal  of  the  old  minister,  Sanucci,  who  pos- 
sessed the  confidence  of  the  king  and  of  the  na- 
tion, and  raised  a  Frenchman  named  Acton  to  the 
post  of  prime  minister,  who  ruined  the  finances 
of  the  state  by  his  profusion,  and  excited  the  ha- 
tred of  all  ranks  by  the  introduction  of  a  political 
inquisition.  The  queen,  too,  drew  upon  herself 
the  dislike  of  the  oppressed  nation  by  co-operating 
in  the  measures  of  the  minister  ;  and  banishment 
and  executions  were  found  insufficient  to  repress 
the  general  excitement.  The  declaration  by  Na- 
ples against  France  (1768)  was  intended  to  give 
another  turn  to  popular  feeling ;  but  the  sudden 
invasion  of  the  French  drove  the  reigning  family 
to  Sicily.  The  revolution  of  cardinal  Rufi"o  in 
Calabria,  and  the  republican  party  in  the  capital, 
restored  the  foi'mer  rulers  in  1799.  The  famous 
Lady  Hamilton  now  exerted  the  greatest  influence 
on  the  unhappy  queen,  on  her  hiisband,  on  the 
English  ambassador  and  admiral  Nelson,  and  sacri- 
ficed more  victims  than  Acton  and  Vanini  had  for- 
merly done.  After  the  battle  of  Marengo,  12,000 
Russians  could  not  prevent  the  conquest  of  Naples 
by  the  French,  and  the  formation  of  a  kingdom 
out  of  the  Neapolitan  dominions  for  Joseph  (Bo- 
naparte), who  was  afterwards  succeeded  in  the 
same  by  Joachino  (Murat).  The  queen  was  not 
satisfied  with  the  efforts  which  the  English  made 
for  the  restitution  of  the  old  dynasty,  and  there- 
upon quarrelled  with  the  lord  Bentinck,  the  Brit- 
ish general  in  Sicily,  who  wished  to  exclude  her 
from  all  influence  in  the  government.  She  died 
in  1814,  without  having  seen  the  restoration  of  her 
family  to  the  throne  of  Naples. 


CAROLINE   AMELIA   ELIZABETH, 

Wife  of  George  IV.  of  England,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Charles  William  Ferdinand,  prince  of  Bruns- 
wick Wolfenbuttle,  and  was  born  May  17th,  1768. 
She  married  the  prince  of  Wales  on  the  8th  of 
April,  1795,  and  her  daughter,  the  princess  Char- 
lotte, was  born  on  the  7th  of  January,  1796.  Dis- 
sensions soon  arose  between  her  and  her  husband, 


and  in  the  following  May  they  were  separated, 
after  which  she  resided  at  Blackheath.  In  1806, 
being  accused  of  some  irregularities  of  conduct, 
the  king  instituted  an  inquii'y  into  the  matter  by 
a  ministerial  committee.  They  examined  a  great 
number  of  witnesses,  and  acquitted  the  princess 
of  the  charge,  declaring,  at  the  same  time,  that 
she  was  guilty  of  some  imprudences,  which  had 
given  rise  to  unfounded  suspicions.  The  king 
confii'med  this  declaration  of  her  innocence,  and 
paid  her  a  visit  of  ceremony.  She  afterwards 
received  equal  marks  of  esteem  from  the  princes, 
her  brothers-in-law.  The  duke  of  Cumberland 
attended  the  princess  to  court  and  to  the  opera. 
The  reports  above-mentioned  were  caused  by  the 
adherents  of  the  prince  of  Wales  and  the  court  of 
the  reigning  queen,  who  was  very  unfavourably 
disposed  towards  her  daughter-in-law.  On  this 
occasion,  as  on  many  others,  the  nation  manifested 
the  most  enthusiastic  attachment  to  the  pi-incess. 
In  1813,  the  public  contest  was  renewed  between 
the  two  parties ;  the  princess  of  Wales  complain- 
ing, as  a  mother,  of  the  difficulties  opposed  to  her 
seeing  her  daughter.  The  prince  of  Wales,  then 
regent,  disregarded  these  complaints.  Upon  this, 
in  July,  1814,  the  princess  obtained  permission  to 
go  to  Brunswick,  and,  afterwards,  to  make  the 
tour  of  Italy  and  Greece.  She  now  began  her  cele- 
brated journey  through  Germany,  Italy,  Greece, 
the  Archipelago,  and  Syria,  to  Jerusalem,  in  which 
the  Italian  Bergami  was  her  confidant  and  attend- 
ant. Many  infamous  reports  were  afterwards  cir- 
culated, relating  to  the  connexion  between  the 
princess  and  Bergami.  On  her  journey,  she  re- 
ceived grateful  acknowledgments  for  her  liberality, 
her  kindness,  and  her  generous  efforts  for  the 
relief  of  the  distressed.     She  afterwards  lived  in 

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Italy  a  great  part  of  the  time,  at  a  country-seat 
on  lake  Como.     When  the  prince  of  Wales  as- 
cended  the   British    throne,  Jan.  29th,  1820,  lord 
Hutchinson  offered  her  an  income  of  £50,000  ster- 
ling, the  name  of  queen  of  England,  and  every  title 
appertaining  to  that  dignity,  on  the  condition  that 
she  would  never  return  to  England.     She  refused 
the  proposal,  and  asserted  her  claims  more  firmly 
than  ever  to  the  rights  of  a  British  queen,  com- 
plained of  the  ill-treatment  shown  to  her,  and  ex- 
posed the   conspiracies   against   her,  which   had 
been  continued  by  a  secret  agent,  the  baron  de 
Ompteda,  of  Milan.     Attempts  at  a  reconciliation 
produced   no   favourable   result.     She   at  length 
adopted  the  bold  resolution  to  return  to  England, 
where  she  was  neither  expected  nor  wished  for  by 
the  ministry,  and,  amidst  the  loudest  expressions 
of  the  public  joy,  arrived  from  Calais,  June  5th, 
and,  the  next  day,  entered  London  in  triumph. 
The  minister,   lord   Liverpool,   now   accused  the 
queen,  before  the  parliament,  for  the  purpose  of 
exposing  her  to  universal  contempt  as  an  adul- 
teress.    Whatever  the  investigation  of  the  parlia- 
ment may  have  brought  to  light,  the  public  voice 
was  louder  than  ever  in  favour  of  the  queen  ;  and, 
after  a  protracted  investigation,  the  bill  of  pains 
and  penalties  was  passed  to  a  third  reading,  only 
by  a  majority  of  123  to  95 ;  and  the  ministers 
deemed  it  prudent  to  delay  proceeding  with  the 
bill  for  six  months,  which  was  equivalent  to  with- 
drawing it.     Thus  ended  this  revolting  process, 
which  was,  throughout,  a  flagrant  outrage  on  pub- 
lic decency.     In  this  trial,  Mr.  Brougham  acted 
as  the  queen's  attorney-general,  Mr.  Denman  as 
her  solicitor,  and  Drs.  Lushington,  Williams,  and 
Wilde,  as  her  counsel.     Though  banished  from  the 
court  of  the  king,  her  husband,  the  queen  still 
lived  at  Brandenburg  House,  in  a  manner  suitable 
to  her  rank,  under  the  protection  of  the  nation. 
In  July,  1821,   at  the  coronation  of  George  IV., 
she  first  requested  to  be  crowned,  then  to  be  pre- 
sent at  the  ceremony.     But,  by  an  order  of  the 
privy-council,   both   reqiiests  were   denied,    and, 
notwithstanding  the  assistance  of  the  opposition, 
she  suffered  the  personal  humiliation  of  being  re- 
peatedly refused  admission  into  Westminster  Ab- 
bey.    She  then  published,  in  the  public  papers, 
her  protest  against  the  order  of  the  privy-council. 
Soon  after  her  husband's  departure  to  Ireland, 
July  30th,  in  conseqiience  of  the  violent  agitation 
of  her  mind,  she  was  suddenly  taken  sick  in  Drury- 
lane  theatre.     An  inflammation  of  the  bowels  {^en- 
terith)  succeeded,  and  she  foretold  her  own  death 
before  the  physicians  apprehended  such  an  event. 
She  died  Aug.  7th,  1821.    The  corpse,  according  to 
her  last  will,  was  removed  to  Brunswick,  where  it 
rests  among  the  remains  of  her  ancestors.     Her 
tombstone  has  a  very  short  inscription,  in  which 
she  is  called  the  unhappy  queen  of  England.     The 
removing  and  the  entombing  of  her  mortal  remains 
gave  rise  to  many  disturbances,  first  in  London, 
and  afterwards  in  Brunswick.    These  were  founded 
more  in  opposition  to  the  arbitrary  measures  of 
the  ministry  than  in  respect  for  the  memory  of  the 
queen.     Two  causes  operated  much  in  favour  of 
the  queen — the  unpopularity  of  the  ministry,  and 


the  general  feeling  that  the  king  was  perhaps  the 
last  man  in  the  whole  kingdom  who  had  a  right  to 
complain  of  the  incontinencies  of  his  wife,  which 
many,  even  of  her  friends,  undoubtedly  believed. 

CAREW,    LADY  ELIZABETH, 

Author  of  a  dramatic  piece  entitled  "  Mariam, 
the  fair  Queen  of  Jewry,"  which  was  published  in 
1613,  lived  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  of  England. 
Lady  Carew  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  wife  of 
Sir  Henry  Carew:  and  the  works  of  several  of 
her  contemporaries  are  dedicated  to  her.  The 
following  chorus,  in  the  tragedy  of  "Mariam,"  is 
noble  in  sentiment,  and  possesses  beautiful  sim- 
plicity.    It  is  in  Act  the  Fourth, 

BEVENGE    OF    INJURIES. 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury  ; 
For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife, 
His  adversary's  heart  to  him  doth  tie. 
And  "tis  a  firmer  conquest  truly  said, 
To  win  the  heart,  tlian  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  vvortliy  enemy  do  find, 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nobly  done  ; 
But  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind, 
In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honour  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overthrow, 
And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless  foe? 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  and  cannot  yield  ; 

Because  they  cannot  yield,  it  proves  them  poor: 
Great  hearts  are  task'd  beyond  their  power,  but  seld 
The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  this  same  allow, 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach  to  bow. 

A  noble  heart  doth  teach  a  virtuous  scorn 

To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  over  long; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne ; 
To  scorn  to  lie,  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong. 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  mind; 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to  bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must  have, 

Then  be  our  vengeance  of  the  noblest  kind; 
Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save. 

And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  our  mind? 
What  can  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance  be. 
Than  make  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than  he  ? 

Had  Mariam  scorn'd  to  leave  a  due  unpaid. 

She  would  to  Herod  then  have  paid  her  love. 
And  not  have  been  by  sullen  passion  sway'd. 
To  fix  her  thoughts  all  injury  above 
Is  virtuous  pride.     Had  Mariam  thus  been  proud. 
Long  famous  life  to  her  had  been  allow'd. 

CARTER,  ELIZABETH, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Nicholas  Carter,  an 
eminent  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew  scholar,  one 
of  the  six  preachers  in  Canterbury  cathedral,  and 
perpetual  curate  of  Deal,  in  Kent,  where  Elizabeth 
was  born,  December  16th,  1717.  She  was  edu- 
cated by  her  father,  who  made  no  distinction  be- 
tween her  and  her  brothers.  She  became  very 
well  acquainted  with  the  learned  languages,  and 
also  Italian,  German,  Spanish,  and  French.  She 
was  also  a  proficient  in  needle-work,  music,  and 
other  feminine  accomplishments.  Her  first  pro- 
ductions appeared  in  the  "  Gentlemen's  Jlagazine" 
under  the  signature  of  Eliza.  In  1738  she  pub- 
lished some  poems,  and  a  translation  from  the 
Italian  of  Algarotti,  "  An  Explanation  of  Newton's 
Philosophy,  for  the  use  of  Ladies,  in  Six  Diclogues 

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on  Sight  and  Colours."  These  publications  ap- 
pearing when  Miss  Carter  was  only  twenty-one, 
gave  her  immediate  celebrity,  and  brought  her 
into  correspondence  with  most  of  the  learned  of 
her  day.  Among  others,  Bishop  Butler,  author 
of  the  "  Analogy,"  Archbishop  Locker,  Dr.  John- 
son, Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Bui-ke.  Dr.  John- 
son said,  when  speaking  of  an  eminent  scholar, 
that  "he  understood  Greek  better  than  any  one 
he  had  ever  known  except  Elizabeth  Carter." 

Among  the  numerous  friends  who  appreciated 
the  talents  of  this  amiable  lady,  was  one  friend  of 
her  own  sex.  Miss  Catharine  Talbot,  who  was 
kindred  in  feeling,  as  well  as  gifted  with  genius 
to  sympathize  in  the  pursuits  of  Miss  Carter.  A 
correspondence  by  letter  was  soon  established  be- 
tween these  two  ladies,  which  continued  for  nearly 
thirty  years,  and  was  only  terminated  by  the  death 
of  Miss  Talbot  in  1770.  A  portion  of  these  letters 
has  been  published,  in  four  volumes,  forming  a 
work  of  much  interest,  and  teaching  by  its  spirit 
of  Christian  philosophy  many  valuable  lessons  to 
their  own  sex,  especially  to  young  ladies.  In  one 
of  her  letters.  Miss  Carter  thus  pleasantly  describes 
her  general  mode  of  spending  her  time : 

LETTER    FROM    MISS    CARTER    TO    MISS    TALBOT. 

"As  you  desire  a  full  and  particular  account  of 
my  whole  life  and  conversation,  it  is  necessary,  in 
the  first  place,  you  should  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  singular  contrivance  by  which  I  am  called 
in  the  morning.  There  is  a  bell  placed  at  the 
head  of  my  bed,  and  to  this  is  fastened  a  pack- 
thread and  a  piece  of  lead,  which,  when  I  am  not 
"  Lulled  by  soft  Zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane," 
is  conveyed  through  a  crevice  of  my  window  into 
a  garden  below,  pertaining  to  the  sexton,  who 
gets  up  between  four  and  five,  and  pulls  the  said 
packthread  with  as  much  heart  and  good  will  as 
if  he  were  ringing  my  knell.  By  this  most  curi- 
ous contrivance,  I  make  a  shift  to  get  up,  which  I 
am  too  stupid  to  do  without  calling.  Some  evil- 
minded  people  of  my  acquaintance  have  most 
wickedly  threatened  to  cut  my  bell-rope,  which 
would  be  the  utter  undoing  of  me ;  for  I  should 
infallibly  sleep  out  the  whole  summer. 

And  now  I  am  up,  you  may  belike  enquire  to 
what  purpose.  I  sit  down  to  my  several  lessons 
as  regularly  as  a  school-boy,  and  lay  in  a  stock 
of  learning  to  make  a  figiu-e  with  at  breakfast ; 
but  for  this  I  am  not  ready.  My  general  practice 
about  six  is,  take  up  my  stick  and  walk,  some- 
times alone,  and  sometimes  with  a  companion, 
whom  I  call  on  in  my  way,  and  draw  out  half 
asleep,  and  consequently  incapable  of  reflecting 
on  the  danger  of  such  an  undertaking ;  for  to  be 
sure  she  might  just  as  well  trust  herself  to  the 
guidance  of  a  jack-a-lantern.  However,  she  has 
the  extreme  consolation  of  grumbling  as  much  as 
she  pleases  without  the  least  interruption,  which 
she  does  with  such  a  variety  of  comical  phrases, 
that  I  generally  laugh  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  my  journey. 

AVhen  I  have  made  myself  fit  to  appear  among 
human  creatures,  we  go  to  breakfast,  and  are,  as 
you  imagined,   extremely  chatty ;   and  this,  and 


tea  in  the  afternoon,  are  the  most  sociable  and 
delightful  parts  of  the  day.  *  *  *  -yve 
have  a  great  variety  of  topics,  in  which  everybody 
bears  a  part,  till  we  get  insensibly  to  books ;  and 
whenever  we  get  beyond  Latin  and  French,  my 
sister  and  the  rest  walk  off,  and  leave  my  father 
and  me  to  finish  the  discourse  and  the  tea-kettle 
by  ourselves,  which  we  should  infallibly  do,  if  it 
held  as  much  as  Solomon's  molten  sea.  I  fancy 
I  have  a  privilege  in  talking  a  great  deal  over  the 
tea-table,  as  I  am  tolerably  silent  the  rest  of  the 
day. 

After  breakfast  every  one  follows  their  several 
employments.  My  first  care  is  to  water  the  pinks 
and  roses,  which  are  stuck  in  above  twenty  parts 
of  my  room,  and  when  the  task  is  finished,  I  sit 
down  to  a  spinnet,  which,  in  its  best  state,  might 
have  cost  about  twenty  shillings,  with  as  much 
importance  as  if  I  knew  how  to  play.  After  deaf- 
ening myself  for  about  half  an  hour  with  all  man- 
ner of  noises,  I  proceed  to  some  other  amusement, 
that  employs  me  about  the  same  time  ;  for  longer 
I  seldom  apply  to  any  thing ;  and  thus,  between 
reading,  working,  writing,  twirling  the  globes,  and 
running  up  and  down  stairs,  to  see  where  every- 
body is,  and  hojv  they  do,  which  furnishes  me 
with  little  intervals  of  talk,  I  seldom  want  either 
business  or  entertainment. 

Of  an  afternoon  I  sometimes  go  oxit,  not  so  often, 
however,  as  in  civility  I  ought  to  do,  for  it  is 
always  some  mortification  to  me  not  to  drink  tea 
at  home.  It  is  the  fashion  here  for  people  to  make 
such  unreasonably  long  visits,  that  before  they 
are  half  over  I  grow  so  restless  and  corky,  that  I 
am  ready  to  fly  out  of  the  window.  About  eight 
o'clock  I  visit  a  very  agreeable  family,  where  I 
have  spent  every  evening  for  these  fourteen  years. 
I  always  return  precisely  at  ten,  beyond  which 
hour,  I  do  not  desire  to  see  the  face  of  any  living 
wight ;  and  thus  I  finish  my  day,  and  this  tedious 
description  of  it,  which  you  have  so  unfortunately 
drawn  upon  yourself." 

The  letter  was  dated  in  1746,  when  Miss  Carter 
was  not  quite  twenty-nine.  She  was  never  mar- 
ried, and,  after  becoming  matronly  in  years,  she 
assumed  the  title  of  a  married  lady,  and  was  styled 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter.  There  are  in  her  familiar 
letters  many  particulars  of  her  daily  habits  of  life, 
and  also  expressions  of  her  opinion  on  subjects 
connected  with  which  every  person  is  more  or  less 
interested.  Among  other  things  she  often  re- 
marked that  varying  her  occupations  prevented 
her  from  ever  being  tired  of  them ;  and  accord- 
ingly she  hardly  ever  read  or  worked  for  more 
than  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  then  she  would 
visit,  for  a  few  minutes,  any  of  her  relations  who 
were  staying  in  her  house,  in  their  respective 
apartments,  or  go  into  her  garden  to  water  her 
flowers.  Before  this  period  she  had,  however, 
studied  very  assiduously. 

Her  regular  rule  was,  when  in  health,  to  read 
two  chapters  in  the  Bible  before  breakfast,  a  ser- 
mon, some  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin,  and  after 
breakfast  something  in  every  language  with  which 
she  was  acquainted  ;  thus  never  allowing  herself 
to  forget  what  she  had  once  attained.     These  oc- 

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cupations  were  of  course  varied  according  to  cir- 
cumstances, and  when  she  took  exercise  before 
breakfast  her  course  of  reading  was  necessarily- 
deferred  till  later  in  the  day. 

Her  constitution  must  have  been  strong  to  have 
enabled  her  to  take  the  very  long  walks  to  which 
she  accustomed  herself ;  but  she  suffered  greatly 
from  headaches,  not  improbably  arising  from  her 
over-exertion  of  body  and  mind  in  early  youth, 
and  the  not  allowing  herself  sufficient  repose  to 
recruit  her  over-worked  strength.  At  one  time  of 
her  life  she  was  wont  to  sit  up  very  late,  and  as 
she  soon  became  drowsy,  and  would  sleep  soundly 
in  her  chair,  many  were  the  expedients  she  adopt- 
ed to  keep  herself  awake,  such  as  pouring  cold 
water  down  her  dress,  tying  a  wet  bandage  round 
her  head,  &c.  She  was  a  great  snuff-taker,  though 
she  endeavoured  to  break  herself  of  the  habit  to 
please  her  father.  She  suffered  so  much,  however, 
in  the  attempt,  that  he  kindly  withdrew  his  prohi- 
bition. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  not  much  more  than  thirty 
when  she  undertook  to  finish  the  education  of  her 
youngest  brother  Henry,  which  had  been  com- 
menced by  her  father.  She  completed  her  task  so 
well,  that  he  entered  Bennet  College,  Cambridge, 
in  1756,  and  passed  through  the  University  with 
reputation.  He  had  afterwards  the  living  of  Little 
Wittenham,  in  Berkshire. 

In  order  to  devote  herself  more  exclusively  to 
this  occupation,  she,  for  some  years  previous  to 
the  completion  of  his  education,  resisted  all  temp- 
tations to  leave  Deal,  and  refused  all  invitations 
to  spend  a  portion  of  the  winter  with  her  friends 
in  town,  as  had  been  her  general  practice.  Part 
of  this  retirement  was  devoted  to  the  translation 
of  "Epictetus,"  her  greatest  work,  by  which  her 
reputation  was  much  increased,  and  her  fame 
spread  among  the  literati  of  the  day.  This  work 
was  commenced  in  the  summer  of  1749,  at  the 
desire  of  Miss  Talbot,  enforced  by  the  bishop  of 
Oxford,  to  whom  the  sheets  were  transmitted  for 
emendations  as  soon  as  finished.  It  was  not  origi- 
nally intended  for  publication,  and  was  therefore 
not  completed  till  1756,  when  it  was  published 
with  notes  and  an  introduction  by  herself,  by  sub- 
scription, in  1758.  Mrs.  Carter,  besides  fame  and 
reputation,  obtained  for  this  performance  more 
than  one  thousand  pounds.  A  poem,  by  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Chapone,  was  prefixed  to  it. 

After  the  publication  of  "  Epictetus,"  l\Irs.  Car- 
ter became,  for  one  of  her  prudent  habits,  quite 
easy  in  her  circumstances,  and  usually  passed  her 
winters  in  London.  In  1767,  lady  Pulteney  set- 
tled an  annuity  of  a  hundred  pounds  on  Mrs. 
Carter ;  and  some  years  afterwards  our  authoress 
visited  Paris  for  a  few  days. 

In  1762,  she  purchased  a  house  in  Deal,  her 
native  town.  Her  father  had  always  rented  a 
house ;  but  he  removed  to  hers,  and  they  resided 
together  till  his  death  in  1774.  They  had  each  a 
separate  library  and  apartments,  and  meeting  sel- 
dom but  at  meals,  though  living  together  with 
much  comfort  and  affection.  Her  brothers  and 
sisters  were  married,  and  gone  from  their  father's 
house ;  Elizabeth,  the  studious  daughter,  only  re- 


mained to  watch  over  and  supply  all  the  wants 
of  her  aged  father.  She  attended  assiduously  to 
every  household  duty,  and  never  complained  of 
the  trouble  or  confinement.  To  a  friend  who 
lamented  that  Mrs.  Carter  was  thus  obliged  to  be 
careful  and  troubled  about  many  things,  she  thus 
answers : 

"  It  is  proper  I  should  be  rather  more  confined 
at  home,  and  I  cannot  be  so  much  at  the  disposal 
of  my  friends  as  when  my  sister  supplied  my  place 
at  home.  As  to  anything  of  this  kind  hurting  the 
dignity  of  my  head,  I  have  no  idea  of  it,  even  if 
the  head  were  of  much  more  consequence  than  I 
feel  it  to  be.  The  true  post  of  honour  consists  in 
the  discharge  of  those  duties,  whatever  they  hap- 
pen to  be,  which  arise  from  that  situation  in  which 
Providence  has  fixed  us,  and  which  we  may  be 
assured  is  the  very  situation  best  calculated  for 
our  virtue  and  happiness." 

About  nine  years  before  her  death,  she  expe- 
rienced an  alarming  illness,  of  which  she  never 
recovered  the  effects  in  bodily  strength ;  but  the 
faculties  of  her  mind  remained  unimpaired.  In 
the  summer  of  1805,  her  weakness  evidently  in- 
creased. From  that  time  until  February,  1806, 
her  strength  gradually  ebbed  away ;  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  19th,  she  expired  without  a  groan. 

The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Carter,  which  her  nephew 
and  biogi-apher,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Pennington,  has 
taken,  is  very  captivating.  The  wisdom  of  age, 
without  its  coldness ;  the  cool  head,  with  the  affec- 
tionate heart ;  a  sobriety  which  chastened  conver- 
sation without  destroying  it ;  a  cheerfulness  which 
enlivened  piety  without  wounding  it;  a  steady 
effort  to  maintain  a  conscience  void  of  offence, 
and  to  let  religion  suffer  nothing  in  her  exhibition 
of  it  to  the  world.  Nor  is  her  religion  to  be  search- 
ed for  only  in  the  humility  with  which  she  received, 
and  the  thankfulness  with  which  she  avowed,  the 
doctrines  of  the  Bible,  but  in  the  sincerity  with 
which  she  followed  out  those  principles  to  their 
practical  consequences,  and  lived  as  she  believed. 
Very  wide,  indeed,  from  the  line  which  they  have 
taken,  will  the  cold,  formal,  and  speculative  pro- 
fessors of  the  present  day,  find  the  conduct  of 
Mrs.  Carter.  We  hear  her  in  one  place  charging 
upon  her  friend  Mrs.  Montague,  the  necessity  to 
enlist  her  fine  talents  in  the  cause  of  religion,  in- 
stead of  wasting  them  upon  literary  vanities.  In 
another,  we  hear  her  exposing  the  pretensions  of 
that  religion,  which  does  not  follow  men  into  the 
circle  in  which  they  live ;  and  loudly  questioning, 
whether  piety  can  at  once  be  seated  in  the  heart, 
and  yet  seldom  force  its  way  to  the  lips. 

We  see  her  scrupulously  intent  on  turning  the 
conversation  of  dinner-tables  into  such  channels 
as  might,  at  least,  benefit  the  servants  in  attend- 
ance. This  delicacy  of  moral  sentiment,  which 
feels  a  stain  in  religion  like  a  wound,  which  deems 
nothing  trifling  that  has  to  do  with  the  soul,  which 
sets  God  at  our  right  hand,  not  only  in  the  temple 
but  in  the  drawing-room,  is,  doubtless,  an  indica- 
tion of  a  heart  visited  of  God,  and  consecrated  to 
his  service.  Among  her  studies  there  was  one 
which  she  never  neglected ;  one  which  was  always 
dear  to  her,  from  her  earliest  infancy  to  the  latest 

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period  of  her  life,  and  in  which  she  made  a  con- 
tinual improvement.  This  was  that  of  religion, 
which  was  her  constant  care  and  greatest  delight. 
Her  acquaintance  with  the  Bible,  some  part  of 
which  she  never  failed  to  read  every  day,  was  as 
complete,  as  her  belief  in  it  was  sincere.  And 
no  person  ever  endeavoured  more,  and  few  with 
greater  success,  to  regulate  the  whole  of  their 
conduct  by  that  unerring  guide.  She  assisted  her 
devotion  also,  by  assiduously  reading  the  best  ser- 
mons, and  other  works,  upon  that  most  interesting 
subject.  Her  piety  was  never  varying ;  constant, 
fervent,  but  not  enthusiastic. 

Mrs.  Carter  is  an  eminent  example  of  what  may 
be  done  by  industry  and  application.  Endowed 
by  nature  with  no  very  brilliant  talents,  yet  by 
perseverance  she  acquired  a  degree  of  learning 
which  must  be  considered  as  surprising.  The 
daughter  of  a  respectable  country  clergyman, 
with  a  large  family  and  limited  income,  by  her 
unaffected  piety,  moral  excellence,  and  literary 
attainments,  she  secured  to  herself  the  friendship 
and  esteem  of  the  great  and  the  wealthy,  the 
learned  and  the  good.  In  early  youth  her  society 
was  sought  by  many  who  were  elevated  above  her 
in  a  worldly  point  of  view ;  and  instead  of  the 
cheerless,  neglected  old  maid,  we  view  her  in  de- 
clining life  surrounded  by 

"  That  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends." 

Her  friends  were  numerous,  distinguished  for 
wealth  and  rank,  as  well  as  talents  and  learning. 
She  was  particularly  happy  in  her  female  friends. 
Mrs.  Montague,  Mrs.  Vesey,  Miss  Talbot,  the  first 
and  dearest,  and  Mrs.  Chapone,  were  among  her 
most  intimate  associates.  We  will  give  some  ex- 
tracts from  the  great  work  which  was  the  making 
of  her  fortune,  namely,  her  translation  of  "  Epic- 
tetus."  These  will  serve  to  show  the  sentiments 
which  were  her  study  during  the  best  years  of  her 
life.  Those  ladies  who  wish  to  obtain  fame  will 
see  how  severe  was  the  task  Mrs.  Carter  perform- 
ed to  secure  it. 

EXTRACTS    FROM    "  EPICTETUS." 

That  we  are  not  to  be  angry  icith  Mankind. 
1. 

What  is  the  cause  of  assent  to  any  thing  ? 

Its  appearing  to  be  true. 

It  is  not  possible,  therefore,  to  assent  to  what 
appears  to  be  not  true. 

Why? 

Because  it  is  the  very  nature  of  the  understand- 
ing to  agree  to  truth ;  to  be  dissatisfied  with  false- 
hood ;  and  to  suspend  its  belief  in  doubtful  cases. 

AVhat  is  the  proof  of  this  ? 

Persuade  yourself,  if  you  can,  that  it  is  now 
night. 

Impossible. 

Unpersuade  yourself  that  it  is  day. 

Impossible. 

Persuade  yourself  that  the  stars  are,  or  are  not 
even. 

Impossible. 

When  any  one,  then,  assents  to  what  is  false, 
be  assured  that  he  doth  not  wilfully  assent  to  it 


as  false,  (for  as  Plato  aflBrms,  the  soul  is  never 
voluntarily  deprived  of  truth) :  but  what  is  false 
appears  to  him  to  be  true.  Well,  then:  Have 
we,  in  actions,  any  thing  correspondent  to  true 
and  false,  in  propositions  ? 

Duty,  and  contrary  to  duty ;  advantageous,  and 
disadvantageous  ;  suitable,  and  unsuitable :  and 
the  like. 

A  person  then,  cannot  think  a  thing  advantage- 
ous to  him,  and  not  choose  it. 

He  cannot.     But  how  says  Ifedea  ? 
"  I  know  what  evils  wait  my  dreadful  purpose ; 
But  vanquish'd  reason  yields  to  powerful  rage." 

Because  she  thought  that  very  indulgence  of 
her  rage,  and  the  punishing  her  husband,  more 
advantageous  than  the  preservation  of  her  chil- 
dren. 

Yes  :  but  she  is  deceived. 

Show  clearly  to  her  that  she  is  deceived,  and 
she  will  forbear:  but,  till  you  have  shown  it,  what 
is  she  to  follow  but  what  appears  to  herself? 

Nothing. 

Why  then  are  you  angry  with  her,  that  the  un- 
happy woman  is  deceived  in  the  most  important 
points ;  and  instead  of  a  human  creatm'e,  becomes 
a  viper  ?  Why  do  you  not  rather,  as  we  pity  the 
blind  and  lame,  so  likewise  pity  those  who  are 
blinded  and  lamed  in  their  superior  faculties  ? 
2. 

Every  habit  and  faculty  is  preserved  and  in- 
creased by  correspondent  actions ;  as  the  habit  of 
walking,  by  walking ;  of  running,  by  running.  If 
you  would  be  a  reader,  read ;  if  a  writer,  write. 
But  if  you  do  not  read  for  a  month  together,  but 
do  somewhat  else,  you  will  see  what  will  be  the 
consequence.  So,  after  sitting  still  for  ten  days, 
get  up  and  attempt  to  take  a  long  walk ;  and  you 
will  find  how  your  legs  are  weakened.  Upon  the 
whole  then,  whatever  you  would  make  habitual, 
practise  it :  and  if  you  would  not  make  a  thing 
habitual,  do  not  practise  it ;  but  habituate  your- 
self to  something  else. 

It  is  the  same  with  regard  to  the  operations  of 
the  soul.  Whenever  you  are  angry,  be  assured 
that  it  is  not  only  a  present  evil,  but  that  you 
have  increased  a  habit,  and  added  fuel  to  the  fire. 

From  the  "  Enchiridion." 
1. 

Remember  that  you  are  an  actor  in  a  drama, 
of  such  kind  as  the  author  pleases  to  make  it.  If 
short,  of  a  short  one ;  if  long,  of  a  long  one.  If 
it  be  his  pleasure  you  should  act  a  poor  man,  a 
cripple,  a  governor,  or  a  private  person,  see  that 
you  act  it  naturally.  For  this  is  your  business,  to 
act  well  the  character  assigned  you :  to  choose  it, 
is  another's. 

2. 

If  you  have  an  earnest  desire  of  attaining  to 
philosophy,  prepare  yourself  from  the  very  first,  to 
be  laughed  at ;  to  be  sneered  at  by  the  multitude ; 
to  hear  them  say,  "  He  is  returned  to  us  a  philo- 
sopher all  at  once ;"  and  "  whence  this  supercilious 
look  ?"  Now  for  your  part,  do  not  have  a  super- 
cilious look  indeed ;  but  keep  steadily  to  those 
things  which  appear  best  to  you,  as  one  appointed 

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by  God  to  this  station.  For  remember,  that  if 
you  adhere  to  the  same  point,  those  very  persons 
who  at  fii-st  ridiculed,  will  afterwards  admire  you. 
But  if  you  are  conquered  by  them,  you  will  incur 
a  double  ridicule. 

3. 

Women  from  fourteen  years  old  are  flattered 
with  the  title  of  mistresses,  by  the  men.  There- 
fore perceiving  that  they  are  regarded  only  as 
qualified  to  give  the  men  pleasure,  they  begin  to 
adorn  themselves ;  and  in  that  to  place  all  their 
hopes.  It  is  worth  while,  therefore,  to  fix  our  at- 
tention on  making  them  sensible  that  they  are  es- 
teemed for  nothing  else  but  the  appearance  of  a 
decent,  and  modest,  and  discreet  behaviour. 
4. 

No  one  who  is  a  lover  of  money,  a  lover  of  plea- 
sure, or  a  lover  of  glory,  is  likewise  a  lover  of 
mankind ;  but  only  he  who  is  a  lover  of  virtue. 
5. 

As  you  would  not  wish  to  sail  in  a  large,  and 
finely  decorated,  and  gilded  ship,  and  sink ;  so 
neither  is  it  eligible  to  inhabit  a  grand  and  sump- 
tuous house,  and  be  in  a  storm  [of  passions  and 
cares.] 

6. 

When  we  are  invited  to  an  entertainment,  we 
take  what  we  find :  and  if  any  one  should  bid  the 
master  of  the  house  to  set  fish,  or  tarts,  before 
him,  he  would  be  thought  absurd.  Yet,  in  the 
world,  we  ask  the  gods  for  what  they  do  not  give 
us  ;  and  that  though  they  have  given  us  so  many 
things. 

7. 

Patients  are  displeased  with  a  physician  who 
doth  not  prescribe  for  them ;  and  think  he  gives 
them  over.  And  why  are  none  so  affected  towards 
a  philosopher,  as  to  conclude  he  despairs  of  their 
recovery  to  a  right  way  of  thinking,  if  he  tells 
them  nothing  which  may  be  for  their  good  ? 
8. 

Examine  yourself,  whether  you  had  rather  be 
rich,  or  happy :  and  if  rich,  be  assured  that  this 
is  neither  a  good,  nor  altogether  in  your  own 
power:  but  if  happy,  that  this  is  both  a  good, 
and  in  your  own  power :  since  the  one  is  a  tem- 
porary loan  of  fortune,  and  the  other  depends  on 
choice. 

9. 

As  it  is  better  to  lie  straitened  for  room  upon  a 
little  couch  in  health,  than  to  toss  upon  a  wide 
bed  in  sickness  ;  so  it  is  better  to  contract  your- 
self within  the  compass  of  a  small  fortune,  and  be 
happy,  than  to  have  a  great  one,  and  be  wretched. 
10. 

It  is  better,  by  yielding  to  truth,  to  conquer 
opinion ;  than  by  yielding  to  opinion,  to  be  de- 
feated by  truth. 

11. 

If  you  seek  truth,  you  will  not  seek  to  conquer 
by  all  possible  means :  and,  when  you  have  found 
truth,  you  will  have  a  security  against  being  con- 
quered. 

12. 

Truth  conquers  by  itself;  opinion,  by  foreign 
aids. 


13. 
In  prosperity,  it  is  very  easy  to  find  a  friend . 
in  adversity,  nothing  is  so  difficult. 
14. 
Time  delivers  fools  from  grief:  and  reason,  wise 
men. 

15. 
He  is  a  man  of  sense  who  doth  not  grieve  for 
what  he  hath  not ;  but  rejoiceth  in  what  he  hath. 
16. 
Epictetus   being   asked,    how  a   person   might 
grieve  his  enemy,  answered,  "  By  doing  as  well  as 
possible  himself." 

CASALINA,   LUCIA, 

Was  a  celebrated  Italian  portrait-painter,  a  dis- 
ciple of  Guiseppe  dal  Sole. 

CASSANA,  MARIA  VITTORIA, 
An  Italian  painter,  was  the  sister  of  the  two 
Venetian  artists,  Nicolo  and  Giovanni  Agostino 
Cassana.  She  died  in  the  beginning  of  the  18th 
century.  She  painted  chiefly  devotional  pieces 
for  private  families. 

CASTELNAU,  HENRIETTE  JULIE  DE, 
Daughter  of  the  Marquis  de  Castelnau,  gover- 
nor of  Brest,  was  born  in  1670.  She  married 
count  de  Murat,  colonel  of  infantry,  brigadier  of 
the  armies  of  the  king.  Her  levity  and  love  of 
pleasure  injured  her  reputation.  After  her  hus- 
band's death,  the  king  exiled  her  to  Auch ;  but 
when  the  duke  of  Orleans  became  regent,  she  was 
recalled.  She  died  the  following  year,  1716.  She 
wrote  several  prose  works;  among  others,  "La 
Comtesse  de  Chateaubriand,  or  the  EflTects  of  Jeal- 
ousy," and  "  The  Sprites  of  the  Castle  of  Kernosi." 
She  also  wrote  fairy  tales,  and  several  poems. 

CASTRO,  ANNE  DE, 
A  Spanish  lady,  author  of  many  ingenious 
works;  amongst  others,  one  entitled  " Eterniel  ad 
del  Rei  Filippi  III.;'  printed  at  Madrid,  1629. 
The  famous  Lopez  de  Vega  has  celebrated  this 
lady  in  his  wi'itings. 

CATALANI,  ANGELICA, 
By  marriage  Valabrfeque,  a  celebrated  singer, 
was  born  in  1784,  at  Sinigaglia,  in  the  Ecclesi- 
astical States,  and  educated  at  the  convent  of  St. 
Lucia,  near  Rome.  Angelica  displayed,  in  her 
seventh  year,  such  wonderful  musical  talents,  and 
such  multitudes  came  to  hear  her,  that  the  magis- 
trates prohibited  her  singing  longer  in  the  convent. 
But  the  favour  of  a  cardinal,  and  the  love  of  the 
celebrated  Bosello,  enabled  her  to  cultivate  her 
talents.  When  fourteen,  she  appeared  in  the 
theatres  at  Venice  and  other  Italian  cities.  She 
was  afterwards  for  five  years  at  Lisbon.  Her  first 
concert  at  Madrid  gained  her  more  than  15,000 
dollars ;  and  from  her  concerts  in  Paris  her  fame 
spread  all  over  Europe.  In  London,  she  received 
the  first  year  a  salary  of  72,000  francs,  and  the 
next,  96,000  francs ;  besides  the  immense  sums 
she  obtained  from  her  journeys  through  the  coun- 
try towns.     In  1817,  she  undertook  the  direction 

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of  the  Italian  opera  in  Paris,  but  left  it  on  the 
return  of  Napoleon,  and  resumed  it  on  the  resto- 
ration of  the  king.  In  1816,  she  visited  the  chief 
cities  of  Germany  and  Italy.  She  passed  the  most 
of  her  time  in  travelling  and  singing  throughout 
Eitrope,  till  about  1830,  when  she  retired  to  an 
estate  in  Italy,  where  she  lived  very  much  se- 
cluded. She  was  married  to  M.  Valabrfeque,  for- 
merly a  captain  in  the  French  service,  by  whom 
she  had  several  children.  She  was  a  handsome 
woman,  and  a  good  actress.  Her  voice  was  won- 
derful from  its  flexibility  and  brilliancy.  She 
died  in  June,  1849. 

CATELLAN,    MARIE    CLAIRE    PRIS- 
CILLE    MARGUERITE    DE, 

A  LADY  of  Narbonne,  who  died  at  Toulouse, 
1745,  aged  eighty-three.  Her  odes  were  admired 
by  the  French,  and  were  crowned  by  the  Toulouse 
academicians. 


CATHARINE    DE    MEDICIS, 

Queen  of  France,  was  the  only  daughter  of  Lo- 
renzo de  Medicis,  duke  d'Urbino,  by  Magdalen  de 
la  Tour,  and  was  born  at  Florence  in  1519.  Being 
early  left  an  orphan,  she  was  brought  up  by  her 
great-uncle  cardinal  Giulio  de  Medici,  afterwards 
Pope  Clement  VI.  In  1534,  she  was  married  to 
Henry,  duke  d'Orleans,  son  of  Francis  I.  of  France. 
Catharine  was  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the 
splendid  court  of  her  father-in-law,  where  the 
graces  of  her  person  and  her  mental  accomplish- 
ments shone  with  inimitable  lustre.  At  the  same 
time,  though  so  young,  she  practised  all  those  arts 
of  dissimulation  and  complaisance  which  were  ne- 
cessary to  ingratiate  her  with  so  many  persons  of 
opposite  characters  and  interests.  She  even  lived 
upon  terms  of  intimacy  with  Diana  de  Poictiers, 
her  husband's  mistress.  In  1547,  Henry  became 
king,  under  the  title  of  Henry  II.  Though  child- 
less the  first  ten  years  of  her  marriage,  Catharine 
subsequently  bore  her  husband  ten  children. 
Three  of  her  sons  became  kings  of  France,  and 
one  daughter,  Margaret,  married  Henry  of  Na- 
varre. During  her  husband's  life,  she  possessed 
but  little  influence  in  public  afi"airs,  and  was  chiefly 


employed  in  instructing  her  children,  and  acquir- 
ing that  ascendency  over  them,  by  which  she  so 
long  preserved  the  supreme  authoi-ity. 

She  was  left  a  widow  in  1559,  and  her  son, 
Francis  II.,  a  weak  youth  of  sixteen,  succeeded 
to  the  crown.  He  had  married  Mary,  queen  of 
Scotland,  and  her  uncles,  the  Guises,  had  the 
chief  management  of  affairs  during  this  reign, 
which  was  rendered  turbulent  and  bloody  by  the 
violent  persecutions  of  the  Huguenots.  Catharine 
could  only  preserve  a  degree  of  authority  by  acting 
with  the  Guises ;  yet,  that  their  furious  policy  did 
not  agree  with  her  inclinations,  may  be  inferred 
from  her  raising  the  virtuous  Michael  de  I'Hospital 
to  the  chancellorship. 

Francis  II.  died  in  1560,  and  was  succeeded  by 
his  brother,  Charles  IX.,  then  eleven  years  of  age. 
Catharine  possessed  the  authority,  though  not  the 
title,  of  regent ;  and,  in  order  to  counterbalance 
the  power  of  the  Guises,  she  inclined  to  the  party 
of  the  king  of  Navarre,  a  Protestant,  and  the  asso- 
ciated princes.  A  civil  war  ensued,  which  was 
excited  by  the  duke  de  Guise,  who  thereby  became 
the  favourite  of  the  Catholics ;  but  he  being  killed 
in  1562,  a  peace  was  made  between  the  two  par- 
ties. Catharine  was  now  decidedly  at  the  head 
of  aff'airs,  and  began  to  display  all  the  extent  of 
her  dark  and  dissembling  politics.  She  paid  her 
court  to  the  Catholics,  and,  by  repeated  acts  of 
injustice  and  oppression,  she  forced  the  Hugue- 
nots into  another  civil  war.  A  truce  succeeded, 
and  to  this  a  third  war,  which  terminated  in  a 
peace  favourable  to  the  Huguenots,  which  was 
thought  sincere  and  lasting.  But  the  queen  had 
resolved  to  destroy  by  treachery  those  whom  she 
could  not  subdue  by  force  of  arms.  A  series  of 
falselioods  and  dissimulations,  almost  unparalleled 
in  history,  was  practised  by  Catharine  and  her 
son,  whom  she  had  initiated  in  every  art  of  dis- 
guise, in  order  to  lull  the  fears  and  suspicions  of 
the  Protestants,  and  prepare  the  way  for  the  mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew's  day,  1571.  Many  of 
the  leaders  of  the  Protestants  were  attracted  to 
Paris  by  the  kindness  and  attention  shown  them 
by  the  king  and  his  mother ;  indeed,  so  far  did 
they  carry  their  duplicity,  that  several  of  the  Ca- 
tholics were  alarmed.  When  the  fatal  day  drew 
nigh,  Charles,  who  had  been  constantly  urged  on 
by  his  mother,  appeared  to  recoil  from  the  atrocity 
of  the  plot,  and  hesitated ;  Catharine  exerted  all 
her  powers  to  stifle  his  compunction,  and  at  length 
succeeded. 

"  AVell,"  said  he,  "  since  it  must  be  so,  I  will 
not  let  one  remain  to  reproach  me  ;"  and  immedi- 
ately gave  orders  for  the  commencement  of  the 
carnage.  The  destruction  of  the  Calvinists  was 
everywhere  decreed,  and,  though  many  escaped, 
more  than  forty-five  thousand  persons  are  said  to 
have  been  massacred  in  Paris  and  the  provinces. 

Charles,  recovering  from  the  frenzy  which  his 
mother  had  excited,  fell  into  a  profound  melan- 
choly, from  which  he  never  recovered.  He  died 
in  1574,  and  Catharine  was  made  regent  till  her 
favourite  son,  Henry  III.,  returned  from  Poland, 
of  which  country  he  had  been  elected  king.  At 
this  junctiire,  she  displayed  great  vigour  and  abi- 

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lity  in  preventing  those  disturbances  -which  tlie 
violent  state  of  parties  was  calculated  to  produce, 
and  she  delivered  the  kingdom  to  her  son  in  a 
condition,  which,  had  he  been  wise  and  virtuous, 
might  have  secured  him  a  happy  reign.  But  a 
son  and  pupil  of  Catharine  could  only  have  the 
semblance  of  good  qualities,  and  her  own  character 
must  have  prevented  any  confidence  in  measm-es 
which  she  directed. 

The  party  of  the  Guises  rose  again ;  the  league 
was  formed,  war  was  renewed  with  the  Protestants ; 
and  all  things  tended  to  greater  disorder  than  be- 
fore. The  attachment  of  Henry  to  his  minions, 
and  the  popularity  of  the  Guises,  destroyed  the 
authority  of  Catharine,  and  she  had  henceforth 
little  more  than  the  sad  employment  of  looking 
on  and  lamenting  her  son's  misgovernment,  and 
the  wretched  conclusion  of  her  system  of  crooked 
and  treacherous  policy.  She  died  in  January, 
1589,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  loaded  with  the  hatred 
of  all  parties.  On  her  deathbed,  she  gave  her  son 
some  excellent  advice,  very  different  from  her  for- 
mer precepts  and  example ;  urging  him  to  attach 
to  himself  Henry  of  Navarre  and  the  other  princes 
of  the  blood,  by  regard  and  kind  usage,  and  to  grant 
liberty  of  conscience  for  the  good  of  the  state. 

Catharine  was  aiFable,  courteous,  and  magnifi- 
cent ;  she  liberally  encouraged  learning  and  the 
polite  arts ;  she  also  possessed  extraordinary  cou- 
rage and  presence  of  mind,  strength  of  judgment 
and  fertility  of  genius.  But  by  her  extreme  dupli- 
city, and  by  her  alternately  joining  every  party, 
she  lost  the  confidence  of  all.  Scarcely  preserving 
the  decorum  of  her  sex,  she  was  loose  and  volup- 
tuous in  her  own  conduct,  and  was  constantly  at- 
tended by  a  train  of  beauties,  whose  complaisant 
charms  she  employed  in  gaining  over  those  whom 
she  could  not  influence  by  the  common  allurements 
of  interest.  Nearly  indilferent  to  the  mcdes  of 
religion,  she  was  very  superstitious,  and  believed 
in  magic  and  astrology. 

The  depth  of  her  dissimulation,  and  the  savage 
pleasure  or  indifl'erence  with  which  she  viewed 
the  cruelties  she  had  dictated,  have  been  shown 
in  this  sketch  of  her  life.  Perhaps  the  heaviest 
charge  against  her  is,  the  detestable  pi-inciples  in 
which  she  brought  up  her  children,  whom  she 
early  inured  to  blood  and  perfidy,  while  she  weak- 
ened their  minds  by  debauchery,  that  she  might 
the  longer  retain  her  power  over  them.  She,  how- 
ever, lived  long  enough  to  witness  the  sorrowful 
consequences  of  this  conduct,  and  to  learn  that 
the  distrust  and  hatred  of  all  parties  attended 
her.  Catharine  resembled  no  one  so  much  as  her 
own  countryman,  Coesar  Borgia,  in  her  wonder- 
ful powers  of  mind,  and  talents  of  gaining  ascend- 
ency over  the  minds  of  others.  She  resembled 
him  also  in  the  detestable  purposes  to  which  she 
applied  her  great  genius.  Had  she  been  as  good 
as  she  was  gifted,  no  other  individual  of  her  sex 
eould  have  effected  so  much  for  the  happiness  of 
France. 

CATHARINE   PARR, 

Sixth  and  last  wife  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Parr  of  Kendal, 


and  was  at  an  early  age  distinguished  for  hei 
learning  and  good  sense.  She  was  first  married 
to  Edward  Burghe,  and  secondly  to  John  Neville 
lord  Latimer ;  and  after  his  death  attracted  the 
notice  and  admiration  of  Henry  VIII.,  whose 
queen  she  became  in  1643.  Her  zealous  encou- 
ragement of  the  reformed  religion  excited  the 
anger  and  jealousy  of  Gardiner,  bishop  of  Win- 
chester, the  chancellor  Wriothesley,  and  others  of 
the  popish  faction,  who  conspired  to  ruin  her  with 
the  king.  Taking  advantage  of  one  of  his  moments 
of  irritation,  they  accused  her  of  heresy  and  trea- 
son, and  prevailed  upon  the  king  to  sign  a  warrant 
for  her  committal  to  the  Tower.  This  being  acci- 
dentally discovered  to  her,  she  repaired  to  the 
king,  who  purposely  turned  the  conversation  to 
religious  subjects,  and  began  to  sound  her  opinions. 
Aware  of  his  purpose,  she  humbly  replied,  "that 
on  such  topics  she  always,  as  became  her  sex  and 
station,  referred  herself  to  his  majesty;  as  he, 
under  God,  was  her  only  supreme  head  and  go- 
vernor here  on  earth." 

"Not  so,  by  St.  Mary,  Kate,"  replied  Henry; 
"you  are,  as  we  take  it,  become  a  doctor,  to  in- 
struct, and  not  to  be  instructed  by  us." 

Catharine  judiciously  replied,  that  she  only  ob- 
jected in  order  to  be  benefited  by  his  superior 
learning  and  knowledge. 

"Is  it  so,  sweetheart?"  said  the  king;  "and 
tended  your  arguments  to  no  worse  end  ?  Then 
we  are  perfect  friends  again." 

On  the  day  appointed  for  sending  her  to  the 
Tower,  while  walking  in  the  garden,  and  conversing 
pleasantly  together,  the  chancellor,  who  was  igno- 
rant of  the  reconciliation,  advanced  with  the 
guards.  The  king  drew  him  aside,  and  after  some 
conversation,  exclaimed  in  a  rage :  "  Knave,  aye  ; 
avaunt  knave,  a  fool  and  a  beast." 

Catharine,  ignorant  of  his  errand,  entreated  his 
pardon  for  her  sake. 

"Ah!  poor  soul!"  said  Henry,  "thou  little 
knowest  how  ill  he  deserves  this  at  thy  hands.  On 
my  word,  sweetheart,  he  hath  been  toward  thee 
an  arrant  knave,  so  let  him  go." 

On  the  death  of  the  king,  he  left  her  a  legacy 
of  four  thousand  pounds,  besides  her  jointure, 
"  for  her  great  love,  obedience,  chasteness  of  life, 
and  wisdom." 

She  afterwards  espoused  the  lord  admiral  sir 
Thomas  Seymour,  uncle  to  Edward  VI. ;  but  these 
nuptials  proved  unhappy,  and  involved  her  in 
troubles  and  difficulties.  She  died  in  childbed  in 
1548,  not  without  suspicion  of  poison. 

She  was  a  zealous  promoter  of  the  Reformation, 
and  with  several  other  ladies  of  the  court  secretly 
patronized  Anne  Askew,  who  was  tortured,  but  in 
vain,  to  discover  the  names  of  her  court  friends. 
With  the  view  of  putting  the  Scriptures  into  the 
hands  of  the  people,  Cathai-ine  employed  persons 
of  learning  to  translate  into  English  the  para- 
phrase of  Erasmus  on  the  New  Testament,  and 
engaged  the  lady  Mary,  afterwards  queen,  to 
translate  the  paraphrase  on  St.  John,  and  wrote  a 
Latin  epistle  to  her  on  the  subject.  Among  her 
papers  after  her  death  was  found  a  composition, 
entitled  "Queen  Catharine  Parr's  Lamentations 

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of  a  Sinner,  bewailing  the  ignorance  of  her  blind 
Life,"  and  was  a  contrite  meditation  on  the  years 
she  had  passed  in  popish  fasts  and  pilgrimages. 
It  was  published  with  a  preface  by  the  great  lord 
Burleigh  in  1548.  In  her  lifetime  she  published  a 
volume  of  "Prayers  or  Meditations,  wherein  the 
mind  is  stirred  patiently  to  suffer  all  afflictions 
here,  and  to  set  at  nought  the  vaine  prosperitie 
of  this  worlde,  and  also  to  long  for  the  everlast- 
ing felicitee."  Many  of  her  letters  have  been 
printed. 

CATHARINE   OF   BRAGANZA, 

Wife  of  Charles  II.,  king  of  England,  and 
daughter  of  John  IV.  of  Portugal,  was  born  in 
1838.  In  1661,  she  was  married  to  Charles  II., 
in  whose  court  she  long  endured  all  the  neglect 
and  mortification  his  dissolute  conduct  was  calcu- 
lated to  inflict  on  her.  This  endurance  was  ren- 
dered more  difficult  by  hor  having  no  children ; 
but  she  supported  her  situation  with  great  equa- 
nimity. 

Lord  Clarendon  says  of  Catharine — "  The  queen 
had  beauty  and  wit  enough  to  make  herself  agree- 
able to  the  king ;  yet  she  had  been,  according  to 
the  mode  and  discipline  of  her  country,  bred  in  a 
monastery,  where  she  had  seen  only  the  women 
who  attended  her,  and  conversed  with  the  religious 
who  resided  there ;  and,  without  doubt,  in  her  in- 
clinations, was  enough  disposed  to  have  been  one 
of  the  number.  And  from  this  restraint  she  was 
called  out  to  be  a  great  queen,  and  to  a  free  con- 
versation in  a  court  that  was  to  be  upon  the  matter 
new  formed,  and  reduced  from  the  manners  of  a 
licentious  age,  to  the  old  rules  and  limits  which 
bad  been  observed  in  better  times ;  to  which  re- 
gular and  decent  conformity  the  present  disposi- 
tion of  men  and  women  was  not  enough  inclined 
to  submit,  nor  the  king  to  exact.  After  some 
struggle  she  submitted  to  the  king's  licentious 
conduct,  and  from  that  time  lived  on  easy  terms 
with  him  till  his  death."  After  Charles  died, 
Catharine  was  treated  with  much  respect. 

In  1693,  she  returned  to  Portugal,  where,  in 
1704,  she  was  made  regent  by  her  brother,  Don 
Pedro,  whose  increasing  infirmities  rendered  re- 
tirement necessary.  In  this  situation,  Catharine 
showed  considerable  abilities,  cai-rying  on  the  war 
with  Spain  with  great  firmness  and  success.  She 
died  in  1705. 

CATHARINE  ALEXIEONA, 
A  COUNTRY  girl  of  the  name  of  Martha,  which 
was  changed  to  Catharine  when  she  embraced  the 
Greek  religion  and  became  empress  of  Russia, 
was  born  of  very  indigent  parents,  who  lived  at 
Ringen,  a  small  village  not  far  from  Dorpt,  on 
lake  Vitcherve,  in  Livonia.  When  only  three  years 
old  she  lost  her  father,  who  left  her  with  no  other 
support  than  the  scanty  maintenance  produced  by 
the  labours  of  an  infirm  and  sickly  mother.  She 
grew  up  handsome,  well  formed,  and  possessed  of 
a  good  understanding.  Her  mother  taught  her  to 
read,  and  an  old  Lutheran  clergyman,  named 
Gluck,  instructed  her  in  the  principles  of  that 
persuasion.  Scarcely  had  she  attained  her  fifteenth 


year  when  she  lost  her  mother,  and  the  good 
pastor  took  her  home,  and  employed  her  in  attend- 
ing his  children.  Catharine  availed  herself  of  the 
lessons  in  music  and  dancing  given  them  by  their 
masters ;  but  the  death  of  her  benefactor,  which 
happened  not  long  after  her  reception  into  his 
family,  plunged  her  once  more  into  the  extremity 
of  poverty ;  and  her  country  being  now  the  seat 
of  the  war  between  Sweden  and  Russia,  she  went 
to  seek  an  asylum  at  Marienburg. 


In  1701,  she  married  a  dragoon  of  the  Swedish 
garrison  of  that  fortress,  and,  if  we  may  believe 
some  authors,  the  very  day  of  their  marriage, 
Marienburg  was  besieged  by  the  Russians,  and 
the  lover,  while  assisting  to  repel  the  attack,  was 
killed.  Marienburg  was  at  last  carried  by  assault ; 
when  General  Bauer,  seeing  Catharine  among  the 
prisoners,  and  being  smitten  with  her  youth  and 
beauty,  took  her  to  his  house,  where  she  superin- 
tended his  domestic  aifairs.  Soon  afterwards  she 
was  removed  into  the  family  of  Prince  MenzhikofF, 
who  was  no  less  struck  with  the  attractions  of  the 
fair  captive,  and  she  lived  with  him  till  1704 ; 
when,  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age,  she 
became  the  mistress  of  Peter  the  Great,  and  won 
so  much  on  his  afi"ections,  that  he  married  her  on 
the  29th  of  May,  1712.  The  ceremony  was  se- 
cretly performed  at  Yaverhof,  in  Poland,  in  the 
presence  of  General  Brure ;  and  on  the  20th  of 
February,  1724,  it  was  publicly  solemnized  with 
great  pomp  at  St.  Petersburgh,  on  which  occasion 
she  received  the  diadem  and  sceptre  from  the 
hands  of  her  husband.  Peter  died  the  following 
year,  and  she  was  proclaimed  sovereign  empress 
of  all  the  Russias.  She  showed  herself  worthy  of 
this  high  station  by  completing  the  grand  designs 
which  the  czar  had  begun.  The  first  thing  she 
did  on  her  accession  was  to  cause  every  gallows 
to  be  taken  down,  and  all  instruments  of  torture 
destroyed.  She  instituted  a  new  order  of  knight- 
hood, in  honour  of  St.  Alexander  Nefski ;  and 
performed  many  actions  worthy  of  a  great  mind. 
She  died  the  17th  of  May,  1727,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-eight. 

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She  was  a  princess  of  excellent  qualities  of  mind 
and  heart.  She  attended  Peter  the  Great  in  his 
expeditions,  and  rendered  him  essential  services  in 
the  unfortunate  affair  of  Pruth :  it  was  she  who 
advised  the  czar  to  tempt  the  vizier  with  presents, 
which  he  did  with  success.  It  cannot  be  denied, 
however,  that  she  had  an  attachment  which  excited 
the  jealousy  of  the  czar.  The  favoured  object  was 
M.  de  la  Croix,  a  chamberlain  of  the  court,  origi- 
nally from  France.  The  czar  caused  him  to  be 
decapitated  on  pretence  of  treason,  and  had  his 
head  stuck  on  a  pike  and  put  in  one  of  the  public 
places  of  St.  Petersburg.  In  order  that  his  em- 
press might  contemplate  this  at  her  leisure,  he 
drove  her  across  the  place  in  all  directions,  and 
even  to  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  but  she  had  adch-ess 
or  firmness  enough  to  restrain  her  tears.  Catha- 
rine has  been  suspected  of  not  being  favourably 
disposed  towards  the  czarevitch  Alexius,  who  died 
under  the  displeasure  of  his  father.  As  the  eldest 
born,  and  by  a  former  marriage,  he  excluded  the 
children  of  Catharine  from  the  succession ;  and 
this  is  perhaps  the  sole  foundation  for  that  report. 

She  was  much  beloved  for  her  great  humanity ; 
she  saved  the  lives  of  many,  whom  Peter,  in  the 
first  impulse  of  his  naturally  cruel  temper,  had 
resolved  to  have  executed.  When  fully  deter- 
mined on  the  death  of  any  one,  he  would  give 
orders  for  the  execution  during  her  absence.  The 
czar  was  also  subject  to  depression  and  horror  of 
spirits  sometimes  amounting  to  frenzy.  In  these 
moments,  Catharine  alone  dared  to  approach  him ; 
her  presence,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  had  an  im- 
mediate effect  upon  him,  and  calmed  the  agony  of 
his  mind.  Her  temper  was  very  gay  and  cheer- 
ful, and  her  manners  winning.  Her  habits  were 
somewhat  intemperate,  which  is  supposed  to  have 
hastened  her  end ;  but  we  must  not  forget  in  judg- 
ing her  for  this  gross  appetite,  that  drunkenness 
was  then  the  common  habit  of  the  nobles  of 
Russia. 


CATHARINE   II.,    ALEXIEONA, 
Empress  of  Russia,  born  May  2d,  1729,  was 
the  daughter  of  the  prince  of  Anhalt-Zerbst,  go- 


vernor of  Stettin  in  Prussian  Pomerania.  Her 
name  was  Sophia  Augusta  von  Anhalt.  She  mar- 
ried in  1745  her  cousin  Charles  Frederic,  duke  of 
Holstein  Gottorp,  whom  his  aunt,  the  Empress 
Elizabeth  of  Russia,  had  chosen  for  her  successor. 
In  adopting  the  Greek  communion,  the  religion  of 
the  Russians,  he  took  the  name  of  Peter,  after- 
wards Peter  III.,  and  his  consort  that  of  Catha- 
rine Alexieona.  It  was  an  ill-assorted  and  im- 
happy  match.  Catharine  was  handsome,  fond  of 
pleasure,  clever,  ambitious,  and  bold.  Her  hus- 
band, greatly  her  inferior  in  abilities,  was  irreso- 
lute and  imprudent.  Catharine  soon  became  dis- 
gusted with  his  weakness,  and  bestowed  her  affec- 
tions upon  Soltikoff,  chamberlain  to  the  grand- 
duke.  This  intrigue  was  discovered,  but  Catha- 
rine contrived  to  blind  the  Empress  Elizabeth  to 
her  frailty.  Soltikoff  was,  however,  sent  to  Ham- 
burg, as  ministei'-plenipotentiary  from  Russia. 
Stanislaus  Poniatowski,  afterwards  king  of  Poland, 
succeeded  the  chamberlain  in  the  favour  of  the 
grand-duchess;  and  Elizabeth,  who  became  daily 
more  openly  devoted  to  pleasure  herself,  only  in- 
terfered when  the  scandal  became  so  public  that 
she  felt  herself  obliged  to  do  so,  and  Cathariae 
was  forbidden  to  see  Poniatowski.  Although  jeal- 
ously watched  by  Peter,  the  grand-duchess  con- 
trived to  evade  these  orders,  and  Poniatowski  often 
visited  her  in  disguise. 

In  consequence  of  the  many  disagreements  be- 
tween them,  as  soon  as  Peter  ascended  the  throne, 
rendered  vacant  by  the  death  of  Elizabeth  on  the 
2Dth  of  December,  1761,  he  talked  of  repudiating 
Catharine,  then  residing  in  retirement  at  Peterhof, 
near  St.  Petersburg,  and  marrying  his  mistress, 
the  Countess  Woronzoff.  Catharine  determined 
to  anticipate  him  by  a  bolder  movement. 

Although  on  his  first  accession  Peter  had  shown, 
in  many  of  his  acts,  true  greatness  and  generosity 
of  miad,  yet  he  soon  relapsed  into  his  old  habits 
of  idleness  and  dissipation.  While  he  was  shut  up 
with  his  favoui-ites  and  mistress,  the  empress  kept 
her  court  with  mingled  dignity  and  sweetness, 
studying  especially  to  attract  every  man  distin- 
guished for  his  talents  and  courage.  Hearing  that 
the  empei'or  was  about  to  declare  her  son  illegiti- 
mate, and  adopt  as  his  heir  the  unfortunate  prince 
Ivan,  whom  Elizabeth  had  supplanted  and  kept  in 
confinement  since  his  infancy,  she  formed  a  con- 
federacy, in  which  several  noblemen,  ofiicers  and 
ladies,  joined ;  among  others,  her  new  favourite, 
Gregory  Orloff,  and  the  princess  Daschkoff,  sister 
to  the  countess  Woronzoff,  a  young  widow  of 
eighteen,  celebrated  for  her  abilities,  courage,  and 
warlike  disposition  ;  the  regiments  of  the  garrison 
were  gained  by  bribes  and  promises ;  the  emperor 
was  arrested,  and  Catharine  was  proclaimed  sole 
empress  of  all  the  Russias,  under  the  title  of  Ca- 
tharine II.  In  July,  1762,  after  having  reigned 
only  six  months,  Peter  signed  an  act  of  abdication. 
Six  days  afterwards,  the  conspirators,  fearing  a 
reaction  in  the  army,  went  to  Ropscha,  where 
Peter  was  confined,  and  while  drinking  with  him, 
fell  suddenly  upon  him  and  strangled  him.  It 
does  not  appear  that  Catharine  actually  ordered 
the  murder,  but  she  showed  no  sorrow  for  it,  and 

251 


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continued  her  favour  to  the  murderers.     She  was 
solemnly  crowned  at  ^Moscow,  in  1762. 

The  first  effort  of  the  new  empress  was  to  estab- 
lish peace  with  the  foreign  powers  ;  her  next  was 
to  secure  the  internal  tranquillity  of  the  empire. 
Although  the  nobles,  incensed  at  the  an-ogance  of 
the  favourite,  Alexis  OrloflF,  raised  a  vei-y  serious 
rebellion,  in  which,  but  for  Catharine's  indomi- 
table courage  and  presence  of  mind,  she  would 
have  shared  the  fate  of  her  husband,  yet  she  con- 
trived to  suppress  it,  without  even  summoning  a 
council.  Combining  policy  with  firmness,  she 
found  means  to  soothe  the  clergy,  whom  her  in- 
gratitude had  incensed,  and  to  restore  quiet  to  her 
dominions.  Though  fond  of  pleasure,  she  never 
suffered  amusement  to  interfere  with  business,  or 
the  pursuits  of  ambition.  Her  firmness  was  re- 
markable. "  We  should  be  constant  in  our  plans," 
said  she;  "it  is  better  to  do  amiss,  than  to  change 
our  purposes.  None  but  fools  are  irresolute." 
Her  fame  was  soon  spread  all  over  Europe. 

Catharine  abolished  the  secret-inquisition  chan- 
cery, a  court  which  had  exercised  the  most  dread- 
ful power,  and  the  use  of  torture.  And,  during 
her  long  reign,  she  avoided  as  much  as  possible 
capital  punishment.  She  also,  by  a  manifesto, 
published  in  August,  1763,  declared  that  colonists 
should  find  welcome  and  support  in  Russia ;  she 
founded  several  hospitals,  and  a  medical  college 
at  St.  Petersburg ;  and  though  often  harassed  by 
plots,  that  were  incessantly  formed  against  her, 
she  constantly  occupied  herself  with  the  improve- 
ment and  aggrandizement  of  her  empire.  A  reso- 
lution she  had  taken  to  marry  Orlofl",  nearly  proved 
fatal  to  them  both,  and  she  was  obliged  to  re- 
nounce it. 

In  1764,  Poniatowski,  a  former  favourite  of  Ca- 
tharine's, was,  by  her  exertions  and  the  army  she 
sent  into  Poland,  elected  king  of  that  country, 
under  the  name  of  Stanislaus  Augustus.  In  the 
same  year,  occurred  the  murder  of  Ivan,  grandson 
of  Peter  the  Great,  and  rightful  heir  to  the  throne 
of  Russia.  He  was  twenty-three  years  of  age ; 
and  although  his  constant  captivity  is  said  to  have 
somewhat  impaired  his  faculties,  yet  his  existence 
caused  so  many  disturbances,  that  it  was  clearly 
for  Catharine's  interest  to  have  him  assassinated. 
Catharine's  instrumentality  in  this  murder  was  not 
proved ;  but  the  assassins  were  protected,  and  ad- 
vanced in  the  Russian  service. 

The  beneficial  consequences  of  the  regulations 
of  Catharine,  became  daily  more  apparent  through 
all  the  empire.  The  government,  more  simply 
organized  and  animated  with  a  new  energy,  dis- 
played a  spirit  of  independence  worthy  a  great 
nation.  Mistress  of  her  own  passions,  Catharine 
knew  how,  by  mingled  mildness  and  firmness,  to 
control  those  of  others ;  and,  whatever  might  be 
her  own  irregularities,  she  strictly  discountenanced 
violations  of  decorum. 

The  perplexed  and  uncertain  jurisprudence  of 
Russia  more  particularly  engaged  her  attention  ; 
and  she  drew  up  herself  a  code  of  laws,  founded 
in  truth  and  justice,  which  was  submitted  to  depu- 
ties from  all  the  Russian  provinces.  But  the  clause 
that  proposed  liberty  to  the  boors,  or  serfs,  met 


with  so  much  opposition  from  the  nobles,  that  the 
assembly  had  to  be  dismissed.  In  1767,  the  em- 
press sent  learned  men  throughout  her  immense 
territories,  to  examine  and  report  their  soil,  pro- 
ductions and  wealth,  and  the  manners  and  habits 
of  the  people.  About  the  same  time,  the  small- 
pox was  raging  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  Catharine 
submitted  herself  and  her  son  to  inoculation,  as 
an  example  to  the  people. 

In  1768,  she  engaged  in  a  war  with  Turkey, 
which  terminated  successfully  in  1774,  and  by 
which  several  new  provinces  were  added  to  the 
Russian  empii-e.  But,  during  this  period,  the 
plague  raged  throughout  the  eastern  countries  of 
Europe  to  a  great  extent,  and  this  disease  is  said 
to  have  carried  ofi"  more  than  100,000  of  Catha- 
rine's subjects.  While  the  war  with  Turkey  was 
going  on,  the  empress  concluded  with  the  king  of 
Prussia  and  emperor  of  Austria,  the  infamous 
partition  treaty,  by  which  the  first  blow  was  given 
to  the  existence  of  Poland. 

Orloff,  who  had  been  of  the  greatest  assistance 
to  Catharine  during  the  war  with  Turkey,  and  the 
disturbances  caused  by  the  plague,  again  aspired 
to  share  with  her  the  throne.  Catharine  bore 
with  his  caprices  for  some  time,  through  her  fond- 
ness for  their  child,  a  boy,  who  was  privately 
reared  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  but  at  length 
resolved  to  subdue  an  attachment  become  so  dan- 
gerous to  her  peace  ;  and  having  proposed  to  Or- 
loff a  clandestine  marriage,  which  he  disdainfully 
declined,  she  saw  him  leave  her  court  without  any 
apparent  grief,  and  raised  Vassiltschkoif,  a  young 
and  handsome  lieutenant,  to  his  place  in  her  affec- 
tions. She  loaded  Orloff  with  magnificent  presents 
in  money  and  lands,  and  sent  him  to  travel  in  Europe. 

In  1773,  Catharine  mai-ried  her  son  to  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  landgrave  of  Hesse-Darmstadt. 
And  in  the  following  year,  the  advantageous  peace 
with  Turkey,  and  the  great  reputation  she  had 
acquired  throughout  Europe,  placed  her  appa- 
rently at  the  summit  of  prosperity.  But  she  was, 
nevertheless,  kept  in  continual  dread  of  losing  her 
throne  and  her  life.  Threats  of  assassination 
were  constantly  thrown  out  against  her ;  but  she 
appeared  in  public,  as  usual,  with  a  calm  and 
composed  demeanour. 

Vassiltschkoff  had,  for  nearly  two  years,  filled 
the  place  of  favom-ite  with  great  success,  but  sud- 
denly he  was  ordered  to  Moscow.  He  obeyed  the 
mandate,  and  costly  presents  rewarded  his  docility. 
Orloff  returned  as  suddenly,  was  received  into 
favour,  and  reinstated  in  his  former  posts.  Catha- 
rine, however,  refused  to  banish,  at  the  request  of 
Orloff,  Panim,  her  minister  of  foreign  affairs,  in 
whose  ability  and  integrity  she  could  entirely 
confide. 

In  1773,  a  man  resembling  Peter  III.  was  per- 
suaded to  personate  him ;  the  priests,  opposed  to 
Catharine's  liberal  policy,  circulated  everywhere 
the  report  that  the  murdered  emperor  was  still 
living.  The  spirit  of  rebellion  spread  over  the 
whole  country,  and  it  was  only  by  the  greatest 
firmness  and  energy  that  it  was  quelled.  Soon 
after  this,  Orloff  was  superseded  by  Potemkin,  an 
officer  in  the   Russian   army,   who   accompanied 

252 


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Catharine  to  Moscow.  Here  lie  attempted,  but  in 
vain,  to  induce  her  to  marry  him.  Slie  spent  the 
next  few  years  in  carrying  on  tlie  internal  im- 
provements of  her  country,  and  perfecting  the 
government.  The  Poles,  once  conquered,  she 
treated  with  a  generosity  and  justice  which  put 
Austria  and  Prussia  to  shame.  At  this  time  Po- 
temkin  exercised  an  unlimited  influence  on  the 
empress.  In  1784,  he  succeeded  in  conquering 
the  Crimea,  to  which  he  gave  its  ancient  name  of 
Tauris,  and  extended  the  confines  of  Russia  to  the 
Caucasus.  Catharine,  upon  this,  traversed  the 
provinces  which  had  revolted  under  Pugatscheff, 
and  navigated  the  Wolga  and  Borysthenes,  taking 
great  interest  in  the  expedition,  as  it  was  con- 
nected with  some  danger.  She  was  desirous,  like- 
wise, of  seeing  Tauris  ;  and  Potemkin  turned  this 
journey  into  a  triumphal  march.  Two  sovereigns 
visited  Catharine  on  her  journey  —  the  king  of 
Poland,  Stanislaus  Augustus,  and  Joseph  II.,  em- 
peror of  Austria.  Throughout  this  royal  progress 
of  nearly  one  thousand  leagues,  nothing  but  feasts 
and  spectacles  of  varioiis  kinds  were  to  be  seen. 

Still  pursuing  her  scheme  of  expelling  the  Turks 
from  Europe,  and  reigning  at  Constantinople,  Ca- 
tharine, in  1783,  seized  on  the  Crimea,  and  annexed 
it  to  her  empire.  In  1787,  the  Porte  declared 
war  against  her,  and  hostilities  were  continued  till 
the  treaty  of  Jassy  was  signed,  January  9th,  1792, 
which  restored  peace.  She  indemnified  herself 
by  sharing  in  the  dismemberment  of  Poland,  which 
kingdom  became  extinct  in  179-5.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  turning  her  arms  against  republican 
France,  when  she  died  of  apoplexy,  November  9th, 
1796. 

Though  as  a  woman  the  licentiousness  of  her 
character  is  inexcusable,  yet  as  a  sovereign  she  is 
well  entitled  to  the  appellation  of  great.  After 
Peter  I.,  she  was  the  chief  regenerator  of  Russia, 
but  with  a  more  enlightened  mind,  and  under 
more  favourable  circumstances.  She  established 
schools,  ameliorated  the  condition  of  the  serfs, 
promoted  commerce,  founded  towns,  arsenals, 
banks,  and  manufactories,  and  encouraged  art  and 
literature.  She  corresponded  with  learned  men 
in  all  countries,  and  wrote,  herself,  "  Instructions 
for  a  Code  of  Laws,"  besides  several  dramatic 
pieces,  and  "  Moral  Tales,"  for  her  grandchildren. 
Her  son  Paul  succeeded  her. 

She  was  very  handsome  and  dignified  in  her 
person.  Her  eyes  were  blue  and  piercing,  her 
hair  auburn,  and  though  not  tall,  her  manner  of 
carrying  her  head  made  her  appear  so.  She  seems 
to  have  obtained  the  love  as  well  as  reverence  of 
her  subjects,  which,  setting  aside  her  mode  of  ac- 
quii-ing  the  throne,  is  not  wonderful,  seeing  that 
her  vices  as  a  ruler  were  those  deemed  conven- 
tional among  sovereigns,  namely,  ambition  and  a 
thirst  for  aggrandizement,  unshackled  by  humanity 
or  principle. 

CATHARINE   PAULOWNA, 

Queen  of  WUrtemburg,  grand-princess  of  Rus- 
sia, was  born  May  21st,  1788.  She  was  the 
younger  sister  of  Alexander,  emperor  of  Russia, 
and  married,  in  1809,  George,  prince  of  Holstein- 


Oldenburg,  and  thus  avoided  compliance  with  a 
proposal  of  marriage  made  her  by  Napoleon.  She 
had  two  sons  by  this  marriage ;  her  husband  died 
in  Russia,  in  1812.  Catharine  was  distinguished 
for  her  beauty,  talents,  resolution,  and  her  attach- 
ment to  her  brother  Alexander.  After  1812,  she 
was  frequently  his  companion  in  his  campaigns, 
as  well  as  during  his  residence  in  France  and 
Vienna,  and  evidently  had  an  important  influence 
on  several  of  his  measures.  January  24th,  1816, 
Catharine  married,  from  motives  of  aS"ection,  Wil- 
liam, crown-prince  of  WUrtemburg  ;  and  after  the 
death  of  his  father,  in  October,  1816,  they  ascended 
the  throne  of  WUrtemburg.  She  was  a  generous 
benefactor  to  her  subjects  dui-ing  the  famine  of 
1816.  She  formed  female  associations,  established 
an  agricultural  society,  laboured  to  promote  the 
education  of  the  people,  and  founded  valuable  in- 
stitutions for  the  poor.  She  instituted  a  school  for 
females  of  the  higher  classes,  and  savings  banks 
for  the  lower  classes.  She  was  inclined  to  be  ar- 
bitrary, and  had  but  little  taste  for  the  fine  arts. 
She  had  two  daughters  by  her  second  marriage ; 
and  she  died  January  9th,  1819. 


CENCI,    BEATRICE. 

Count  Nicola  Cenci  was  the  chief  of  one  of  the 
most  ancient  patrician  families  of  the  Roman 
States.  In  early  life  he  embraced  the  ecclesiastic 
vocation,  but  finding  himself  the  last  of  his  noble 
race,  he  obtained  a  dispensation,  and  married. 
Being  treasurer  of  the  apostolic  chamber  under 
the  pontificate  of  Pius  V.,  he  became  immensely 
rich,  and  at  his  death  left  his  only  son  in  posses- 
sion of  a  most  splendid  fortune.  This  son,  to 
whom  he  left  his  titles  and  estates  —  this  son,  the 
only  hope  of  his  old  age — stained  his  name  with  a 
foul  blot  of  incest  and  murder;  —  this  son  was 
Francesco  Cenci,  the  father  of  Beatrice.  Stamped 
from  his  birth  with  a  mark  of  reprobation,  he 
seemed  to  bring  death  and  disgrace  upon  all  who 
approached  him.  He  married,  when  he  was 
scarcely  twenty,  a  beautiful  and  noble  lady,  who 
bore  him  seven  children,  and,  while  yet  young, 
perished  by  a  violent  and  mysterious  death.  He 
speedily  formed  a  second  marriage  with  Lucrezia 


CE 


CE 


Strozzi,  by  -whom  he  had  no  children.  Francesco, 
who  appears  to  have  been  devoid  of  even  the  in- 
stinctive good  feelings  that  actuate  the  brute  cre- 
ation, and  whose  life,  according  to  Musatori,  was 
a  tissue  of  low  and  disgusting  profligacy,  detested 
all  his  children.  He  sent  his  sons  to  a  distant 
college ;  but  leaving  them  in  want  of  the  common 
necessaries  of  life,  they  were  obliged  to  return  to 
Rome.  Here  they  threw  themselves  at  the  feet 
of  the  pope,  who  consti'ained  Cenci  to  make  them 
an  allowance  suitable  to  their  birth  and  their 
wants.  The  eldest  daughter  also  appealed  to  the 
holy  father,  and  was  permitted  to  retire  into  a 
convent.  Fi'ancesco  became  terribly  enraged  to 
see  his  victims  escape  him ;  there,  however,  re- 
mained his  daughter  Beatrice,  and  Bernardino,  his 
youngest  child.  To  prevent  Beatrice  from  follow- 
ing the  example  of  her  sister,  he  imprisoned  her 
in  a  remote  apartment  of  his  palace,  where  her 
mournful  solitude  was  only  broken  by  the  noise 
of  his  impure  orgies.  While  Beatrice  was  a  child 
he  treated  her  with  the  utmost  cruelty  ;  beat  her 
frequently,  and  delighted  in  hearing  her  ask  tear- 
fully why  she  received  such  brutal  chastisement  ? 
But  as  she  advanced  towards  womanhood  in  grow- 
ing beauty,  his  passion  towards  her  underwent  a 
fatal  change. 

In  the  mean  time,  two  of  the  sons  of  Cenci — 
Cristoforo  and  Vocio — were  assassinated  by  ban- 
dits in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome.  Nobody 
doubted  as  to  who  had  employed  the  murderers. 
Very  soon  the  cause  of  the  count's  perfidious  ten- 
derness towards  his  daughter  manifested  itself — 
an  abominable  passion,  accompanied  by  every  ex- 
tremity of  cruelty  and  violence !  The  unhappy 
girl  appears  to  have  been  naturally  gentle,  pious, 
and  amiable,  till  she  was  goaded  to  a  horrible 
crime  by  her  wish  to  escape  from  the  vilest  con- 
tamination. Her  step-mother,  who  entirely  sym- 
pathized with  her,  imparted  the  state  of  things 
to  her  elder  brother,  Giacomo.  The  family  had 
borne  so  much  of  cruelty  and  oppression  from 
their  tyrant,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  last  outrage 
absolved  them  in  their  own  eyes  from  all  ordinary 
laws  of  duty. 

"  He  must  die,"  said  Beatrice,  and  not  one 
offered  an  objection.  Two  assassins  were  intro- 
duced into  the  sleeping  apartment  of  Francesco 
by  these  miserable  women,  who,  after  the  fatal 
deed  was  accomplished,  themselves  undertook  to 
efface  its  traces.  But  a  short  time  elapsed,  how- 
ever, before  one  of  the  bravoes,  being  taken  for 
some  other  crime,  confessed  the  plot  by  which 
count  Cenci  had  died.  The  whole  family  were  at 
once  imprisoned,  and,  though  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  of  Rome  solicited  their  pai'don, 
they  were  put  to  death,  after  tortures  the  most 
unnecessary  and  shocking.  This  happened  in  the 
year  1599,  under  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII., 
whose  treasury  had  been  at  different  times  en- 
riched by  the  old  Cenci,  who  had  frequently  pur- 
chased his  pardon  for  capital  crimes  of  the  most 
enormous  kind,  by  sums  as  large  as  100,000  crowns. 
We  see  by  this,  that  it  was  no  abstract  love  of 
justice  which  rendered  Clement  inexorable  towards 
these  unfortunate  criminals.     The  little  boy  Ber- 


nadino  —  being  supposed,  from  his  tender  years, 
incapable  of  an  active  part  in  the  parricide — had 
his  life  granted,  but  upon  what  terms !  He  was 
carried  to  the  scaffold,  and  made  to  witness  the 
agonies  and  bloody  death  of  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, to  whom  he  was  fei'vently  attached.  When 
they  brought  him  back  to  his  pi'ison,  he  was  a 
maniac. 

There  is  a  portrait  of  Beatrice  in  the  Colonna 
palace,  painted  by  Guido,  while  she  was  in  prison. 
The  extreme  loveliness  of  the  face  has  caused  it 
to  be  copied  in  every  form  of  art,  and  few,  it  is 
supposed,  have  not  seen  some  representation  of 
this  most  wretched  of  women.  Shelley  has  chosen 
this  story  for  a  tragedy,  which,  though  full  of 
power  and  poetry,  is,  from  its  subject,  precluded 
from  ever  becoming  a  favourite. 

CENTLIVRE,  SUSANNAH, 
A  CELEBRATED  comic  Winter,  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Mr.  Freeman,  of  Holbeach,  in  Lincolnshire. 
Being  left  an  orphan,  she  went,  when  about  four- 
teen, to  London,  where  she  took  much  pains  to 
cultivate  her  mind  and  person.  She  is  the  author 
of  fifteen  plays,  and  several  little  poems,  for  some 
of  which  she  received  considerable  presents  from 
very  great  personages  ;  among  others,  a  handsome 
gold  snuff-box  from  prince  Eugene,  for  a  poem 
inscribed  to  him,  and  another  from  the  duke  d'Au- 
mont,  the  French  ambassador,  for  a  masquerade 
she  addressed  to  him.  Her  talent  was  comedy ; 
especially  the  contrivance  of  plots  and  incidents. 
She  corresponded,  for  many  years,  with  gentlemen 
of  wit  and  eminence,  particularly  with  Steele, 
Rowe,  Budgell,  Sewell,  and  others.  Mrs.  Cent- 
livre  lived  in  a  very  careful  and  economical  man- 
ner, and  died  in  Spring-garden,  December  1st, 
1723,  at  the  house  of  her  husband,  Joseph  Cent- 
livre,  who  had  been  one  of  queen  Anne's  cooks ; 
she  was  buried  at  the  church  of  St.  Martin  in  the 
fields.  She  was  three  times  married ;  the  first 
time,  when  she  was  about  sixteen,  to  Mr.  Fox,  ne- 
phew of  Sir  Stephen  Fox.  He  dying  two  years 
afterwards,  she  married  an  officer,  named  Carrol, 
who  was  killed  in  a  duel  not  long  after.  It  was 
during  this  second  widowhood  that,  compelled  by 
necessity,  she  began  to  write,  and  also  appeared 
on  the  stage.  After  her  marriage  with  her  third 
husband,  she  lived  a  more  retired  life.  She  was 
handsome  in  person,  very  agreeable  and  sprightly 
in  conversation,  and  seems  to  have  been  also  kind 
and  benevolent  in  her  disposition.  Her  faults 
were  those  of  the  age  in  which  she  lived. 

CEZELLI,    CONSTANCE, 

A  HEROINE  of  the  16th  century,  was  a  native 
of  Montpellier.  In  1590,  her  husband,  Barri  de 
St.  Annez,  who  was  governor  of  Leucate,  for 
Henry  IV.  of  France,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Spaniards.  They  threatened  Constance  that  they 
would  put  him  to  death,  if  she  did  not  surrender 
the  fortress.  She  refused,  but  offered  all  her  pro- 
perty to  ransom  him.  After  having  been  foiled  in 
two  assaults,  the  Spaniards  raised  the  siege,  but 
barbarously  murdered  their  prisoner.  Constance 
magnanimously  prevented  her  garrison  from  reta- 

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liating  on  a  Spanish  officer  of  rank.  As  a  reward 
for  her  patriotism,  Henry  IV.  allowed  her  to  retain 
the  government  of  Leucate  till  her  son  came  of  age. 

CHAMBERS,   MARY, 

Op  Nottingham,  England,  who  died  in  1848,  in 
her  seventy-first  year,  is  an  instance  of  the  power 
of  perseverance  to  overcome  great  natural  disad- 
vantages. Deprived  of  sight  from  the  age  of  two 
years,  she,  nevertheless,  acquired  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin  lan- 
guages, and  was  very  familiar  with  classical  lite- 
rature. 

CHAMPMESLE,  MARIE  DESMARES  DE, 
A  French  actress,  born  at  Rouen.  From  the 
obscurity  of  a  strolling  company,  she  rose  to  be  a 
popular  actress  at  Paris,  and  gained  the  friendship 
of  Racine.  She  married  an  actor,  and  died  greatly 
regretted  in  1698,  aged  fifty-four. 

CHANDLER,   MARY, 

An  English  lady,  who  distinguished  herself  by 
her  poetical  talent,  was  born  at  Malmesbury,  in 
Wiltshire,  in  1689.  Her  father  was  a  dissenting 
minister  at  Bath,  whose  circumstances  made  it 
necessary  that  she  should  be  brought  up  to  busi- 
ness, and  she  became  a  milliner. 

She  was  observed  from  childhood  to  have  a  turn 
for  poetry,  often  entertaining  her  companions  with 
riddles  in  verse ;  and  she  was,  at  that  time  of 
life,  very  fond  of  Herbert's  poems.  In  her  riper 
years  she  studied  the  best  modern  poets,  and  the 
ancient  ones  too  as  far  as  translations  coxxld  assist 
her.  Her  poem  upon  the  Bath  was  very  popular, 
and  she  was  particularly  complimented  for  it  by 
Pope,  with  whom  she  was  acquainted.  She  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  deformed,  which  determined 
her  to  live  single ;  though  she  had  a  sweet  coun- 
tenance, and  was  solicited  to  marry.  She  died 
Sept.  11th,  1745,  aged  57.  We  can  find  nothing 
worth  quoting  in  her  poetry. 

CHANDLER,  ELIZABETH  MARGARET, 

Was  born  near  Wilmington,  Delaware,  in  1807. 
She  was  of  Quaker  extraction.  Miss  Chandler 
was  first  bronght  into  notice  by  a  poem  entitled 
"  The  Slave  Ship,"  written  when  she  was  eighteen, 
and  for  which  she  obtained  a  prize.  She  resided 
then,  and  till  1830,  in  Philadelphia.  At  that  time 
she  went  to  Lenawee  county,  Michigan,  where  she 
died  in  1834.  Her  memoirs  and  writings  have 
been  published  since  her  death.  One  poem  we 
will  give :  — 

THE    DEVOTED. 

Stern  faces  were  around  her  bent, 

And  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake, 

Of  torture,  stake,  and  fire: 
Yet  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood, 

With  eye  undimm'd  and  clear. 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white. 

She  wore  no  signs  of  fear. 

"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  they  said  ; — 

A  half-form'd  smile  of  scorn. 
That  curl'd  upon  her  haughty  lip. 

Was  back  for  answer  borne  ;— 


"Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse?"  again, 

In  fiercer  tones,  they  said. 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack, 

All  rusted  o'er  with  red ! 

Her  heart  and  pulse  beat  firm  and  free- 
But  in  a  crimson   flood. 

O'er  pallid  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 
Rush'd  up  the  burning  blood; 

She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones. 
As  when  in  hall  or  bower. 

The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stood 
Had  meekly  own'd  their  power. 

"  My  noble  lord  is  placed  within 

A  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright, 

As  thou  wouldst  mercy  meet. 
Nor  deem  thy  life  can  purchase  his ; 

He  cannot  'scape  our  wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye 

Is  placed  o'er  every  path. 

"  But  thou  mayst  win  his  broad  estates, 

To  grace  thine  infant  heir. 
And  life  and  honour  to  thyself. 

So  thou  his  haunts  declare." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart; 

Her  eye  flash'd  proud  and  clear. 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread — 

"My  lord  is  hidden  here! 

"And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form. 

Ye  first  must  tear  away, 
From  round  his  secret  dwelling-place, 

These  walls  of  living  clay  !" 
They  quaii'd  beneath  her  haughty  glance. 

They  silent  turn'd  aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharm'd  amidst 

Her  loveliness  and  pride ! 


CHAPONE,  HESTER, 
Was  the  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Mulso,  of  Twywell, 
in  Northamptonshire,  and  was  born  at  that  place 
in  1727.  AVhen  only  nine  years  old,  she  is  said  to 
have  written  a  romance.  Her  mother,  who  seems 
to  have  been  jealous  of  her  daughter's  talents,  en- 
deavoured to  obstruct  her  studies.  Hester  Mulso, 
nevertheless,  succeeded  in  making  herself  mistress 
of  Italian  and  French.  The  story  of  "Fidelia" 
in  the  Adventurer,  an  "Ode  to  Peace,"  and  some 
verses  prefixed  to  her  friend  Miss  Carter's  Epicte- 
tus,  were  among  her  earliest  printed  eff"orts.  In 
1760  she  married  Mr.  Chapone,  who  died  in  less 
than  ten  months  afterwards.  In  1770  she  accom- 
panied Mrs.  Montague  on  a  tour  in  Scotland ;  in 
1778  she  published  her  "  Letters  on  the  Improve- 
ment of  the  Mind,"  and  in  1775  her  "Miscellanies 
in  Prose  and  Verse."  After  having  lived  tran- 
quilly for  many  years,  in  tlie  society  of  her  devoted 
friends,  her  latter  days  were  clouded  by  the  loss 
of  those  friends  and  nearly  all  her  relations ;  she 
was  also  a  sufferer  from  impaired  intellect  and 
bodily  debility.  She  died  at  Hadley,  near  Barnet, 
December  25th,  1801.  Her  verses  are  elegant, 
and  her  prose  writings  pure  in  style,  and  fraught 
with  good  sense  and  sound  morality.  With  neither 
beauty,  rank,  nor  fortune,  this  excellent  lady, 
nevertheless,  secured  to  herself  the  love  and 
esteem  of  all  with  whom  she  became  acquainted, 
and  also  the  general  admiration  of  those  wlio  read 
her  works.  Mrs.  Elwood  thus  closes  an  interest- 
ing tribute  to  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Chapone :  — 
"  The  solitary  widow,  living  at  one  time  in  obscure 
and  humble  lodgings,  was  an  object  of  interest 

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even  to  royalty  itself;  and  from  her  friends  and 
connexions  she  constantly  met  with  the  disinte- 
rested affection  and  courteous  attention  due  to  her 
merits.  By  application  and  exertion  in  early  life, 
she  improved  the  abilities  bestowed  upon  her  by 
Providence,  and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  gaining 
for  herself,  through  their  influence,  a  respectable 
station  among  the  pious  and  moral  writers  of 
England,  and  of  transmitting  to  posteritj'^  a  stand- 
ard work  on  female  education.  Although  more 
than  sixty  years  have  elapsed  since  this  work  was 
first  published,  its  advice  does  not  even  yet  ap- 
pear antiquated,  and  is  as  well  calculated  to  im- 
prove the  rising  generation,  as  it  was  to  instruct 
the  youth  of  their  grandmothers." 

Of  the  selections  we  make,  the  first  three  are 
from  the  "Miscellanies"  of  Mrs.  Chapone,  the 
last  from  her  "  Letters  on  the  Improvement  of  the 
Mind." 

AFFECTATIOX. 

Affectation  is  so  universally  acknowledged  to  be 
disgusting,  that  it  is  among  the  faults  which  the 
most  intimate  friends  cannot  venture  gravely  to 
reprove  in  each  other ;  for  to  tell  your  friends 
that  they  are  habitually  affected,  is  to  tell  them 
that  they  are  habitually  disagreeable ;  which  no- 
body can  bear  to  hear.  I  beg  leave,  therefore, 
as  a  general  friend,  without  offending  any  one,  to 
whisper  to  all  those  whose  hearts  confess  that 
vanity  has  inspired  them  with  any  sort  of  affecta- 
tion, that  it  never  does,  nor  ever  can  succeed  as  a 
means  of  pleasing. 

I  have  a  thousand  times  wished  to  tell  FlirtiUa, 
that  the  efforts  she  makes  to  be  constantly  in  mo- 
tion, and  perpetually  giggling,  do  not  pass  upon 
me  for  the  vivacity  of  youth  :  I  see  they  cost  her 
a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  it  gives  me  an  irrita- 
tion of  nerves  to  look  at  her ;  so  that  it  would 
have  been  much  for  her  ease  and  mine,  could  I 
have  ventured  to  beg  that  she  would  always  in  my 
presence  give  way  to  her  natural  languor  and  dull- 
ness, which  would  be  far  more  agreeable  to  me. 

Gloriosa,  whenever  a  remarkable  instance  of 
generosity  or  goodness  is  mentioned,  takes  infinite 
pains,  with  the  most  pompous  eloquence,  to  con- 
vince me  that  the  action  seems  poor  to  the  great- 
ness of  her  soul — that  s^e  would  think  half  her 
fortune  a  trifling  gift  to  a  worthy  friend — that  she 
would  rather  suffer  the  most  exquisite  pain  hei*- 
self,  than  see  a  fellow-creature,  though  a  stranger, 
endure  it — and  that  it  is  a  nobler  effort  in  her  to 
refrain  from  the  most  generous  actions,  than  it 
would  be  in  the  greatest  miser  to  perform  them. 
I  long  to  let  her  know,  that  the  only  effect  tliese 
declarations  produce  in  my  mind  is  a  doubt,  which 
I  should  otherwise  never  have  entertained,  whether 
she  really  possesses  even  the  common  portion  of 
good-nature  and  benevolence. 

SCANDAL. 

Nothing  to  me  is  more  disgusting  than  that  air 
of  mildness  and  benevolence  with  which  some  ill- 
natured  observation  on  the  person  or  dress  of  our 
absent  acquaintance,  or  some  sly  sarcasm,  designed 
to  obscure  the  brightest  part  of  their  character,  is 


usually  introduced.  If  the  defects  of  a  lady's 
person  are  to  be  held  forth  to  ridicule,  it  is  first 
remarked,  that  "  she  is  certainly  the  best  kind  of 
woman  in  the  world."  If  one  of  distinguished 
talents  is  to  be  the  victim,  those  talents  are  mag- 
nified and  exalted  in  the  strongest  terms,  and  then 
in  a  lower  voice  you  are  called  upon  to  take  notice 
of  the  conscious  superioi'ity  of  her  manner,  the 
ostentatious  display  of  her  knowledge,  or  the 
pointed  affectation  of  her  wit.  Some  absurd  say- 
ing, which  envy  had  invented  for  her,  is  produced 
as  a  sample  of  her  bons  mots,  and  some  trait  of 
impertinence,  though  perhaps  the  most  contrary 
to  her  character,  related  as  a  specimen  of  her  be- 
haviour. When  the  lady  *  *  *  s  have  been  ex- 
tolled for  their  charity  and  goodness,  I  have  heard 
it  added,  "  that  it  is  impossible  to  pass  through 
their  hall  without  terrible  consequences,  'tis  so 
full  of  company  from  Broad  St.  Giles's." — "  Mrs. 
*  *  *  *  is  confessedly  the  most  pious  creature 
upon  earth ! — poor  soul !  she  was  carried  to  church 
in  an  ague-fit  last  Sunday ;  for  she  thinks  there 
is  no  getting  to  heaven  without  hearing  Mr.  Such- 
a-one  preach  once  a  week."  Thus  by  the  help  of 
exaggeration,  you  may  possibly  succeed  in  raising 
a  sneer  against  a  plain  person,  or  a  bright  under- 
standing— against  Christian  beneficence,  or  ra- 
tional piety ;  but  as  you  profess  the  highest  esteem 
for  the  characters  you  ridicule,  nobody  must  say 
that  you  are  censorious  or  unfriendly. 

A    TIMELY    WORD. 

A  young  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  has  as- 
sured me,  that  he  never  received  so  much  benefit 
from  any  sermon  he  ever  heard,  as  from  a  reproof 
which  he  once  received  from  a  lady,  who,  when 
he  had  been  talking  on  some  subject  rather  licen- 
tiously, said,  "  It  is  a  sign  that  you  did  not  over- 
hear what  Lord  L said  of  you  yesterday,  or 

you  would  never  utter  such  sentiments."  The 
gentleman,  when  he  told  it  to  me,  added,  "Who- 
ever could  be  insensible  to  the  keenness  of  this 
reproof,  and  the  flattering  politeness  with  which 
it  was  tempered,  must  be  flayed  (as  they  say  of  n 
Russian)  before  he  could  be  made  to  feel."  Its 
influence  on  him  has  probably  continued  to  this 
day ;  for  I  have  never  known  him  to  give  occasion 
for  another  reproof  of  the  same  nature. 

The  great  and  irresistible  influence  which  the 
choice  of  our  company,  as  well  as  the  mode  of  our 
own  conversation,  has  on  our  habits  of  thinking 
and  acting,  and  on  the  whole  form  and  colour  of 
our  minds,  is  a  subject  too  common  to  be  much 
enlarged  upon ;  it  cannot,  however,  be  too  deeply 
considered,  as  it  seems  the  leading  circumstance 
of  our  lives,  and  that  which  may  chiefly  determine 
our  character  and  condition  to  all  eternity. 

THE    TWO    COMMANDMENTS. 

Every  word  that  fell  from  our  Saviour's  lips  is 
more  precious  than  all  the  treasures  of  tlie  earth ; 
for  his  "are  the  words  of  eternal  life!"  They 
must  therefore  be  laid  up  in  your  heart,  and  con- 
stantly referred  to,  on  all  occasions,  as  the  rule 
and  direction  of  all  your  actions ;  particularly 
those  very  comprehensive  moral  precepts  he  has 

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graciously  left  with  us,  which  can  never  fail  to 
direct  us  aright,  if  fairly  and  honestly  applied : 
such  as,  "  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do 
unto  you,  even  so  do  unto  them."  There  is  no  occa- 
sion, gi-eat  or  small,  on  which  you  may  not  safely 
apply  this  rule  for  the  direction  of  your  conduct ; 
and  whilst  your  heart  honestly  adheres  to  it,  you 
can  never  be  guilty  of  any  sort  of  injustice  or  un- 
kindness.  The  two  great  commandments  which 
contain  the  summai-y  of  our  duty  to  God  and  man, 
are  no  less  easily  retained,  and  made  a  standard 
by  which  to  judge  our  own  hearts.  "■To  love  the 
Lord  our  God  with  all  our  hearts,  with  all  our  minds, 
with  all  our  streyigth  ;  and  our  neighbour  (or  fellow- 
creature)  as  ourselves."  "Love  worketh  no  ill  to 
his  neighbour;"  therefore,  if  you  have  true  bene- 
volence, you  will  never  do  any  thing  injurious  to 
individuals,  or  to  society.  Now,  all  crimes  what- 
ever are  (in  their  remoter  consequences  at  least, 
if  not  immediately  and  apparently)  injurious  to 
the  society  in  which  we  live.  It  is  impossible  to 
love  God,  without  desiring  to  please  him,  and,  as 
far  as  we  are  able,  to  resemble  him ;  therefore  the 
love  of  God  must  lead  to  every  virtue  in  the  highest 
degree  ;  and  we  may  be  sure  we  do  not  truly  love 
him,  if  we  content  ourselves  with  avoiding  flagrant 
sins,  and  do  not  strive,  in  good  earnest,  to  reach 
the  greatest  degree  of  perfection  we  are  capable  of. 
Thus  do  those  few  words  direct  us  to  the  highest 
Christian  virtue.  Indeed,  the  whole  tenor  of  the 
gospel  is  to  oflFer  us  every  help,  direction  and  mo- 
tive, that  can  enable  us  to  attain  that  degree  of 
perfection  on  which  depends  our  eternal  good. 

CHARKE,  CHARLOTTE, 
Was  youngest  daughter  of  Colley  Cibber,  the 
player,  and  afterwards  poet-laureate.  Her  educa- 
tion was  more  suited  to  a  boy  than  a  girl,  she  being 
more  frequently  in  the  stable  than  the  parlour, 
and  mistress  of  the  curry-comb,  though  ignorant 
of  the  needle.  Shooting,  hunting,  riding  races, 
and  digging  in  a  garden,  were  her  favourite  exer- 
cises. She  relates  an  act  of  her  prowess  when  a 
mere  child,  in  protecting  the  house  from  thieves 
by  firing,  pistols  and  blunderbusses  out  of  the 
window.  She  married,  when  very  young,  Mr. 
Richard  Charke,  an  eminent  performer  on  the 
violin,  who  soon  gave  her  such  cause  for  jealousy 
as  to  occasion  a  separation. 

She  then  went  on  the  stage,  apparently  as  much 
from  inclination  as  necessity,  and  met  with  such 
success  as  to  be  engaged  at  a  good  salary,  and  for 
very  considerable  parts,  at  the  Haymarket,  and 
afterwards  at  Drury-Lane.  But  her  ungovernable 
impetuosity  induced  her  to  quarrel  with  the  mana- 
ger, whom  she  left  suddenly,  and  ridiculed  in  a 
farce,  called  "  The  ^Vi't  of  iVIanagcment." 

She  became  a  member  of  a  strolling  company  of 
actors,  and  the  remainder  of  her  life  is  only  one 
variegated  scene  of  distress.  In  1755,  she  came 
to  London,  where  she  published  the  "Narrative 
of  her  own  Life."     She  died  in  1759. 

CHARLOTTE,   PRINCESS   OF  WALES, 
Daughter  of  George  IV.  of  England,  and  heir- 
apparent  to  the  throne  of  Great  Britain  and  Ire- 
R 


land,  was  born  in  1795,  and  died  November  6th, 
1817,  aged  twenty-two.  She  was  married  to  Leo- 
pold, prince  of  Saxe-Cobourg.  The  untimely  death 
of  the  princess  and  her  infant,  clothed  the  nation 
in  mourning,  and  changed  the  succession  of  the 
throne.  When  informed  of  her  child's  death, 
shortly  before  her  own,  she  said,  "  I  feel  it  as  a 
mother  naturally  should" — adding,  "It  is  the  will 
of  God  !  praise  to  him  in  all  things  !"  She  was  a 
pious,  intelligent,  energetic,  and  benevolent  prin- 
cess, often  visiting  and  relieving,  herself,  the  poor; 
and  her  loss  was  deeply  felt.  Robert  Hall  preached 
a  most  eloquent  sermon  on  her  death. 

CHATEAUBRIAND,  FRANCES  DE  FOIX, 
Wife  of  the  count  of  Chateaubriand,  became 
mistress  of  Francis  I.  of  France,  who  left  her  for 
the  duchess  d'Etampes.  She  was  a  woman  of 
great  courage  and  commanding  aspect.  She  died 
in  1537,  aged  sixty-two. 

CHATEAUROUX,  MARIE  ANNE,  DUCHESS  DE, 
Was  one  of  four  sisters,  daughters  of  the  Mar- 
quis de  Nesle,  who  became  successively  mistresses 
of  Louis  XV.  She  was  married  at  the  age  of  se- 
venteen to  the  Marquis  de  la  Toui-nelle,  who  left 
her  a  widow  at  twenty-three.  She  far  surpassed 
all  her  sisters  in  personal  charms,  and  was  an  ac- 
complished musician. 

Madame  de  Chateaurovix  displayed  a  character 
of  great  energy  and  ambition.  Her  sense  of  virtue 
always  remained  sufficiently  strong  to  cause  her 
to  feel  humbled  by  the  splendid  degradation  she 
had  sought  and  won ;  but  though  she  had  not 
sufficient  principle  to  recede  from  the  path  she 
had  taken,  she  resolved  as  an  atonement  to  arouse 
her  royal  lover  from  his  disgraceful  lethargy. 
Madame  de  Tencin  spared  no  efforts  to  make  her 
her  tool ;  her  aim  being  to  govern  the  king  through 
his  mistress,  by  means  of  her  brother,  cardinal 
Tencin.  But  Madame  de  Chateauroux  had  not 
acquired  her  power  to  yield  it  up  to  a  woman,  and 
especially  to  so  clever  and  intriguing  a  woman. 
Far  seeing,  like  Madame  de  Tencin,  she  was  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  for  some  radical  change  in 
the  government.  Of  the  confusion  by  which  it 
was  characterized,  she  said,  "  I  could  not  have 
believed  all  that  I  now  see ;  if  no  remedy  is  ad- 
ministered to  this  state  of  things,  there  will  sooner 
or  later  be  a  great  boulcversement." 

Though  the  aim  of  Madame  de  Chateauroux  was 
good,  the  means  she  took  to  effect  it  were  not 
equally  praiseworthy.  Reckless  of  the  real  in- 
terests of  the  country,  and  looking  only  to  the 
personal  glory  of  the  king,  she  partly  precipitated 
France  into  a  fatal  war.  While  absent  with  the 
army,  the  king  was  seized  with  a  dangerous  ill- 
ness. Urged  by  the  religious  party  attached  to 
the  queen,  Louis,  throiigh  fear  of  dying  without 
the  last  sacraments  of  the  church,  was  induced 
publicly  to  discard  his  mistress.  Scarcely  had  this 
been  done  when  he  recovered.  His  repentance 
had  never  been  heartfelt,  and  he  soon  was  morti- 
fied and  humiliated  at  the  part  he  had  acted. 
Grieved  at  the  loss  of  Mad.  de  Chateauroux,  he 
sought  an  interview  with  her,  and  she  consented 


CH 


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to  receive  his  apology,  provided  it  was  made  in  a 
public  manner,  which,  by  her  arrangement,  was 
done  by  iNIaurepas,  whom  she  wished  to  humble, 
in  the  presence  of  a  large  assembly.  He  requested 
forgiveness  in  the  name  of  the  king,  and  begged 
her  return  to  court.  But  to  that  station  which  she 
had  purchased  at  the  cost  of  peace  and  honour, 
she  was  never  destined  to  return.  She  became 
alarmingly  ill,  and  died  a  few  days  after  this  pub- 
lic atonement.  It  would  be  unjust  to  deny  to  Ma- 
dame de  Chateauroux  the  merit  of  having  sought 
to  rouse  Louis  XV.  from  the  state  of  apathetic 
indolence  into  which  he  had  fallen.  The  means 
she  took  were  injudicious,  but  they  were  noble. 
Experience  would  have  taught  her  better ;  and, 
had  her  power  continued,  Louis  XV.  might  have 
been  a  different  man. 

Madame  de  Chateauroux  was  one  of  those  far- 
seeing  women,  who,  with  that  instinctive  foresight 
which  ai-ises  from  keenness  of  perception,  had 
predicted  the  breaking  out  of  the  storm  already 
gathering  over  France. 

CHATELET,    GABRIELLE    EMILIE    DE   BRE- 
TRUEIL  MARQUISE  DU, 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of  her  time, 
is  chiefly  known  through  her  connexion  with  Vol- 
taire. Her  parents  married  her  in  her  nineteenth 
year  to  the  Marquis  du  Chatelet,  an  honest  but 
common-place  man  considerably  her  senior.  The 
young  marchioness  made  her  appearance  in  the 
world  with  great  eclat.  She  was  graceful,  hand- 
some, and  fond  of  pleasure  ;  and  her  great  talents 
long  remained  unsuspected.  Madame  du  Chatelet's 
ideas  of  morality  were  those  of  her  time,  and  she 
early  exhibited  them  by  an  intrigue  with  the  duke 
of  Richelieu,  then  celebrated  for  his  gallantry. 
This  connexion,  however,  was  brief,  and  resulted 
in  a  sincere  and  lasting  friendship.  Madame  du 
Chatelet's  mind  was  superior  to  a  life  of  mere 
worldly  pleasure.  Wearied  of  dissipation,  she 
entered  with  ardour  into  the  study  of  the  exact 
sciences.  Maupertius  was  her  instructor  in  geo- 
metry, and  the  works  of  Newton  and  Leibnitz  be- 
came her  constant  study.  Geometry  was  then  the 
rage,  but  Madame  du  Chatelet  brought  to  the  study 
of  this  science  a  mind  strikingly  adapted  to  its  pur- 
suit; and  it  was  while  thus  devoting  herself  that 
she  became  acquainted  with  Voltaire.  Madame 
du  Chatelet  was  in  her  twenty-eighth  year,  and 
Voltaire  twelve  years  her  senior,  when  their  liason 
commenced.  The  loose  maxims  of  the  period  jus- 
tified this  connexion  in  the  opinion  of  the  world 
and  in  their  own ;  and  the  husband  either  did  not 
suspect  the  truth,  or  if  he  did,  felt  indifferent  to 
it.  As  he  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  time  with 
his  regiment,  he  proved  little  or  no  restraint  to  the 
lovers,  raising  no  objection  to  the  sojourn  of  Vol- 
taire beneath  his  roof,  but  rather  appearing  flat- 
tered at  being  considered  the  host  and  patron  of  a 
man  already  enjoying  European  fame.  Voltaire 
passed  fifteen  years  at  Cizey,  the  splendid  chateau 
of  M.  du  Chatelet,  in  Lorraine.  His  life  in  this 
delightful  retreat  was  one  of  study,  varied  by 
elegant  pleasures,  embellished  and  exalted  by  the 
devotion  of  this  giftcil  woman. 


AVith  Madame  du  Chatelet  study  was  a  passion. 
She  slept  but  three  hours  in  the  twenty-four,  and 
her»whole  time  was  devoted  to  her  beloved  pur- 
suits. During  the  day  she  remained  closeted  in 
her  apartments,  seldom  appearing  till  the  hour  of 
supper.  Every  year  they  visited  Paris,  where 
Madame  du  Chatelet  entered  into  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure  with  the  same  passionate  eagerness  with 
which  she  studied  Newton's  "  Principia"  in  her 
learned  retirement ;  losing  large  sums  at  play, 
and  committing  many  extravagances  in  her  love 
of  dress. 

Madame  du  Chatelet  was  remarkable  for  great 
simplicity  of  manner,  as  well  as  for  the  solidity 
of  her  judgment.  Few  women  of  her  time  were  so 
free  from  that  inti'iguing  spirit  and  thirst  for  dis- 
tinction which  almost  all  then  possessed.  Science 
she  loved  for  its  own  sake ;  for  the  pure  and  ex- 
quisite delight  it  yielded  her  enquiring  mind,  and 
not  for  the  paltry  gratification  of  being  considered 
learned.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was  deficient  in 
gentleness,  and  in  many  of  the  most  winning  quali- 
ties of  woman.  Proud  of  her  rank  and  birth, 
haughty  to  her  infei'iors,  and  violent  and  imperious 
in  her  temper,  she  ruled  despotically  over  her 
lover,  and  left  him  very  little  personal  freedom. 

Long  as  the  love  of  Voltaire  and  Madame  du 
Chatelet  had  lasted,  it  was  not  destined  to  resist 
time  and  habit.  The  change  first  came  from  Vol- 
taire, whose  declining  years  he  made  the  excuse 
for  increasing  coldness.  After  many  stormy  ex- 
planations, Madame  du  Chatelet  submitted  to  this 
change  in  his  feelings,  which  caused  none  in  their 
mode  of  life,  and  accepted  friendship  for  love. 

Soon  after  this  change  in  their  relations,  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  became  acquainted  with  St. 
Lambert,  known  then  merely  as  a  handsome  young 
nobleman  of  elegant  address.  Vanity  induced  St. 
Lambert  to  pay  her  attentions  which  INIadame  du 
Chatelet  attributed  to  a  deeper  feeling,  and  which 
she  was  frail  enough  to  return  by  a  very  sincere 
affection.  Voltaire  was  both  grieved  and  indignant 
on  discovei'ing  that  he  had  a  rival,  but  Madame 
du  Chatelet's  assurances  of  unabated  friendship, 
though  she  concealed  nothing  from  him,  reconciled 
and  induced  him  to  remain  near  her. 

There  is  little  to  excuse  this  part  of  Madame  du 
Chatelet's  life.  Her  age  and  self-respect  ought  to 
have  preserved  her  from  this  last  error,  with 
which  were  connected  many  disgraceful  circum- 
stances, and  which  was  destined  to  prove  fatal  to 
her.  She  died  in  childbed  on  the  10th  of  August, 
1749,  her  last  days  being  devoted  to  the  transla- 
tion of  Newton's  Principia,  her  great  work. 

CHEMIN,  CATHARINE    DU, 

Was  a  French  artist,  who  died  at  Paris,  1698. 
She  principally  excelled  in  painting  flowers.  Her 
husband  erected  a  noble  monument  to  her  memory 
in  the  church  of  St.  Landry. 

CHERON,   ELIZABETH   SOPHIA, 

Daughter  of  a  painter  in  enamel,  of  the  town 
of  Meaux,  was  born  at  Paris  in  1678,  and  studied 
under  her  father.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  her 
name  was   already  fiimous.     The   celebrated   Le 


CH 


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Bran,  in  1G72,  presented  her  to  the  academy  of 
painting  and  sculpture,  which  complimented  her 
by  admitting  her  to  the  title  of  academician.  She 
apportioned  her  time  between  painting,  the  learned 
languages,  poetry,  and  music.  She  drew,  on  a 
large  scale,  a  great  number  of  gems,  which  were 
remarkable  for  showing  taste,  a  singular  command 
of  pencil,  a  fine  style  of  colouring,  and  a  superior 
judgment  in  the  chiaro-oscuro.  The  various  styles 
of  painting  were  familiar  to  her.  She  excelled  in 
historical  painting,  oil-colours,  miniature  enamels, 
portrait-painting,  and  especially  those  of  females. 
It  is  said  that  she  frequently  executed,  from  me- 
mory, the  portraits  of  absent  friends,  to  which 
she  gave  as  strong  a  likeness  as  if  they  had  sat  to 
her.  The  academy  of  Ricovrati,  at  Padua,  ho- 
noured her  with  the  surname  of  Erato,  and  gave 
her  a  place  in  their  society.  She  died  at  Paris, 
September  3d,  1711,  at  the  age  of  63. 

CHEZY,  WILHELMINE   CHRISTINE   VON, 

A  German  poetess,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Von  Klenke,  was  born  at  Berlin,  Jan.  26th,  1783. 
She  married  Mr.  Von  Haslf  ker,  but  they  had  lived 
only  a  short  time  together,  when  they  applied  for 
and  obtained  a  divorce.  She  was  afterwards  mar- 
ried to  the  celebrated  French  orientalist.  Von 
Chezy  ;  but  this  second  marriage  proved  no  more 
happy  in  its  results  than  the  first ;  and,  according 
to  a  mutual  agreement  between  her  and  her  hus- 
band, she  was  a  second  time  divorced.  She  then 
devoted  herself  to  the  education  of  her  two  sons 
by  her  second  husband ;  and  they  did  honour  to 
their  instructor,  and  have  since  obtained  consider- 
able literary  fame. 

Frau  Von  Chezy  lived  alternately  in  Munich, 
Vienna,  and  Paris.  She  was,  on  her  mother's 
side,  a  grandchild  of  the  celebrated  poetess  Frau 
Karsch,  whose  talents  seem  to  have  descended  to 
her.  As  a  writer,  she  is  best  known  by  the  name 
of  Helmina,  under  which  she  has  written  tales 
and  romances  in  verse.  Her  writings  are  charac- 
terized by  a  fertile  imagination,  a  pleasing  style, 
and  warm  feeling ;  though  they  cannot  always 
bear  the  test  of  a  critical  examination.  She  has 
also  written  a  few  spirited  prose  works,  and  the 
opera  Euryanthe,  which  was  set  to  music  by  Von 
Weber.  The  best  of  her  works  are  "  The  Martin- 
man  Birds,"  the  "  Six  noble  Emploj'ments,"  and 
"Recollections  of  Vienna."  She  died  in  1849. 
A  writer,  supposed  to  be  Sapin,  made  the  follow- 
ing epigram  on  her: — 

"  Helmine  Von  Chezy, 

Gebtirne  Klenke, 
Ich  bitte  Si"  geh'  Sie, 
Mit  Hirer  poesie 
Sonst  kriegt  sie  die  Kriinke! 

The  meaning  of  the  wit  and  pun  is,  that  the  lady 
must  not  wi'ite  poetry  if  she  wishes  to  be  thought 
agreeable.     A  true  German  idea. 

CHOIN,  MARIE   EMILIE   JOLY   DE, 
A  LADY  descended  from  a  noble  Savoy  family. 
She  was  employed  about  the  person  of  the  duchess 
of  Conti,  where  she  was  sought  by  the  dauphin  of 
France ;  but  no  solicitations  could  induce  her  to 


forfeit  her  honour ;  and  it  is  said  that  the  prince 
at  last  married  her  privately,  and,  by  her  influ- 
ence, was  reformed  and  regained  the  affections  of 
the  king.  After  his  death,  in  1711,  she  retired  to 
obscm-ity,  and  died  in  1744,  universally  respected. 


CHRISTINA,  QUEEN   OF   SWEDEN, 

Daughter  of  the  great  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
king  of  Sweden,  and  of  Maria  Eleonora  of  Bran- 
denburg, was  born  December  18th,  1626.  Her 
father  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  carried  her  about 
with  him  in  all  his  journey's.  When  she  was  about 
two  years  old,  she  was  taken  to  Calmar,  the  gover- 
nor of  which  hesitated,  on  her  account,  whether 
to  give  the  king  the  usual  salute,  but  Gustavus  ex- 
claimed, "Fire!  the  girl  is  a  soldier's  daughter, 
and  should  be  accustomed  to  it  betimes."  The 
noise  delighted  the  princess,  who  clapped  her 
hands,  and,  in  her  infantile  language,  cried, 
"  More,  more  !"  showing  thus  early  her  peculiarly 
bold  and  masculine  turn  of  mind. 

Her  father  died  in  1633,  and  Christina,  a  girl 
of  seven  years  old,  was  placed  upon  the  throne, 
and  even  at  that  early  age  she  appeared  to  be  con- 
scious of  her  high  destiny,  and  in  all  trying  cir- 
cumstances conducted  herself  with  great  firmness 
and  dignity. 

The  queen-mother  was  a  woman  of  weak  judg- 
ment and  capricious  temper,  and  her  injudicious 
management  of  the  young  Christina  was  doubtless 
the  first  cause  of  her  dislike  for  her  own  sex, 
which  was  farther  increased  by  the  manner  of  her 
education.  She  early  displayed  an  "  antipathj'," 
to  use  her  own  words,  "  to  all  that  women  do  and 
say;"  but  she  was  an  excellent  classical  scholar, 
admired  the  Greeks  and  Romans  and  all  the  heroes 
of  antiquity,  particularly  Homer  and  Alexander 
the  Great.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  read  Thu- 
cydides  in  the  original ;  she  rode  and  hunted,  and 
harangued  the  senate,  and  dictated  to  her  minis- 
ters. But  in  the  gentler  graces  and  virtues  of  her 
own  sex  she  was  deficient.  She  grew  up  self- 
willed,  arrogant,  and  impatient ;  and  yet  was  flat- 
tered because  she  was  a  queen.  She  understood 
this,  and  observes  that  "  Princes  are  flattered  even 
in  their  cradles ;  men  fear  their  memory  as  well 

251 


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as  their  power ;  they  handle  them  timidly,  as  they 
do  young  lions,  who  can  only  scratch  now,  but 
may  hereafter  bite  and  devour." 

Her  character,  at  the  time  she  assumed  the 
reins  of  government,  promised  extraordinary  ex- 
cellence. Mrs.  Jameson,  in  her  elegant  work, 
"  Memoirs  of  Celebrated  Female  Sovereigns,"  thus 
sketches,  with  singular  felicity,  the  portrait  of  this 
youthful  sovereign : 

"  Christina  had  been  born  to  the  throne,  cradled, 
as  she  says,  amid  laurels  and  trophies  of  victory, 
assumed  a  sceptre  which  was  hers  by  the  double 
right  of  hereditary  claims  and  the  free  consent  of 
the  states-general.  She  was  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
full  of  health,  vigour,  and  activity ;  the  natural 
cheerfulness  of  her  spirits  had  been  preserved  by 
constant  exercise  of  body  and  mind  ;  and  although 
she  was  proud,  passionate,  and  capricious,  she 
was  also  gay,  frank,  and  generous.  She  enter- 
tained, at  this  time,  a  lofty  and  even  sublime  idea 
of  the  high  destiny  to  which  she  was  called,  and 
of  the  multiplied  duties  and  tremendous  responsi- 
bility it  imposed  on  her.  All  her  resolutions  and 
intentions  appear  to  have  been  right  and  just ;  and 
to  put  the  intentions  into  practice,  she  had  youth- 
ful enthusiasm,  surpassing  talents,  a  strong  con- 
stitution, and  the  prospect  of  a  long  life  and  reign 
before  her.  Though  learned  beyond  most  of  her 
Bex,  the  vanity  of  learning  had  not  yet  seized  her, 
and  literature  was  to  her  what  it  ought  always  to 
have  been,  an  amusement,  not  a  pursuit.  She 
understood  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe  ;  La- 
tin, French,  German,  Italian,  she  wrote  and  spoke 
as  fluently  as  her  native  tongue ;  her  proficiency 
in  Greek  has  already  been  mentioned.  At  this 
time  she  seems  to  have  preferred  the  French  lan- 
guage, and  it  was  spoken  almost  habitually  in  her 
court.  She  would  have  no  prime  minister,  and 
from  the  very  commencement  of  her  reign,  (dating 
it  from  the  dissolution  of  the  regency),  she  re- 
ceived and  read  all  the  despatches,  dictated  the 
replies  to  her  secretaries,  which  she  afterwards 
looked  over  and  corrected  herself;  and  while  the 
regal  power  had  all  the  gloss  of  novelty,  she  cer- 
tainly wore  it  with  dignity  and  grace.  Her  inde- 
fatigable attention  to  the  business  of  state  excited 
the  astonishment  of  the  foreign  ministers,  and  the 
admiration  of  her  people  ;  she  constantly  attended 
all  the  deliberations  of  her  council,  and  by  the 
force  of  her  character  and  her  resolute  temper  she 
exercised  the  most  unbounded  influence  over  the 
senate,  who  yielded  to  her  more  than  they  would 
have  accorded  to  a  monarch  of  their  own  sex.  It 
is  asserted  that  she  was  at  this  time  more  despotic 
than  any  Swedish  sovereign  from  the  time  of  Eric 
XIV.  to  the  change  of  the  constitution  under  Gus- 
tavus  III. 

"  In  person  she  was  not  handsome;  her  figure 
was  below  the  middle  size,  but  well  formed,  with 
the  exception  of  a  slight  deformity  in  one  of  her 
shoulders,  caused  by  a  fall  in  her  infancy ;  it  was, 
however,  scarcely  perceptible,  and  her  deportment 
and  all  her  movements  were  remarkable  for  dig- 
nity, ease,  and  freedom.  Her  features  were  rather 
large  and  striking  in  proportion  to  her  figure,  and 
her  whole  countenance,  unless  controlled  for  espe- 


cial purposes,  was  singular  for  its  mobility  and 
vivacity.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  brilliant  hazel,  quick 
and  penetrating ;  her  nose  aquiline,  her  mouth  too 
wide,  and  when  at  rest,  not  agreeable  in  its  ex- 
pression; her  smile,  however,  was  bright  and 
'  pleasing,  and  her  teeth  fine,  though  she  took  little 
care  of  them.  She  had  a  profusion  of  light  brown 
hair,  which  she  seldom  combed ;  and  a  man's  fur 
cap  or  a  knot  of  riband  was  in  general  her  only 
coiffure,  till  later  in  life  she  exchanged  these  for 
a  periwig.  She  was  extremely  negligent  in  her 
dress,  and  never  allowed  herself  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  at  her  morning  toilet.  Except 
upon  state  occasions,  her  attire  was  very  simple 
and  uniform ;  it  consisted  of  a  suit  of  plain  grey 
stuff  or  cloth,  shorter  than  was  usually  worn,  for 
the  convenience  of  walking  and  riding,  with  a 
black  scarf  round  her  neck,  and  rarely  a  single 
ornament.  She  was  temperate,  and  even  abste- 
mious in  eating,  apparently  quite  indifferent  as  to 
what  was  placed  before  her,  and  was  never  heard 
to  praise  or  dispraise  any  dish  at  table." 

When  Christina  had  assumed  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment, in  1644,  many  of  the  most  distinguished 
kings  and  princes  of  Europe  aspired  to  her  hand  ; 
but  she  uniformly  rejected  all  their  proposals,  and 
caused  one  of  her  suitors,  her  cousin  Charles  Gus- 
tavus,  to  be  appointed  her  successor.  Her  love 
of  independence  and  impatience  of  control  had 
exhibited  themselves  from  childhood  in  a  distaste 
to  marriage.  "  Do  not,"  said  she  to  the  states, 
"compel  me  to  make  a  choice:  should  I  bear  a 
son,  it  is  equally  probable  that  he  might  prove  a 
Nero  as  an  Augustus." 

Christina  had  an  opportunity  to  display  her 
magnanimity  in  the  early  part  of  her  reign.  While 
she  was  engaged  in  her  devotions  in  the  chapel  of 
the  castle  at  Stockholm,  a  lunatic  rushed  through 
the  crowd,  and  attempted  to  stab  her  with  a  knife. 
He  was  seized,  and  Christina  calmly  continued 
her  devotions.  Learning  that  the  man  was  in- 
sane, she  merely  had  him  put  under  restraint. 

One  of  the  most  important  events  of  Christina's 
reign  was  the  peace  of  AVestphalia,  to  which  her 
influence  greatly  contributed.  It  was  settled  Oc- 
tober, 1648,  and  by  this  treaty  Sweden  was  con- 
firmed in  the  possession  of  many  important  coun- 
tries. The  services  of  Salvius,  one  of  her  pleni- 
potentiaries on  this  occasion,  were  rewarded  by 
the  dignity  of  senator ;  a  prerogative  which  had 
till  then  belonged  to  birth,  but  to  which  the  queen 
thought  merit  had  a  better  claim. 

During  the  remainder  of  her  reign,  a  wise  ad- 
ministration and  a  profound  peace,  reflect  upon 
Christina  a  higher  praise  than  can  be  derived  from 
subtle  negotiations  or  successful  wars ;  she  en- 
joyed the  entire  confidence  and  love  of  her  people. 
All  persons  distinguished  for  their  genius  or  ta- 
lents, were  attracted  by  her  liberality  to  the  Swe- 
dish court ;  and  although  her  favour  was  some- 
times controlled  by  her  partialities  or  prejudices, 
and  withheld  from  the  deserving  while  it  was  la- 
vished on  those  who  flattered  her  foibles,  yet  she 
soon  discovered  and  repaired  such  mistakes. 

She,  at  length,  began  to  feel  her  rank,  and  the 
duties  it  devolved  upon  her,  a  burden,  and  to  sigh 

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for  freedom  and  leisure.  In  1652,  she  communi- 
cated to  the  senate  her  resolution  of  abdicating 
the  throne ;  but  the  remonstrances  of  the  whole 
people,  in  which  Charles  Gustavus,  her  successor, 
joined,  induced  her  to  wear  the  crown  for  two 
years  longer ;  when  she  resumed  her  purpose  and 
carried  it  into  effect,  to  the  great  gi-ief  of  the 
whole  nation. 

In  leaving  the  scene  of  her  regal  power,  she 
appeared  to  rejoice  as  though  she  had  escaped 
from  imprisonment.  Having  arrived  at  a  small 
brook  which  separated  Sweden  from  Denmark, 
she  alighted  from  her  carriage,  and  leaping  over 
it,  exclaimed,  "At  length  I  am  free,  and  out  of 
Sweden,  whither  I  hope  never  to  return."  Dis- 
missing with  her  women  the  habit  of  her  sex, 
she  assumed  male  attire.  "I  would  become  a 
man,"  said  she;  "  but  it  is  not  that  I  love  men 
because  they  are  men,  but  merely  that  they  are 
not  women." 

On  her  arrival  at  Brussels  she  publicly  and 
solemnly  abjured  the  Lutheran  faith,  in  which  she 
was  educated,  and  joined  the  Roman  Catholic 
communion.  From  Brussels  she  went  to  Rome, 
which  she  entered  with  gi-eat  pomp.  She  was 
received  with  splendid  hospitality  by  the  pope, 
and  the  Jesuits  affirmed  that  she  ought  to  be 
placed  by  the  church  among  the  saints:  "I  had 
rather,"  said  Christina,  "be  placed  among  the 
sages." 

She  then  went  to  France,  where  she  was  re- 
ceived with  royal  honours,  which  she  never  forgot 
to  claim,  by  Louis  XIV.  But  she  disturbed  the 
quiet  of  all  the  places  which  she  visited,  by  her 
passion  for  interfering  and  controlling,  not  only 
political  affairs,  but  the  petty  cabals  of  the  court. 
She  also  disgusted  the  people  by  her  violation  of 
all  the  decencies  and  proprieties  of  life,  by  her 
continuing  to  wear  the  dress  of  the  other  sex,  and 
by  her  open  contempt  for  her  own.  But  the  act 
that  roused  the  horror  and  indignation  of  Louis 
XIV.  and  his  whole  court,  and  obliged  Christina 
to  leave  France,  was  the  murder  of  Monaldeschi, 
an  Italian,  and  her  master  of  the  horse,  who  is 
supposed  to  have  been  her  lover,  and  to  have  be- 
trayed the  intrigue,  though  the  fault  for  which  he 
suffered  was  never  disclosed  by  Christina.  This 
event  occurred  in  November,  1G57,  while  she  was 
residing  in  the  royal  palace  of  Fontainebleau. 
Monaldeschi,  after  having  been  allowed  only  about 
two  hours  from  the  time  when  the  queen  had  made 
known  to  him  her  discovery  of  his  perfidy,  was 
put  to  death,  by  her  orders,  in  the  gallery  aux 
Cerfs  of  the  palace,  by  three  men. 

Louis  XIV.  was  highly  indignant  at  this  viola- 
tion of  justice  in  his  dominions;  but  Christina  sus- 
tained her  act,  and  stated  that  she  had  reserved 
supreme  power  over  her  suite,  and  that  wherever 
she  went  she  was  still  a  queen.  She  was,  how- 
ever, obliged  to  return  to  Rome,  where  she  soon 
involved  herself  in  a  quarrel  with  the  pope,  Alex- 
ander VII.  She  then  went  to  Sweden ;  but  she 
was  not  well  received  there,  and  soon  left  for 
Hamburg,  and  from  thence  to  Rome.  She  again 
returned  to  Sweden,  but  met  with  a  still  colder 
reception  than  before.     It  is  said  that  her  jour- 


neys to  Sweden  were  undertaken  for  the  purpose 
of  resuming  the  crown,  as  Charles  Gustavus  had 
died  in  1660.  But  this  can  hardly  be  true,  as  her 
adopted  religion,  to  which  she  always  remained 
constant,  would  be  an  insuperable  obstacle,  by  the 
laws  and  constitution  of  Sweden,  to  her  reassuming 
the  government. 

After  many  wanderings,  Christina  died  at  Rome, 
April  15th,  1689,  aged  sixty-three.  She  was  in- 
terred in  the  church  of  St.  Peter,  and  the  pope 
erected  a  monument  to  her,  with  a  long  inscrip- 
tion, although  she  had  requested  that  these  words, 
Vixit  Christina  atinos  LXIII.,  should  be  the  only 
inscription  on  her  tomb.  Her  principal  heir  was 
her  intendant.  Cardinal  Azzolini.  Her  library  was 
bought  by  the  pope,  who  placed  nine  hundred 
manuscripts  of  this  collection  in  the  Vatican,  and 
gave  the  rest  of  the  books  to  his  family. 

A  traveller,  who  saw  her  at  Rome,  when  she  was 
about  sixty,  thus  describes  her  dress  and  appear- 
ance: —  "She  was  usually  habited  in  a  coat,  or 
vest,  of  black  satin,  reaching  almost  to  the  knees, 
and  buttoned  down  the  front ;  under  this,  a  very 
short  petticoat.  Her  own  light  brown  hair,  once 
so  becautiful  and  luxuriant,  was  cut  short,  and 
combed  up  so  as  to  stand  on  end  witliout  covering 
or  ornament.  She  was  very  short,  fat,  and  round ; 
her  voice,  her  features  and  complexion,  were  com- 
pletely masculine,  and  had  ceased  to  be  in  any 
respect  agreeable.  Her  eyes,  however,  retained 
their  brilliancy,  and  her  tongue  bewitched  as  oddly 
as  her  eyes.  Her  manners,  whenever  she  chose, 
were  winning."  Such  was  the  disagreeable,  un- 
honoured  age  of  a  woman  who  despised  the  man- 
ners, duties,  and  decorums  of  her  sex.  Yet  in  a 
letter,  written  about  this  time  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Scuderi,  the  poor,  mistaken  Christina  shows  that 
she  could  not  divest  herself  of  all  feminine  feelings. 
"You  must  know,"  she  writes,  "that  since  you 
saw  me  some  years  ago,  I  am  not  grown  hand- 
somer ;  far  from  it ;  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  I 
am  still,  in  spite  of  flattery,  as  ill  satisfied  with  my 
own  person  as  ever  I  was.  I  envy  not  those  who 
possess  fortune,  dominions,  treasures ;  I  raise  my- 
self above  all  mortals  by  wisdom  and  virtue ;  and 
that  is  what  makes  me  discontented.  Au  reste, 
I  am  in  good  health,  which  will  last  as  long  as  it 
pleases  God.  I  have  naturally  an  extreme  aver- 
sion to  grow  old,  and  I  hardly  know  how  I  can  get 
used  to  the  idea.  If  I  had  had  my  choice  between 
old  age  and  death,  I  think  I  should  have  chosen 
the  latter  without  hesitation.  But  since  we  are 
not  consulted  on  this  point,  I  shall  resign  myself 
to  live  on  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  can.  Death, 
which  I  see  approaching  step  by  step,  does  not 
alarm  me.  I  await  it  without  a  wish  and  without 
a  fear." 

Christina  wrote  a  great  deal;  but  her  "Maxims 
and  Sentences,"  and  "Reflections  on  the  Life  and 
Actions  of  Alexander  the  Great,"  are  all  that  have 
been  preserved.  She  had  good  business  talents, 
and  a  wonderful  firmness  of  purpose.  The  great 
defects  of  her  character,  and  the  errors  of  her 
life,  may  be  traced  to  her  injudicious  education, 
including  the  dislike  she  felt  for  women,  and  her 
contempt  of  feminine  virtues  and  pursuits.     She 

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should  be  a  warning  to  all  those  aspii'ing  females,  ' 
who  would  put  off  the  dignity,  delicacy,  and  dress 
of  their  own  sex,  in  the  vain  hope  that,  by  mascu- 
line freedom  of  deportment  and  attire,  they  should  , 
gain  strength,  wisdom,  and  enjoyment.     We  give  ] 
a  few  fragments  from  her  works  :  I 

Fools  are  more  to  be  feared  than  the  wicked. 

Whatever  is  false,  is  ridiculous. 

There  is  a  species  of  pleasure  in  suffering  from 
the  ingratitude  of  others,  which  is  reserved  for 
great  minds  alone. 

We  should  never  speak  of  ourselves,  either  good 
or  evil.  (This  was  a  maxim  which  she  was  con- 
tinually violating  in  her  own  person :  she  appears  to 
have  been  the  greatest  egotist  extant,  for  a  female.) 

To  suffer  for  having  acted  well,  is  itself  a  species 
of  recompense. 

We  read  for  instruction,  for  correction,  and  for 
consolation. 

There  is  a  star  above  us  which  unites  souls  of  the 
first  order,  though  worlds  and  ages  separate  them. 

Life  becomes  useless  and  insipid,  when  we  have 
no  longer  either  friends  or  enemies. 

We  grow  old  more  through  indolence,  than 
through  age. 

The  Salique  law,  which  excludes  women  from 
the  throne,  is  a  just  and  a  wise  law. 

Cruelty  is  the  result  of  baseness  and  of  cow- 
ardice. 

To  speak  truth,  and  to  do  good,  is  to  resemble, 
in  some  sort,  the  Deity  we  worship. 

This  life  is  like  an  inn,  in  which  the  soul  spends 
a  few  moments  on  its  journey. 

CHUDLEIGH,  LADY  MARY, 
Was  born  in  1656,  and  was  the  daughter  of 
Richard  Lee,  Esq.,  of  Winslade  in  Devonshire, 
England.  She  married  Sir  George  Chudleigh, 
bart.,  by  whom  she  had  several  children;  among 
the  rest  Eliza  Maria,  who  dying  in  the  bloom  of 
life,  her  mother  poured  out  her  grief  in  a  poem, 
called  "A  Dialogue  between  Lucinda  and  Ma- 
rissa."  She  wrote  another  poem  called  "  The 
Ladies'  Defence,"  occasioned  by  a  sermon  preached 
against  women.  These,  with  many  others,  were 
collected  into  a  volume  and  printed,  for  the  third 
time,  in  1722.  She  published  also  a  volume  of 
essays,  in  prose  and  verse,  in  1710,  which  have 
been  much  admired  for  a  delicacy  of  style. 

This  lady  is  said  to  have  written  several  trage- 
dies, operas,  masques,  &c.,  which  were  not  printed. 
She  died  in  1710,  in  her  55th  year.  She  was  a 
woman  of  great  virtue  as  well  as  understanding, 
and  made  the  latter  subservient  to  the  former. 
She  was  only  taught  her  native  language,  but  her 
great  application  and  vmcommon  abilities,  enabled 
her  to  figure  among  the  literati  of  her  time.  She 
wrote  essays  upon  knowledge,  pride,  humility, 
life,  death,  fear,  grief,  riches,  self-love,  justice, 
anger,  calumny,  friendship,  love,  avarice,  and  so- 
litude, in  which  she  showed  an  uncommon  degree 
of  knowledge  and  piety. 

GIBBER,    SUSANNA   MARIA, 
Who  for  several  years  was  considered  not  only 
the  best  actress  in  England,  but  thought  by  many 


superior  to  the  celebrated  Mdlle.  Clairon  of  Paris, 
was  the  daughter  of  an  upholsterer  of  Covent-Gar- 
den,  and  sister  to  Dr.  Thomas  Augustin  Arne,  ce- 
lebrated for  his  taste  in  musical  composition.  Her 
first  appearance  on  the  stage  was  as  a  singer,  but 
either  her  judgment  or  ear  was  not  equal  to 
her  sweetness  of  voice.  She  married,  in  April, 
1734,  Theophilus  Gibber,  who  was  then  a  widower. 
This  marriage  was  not  pleasing  to  Colley  Gibber, 
the  father,  but  he  was  induced  to  forgive  them. 
He  was  then  manager  of  Drury-Lane  theatre,  and 
one  day  at  rehearsal,  his  son  happening  to  say  he 
hoped  young  Mrs.  Cibber  might  be  brought  on  in 
speaking  parts,  GoUey  desired  her  to  declaim  be- 
fore him,  and  was  surprised  to  find  such  a  variety 
of  powers  of  voice,  face,  figure,  and  expression 
united.  She  appeared  on  the  stage  in  1736,  in  the 
character  of  Zara,  in  the  first  representation  of 
Aaron  Hill's  tragedy.  The  audience  were  aston- 
ished and  delighted,  and  her  reputation  as  an 
actress  was  established. 

But  her  domestic  tranquillity  did  not  equal  her 
public  success.  Her  husband  was  luxurious,  prodi- 
gal, rapacious,  and  unscrupulous  and  dishonourable 
in  his  means  of  obtaining  money.  She  soon  dis- 
continued living  with  him,  and  resided  entirely  with 
a  man  on  whom  Mr.  Gibber  bestowed  the  appella- 
tion of  Mr.  Benefit.  She  retained  her  beauty  and 
her  power  of  pleasing,  as  an  actress,  for  a  long 
time.  She  died  January  30th,  1766,  and  was 
bui'ied  at  Westminster ;  leaving  one  child  by  the 
gentleman  with  whom  she  lived. 

CICCI,    MARIE   LOUISA, 

Was  born  at  Pisa,  in  1760.  When  she  was 
seven  years  old  her  father  placed  her  in  a  convent, 
ordered  her  to  be  instructed  merely  in  domestic 
duties,  and  forbade  her  to  be  taught  even  to  write. 
By  stealth,  however,  she  read  some  of  the  best 
poets,  and  acquired  the  rudiments  of  writing,  sup- 
plying the  want  of  pen  and  ink  by  grape-juice  and 
bits  of  wood.  With  these  rude  materials  she  wrote 
her  first  verses  in  her  tenth  year.  At  a  more  ma- 
ture age,  she  made  herself  mistress  of  natural 
philosophy,  of  the  English  and  French  languages, 
and  studied  the  works  of  Locke  and  Newton.  Her 
Anacreontic  verses  are  distinguished  by  their 
graceful  ease  and  spirit.  In  private  life  she  was 
virtuous  and  amiable.     She  died  in  1794. 

GINGHON,    COUNTESS   OF, 

The  wife  of  the  viceroy  of  Peru,  was  the  first 
person  who  brought  the  Peruvian  bark  to  Europe, 
and  made  known  its  virtues.  This  took  place  in 
1632.  In  honour  of  her,  Linnwus  gave  the  name 
of  Cinchona  to  the  genus  of  plants  by  which  the 
bark  is  produced. 

GIRANI,  ELIZABETH, 
A  NATIVE  of  Bologna,  was  eminently  distin- 
guished as  a  painter.  Though  she  was  happy  in 
tender  and  delicate  subjects,  she  excelled  also  in 
the  great  and  terrible.  Her  genius  gained  her 
many  friends,  whom  her  excellent  qualities  re- 
tained. She  died  near  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 


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CLAIRON,  CLARA  JOSEPHA  DE  LA  TUDE, 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  actresses  of  France, 
was  born  in  1723,  near  Conde,  and  went  upon  the 
stage  when  only  twelve  years  old.  Phi^dre  was 
the  first  character  in  which  she  displayed  all  her 
theatrical  talents.  In  1765  she  left  the  stage,  and 
was  for  many  years  the  mistress  of  the  margrave 
of  Anspach.  She  died  in  1803.  She  published 
"  Memoirs  and  Reflections  upon  the  Declamation 
Theatrical." 

CLAYPOLE,    ELIZABETH, 

Was  the  second  and  favourite  daughter  of  the 
protector,  Oliver  Ci'omwell.  She  was  born  at 
Huntingdon  in  1029,  and  in  164B  married  John 
Claypole,  Esq.,  of  a  respectable  family  in  North- 
amptonshire ;  who  afterwards  became  master  of 
the  horse  both  to  Oliver  and  his  son  Richard. 
Mrs.  Claypole  was  invariably  the  friend  of  the 
oppressed,  and  exercised  her  gentle  but  powerful 
influence  over  her  father  in  favour  of  the  sufl^ering 
royalists.  She  died  at  Hampton  Court,  August 
Cth,  1658,  in  the  twenty-ninth  year  of  her  age. 

CLEMENTS,  MARGARET, 
Born  in  1508,  niece  to  Sir  Thomas  More,  in 
whose  house  she  was  brought  up,  was  carefully 
educated,  and  made  great  progress  in  all  the  liberal 
sciences.  She  corresponded  with  the  celebrated 
Erasmus,  who  commends  her  epistles  for  their 
good  sense  and  chaste  Latin.  About  1531  she 
married  her  tutor.  Dr.  John  Clements.  They  had 
one  daughter,  Winifred,  on  whose  education  they 
bestowed  the  greatest  care,  and  who  married  a 
nephew  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  William  Rastell,  the 
greatest  lawyer  of  his  time. 

Dr.  Clements  and  his  wife  left  England  to  avoid 
a  religious  persecution,  and  settled  at  Mechlin,  in 
Brabant,  where  Mrs.  Clement  died,  July  0th, 
1570. 

CLERMONT,  CLAUDE  CATHERINE  DE, 
Daughter  of  Clermont,  lord  of  Dampierre,  wife, 
first  of  M.  d'Aunbaut,  who  perished  in  the  civil 
wars  of  France,  and  afterwards  of  Albert,  duke  de 
Metz,  was  lady  of  honour  to  Catharine  de  ^ledicis, 
and  governess  to  the  royal  children.  She  was  an 
only  daughter,  and  carefully  educated.  In  all 
foreign  affairs  she  was  consulted  as  the  only  per- 
son at  covirt  who  understood  the  languages.  When 
her  husband  was  in  Italy,  her  son,  the  marquis 
of  Belleisle,  attempted  to  seize  his  father's  estate  ; 
but  she  assembled  soldiers,  put  herself  at  their 
head,  defeated  her  son's  project,  and  retained  her 
vassals  in  obedience  to  their  king,  Henry  IV.,  who 
loaded  the  duchess  with  honours.  She  survived 
her  husband  but  a  few  months,  dying  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

CLEVELAND,    BARBARA    VILLIERS, 
DUCHESS   OF, 

Mistress  of  Charles  II.  of  England,  was  the 
only  daughter  of  William,  second  Viscount  Grandi- 
son,  who  died  in  1043,  of  wounds  he  received  at 
Bristol,  while  fighting  for  the  royal  cause.     Bar- 


bara Villiers  was  born  in  1040,  and  in  1058  mar- 
ried Roger  Palmer,  Esq.,  a  student  at  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  heir  to  a  large  fortune.  The 
following  year  they  joined  the  court  of  Charles  in 
the  Low  Countries,  where  Mrs.  Palmer  completely 
captivated  that  susceptible  prince.  At  the  Restora- 
tion they  accompanied  Charles  to  England,  where 
for  ten  years  her  influence  over  the  king  was  su- 
preme. He  even  appointed  her  lady  of  the  bed- 
chamber to  his  wife ;  and,  in  order  to  do  this,  he 
raised  her  husband  to  a  peerage  in  1002,  as  earl  of 
Castlemaine.  She  was  afterwards  created  duchess 
of  Cleveland.  She  was  beautiful,  but  haughty, 
imperious,  extravagant,  and  unfaithful  to  the  king 
as  well  as  to  her  husband.  Her  jealous  temper  at 
length  caused  a  quarrel  between  Charles  and  lier- 
self ;  and,  in  1070,  the  duchess  retired  to  France. 
In  1705,  when  sixty-five  years  old,  she  married 
Robert  Fielding,  a  very  handsome  man,  generally 
called  Beau  Fielding,  who  treated  her  brutally. 
She  afterwards  discovered  that  he  had  been  pre- 
viously married  to  another  woman.  The  duches.s 
died  in  England,  October  9th,  1709.  Her  infamy 
renders  the  court,  in  which  she  so  long  ruled  the 
profligate  monarch,  still  a  word  of  loathing  and 
contempt ;  and  the  peerage  is  disgraced  by  such 
instances  of  high  rank  conferred  on  tlie  vilest 
creatures  who  minister  to  the  corrupt  passions  of 
men  in  power. 


,\\  ^-%,.^j'/,/y^^,^ 


CLIFFORD,    ANNE, 

Countess  of  Pembroke,  Dorset,  and  Montgo- 
mery, was  sole  daughter  and  heiress  to  George, 
earl  of  Cumberland.  She  was  born  at  Skipton- 
castle  in  Craven,  January  30th,  1589.  Her  father 
died  when  she  was  only  ten  years  old ;  but  her 
mother,  a  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Bedford,  edu- 
cated her  with  care  and  discretion.  She  married, 
first,  Richard,  lord  Buckhurst,  afterwards  earl  of 
Dorset,  by  whom  she  had  three  sons  wlio  died 
young,  and  two  daughters.  After  his  death,  she 
married  Philip  Herbert,  earl  of  Pembroke  and 
Montgomery,  by  whom  she  had  no  children,  and 
with  whom  she  lived  very  unhappily.  She  erected 
a  monument  to  her  tutor,  Daniel  the  poet,  and  an- 

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other  1o  Spenser;  besides  which  she  founded  two 
hospitals,  and  repaired  or  built  seven  churches. 
But  the  most  singular  act  of  her  life  is  the  letter 
she  wrote  to  the  secretary  of  state,  after  the  re- 
storation of  Charles  II.,  who  had  recommended  a 
candidate  for  one  of  her  boroughs.  The  countess 
replied,  "I  have  been  bullied  by  an  usurper,  I 
have  been  neglected  by  a  court,  but  I  will  not  be 
dictated  to  by  a  subject ;  your  man  shan't  stand. 
Anne,  Dorset,  Pembroke,  and  Montgomery."  This 
letter  excited  great  admiration. 

The  countess  of  Pembroke  was  considered  one 
of  the  most  eminent  women  of  her  time  for  intel- 
lectual accomplishments,  spirit,  magnificence,  and 
benevolence.  She  died  in  her  castle  at  Brougham, 
March  23d,  1675,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six.  She 
was  buried  at  Appleby,  in  Westmoreland,  under 
the  monument  she  had  erected.  Her  funeral  ser- 
mon was  preached  by  the  bishop  of  Carlisle,  from 
a  verse  in  the  proverbs  of  Solomon — "Every  wise 
woman  buildeth  her  house."  In  her  ended  the 
Clitford  family. 

Although  the  countess  expended  more  than  forty 
thousand  pounds  in  building,  and  was  truly  royal 
in  her  acts  of  generosity  and  benevolence,  yet  she 
was  prudent,  economical,  and  exact  to  the  last  de- 
gree in  her  accounts.  Bishop  Rainbow  calls  her 
"a  perfect  mistress  of  forecast  and  aftercast." 
Her  information  was  so  extensive,  that  it  was 
said  of  her  "  that  she  knew  how  to  converse  on 
all  subjects,  from  predestination  to  slea-silk." 
Her  manner  of  living  was  simple,  abstemious,  and 
even  parsimonious ;  and  she  was  accustomed  to 
boast  that  she  had  hardly  ever  tasted  wine  or 
physic. 

A  narrative,  or  rather  journal,  of  her  own  life, 
was  left  by  the  countess,  consisting  principally  of 
minute  details,  which  are  not  interesting,  except- 
ing in  the  descriiDtion  she  gives  of  herself,  her  own 
mental  and  personal  endowments. 

"I  was  very  happy,"  says  she,  "in  my  first 
constitution,  both  of  mind  and  body.  I  resem- 
bled equally  both  father  and  mother :  the  colour 
of  my  eyes  was  black  like  my  fathei-'s  ;  the  form 
and  aspect  of  them  quick  and  lively,  like  my  mo- 
thers ;  mj'  hair  brown  and  thick,  and  so  long  that 
it  reached  the  calf  of  my  legs,  with  a  peak  of  hair 
on  my  forehead,  and  a  dimple  on  my  chin ;  full 
cheeks,  like  my  father,  and  a  round  face  like  my 
mother's ;  an  exquisite  shape  of  body  resembling 
my  father.  But  now  time  and  age  have  ended  all 
these  beauties,  to  be  compared  to  the  grass  of  the 
field.  I  have  passed  the  sixty-third  year  of  my 
age.  The  perfections  of  my  mind  surpassed  those 
of  my  body.  I  had  a  strong  and  copious  memory, 
a  sound  judgment,  a  discerning  spirit,  and  an  ima- 
gination so  strong,  that  many  times  even  my 
dreams  and  apprehensions  beforehand  proved  to 
be  true  ;  so  that  old  Mr.  .John  Denhani,  a  great 
astronomer,  who  lived  in  my  father's  house,  would 
often  say  that  I  had  much  in  me  in  nature  to 
show,  that  the  sweet  influence  of  the  Pleiades  and 
the  bands  of  Orion,  mentioned  in  .lob,  were  power- 
ful both  at  my  conception  and  nativity."  She  goes 
on  to  speak  of  "sucking  from  her  dear  mother 
the  milk  of  goodness,  which  made  her  mind  grow 


strong  against  the  storms  of  fortune."  She  in- 
forms us  that  in  her  childhood,  by  means  of  her 
aunt  Warwick,  she  was  much  beloved  by  queen 
Elizabeth. 

Her  escape  from  various  perils  is  thus  recorded : 
"In  my  infancy  and  youth,  and  a  great  part  of 
my  life,  I  have  escaped  many  dangers,  both  by 
fire  and  water,  by  passage  in  coaches,  and  falls 
from  horses,  by  burning  fevers,  and  excessive 
extremity  of  bleeding,  many  times  to  the  great 
hazard  of  my  life.  All  which,  and  many  wicked 
devices  of  my  enemies,  I  have  passed  through 
miraculously,  and  much  the  better  by  the  help  of 
the  prayers  of  my  dear  mother,  who  incessantly 
begged  of  God  for  my  safety  and  preservation." 

The  following  account  of  her  marriage  life  may 
not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader :  "  I  was  born 
a  happy  creature  in  mind,  body,  and  fortune  ;  and 
those  two  lords,  to  whom  I  was  afterwards  by  the 
Divine  Providence  married,  were  worthy  noble- 
men as  any  then  in  this  kingdom ;  yet  it  was  my 
misfortune  to  have  contradictions  and  crosses  with 
both.  With  my  first  lord  about  the  desire  he  had 
to  make  me  sell  my  rights  in  the  lands  of  my  an- 
cient inheritance,  which  I  never  would  consent  to, 
insomuch  as  this  was  the  cause  of  long  contention ; 
as  also  for  his  profuseness  in  consuming  his  estate, 
and  some  other  extravagances.  With  my  second 
lord,  because  my  youngest  daughter,  the  lady  Eli- 
zabeth Sackville,  would  not  be  brought  to  marry 
one  of  his  youngest  sons ;  and  that  I  would  not 
relinquish  my  interest  in  five  thousand  pounds 
(being  part  of  her  portion)  out  of  my  lands  in 
Craven :  nor  did  there  want  divers  malicious  ill- 
willers  to  blow  and  foment  the  coals  of  dissension 
between  us :  so  as,  in  both  their  lifetimes,  the 
marble  pillars  of  Knowle  in  Kent,  and  Wilton  in 
Wiltshire,  were  to  me  oftentimes  but  the  gay  ar- 
bour of  anguish.  A  wise  man,  that  knew  the 
insides  of  my  fortune,  would  often  say,  that  I  lived 
in  both  these  my  lords'  great  families  as  the  river 
Rhone  runs  through  the  lake  of  Geneva,  without 
mingling  its  streams  with  the  lake;  for  I  gave 
myself  up  to  retircdness  as  much  as  I  could,  and 
made  good  books  and  virtuous  thoughts  my  com- 
panions, which  can  never  discern  affliction,  nor  be 
daunted  when  it  unjustly  happens.  And  by  a 
happj'  genius  I  overcame  all  these  troubles,  the 
prayers  of  my  blessed  mother  helping  me  therein." 

CLIVE,  CATHARINE, 
Daughter  of  AVilliam  Rafton,  of  Ireland,  an 
actress  of  great  merit,  was  born  in  1711.  She 
was  quite  young  when  she  made  her  first  appear- 
ance before  the  public,  and  for  more  than  thirty 
years  was  considered  the  best  performer,  in  high 
or  low  comedy,  on  the  stage.  In  1732,  she  mar- 
ried George  Clive,  a  lawyer,  and  brother  to  baron 
Clive ;  but  this  union  was  not  a  happy  one,  and 
they  soon  agreed  to  separate,  and  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives  had  no  intercourse  whatever. 

Mrs.  Clive  left  the  stage  in  1768,  and  retired 
to  a  small  but  elegant  house  near  Strawberry- 
hill,  in  Twickenham,  where  she  resided  in  ease 
and  independence,  respected  by  the  world,  and 
surrounded  by  friends.     She  died  Dec.  Gth,  1785. 

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COCHRANE,    GRIZEL, 

AVas  the  daughter  of  Sir  John  Cochrane,  of 
Ochiltree,  Scothxnd,  second  son  of  the  first  Earl 
of  Dundonald.  Her  father,  being  taken  prisoner 
in  July,  1685,  and  confined  in  the  Tolbooth  at 
Edinburgh,  was,  in  consequence  of  participating 
in  the  rebellion  against  James  II.,  condemned  to 
death  for  high  treason,  and  his  execution  was  only 
delayed  till  the  death-warrant  should  arrive  from 
London.  In  the  mean  time  the  earl  of  Dundonald 
was  making  every  exertion  to  obtain  his  pardon 
by  interesting  the  king's  confessor  in  his  son's 
favour.  But  this  required  some  time,  and  the 
death-warrant  was  daily  expected.  Grizel  Coch- 
rane, though  only  eighteen  at  the  time,  deter- 
mined to  prevent  its  arrival.  Disguising  herself 
as  a  servant-girl,  and  mounting  her  own  horse,  on 
whose  speed  she  could  rely,  she,  by  riding  two 
days,  reached  the  abode  of  her  nurse,  who  lived 
on  the  English  side  of  the  Tweed.  Here  attiring 
herself  in  her  foster-brother's  clothes,  and  arming 
herself  with  pistols,  she  proceeded  to  a  small 
public-house  near  Belford,  where  the  postman  was 
accustomed  to  stop  for  a  few  hours  to  rest.  Send- 
ing the  landlady  out  on  some  errand,  Gi'izel  stepped 
to  the  room  where  the  postman  was  sleeping,  but 
his  mail-bags  were  under  his  head,  and  could  not 
be  touched  without  awaking  him.  However,  she 
succeeded  in  drawing  the  load  out  of  the  pistols, 
which  lay  near  him,  before  the  woman  returned, 
and  then  overtaking  him  about  half-way  between 
Belford  and  Berwick,  she  succeeded  in  obtaining 
the  mail-bags,  in  which  she  discovered  her  father's 
death-warrant.  Destroying  this,  and  several  other 
obnoxious  papers,  she  reassumed  her  female  dress, 
and  returned  to  Edinburgh.  As  it  then  took  eight 
days  for  communications  to  pass  from  London  to 
Edinburgh,  the  sixteen  days  Grizel  thus  gained 
for  her  father  were  sufficient  to  allow  the  earl  of 
Dundonald  to  obtain  his  son's  pardon.  Miss  Coch- 
rane afterwards  married  Mr.  Ker,  of  Morriston, 
in  the  county  of  Berwick. 

COCKBURN,  CATHARINE, 

The  daughter  of  captain  David  Trotter,  a  Scotch 
gentleman  in  the  navy,  was  born  in  1679.  She 
gave  early  proofs  of  a  poetic  imagination  by  the 
production  of  three  tragedies  and  a  comedy,  which 
were  all  acted ;  the  first  of  them  in  her  seven- 
teenth year.  She  had  also  a  turn  for  philosophy ; 
and  she  engaged  in  controversy,  defending  Mr. 
Locke's  opinions  against  Dr.  Burnet  of  the  Char- 
ter-House, and  Dr.  Holdsworth.  She  was  induced 
to  turn  Roman  Catholic  when  very  young,  but 
renounced  that  faith  in  her  riper  years. 

In  1708,  she  married  Mr.  Cockburn,  the  son  of 
an  eminent  Scotch  divine,  and  was  precluded  for 
twenty  years  from  pursuing  her  studies,  by  the 
cares  of  a  family,  which  she  nevertheless  resumed 
with  ardour.  Mrs.  Cockburn  died  in  1749;  her 
works  are  collected  in  two  octavo  volumes. 

She  wrote,  among  her  plays,  "Agnes  de  Cas- 
tro ;"  "  The  Fatal  Friendship  ;"  "  Love  at  a  Loss, 
or  Most  Votes  carry  it ;"  and  "  The  Unhappy  Pen- 
itent."    She  also  wrote  several  poems  and  contro- 


versial essays.  In  a  poem  addressed  to  queen 
Caroline,  wife  of  George  II.,  Mrs.  Cockburn  thus 
alludes  to  the  disadvantages  under  which  a  woma" 
then  pursued  the  path  of  literature : — 

"Learning  denied  us,  we  at  random  tread 
Unbeaten  paths,  that  late  lo  knowledge  lead; 
By  secret  steps  break  through  th' obstructed  way, 
Nor  dare  acquirements  gain'd  by  steallli  display. 
If  some  advent'rous  genius  should  arise, 
Who  on  exalted  themes  her  talents  tries, 
She  fears  to  give  the  work,  tho'  prais'd,  a  name, 
And  flies  not  more  from  infamy  than  fame." 

That  she  was  scrupulous  never  to  neglect  any 
womanly  dutj',  gives  added  importance  to  her  ex- 
ample of  improvement.  Her  familiar  letters  show 
this  happy  talent  of  biding  her  time.  In  one  to 
her  niece,  dated  October  6th,  1732,  she  writes, 
"  Sundays  being  privileged  from  the  needle,  I 
have  found  time  of  late  to  read  three  short  pamph- 
lets, in  answer  to  "  Christianity  as  old  as  the  Cre- 
ation," by  Dr.  Burnet;  which,  they  say,  are  the 
best  that  have  been  written  on  a  subject  that  has 
for  some  time  employed  all  pens  and  heads."  In 
another  letter,  in  the  year  1740,  she  speaks  of 
finding  more  time  for  reading  and  writing  during 
the  long  winter's  evenings,  than  in  the  summer 
months,  since  she  could  not  work  by  candle-light. 
"In  the  summer,"  says  she,  "I  am  so  much  em- 
ployed with  my  needle,  that  I  read  little,  and 
write  less."  In  a  letter,  intended  to  be  sent  to 
Mr.  Pope,  she  writes,  "You  had  but  just  begun 
to  dawn  upon  the  world,  when  I  retired  from  it. 
Being  married  in  1708,  I  bade  adieu  to  the  muses, 
and  so  wholly  gave  myself  up  to  the  cares  of  a 
family,  and  the  education  of  my  children,  that  I 
scarcely  knew  whether  there  were  such  tilings  as 
books,  plays,  or  poems,  stirring  in  Great  Britain. 
However,  after  some  years,  your  '  Essay  on  Criti- 
cism,' and  '  Rape  of  the  Lock,'  broke  in  upon  me. 
I  rejoiced  that  so  bright  a  genius  was  rising  on 
our  isle  ;  but  thought  no  more  about  you,  till  my 
young  family  was  grown  up  to  have  less  need  of 
my  assistance ;  and,  beginning  to  have  some  taste 
for  polite  literature,  my  inclination  revived  with 
my  leisure  to  inquire  after  what  had  been  most 
celebrated  in  that  kind.  I  then  read  your  Homer, 
&c."  This  is  the  true  way  for  a  woman  to  live  con- 
tentedly, to  grow  old  gracefully,  and  to  die  happily. 

COLIGNI,  HENRIETTA,    COUNTESS 
DE   LA   LUZE, 

Famous  for  her  poetry,  which  was  printed  with 
the  works  of  Pellison  and  others,  in  1695  and 
1725,  in  two  duodecimo  volumes,  was  the  daughter 
of  Caspar  de  Coligni,  marshal  of  France,  and 
colonel-general  of  infantry.  She  married,  when 
very  young,  Thomas  Hamilton,  a  Scotch  nobleman, 
and,  after  his  death,  the  count  de  la  Luze,  of  an 
illustrious  house  in  Champagne. 

The  jealousy  of  her  second  husband  embittered 
her  life,  and  his  severities  towards  her  induced  her 
to  abjure  Protestantism  and  embrace  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  which  caused  queen  Christina  of 
Sweden  to  say  "  That  the  countess  had  changed 
her  religion,  that  she  might  not  see  her  husband, 
neither  in  this  world  nor  the  next."  Their  anti- 
pathy at  last  became  so  great  that  the  countess 

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offered  her  husband  25,000  crowns  to  disannul  the 
mari-iage,  which  he  accepted,  and  it  was  dissolved 
by  parliament. 

She  then  devoted  herself  to  the  study  of  poetry ; 
and  her  writings,  which  were  j^rincipally  in  the 
•elegiac  strain,  were  much  admired.  Her  other 
•works  were  songs,  madrigals,  and  odes.  The  wits 
of  her  time  ascribed  to  her  the  majesty  of  Juno, 
with  Minerva's  wit  and  Venus'  beauty.  She  died 
at  Paris,  March  10th,  1G73. 

CON  TAT,    LOUISE, 

(By  marriage,  Madame  de  Parny,  but  known  on 
the  stage  by  her  maiden  name),  was  born  at  Paris 
in  1760,  made  her  debut  as  Atalide,  in  Bajazet,  at 
the  Theatre  Fran9ais,  in  1770,  but  afterwards  de- 
voted her  brilliant  endowments  entirely  to  comedy. 
She  possessed  great  versatility  of  talent,  and 
united  beauty,  grace,  ease,  and  archness,  witli 
dignity,  tenderness,  delicacy,  and  judgment.  She 
restored  to  the  stage  the  masterpieces  of  Moliere,  ' 
which  had  long  been  neglected  by  the  public. 
After  a  theatrical  career  of  thirty-two  years,  most 
of  which  were  a  continual  series  of  triumphs,  Ma- 
dame de  Parny  retired  from  the  stage  in  1808,  and 
became  the  centi-e  of  a  brilliant  circle  of  friends, 
in  which  she  was  remarkable  for  her  powers  of 
conversation.  A  few  weeks  before  her  death,  she 
threw  into  the  fire  a  large  collection  of  anecdotes 
and  other  of  her  writings,  in  prose  and  verse,  be- 
cause they  contained  some  strokes  of  personal 
satire.  She  died  in  1813.  M.  Arnault  owed  his 
liberty  and  life,  in  1792,  to  her  interference  in  his 
favour,  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life. 

CONTI,  MARGARET  LOUISA, 
Of  Lorraine,  princess  de,  daughter  of  Henry, 
duke  de  Guise,  surnamed  the  Balafre,  or  The 
Scarred,  was  born  in  1577,  and  died  in  1631.  In 
1605  she  married,  by  the  request  of  Henry  IV., 
who  was  in  love  with  her  and  wished  her  to  remain 
at  court,  Francis  de  Bourbon,  prince  de  Conti. 
They,  however,  left  Henry's  court  secretly,  on 
their  wedding  night,  and  went  to  Brussels.  The 
prince  de  Conti  dying  in  1614,  Louisa  devoted  her- 
self to  literature,  patronised  the  learned,  and  em- 
ployed her  time  in  studying  their  works,  and  in 
writing.  She  was  one  of  cardinal  Richelieu's  ene- 
mies, and  he  banished  her  to  Eu,  where  she  died. 
She  wrote  the  loves  of  Henry  IV.,  under  the  title 
of  "  Les  Amoures  du  Grande  Alexandre."  She 
was  suspected  of  having  married  the  marshal  de 
Bassompierre  for  her  second  husband. 

CONTI,   PRINCESS   DE, 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Mademoiselle  de  Blois, 
was  the  daughter  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Louise  de  la 
Valli<;re.  She  married  Louis  Armand  de  Bourbon, 
prince  de  Conti,  brother  of  the  prince  who  was 
chosen  king  of  Poland.  Louis  Armand  died  of 
the  small-pox.  The  princess  was  equally  cele- 
brated for  her  wit  and  wonderful  beauty.  Muley 
Ismael,  king  of  Morocco,  happening  to  see  her 
portrait,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  sent  an  ambas- 
sador to  demand  her  hand.  Another  likeness  of 
this  princess  inspired  the  sou  of  the  viceroy  of 


Lima  with  a  violent  passion ;  and  one  of  these 
pictures  having  been  lost  in  India,  was  found  by 
the  natives,  who  worshipped  it  as  the  image  of  the 
goddess  Monas.  The  princess  was  a  protectress 
of  literary  men.  She  died  at  the  commencement 
of  the  eighteenth  century. 


/«'  ,v 


CORDAY   D'ARMONT,    MARIA-ANNE 
CHARLOTTE, 

Was  one  of  the  last  descendants  of  a  noble 
Norman  family ;  she  numbered  among  her  ances- 
tors the  great  ti-agedian  Corneille,  and  Fontenelle 
was  a  near  relation. 

Her  father,  Jacques  of  Corday  and  of  Armont, 
was  a  younger  son  of  this  noble  line.  He  was, 
however,  poorer  than  many  of  the  peasants  amongst 
whom  he  lived,  cultivating  with  his  own  hands  his 
narrow  inheritance.  He  married  in  early  life  a 
ladj'  of  gentle  blood,  but  as  poor  as  himself.  They 
had  five  children  and  a  noble  name  to  support,  in 
a  vain  show  of  dignity,  on  their  insufficient  income. 
It  thus  happened  that  Charlotte,  their  fourth  child 
and  second  daughter,  was  born  in  a  thatched 
dwelling,  in  the  village  of  Saint  Saturniu  des 
Lignerets  ;  and  that  in  the  register  of  the  parish 
church  whei-e  she  was  baptized,  on  the  28th  of 
July,  1768,  the  day  after  her  birth,  she  is  described 
as  "  born  in  lawful  wedlock  of  Jacques  Fran9ois  of 
Corday,  esquire,  sieur  of  Armont,  and  of  the  noble 
dame  Marie  Charlotte-Jacqueline,  of  Gauthier  des 
Authieux,  his  wife."  It  was  under  these  difficult 
circumstances,  which  embittered  his  temper,  and 
often  caused  him  to  inveigh,  in  energetic  terms, 
against  the  injustice  of  the  law  of  primogeniture, 
that  M.  d' Armont  reared  his  family.  As  soon  as 
they  were  of  age,  his  sons  entered  the  army ;  one 
of  his  daughters  died  young ;  and  he  became  a 
widower  when  the  other  two  were  emerging  from 
childhood  into  youth.  They  remained  for  some 
time  with  their  father,  but  at  length  entered  the  Ab- 
baye  aux  Dames,  in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Caen. 

The  greatest  portion  of  the  youth  of  Charlotte 
Corday  —  to  give  her  the  name  by  which  she  is 
generally  known — was  spent  in  the  calm  obscurity 
of  her  convent  solitude. 

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When  the  Abbaye  aux  Dames  was  closed,  in 
consequence  of  the  revolution,  Charlotte  was  in 
her  twentieth  year,  in  the  prime  of  life  and  of  her 
wonderful  beauty  ;  and  never,  perhaps,  did  a  vision 
of  more  dazzling  loveliness  step  forth  from  beneath 
the  dark  convent  portal  into  the  light  of  the  free 
and  open  world.  She  was  rather  tall,  but  admi- 
rably proportioned,  with  a  figure  full  of  native 
grace  and  dignity ;  her  hands,  arms,  and  shoul- 
ders, were  models  of  pure  sculptural  beauty.  An 
expression  of  singular  gentleness  and  serenity 
characterized  her  fair,  oval  countenance  and  re- 
gular features.  Her  open  forehead,  dark  and  j 
well-arched  eyebrows,  and  eyes  of  a  gr^y  so  deep 
that  it  was  often  mistaken  for  blue,  added  to  her 
naturally  grave  and  meditative  appearance ;  her 
nose  was  straight  iind  well  formed,  her  mouth 
serious  but  exquisitely  beautiful.  Like  most  of 
the  women  of  the  Norman  race,  she  had  a  com- 
plexion of  transparent  purity ;  enhanced  by  the 
rich  brown  hair  which  fell  in  thick  curls  around 
her  neck,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  period. 
A  simple  sevei'ity  characterized  her  dress  of  sombre 
hue,  and  the  low  and  becoming  lace  cap  which  she 
habitually  wore,  is  still  known  by  her  name  in 
France.  Her  whole  aspect  was  fraught  with  so 
much  modest  grace  and  dignity,  that,  notwith- 
standing her  youth,  the  first  feeling  she  invariably 
inspired  was  one  of  respect ;  blended  with  invo- 
luntary admiration,  for  a  being  of  such  pure  and 
touching  loveliness. 

On  leaving  the  convent  in  which  she  had  been 
educated,  Charlotte  Corday  went  to  reside  with 
her  aunt,  Madame  Coutellier  de  Bretteville  Gou- 
ville ;  an  old  royalist  lady,  who  inhabited  an 
ancient-looking  house  in  one  of  the  principal 
streets  of  Caen.  There  the  young  girl,  who  had 
inherited  a  little  property,  spent  several  years, 
chiefly  engaged  in  watching  the  progress  of  the 
revolution.  The  feelings  of  her  father  were  simi- 
larly engrossed :  he  wrote  several  pamphlets  in 
favour  of  the  revolutionary  principles  ;  and  one  in 
which  he  attacked  the  right  of  primogeniture. 
His  republican  tendencies  confirmed  Charlotte  in 
her  opinions ;  but  of  the  deep,  overpowering 
strength  which  those  opinions  acquired  in  her 
soul,  during  the  long  hours  she  daily  devoted  to 
meditation,  no  one  ever  knew,  until  a  stern  and 
fearful  deed  —  more  stern  and  fearful  in  one  so 
gentle  —  had  revealed  it  to  all  France.  A  silent 
reserve  characterized  this  epoch  of  Charlotte  Cor- 
day's  life :  her  enthusiasm  was  not  external,  but 
inward :  she  listened  to  the  discussions  which 
were  carried  on  around  her,  without  taking  a  part 
in  them  herself.  She  seemed  to  feel,  instinctively, 
that  great  thoughts  are  always  better  nursed  in 
the  heart's  solitude :  that  they  can  only  lose  their 
native  depth  and  intensity  by  being  revealed  too 
freely  before  the  indifferent  gaze  of  the  world. 
Those  with  whom  she  then  occasionally  conversed 
took  little  heed  of  the  substance  of  her  discourse, 
and  could  remember  nothing  of  it  when  she  after- 
wards became  celebrated ;  but  all  recollected  well 
her  voice,  and  spoke  with  strange  enthusiasm  of 
its  pure,  silvery  sound.  Like  Madame  Roland, 
whom  she  resembled  in  so  many  respects,  Char- 


lotte possessed  this  rai-e  and  gi-eat  attraction ;  and 
there  was  something  so  touching  in  her  youthful 
and  almost  childlike  utterance  of  heroic  thoughts, 
that  it  affected  even  to  tears  those  who  heard  her, 
on  her  trial,  calmly  defending  herself  from  the 
infamous  accusations  of  her  judges,  and  glorying, 
with  the  same  low,  sweet  tones,  in  the  deadly  deed 
which  had  brought  her  before  them. 

The  fall  of  the  Girondists,  on  the  31st  of  May, 
first  suggested  to  Charlotte  Corday  the  possibility 
of  giving  an  active  shape  to  her  hitherto  passive 
feelings.  She  watched  with  intense,  though  still 
silent,  interest  the  progress  of  events,  concealing 
her  secret  indignation,  and  thoughts  of  vengeance, 
under  her  habitually  calm  aspect.  Those  feelings 
were  heightened  in  her  soul  by  the  presence  of 
the  fugitive  Girondists,  who  had  found  a  refuge  in 
Caen,  and  were  urging  the  Normans  to  raise  an 
army  to  march  on  Paris.  She  found  a  pretence 
to  call  upon  Barbaroux,  then  with  his  friends  at 
the  Intendance.  She  came  twice,  accompanied  by 
an  old  servant,  and  protected  by  her  own  modest 
dignity.  Pethion  saw  her  in  the  hall,  where  she 
was  waiting  for  the  handsome  Girondist,  and  ob- 
served, with  a  smile,  "  So  the  beautiful  aristocrat 
is  come  to  see  republicans."  "  Citizen  Pt^thion," 
she  replied,  "you  now  judge  me  without  knowing 
me,  but  a  time  will  come  when  you  shall  learn 
who  I  am."  With  Barbaroux,  Charlotte  chiefly 
conversed  of  the  imprisoned  Girondists ;  of  Ma- 
dame Roland  and  Marat.  The  name  of  this  man 
had  long  haunted  her  with  a  mingled  feeling  of 
dread  and  horror.  To  Marat  she  ascribed  the 
proscription  of  the  Girondists,  the  woes  of  the 
Republic,  and  on  him  she  resolved  to  avenge  her 
ill-fated  country.  Charlotte  was  not  aware  that 
Marat  was  but  the  tool  of  Danton  and  Robespierre. 
"  If  such  actions  could  be  counselled,"  afterwards 
said  Barbaroux,  "it  is  not  Marat  whom  we  would 
have  advised  her  to  strike." 

Whilst  this  deadly  thought  was  daily  strength- 
ening itself  in  Charlotte's  mind,  she  received 
several  offers  of  marriage.  She  declined  them, 
on  the  plea  of  wishing  to  remain  free :  but  strange 
indeed  must  have  seemed  to  her,  at  that  moment, 
those  proposals  of  earthly  love.  One  of  those 
whom  her  beauty  had  enamoured,  M.  de  Franque- 
lin,  a  young  volunteer  in  the  cause  of  the  Girond- 
ists, died  of  grief  on  learning  her  fate ;  his  last 
request  was,  that  her  portrait,  and  a  few  letters 
he  had  formerly  received  from  her,  might  be 
buried  with  him  in  his  grave. 

For  several  days  after  her  last  interview  with 
Barbaroux,  Charlotte  brooded  silently  over  her 
great  thought,  often  meditating  on  the  history  of 
Judith.  Her  aunt  subsequently  remembered  that, 
on  entering  her  room  one  morning,  she  found  an 
old  Bible  open  on  her  bed :  the  verse  in  which  it 
is  recorded  that  "  the  Lord  had  gifted  Judith  with 
a  special  beauty  and  fairness,"  for  the  deliverance 
of  Israel,  was  underlined  with  a  pencil. 

On  another  occasion  Madame  de  Bretteville 
found  her  niece  weeping  alone  ;  she  inquired  into 
the  cause  of  her  tears.  "  They  flow,"  replied 
Charlotte,  "for  the  misfortunes  of  my  country." 
Heroic  and  devoted  as   she  was,  she  then  also 

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wept,  perchance,  over  her  own  youth  and  beauty, 
so  soon  to  be  sacrificed  for  ever.  No  personal 
considerations  altered  her  resolve ;  she  procured 
a  passport,  provided  herself  with  money,  and  paid 
a  farewell  visit  to  her  father,  to  inform  him  that, 
considei-ing  the  unsettled  condition  of  France,  she 
thought  it  best  to  retire  to  England.  He  approved 
of  her  intention,  and  bade  her  adieu.  On  return- 
ing to  Caen,  Charlotte  told  the  same  tale  to  Ma- 
dame de  Bretteville,  left  a  secret  provision  for  an 
old  nurse,  and  distributed  the  little  property  she 
possessed  amongst  her  friends. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  9th  of  July,  1793, 
that  she  left  the  house  of  her  aunt,  without  trust- 
ing herself  with  a  last  farewell.  Her  most  earnest 
wish  was,  when  her  deed  should  have  been  accom- 
plished, to  perish,  wholly  unknown,  by  the  hands 
of  an  infuriated  multitude.  The  woman  who  could 
contemplate  such  a  fate,  and  calmly  devote  hei-- 
self  to  it,  without  one  selfish  thought  of  future 
renown,  had  indeed  the  heroic  soul  of  a  martyr. 

Her  journey  to  Paris  was  marked  by  no  other 
event  than  the  unwelcome  attentions  of  some  Ja- 
cobins with  whom  she  travelled.  One  of  them, 
struck  by  her  modest  and  gentle  beauty,  made  her 
a  very  serious  proposal  of  marriage :  she  playfully 
evaded  his  request,  but  promised  that  he  should 
learn  who  and  what  she  was  at  some  future  period. 
On  entering  Paris  she  proceeded  immediately  to 
the  Hotel  de  la  Providence,  Rue  des  Vieux  Au- 
gustins,  not  far  from  Marat's  dwelling.  Here  she 
rested  for  tw'o  days,  before  calling  on  her  intended 
victim.  Nothing  can  mark  more  forcibly  the  sin- 
gular calmness  of  her  mind :  she  felt  no  hurry  to 
accomplish  the  deed  for  which  she  had  journeyed 
so  far,  and  over  which  she  had  meditated  so 
deeply :  her  soul  remained  serene  and  undaunted 
to  tlie  last.  The  room  which  she  occupied,  and 
■which  has  often  been  pointed  out  to  inquiring 
strangers,  was  a  dark  and  wretched  attic,  into 
which  light  scarcely  ever  penetrated.  There  she 
read  again  the  volume  of  Plutarch  she  had  brought 
with  her, — unwilling  to  part  with  her  favourite 
author,  even  in  her  last  hours, — and  probably 
composed  that  energetic  address  to  the  people 
which  was  found  upon  her  after  her  apprehension. 
One  of  the  first  acts  of  Charlotte  was  to  call  on 
the  Girondist,  Duperret,  for  whom  she  was  pro- 
vided with  a  letter  from  Barbarous,  relative  to 
the  supposed  business  she  had  in  Paris :  her  real 
motive  was  to  learn  how  she  could  see  Marat. 
She  had  first  intended  to  strike  him  in  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  on  the  14th  of  July,  the  anniversary  of 
the  fall  of  the  Bastille,  when  a  great  and  imposing 
ceremony  was  to  take  place.  The  festival  being 
delayed,  she  resolved  to  seek  him  in  the  Conven- 
tion, and  immolate  him  on  the  very  summit  of  the 
Mountain ;  but  Marat  was  too  ill  to  attend  the 
meetings  of  the  National  Assembly  :  this  Charlotte 
learned  from  Duperret.  She  resolved,  nevertheless, 
to  go  to  the  Convention,  in  order  to  fortify  herself 
in  her  resolve.  Mingling  with  the  horde  of  Ja- 
cobins who  crowded  the  galleries,  she  watched 
with  deep  attention  the  scene  below.  Saint  Just 
was  then  urging  the  Convention  to  proscribe  Lan- 
juinais,  the  heroic  defender  of  the  Girondists.     A 


young  foreigner,  a  friend  of  Lanjuinais,  and  who 
stood  at  a  short  distance  from  Charlotte,  noticed 
the  expression  of  stern  indignation  which  gathered 
over  her  features ;  until,  like  one  overpowered  by 
her  feelings,  and  apprehensive  of  displaying  them 
too  openly,  she  abruptly  left  the  place.  Struck 
with  her  whole  appearance,  he  followed  her  out; 
a  sudden  shower  of  rain,  which  compelled  them  to 
seek  shelter  under  the  same  archway,  afforded 
him  an  opportunity  of  entering  into  conversation 
■with  her.  When  she  leai-ned  that  he  was  a  friend 
of  Lanjuinais,  she  waived  her  reserve,  and  ques- 
tioned him  with  much  interest  concerning  Madame 
Roland  and  the  Girondists.  She  also  asked  him 
about  Marat,  with  whom  she  said  she  had  busi- 
ness. "Marat  is  ill;  it  ■would  be  better  for  you 
to  apply  to  the  public  accuser,  Fouquier  Tinville," 
said  the  stranger.  "I  do  not  want  him  now,  but 
I  may  have  to  deal  with  him  yet,"  she  significantly 
replied. 

Perceiving  that  the  rain  did  not  cease,  she  re- 
quested her  companion  to  procure  her  a  convey- 
ance ;  he  complied  ;  and,  before  parting  from  her, 
begged  to  be  favoured  with  her  name.  She  re- 
fused ;  adding,  however,  "  You  will  know  it  before 
long."  With  Italian  courtesy,  he  kissed  her  hand 
as  he  assisted  her  into  the  fiacre.  She  smiled, 
and  bade  him  farewell. 

Charlotte  perceived  that  to  call  on  Marat  was 
the  only  means  by  which  she  might  accomplish 
her  purpose.  She  did  so  on  the  morning  of  the 
13th  of  July,  having  first  purchased  a  knife  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  and  written  him  a  note,  in  which 
she  requested  an  interview.  She  was  refused  ad- 
mittance. She  then  wrote  him  a  second  note, 
more  pressing  than  the  first,  and  in  ■which  she 
represented  herself  as  persecuted  for  the  cause  of 
freedom.  Without  waiting  to  see  what  effect  this 
note  might  produce,  she  called  again  at  half-past 
seven  the  same  evening. 

Marat  then  resided  in  the  Rue  des  Cordeliers, 
in  a  gloomy-looking  house,  which  has  since  been 
demolished.  His  constant  fears  of  assassination 
were  shared  by  those  around  him ;  the  porter, 
seeing  a  strange  woman  pass  by  his  lodge  ■without 
pausing  to  make  any  inquiry,  ran  out  and  called 
her  back.  She  did  not  heed  his  remonstrance,  but 
swiftly  ascended  the  old  stone  staircase,  until  she 
had  reached  the  door  of  Marat's  apartment.  It 
was  cautiously  opened  by  Albertine,  a  woman  with 
■whom  Marat  cohabited,  and  who  passed  for  his 
wife.  Recognising  the  same  j'oung  and  handsome 
girl  ■who  had  already  called  on  her  husband,  and 
animated,  perhaps,  by  a  feeling  of  jealous  mis- 
trust, Albertine  refused  to  admit  her;  Charlotte 
insisted  with  great  earnestness.  The  sound  of 
their  altercation  reached  Marat ;  he  immediately 
ordered  his  wife  to  admit  the  stranger,  whom  he 
recognised  as  the  author  of  the  two  letters  he  had 
received  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Albertine 
obeyed  reluctantly ;  she  allowed  Charlotte  to  en- 
ter;  and,  after  crossing  with  her  an  antechamber, 
where  she  had  been  occupied  with  a  man  named 
Laurent  Basse  in  folding  some  numbers  of  the 
"Ami  du  People,"  she  ushered  her  through  two 
other  rooms,  until  they  came  to  a  narrow  closet, 

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where  Marat  was  then  in  a  bath.  He  gave  a  look 
at  Charlotte,  and  ordered  his  wife  to  leave  them 
alone :  she  complied,  but  allowed  the  door  of  the 
closet  to  remain  half  open,  and  kept  within  call. 

According  to  his  usual  custom,  Marat  wore  a 
soiled  handkerchief  bound  round  his  head,  in- 
creasing his  natural  hideousness.  A  coarse  cover- 
ing was  thrown  across  the  bath  ;  a  board,  likewise 
placed  transversely,  supported  his  papers.  Laying 
down  his  pen,  he  asked  Charlotte  the  purport  of 
her  visit.  The  closet  was  so  narrow  that  she 
touched  the  bath  near  which  she  stood.  She  gazed 
on  him  with  ill-disguised  horror  and  disgust,  but 
answered,  as  composedly  as  she  could,  that  she 
had  come  from  Caen,  in  order  to  give  him  correct 
intelligence  concerning  the  proceedings  of  the  Gi- 
rondists there.  He  listened,  questioned  her  ea- 
gerly, wrote  down  the  names  of  the  Girondists, 
then  added,  with  a  smile  of  triumph:  "Before  a 
week  they  shall  have  perished  on  the  guillotine." 
"  These  words,"  afterwards  said  Charlotte,  "  sealed 
his  fate."  Drawing  from  beneath  the  handker- 
chief which  covered  her  bosom  the  knife  she  had 
kept  there  all  along,  she  plunged  it  to  the  hilt  in 
INIarat's  heart.  He  gave  one  loud  expiring  cry  for 
help,  and  sank  back  dead,  in  the  bath.  By  an 
instinctive  impulse,  Charlotte  had  instantly  drawn 
out  the  knife  from  the  breast  of  her  victim,  but 
she  did  not  strike  again ;  casting  it  down  at  his 
feet,  she  left  the  closet,  and  sat  down  in  the  neigh- 
bouring room,  thoughtfully  passing  her  hand  across 
her  brow  :   her  task  was  done. 

The  wife  of  INIarat  had  rushed  to  his  aid  on 
hearing  his  cry  for  help.  Laurent  Basse,  seeing 
that  all  was  over,  turned  round  towards  Charlotte, 
and,  with  a  blow  of  a  chair,  felled  her  to  the  floor ; 
whilst  the  infuriated  Albertine  trampled  her  under 
her  feet.  The  tumult  aroused  the  other  tenants 
of  the  house ;  the  alarm  spread,  and  a  crowd  ga- 
thered in  the  apartment,  who  learned  with  stupor 
that  Marat,  the  Friend  of  the  People,  had  been 
murdered.  Deeper  still  was  their  wonder  when 
they  gazed  on  the  murderess.  She  stood  there 
before  them  with  still  disordered  garments,  and 
her  dishevelled  hair,  loosely  bound  by  a  broad 
green  riband,  falling  around  her;  but  so  calm,  so 
serenely  lovely,  that  those  who  most  abhorred  her 
crime  gazed  on  her  with  involuntary  admiration. 
"  AVas  she  then  so  beautiful  ?"  was  the  question 
addressed,  many  years  afterwards,  to  an  old  man, 
one  of  the  few  remaining  witnesses  of  this  scene. 
"Beautiful!"  he  echoed,  enthusiastically;  adding, 
with  the  wonted  regrets  of  old  age :  "Ay,  there 
are  none  such  now  !" 

The  commissary  of  police  began  his  interroga- 
tory in  the  saloon  of  Marat's  apartment.  She 
told  him  her  name,  how  long  she  had  been  in  Pa- 
ris, confessed  her  crime,  and  recognised  the  knife 
with  which  it  had  been  perpetrated.  The  sheath 
was  found  in  her  pocket,  with  a  thimble,  some 
thread,  money,  and  her  watch. 

"What  was  your  motive  in  assassinating  Ma- 
rat?" asked  the  commissary. 

"  To  prevent  a  civil  war,"  she  answered. 

"  Who  are  your  accomplices  ?" 

"  I  have  none." 


She  was  ordered  to  be  transferred  to  the  Ab- 
baye,  the  nearest  prison.  An  immense  and  infu- 
riated crowd  had  gathered  around  the  door  of 
Marat's  house ;  one  of  the  witnesses  perceived 
that  she  would  have  liked  to  be  delivered  to  this 
maddened  multitude,  and  thus  perish  at  once. 
She  was  not  saved  from  their  hands  without  difiB- 
culty ;  her  courage  failed  her  at  the  sight  of  the 
peril  she  ran,  and  she  fainted  away  on  being  con- 
veyed to  the  fiacre.  On  reaching  the  Abbaye,  she 
was  questioned  until  midnight  by  Chabot  and 
Drouet,  two  Jacobin  members  of  the  Convention. 
She  answered  their  interrogatories  with  singular 
firmness ;  observing,  in  conclusion :  "I  have  done 
my  task,  let  others  do  theirs."  Chabot  threatened 
her  with  the  scaffold ;  she  answered  him  with  a 
smile  of  disdain.  Her  behaviour  until  the  17th, 
the  day  of  her  trial,  was  marked  by  the  same  firm- 
ness. She  wrote  to  Barbaroux  a  charming  letter, 
full  of  graceful  wit  and  heroic  feeling.  Her  play- 
fulness never  degenerated  into  levity :  like  that 
of  the  illustrious  Thomas  More,  it  was  the  sere- 
nity of  a  mind  whom  death  had  no  power  to  daunt. 
Speaking  of  her  action,  she  observes,  "  I  consi- 
dered that  so  many  brave  men  need  not  come  to 
Paris  for  the  head  of  one  man.  He  deserved  not 
so   much   honour :    the   hand   of   a   woman   was 

enough I  have  never  hated  but  one  being, 

and  him  with  what  intensity  I  have  suflSciently 
shown ;  but  there  are  a  thousand  whom  I  love  still 
more  than  I  hated  him I  confess  that  I  em- 
ployed a  perfidious  artifice  in  order  that  he  might 
receive  me.  In  leaving  Caen,  I  thought  to  sacri- 
fice him  on  the  pinnacle  of  '  the  Mountain,'  but  he 
no  longer  went  to  it.  In  Paris  they  cannot  under- 
stand how  a  useless  woman,  whose  longest  life 
could  have  been  of  no  good,  could  sacrifice  lier- 

self  to  save  her  country May  peace  be  as 

soon  established  as  I  desire !  A  great  criminal 
has  been  laid  low  ....  the  happiness  of  my  coun- 
try makes  mine.  A  lively  imagination  and  a  feel- 
ing heart  promise  but  a  stormy  life ;  I  beseech 
those  who  might  regret  me  to  consider  this :  they 
will  then  rejoice  at  my  fate."  A  tenderer  tone 
marks  the  brief  letter  she  addressed  to  her  father 
on  the  eve  of  her  trial  and  death:  "Forgive  me, 
my  dear  father,"  she  observed,  "for  having  dis- 
posed of  my  existence  without  your  permission. 
I  have  avenged  many  innocent  victims.  I  have 
warded  away  many  disasters.  The  people,  unde- 
ceived, will  one  day  rejoice  at  being  delivered  from 
a  tyrant.  If  I  endeavoured  to  persuade  you  that 
I  was  going  to  England,  it  was  because  I  hoped  to 
remain  unknown :  I  recognised  that  this  was  im- 
possible. I  hope  you  will  not  be  subjected  to  an- 
noyance :  you  have  at  least  defenders  at  Caen ;  I 
have  chosen  Gustave  Doulcet  de  Pont^coulant  for 
mine  :  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  form.  Such  a  deed 
allows  of  no  defence.  Farewell,  my  dear  father. 
I  beseech  of  you  to  forget  me ;  or,  rather,  to  re- 
joice at  my  fate.  I  die  for  a  good  cause.  I  em- 
brace my  sister,  whom  I  love  with  my  whole  heart. 
Do  not  forget  the  line  of  Corneille : 

'Le  crime  faite  la  lionte,  et  non  pas  I'^chafaud.' 
To-morrow  at  eight  I  am  to  be  tried." 

On  the  morning  of  the  17th,  she  was  led  before 

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her  judges.  She  was  dressed  with  care,  and  had 
never  looked  more  lovely.  Her  bearing  was  so 
imposing  and  dignified,  that  the  spectators  and  the 
judges  seemed  to  stand  arraigned  before  her.  She 
inteiTupted  the  first  witness,  by  declaring  that  it 
was  she  who  had  killed  Marat.  "  Who  inspired 
you  with  so  much  hatred  against  him  ?"  asked  the 
President. 

"I  needed  not  the  hatred  of  others,  I  had 
enough  of  my  own,"  she  energetically  replied; 
"  besides,  we  do  not  execute  well  that  which  we 
have  not  ourselves  conceived." 

"  What,  then,  did  you  hate  in  Marat?" 

"  His  crimes." 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  have  assassinated  all 
the  Marats  ?" 

"  No ;  but  now  that  he  is  dead,  the  rest  may 
fear." 

She  answered  other  questions  with  equal  firm- 
ness and  laconism.  Her  project,  she  declared,  had 
been  formed  since  the  31st  of  May.  "She  had 
killed  one  man  to  save  a  hundred  thousand.  She 
was  a  republican  long  before  the  Revolution,  and 
had  never  failed  in  energy." 

"What  do  you  understand  by  energy?"  asked 
the  President. 

"  That  feeling,"  she  replied,  "  which  induces  us 
to  cast  aside  selfish  considerations,  and  sacrifice 
ourselves  for  our  country." 

Fouquier  Tinville  here  observed,  alluding  to  the 
sure  blow  she  had  given,  that  she  must  be  well 
practised  in  crime.  "The  monster  takes  me  for 
an  assassin!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  thrilling 
with  indignation.  This  closed  the  debates,  and 
her  defender  rose.  It  was  not  Doulcet  de  Ponte- 
coulant  —  who  had  not  received  her  letter  —  but 
Chauveau  de  la  Garde,  chosen  by  the  President. 
Charlotte  gave  him  an  anxious  look,  as  though  she 
feared  he  might  seek  to  save  her  at  the  expense 
of  honour.  He  spoke,  and  she  perceived  that  her 
apprehensions  were  unfounded.  Without  excusing 
her  crime  or  attributing  it  to  insanity,  he  pleaded 
for  the  ferv'our  of  her  conviction ;  which  he  had 
the  courage  to  call  sublime.  The  appeal  proved 
unavailing.  Charlotte  Corday  was  condemned. 
Without  deigning  to  answer  the  President,  who 
asked  her  if  she  had  aught  to  object  to  the  pen- 
alty of  death  being  carried  out  against  her,  she 
rose,  and  walking  up  to  her  defender,  thanked  him 
gracefully.  "  These  gentlemen,"  said  she,  point- 
ing to  the  judges,  "  have  just  informed  me  that 
the  whole  of  my  property  is  confiscated.  I  owe 
something  in  the  prison :  as  a  proof  of  my  friend- 
ship and  esteem,  I  request  you  to  pay  this  little 
debt." 

On  returning  to  the  Conciergerie,  she  found  an 
artist,  named  Hauer,  waiting  for  her,  to  finish  her 
portrait,  which  he  had  begun  at  the  Tribunal. 
They  conversed  freely  together,  until  the  execu- 
tioner, carrying  the  red  chemise  destined  for 
assassins,  and  the  scissors  with  which  he  was  to 
cut  her  hair  off,  made  his  appearance.  "  What, 
so  soon !"  exclaimed  Charlotte  Corday,  slightly 
turning  pale ;  but  rallying  her  courage,  she  re- 
sumed her  composure,  and  presented  a  lock  of  her 
hair  to  M.  Hauiir,  as  the  only  reward  in  her  power 


to  give.  A  priest  came  to  ofiFer  her  his  ministry. 
She  thanked  him  and  the  persons  by  whom  he  had 
been  sent,  but  declined  his  spiritual  aid.  The 
executioner  cut  her  hair,  bound  her  hands,  and 
threw  the  red  chemise  over  her.  M.  Hauer  was 
struck  with  the  almost  unearthly  loveliness  which 
the  crimson  hue  of  this  garment  imparted  to  the 
ill-fated  maiden.  "  This  toilet  of  death,  though 
performed  by  rude  hands,  leads  to  immortality," 
said  Charlotte,  with  a  smile. 

A  heavy  storm  broke  forth  as  the  car  of  the 
condemned  left  the  Conciergerie  for  the  Place  de 
la  Revolution.  An  immense  crowd  lined  every 
street  through  which  Charlotte  Corday  passed. 
Hootings  and  execrations  at  first  rose  on  her  path ; 
but  as  her  pure  and  serene  beauty  dawned  on  the 
multitude,  as  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  her  coun- 
tenance and  the  sculptured  beauty  .■)f  her  figure 
became  more  fully  revealed,  pity  and  admiration 
superseded  every  other  feeling.  Her  bearing  was 
so  admirably  calm  and  dignified,  as  to  rouse  sym- 
pathy in  the  breasts  of  those  who  detested  not 
only  her  crime,  but  the  cause  for  which  it  had 
been  committed.  Many  men  of  every  party  took 
off  their  hats  and  bowed  as  the  cart  passed  before 
them.  Amongst  those  who  waited  its  approach, 
was  a  young  German,  named  Adam  Luz,  who  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Rue  Sainte  Honore,  and 
followed  Charlotte  to  the  scaffold.  He  gazed  on 
the  lovely  and  heroic  maiden  with  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  his  imaginative  race.  A  love,  unexam- 
pled perhaps  in  the  history  of  the  human  heart, 
took  possession  of  his  soul.  Not  one  wandering 
look  of  "  those  beautiful  eyes,  which  revealed  a 
soul  as  intrepid  as  it  was  tender,"  escaped  him. 
Every  earthly  grace  so  soon  to  perish  in  death, 
every  trace  of  the  lofty  and  immortal  spirit,  tilled 
him  with  bitter  and  intoxicating  emotions  unknown 
till  then.  "To  die  for  her;  to  be  struck  by  the 
same  hand ;  to  feel  in  death  the  same  cold  axe 
which  had  severed  the  angelic  head  of  Charlotte ; 
to  be  united  to  her  in  heroism,  freedom,  love,  and 
death,  was  now  the  only  hope  and  desire  of  his 
heart." 

Unconscious  of  the  passionate  love  she  had 
awakened,  Charlotte  now  stood  near  the  guillotine. 
She  turned  pale  on  first  beholding  it,  but  soon  re- 
sumed her  serenity.  A  deep  blush  sulFused  her 
face  when  the  executioner  removed  the  handker- 
chief that  covered  her  neck  and  shoulders ;  but 
she  calmly  laid  her  head  upon  the  block.  The 
executioner  touched  a  spring,  and  the  axe  came 
down.  One  of  the  assistants  immediately  stepped 
forward,  and  holding  up  the  lifeless  head  to  the 
gaze  of  the  crowd,  struck  it  on  either  cheek.  The 
brutal  act  only  excited  a  feeling  of  horror ;  and 
it  is  said  that  —  as  though  even  in  death  her  in- 
dignant spirit  protested  against  this  outrage  —  an 
angry  and  crimson  flush  passed  over  the  features 
of  Charlotte  Corday. 

A  few  days  after  her  execution,  Adam  Luz  pub- 
lished a  pamphlet,  in  which  he  enthusiastically 
praised  her  deed,  and  proposed  that  a  statue  with 
the  inscription,  "  Greater  than  Bri/tu.f,"  should  be 
erected  to  her  memory  on  the  spot  where  she  had 
jjerished.     He  was  arrested  and  tlirown  into  pri- 

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son.  On  entering  the  Abbaye,  he  passionately 
exclaimed,  "I  am  going  to  die  for  her!"  His 
wish  was  fulfilled  ere  long. 

Strange  feverish  times  were  those  which  could 
rouse  a  gentle  and  lovely  maiden  to  avenge  free- 
dom by  such  a  deadly  deed ;  which  could  waken 
in  a  human  heart  a  love  whose  thoughts  were  not 
of  life  or  earthly  bliss,  but  of  the  grave  and  the 
scaffold.  Let  the  times,  then,  explain  those  na- 
tures, where  so  much  evil  and  heroism  are  blended 
that  man  cannot  mark  the  limits  between  both. 
Whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  upon  her, 
the  character  of  Charlotte  Corday  was  certainly 
not  cast  in  an  ordinary  mould.  It  is  a  striking 
and  noble  trait,  that  to  the  last  she  did  not  re- 
pent :  never  was  error  more  sincere.  If  she  could 
have  repented,  she  would  never  have  become 
guilty. 

Her  deed  created  an  extraordinary  impression 
throughout  France.  On  hearing  of  it,  a  beautiful 
royalist  lady  fell  down  on  her  knees  and  invoked 
"  Saint  Charlotte  Corday."  The  republican  Ma- 
dame Roland  calls  her  a  heroine  worthy  of  a  better 
age.  The  poet,  Andre  Chenier  —  who,  before  a 
year  had  elapsed,  followed  her  on  the  scaffold  — 
sang  her  heroism  in  a  soul-stirring  strain. 

The  political  influence  of  that  deed  may  be 
estimated  by  the  exclamation  of  Vergniaud  :  "  She 
kills  us,  but  she  teaches  us  how  to  die  !"  It  was 
so.  The  assassination  of  Marat  exasperated  all 
his  fanatic  partisans  against  the  Girondists.  Al- 
most divine  honours  were  paid  to  his  memory ; 
forms  of  prayer  were  addressed  to  him ;  altars 
were  erected  to  his  honour,  and  numberless  vic- 
tims sent  to  the  scaffold  as  a  peace-offering  to  his 
manes.  On  the  wreck  of  his  popularity  rose  the 
far  more  dangerous  power  of  Robespierre :  a  new 
impulse  was  given  to  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Such 
was  the  "  peace"  which  the  erring  and  heroic 
Charlotte  Corday  won  for  France. 

The  author  of  "  The  Women  in  France,"  from 
whose  interesting  book  we  have  selected  this  me- 
moir, thus  remarks  on  the  character  of  this  extra- 
ordinary woman :  "  To  judge  her  absolutely  lies 
not  in  the  province  of  man.  Beautiful,  pure,  gen- 
tle, and — a  murderess!"  It  may  be  added,  that, 
compared  with  the  men  of  her  time,  Charlotte 
Corday  was  like  a  bright  star  shining  through 
noxious  and  dark  exhalations  of  selfishness  and 
wickedness.  She  was  not  a  Christian,  for  true 
Christianity  had  lost  its  power  over  the  people  of 
J'rance  ;  but  she  displayed,  with  the  stern  strength 
of  a  Roman  soul,  the  highest  principle  of  our  un- 
regenerate  nature  —  patriotism. 

CORTESI,  GIOyANNA  MARMOCCHINI, 

A  CELEBRATED  Florentine  artist,  was  born  in 
1670,  and  instructed  by  Livio  Mechus,  and  Pietro 
Dandini ;  but,  by  order  of  the  grand-duchess,  she 
was  afterwards  taught  to  paint  in  miniature  by 
Ilippolito  Galantini.  In  that  style  she  became 
very  eminent  for  her  colouring,  drawing,  and  the 
striking  likenesses  she  produced.  She  usually 
worked  in  oil,  but  also  painted  equally  well  with 
crayons.     Slie  died  in  173G. 


CORNARO,  HELENA  LUCRETIA, 

A  LEARNED  Venetian  lady,  was  the  daughter  of 
Gio  Baptista  Cornaro,  and  educated  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent manner  from  her  sex  generally :  she  was 
taught  languages,  sciences,  and  the  philosophy  of 
the  schools,  difficult  as  it  then  was.  She  took  her 
degrees  at  Padua,  and  was  perhaps  the  first  lady 
who  was  made  a  doctor.  She  was  also  admitted 
to  the  university  at  Rome,  where  she  had  tlie  title 
of  Humble  given  her,  as  she  had  that  of  Unalterable 
at  Padua.  She  deserved  both  these  appellations, 
since  all  her  learning  had  not  inspired  her  with 
vanity,  nor  could  any  thing  disturb  her  calmness 
and  tranquillity  of  mind.  She  made  a  vow  of  vir- 
ginity, and  though  all  means  were  used  to  persuade 
her  to  marry,  and  dispensation  obtained  from  the 
pope,  she  remained  immovable.  She  exercised 
upon  herself  the  discipline  of  flagellation,  fasted 
often,  and  spent  nearly  her  whole  time  in  study 
and  devotion. 

Persons  of  note  who  passed  through  Venice 
were  more  desirous  to  see  her  than  any  of  the  cu- 
riosities of  that  superb  city.  The  cardinals  de 
Bouillon  and  d'Etrees  were  commanded  by  the 
king  of  France  to  call  on  her,  on  their  journey 
through  Italy,  and  examine  whether  what  was 
said  of  her  was  true ;  and  they  found  that  she 
fully  equalled  her  high  reputation  all  over  Europe. 
Her  severe  studies  impaired  her  health,  and  she 
died  in  1685. 

As  soon  as  the  news  of  her  death  reached  Rome, 
the  academicians,  called  Infecondi,  who  had  ad- 
mitted her  to  their  society,  made  innumerable 
odes  and  epitaphs  to  her  memory.  They  celebrated 
a  funeral  solemnity  in  her  honour,  in  the  college 
of  the  Barnabite  friars,  with  the  highest  pomp  and 
magnificence ;  and  one  of  the  academicians  made 
a  funeral  oration,  in  which  he  expatiated  on  all 
her  great  and  valuable  qualities.  She  was  not  the 
author  of  any  literary  productions. 

COSEL,    COUNTESS   OF, 

One  of  the  numerous  mistresses  of  Augustus  II., 
king  of  Poland  and  elector  of  Saxony,  was  the 
wife  of  the  Saxon  minister  Hoymb,  who,  knowing 
the  king's  disposition,  kept  her  far  from  court; 
but,  on  one  occasion,  excited  by  wine,  he  praised 
her  so  highly  to  the  king,  that  Augustus  ordered 
her  to  be  brought  to  Dresden.  Soon  after  she 
was  divorced  from  Hoymb,  and  appeared  at  court 
as  the  countess  of  Cosel.  A  palace  was  built  for 
her  by  the  king,  still  called  the  Cosel  palace,  which 
was  pre-eminent  for  magnificence  and  luxury. 
For  nine  years  the  countess  preserved  the  king's 
favour,  and  exercised  an  arbitrary  sway  in  the  af- 
fairs of  government.  The  money  coined  while  she 
was  in  favour  bore  the  stamp  of  the  royal  arms  in 
conjunction  with  those  of  the  countess.  At  last 
she  fell  into  disgrace,  and  was  dismissed.  She 
retired  to  Prussia,  and  was  afterwards  arrested  at 
Halle,  at  the  request  of  Augustus,  and  imprisoned 
at  Stolpe,  in  Saxony,  where  slie  remained  forty- 
five  years.     She  died  at  the  age  of  eighty. 

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COSSON  DE  LA  C  RE  S  S  ONNIE  RE, 
CHARLOTTE  CATHARINE, 

Born  at  Mfezieres,  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
was  the  author  of  several  poems  which  were 
published  in  the  ^^  Mercure  de  France,'"  and  other 
periodical  journals.  She  also  wrote  a  poetical 
"  Lamentation  on  the  Death  of  the  Dauphin." 

COSTA,    MARIA   MARGARITA, 

An  Italian  poetess,  whose  works  were  published 
at  Paris,  was  born  at  Rome,  in  1716.  She  was  a 
woman  of  vast  erudition,  and  wrote  successfully 
in  different  kinds  of  literature.  She  wrote  the 
librettos  of  several  operas. 

COS  WAY,    MARY, 

One  of  the  best  miniature-painters  of  Italy,  was 
the  daughter  of  an  Englishman  by  the  name  of 
Hadfield,  who  kept  a  hotel  at  Leghorn.  I\Iary 
was  born  in  the  year  1779,  and  married,  when 
twenty  years  old,  an  Englishman  by  the  name  of 
Cosway,  who  had  acquired  some  celebrity  as  a 
painter.  He  soon  discovered  the  talent  of  his  wife, 
and  aided  her  in  cultivating  it.  He  then  went 
with  her  to  Paris,  where  she  devoted  herself  alto- 
gether to  miniature-painting  and  engraving.  Her 
fame  extended  soon  throughout  the  country,  and 
people  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  came  to  have 
their  likenesses  taken  by  her.  Her  greatest  un- 
dertaking, a  work  which  was  to  contain  a  copy  of 
the  best  paintings  in  the  Museum,  accompanied 
with  historical  notices,  remained  unfinished  on 
account  of  the  loss  of  a  child,  which  affected  her 
so  much  that  she  became  melancholy,  and  gave 
up  her  artistical  pursuits.  She  died,  1804,  in  a 
nunnery  near  Lyons. 


COTTIN,  SOPHIE, 
Whose  maiilen  name  was  Ristaud,  was  born  at 
Tonneins,  in  the  department  of  Lot  and  Garonne, 
in  1773.  She  married  M.  Cottin,  a  banker  at 
Bordeaux,  and  went  soon  after  to  reside  at  Paris, 
where  her  husband  died.  She  was  then  twenty 
years  of  age,  and  miglit  have  been  much  admired  ; 
but  she  liad  been  tenderly  attached  to  her  husband, 


and  never  would  re-marry.  To  relieve  her  sor- 
rows, she  gave  herself  up  to  intellectual  pursuits  ; 
and  thus,  in  the  expression  of  her  thoughts  and 
feelings,  she  began  to  write.  Her  first  attempts 
were  small  poems,  and  a  story,  "Claire  d'Albe," 
which  she  was  induced  to  publish  by  the  following 
singular  circumstances.  Upon  the  breaking  out 
of  the  revolution  of  1789,  Madame  Cottin,  who  did 
not  partake  of  the  popular  opinions,  adopted  the 
most  secluded  life  possible,  devoting  herself  to 
study  and  reading.  At  the  same  time  she  took  a 
lively  interest  in  the  misfortunes  of  those  unhappy 
days,  and  her  heart  bled  to  hear  of  the  imprison- 
ment and  execution  of  many  a  well-known  citizen. 
In  the  darkest  days  of  "  terror,"  she  one  evening 
received  the  following  letter : 

Madam, — I  am  almost  unknown  to  you.  I  have 
seen  you  but  a  few  times,  and  have  probably  made 
but  a  slight  impression  on  you  ;  but  I  am  in  urgent 
distress,  and  I  apply  to  you  with  confidence,  cer- 
tain of  receiving  the  aid  you  can  administer. 

Madam,  my  name  is  on  the  jjroscribed  list;  I 
am  surrounded  by  spies  and  enemies ;  every  step 
leads  me  to  the  guillotine,  and  I  can  only  hope  for 
safety  in  a  foreign  land.  But  I  am  totally  without 
money  to  release  myself  from  these  dangers ;  a 
way  has  now  opened  for  me,  but  persons  must  be 
feed,  and  2150  livres  is  the  sum  requisite.  I  sup- 
plicate you  then,  madam,  to  take  pity  on  an  un- 
fortunate fellow-creature  who  wishes  to  preserve 
his  life  for  the  sake  of  a  family  depending  on  him. 
The  person  who  delivers  this  will  call  for  your 
answer,  and  may  be  entirely  trusted. 

De  Fonbelle. 

Madame  Cottin  remembered  the  name  of  Fon- 
belle, and  also  remembered  that  he  was  highly 
esteemed  in  the  house  where  she  had  met  him ; 
she  was  anxious  to  save  him ;  but  how  or  where 
to  get  the  required  sum  ?  She  thought,  she  con- 
sidered ;  when  at  last  the  idea  struck  her.  She 
had  often  been  urged  by  her  friends  to  publish  the 
tales  she  had  written  for  her  amusement,  but  had 
always  shrunk  from  coming  before  the  world. 
In  this  extremity,  however,  she  bethought  her  of 
a  story,  of  which  she  had  read  the  first  chapters 
in  a  little  circle,  where  it  had  produced  a  favour- 
able impression.  Slie  instantly  sat  down  to  her 
writing-desk,  drew  out  her  imperfect  manuscript, 
and  resolved  to  complete  it.  The  night  passed — 
she  was  still  at  her  labours ;  two  o'clock  came — 
her  room  was  the  only  one  in  the  house  that  showed 
alight;  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door — a  noise 
in  the  entry !  AVho  could  it  be,  at  that  hour?  Her 
heart  beat  violently.  It  was  a  domiciliary  visit ! 
The  letter  of  Fonbelle  lay  on  the  desk — it  needed 
all  her  presence  of  mind  —  the  gens-d'armes  were 
already  in  the  room.  The  expedient  she  adopted 
was  singular,  but  successful  ;  she  told  them  she 
was  an  authoress,  merely  occupied  in  her  vocation, 
and,  that  they  might  be  convinced  of  it,  offered  to 
give  them  a  sketch  of  her  story.  They  ranged 
themselves  on  chairs  round  the  room,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  relate  to  them  "Claire  d'Albe."  There 
was  such  a  charm  in  her  voice,  and  in  her  manner 
of  arranging  the  incidents  —  so  much  dramatic 
interest  in  her  conduct  of  the  events  —  that  these 


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rude  men  became  deeply  affected.  The  same 
people  who  would  have  remorselessly  dragged  the 
fairest  and  tenderest  to  a  merciless  execution,  ab- 
solutely sobbed  over  fictitious  woes,  pathetically 
related.  When  she  had  finished,  they  were  so 
much  gratified,  that  they  forbore  touching  her 
papers ;  and  their  search  through  the  house  was 
but  nominal.  They  departed,  after  shaking  hands 
with  her,  telling  her  when  the  book  came  out, 
they  would  immediately  purchase  a  copy. 

The  book  was  soon  finished;  but  that  was  not 
all — it  must  be  sold.  Madame  Cottin  went  in  the 
morning  to  at  least  twenty  booksellers ;  none  were 
willing  to  risk  their  money  with  an  unknown 
author.  Her  active  benevolence  was  not  to  be 
abated  by  repulse.  At  last,  by  the  means  of  a 
friend,  she  was  introduced  to  a  kind-hearted  pub- 
lisher, who,  hearing  she  was  pressed  for  money, 
consented  to  oblige  her.  "  AVhat  do  you  ask, 
madam  ?"  said  he  ;  "  the  book  is  prettily  written, 
as  far  as  I  see,  but  it  is  not  a  master-piece." 
"Fifty  Louis,"  replied  she;  "since  you  are  so 
frank,  I  confess  that  I  am  under  the  most  urgent 
necessity  to  procure  this  sum." 

The  good  man  feared  the  risk ;  but  his  better 
feelings  prevailed,  and  he  counted  her  out  fifty 
golden  Louis.  The  rest  of  the  sum  she  made  up 
from  money  she  had  reserved  for  her  housekeeping 
supplies,  determined  to  live  frugally  till  her  next 
account  day.  AYhen  the  messenger  returned,  she 
placed  in  his  hands  the  2150  livres ;  and  in  a  fort- 
night, had  the  pleasure  of  a  letter  from  M.  De 
Fonbelle,  assuring  her  of  his  safety  and  gratitude, 
while  on  the  same  day  her  volume  appeared  in 
print.  It  was  received  with  so  much  approbation, 
that  she  was  induced  to  bring  out,  in  succession, 
her  other  more  admired  works. 

This  anecdote  has  been  detailed,  as  it  honours 
Madame  Cottin  more  than  even  her  literary  repu- 
tation. How  noble,  to  take  the  first  steps  in  the 
career  of  authorship  from  no  sordid  motive,  nor 
even  from  a  vain  desire  of  renown,  but  solely  to 
save  the  life  of  an  innocent  victim  of  injustice ! 
Her  other  woi-ks  were  all  brought  out  for  the  in- 
dulgence of  her  wish  to  succour  the  indigent,  and 
never  did  a  lower  motive  inspire  her  genius.  Her 
written  works  are  like  her  entire  life  —  an  exposi- 
tion of  the  noblest  sentiments.  The  eloquence 
and  fervour  with  which  she  expresses  the  most 
secret  feelings  of  the  heart,  have  been  much  ad- 
mired, particularly  by  her  own  sex.  Her  author- 
ship commenced  from  the  irrepressible  desire  to 
occupy  her  time  innocently,  and  improve  her  own 
mind.  The  last  work  she  undertook,  was  on  reli- 
gion ;  and  she  had  also  commenced  one  on  educa- 
tion ;  a  painful  disease  prevented  her  from  finish- 
ing either.  The  latter  was  the  only  one  of  her 
works  for  which  she  was  anxious  to  gain  a  favour- 
able reception  with  the  public.  Singular  as  it 
will  now  seem,  she  disapproved,  in  general,  of 
women  appearing  as  authors ;  but,  in  her  solici- 
tude for  this  work  on  education,  she  honoured  the 
true  and  instinctive  promptings  of  female  genius — 
to  teach.  Madame  Cottin  died,  after  a  severe  ill- 
ness of  three  months,  August  25th,  1807.  Her 
works  have  been  c  jllected,  and  published  at  Paris. 
S 


Her  published  works  are,  besides  "  Claire 
d'Albe,"  "  Malvina,"  "Amelia  de  Mansfield," 
"Matilda,"  and  "Elizabeth,  or  the  Exile  of  Si- 
beria;" this  last  is  considered  her  best  work.  We 
shall  give  a  few  selections  from  it ;  but  first,  a 
morceau  or  two  from  her  own  thoughts. 

TEMPTATIONS. 

AVhen  we  have  to  account  to  ourselves  alone, 
the  predominant  passion  finds  a  thousand  ways  of 
leading  us  into  its  paths,  and  even  of  persuading 
us  that  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  following  them. 
We  have  resisted  a  little  while,  and  we  think  we 
have  done  wonders ;  because  we  estimate  the  merit 
of  our  existence,  not  by  its  duration,  but  by  the 
difficulty  it  has  cost  us.  When,  however,  we  have 
to  show  to  the  eyes  of  others,  our  feeble  efforts, 
which  will  not  then  be  judged  by  the  anguish  un- 
der which  we  made  them,  and  our  rapid  yielding, 
which  will  not  then  be  excused  by  the  force  that 
determined  it  —  when,  in  fine,  we  are  sure  that 
only  the  result  of  our  conduct  will  be  considered, 
and  not  the  poignant  feelings  that  produced  it — 
then  this  result  will  appear  to  us,  as  it  will  be 
viewed  by  strangers.  The  point  from  which  we 
set  out,  and  the  point  at  which  we  have  arrived, 
remain  alone ;  all  intermediate  palliations  have 
vanished.  We  are  frightened  at  the  fearful  steps 
we  have  taken,  and  the  more  so,  as  we  have  taken 
them  without  knowing  where  they  led  us. 


We  like  to  feel  life  ;  its  agitations,  its  perplexi- 
ties, while  they  lacerate  us,  attach  us.  In  afHic- 
tion,  the  whole  of  life  is  before  us ;  the  past  with 
its  regrets,  the  present  with  its  tears,  and  the 
future  with  its  hopes.  It  is  in  affliction,  that  the 
imagination  elevates  itself  to  the  great  thoughts  of 
eternity  and  supreme  justice,  and  that  it  takes  us 
out  of  ourselves,  to  seek  a  remedy  for  our  pains. 

From  "  Elizabeth." 
THE    EXILES    AND    THEIR    HOME. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Irtish,  which  rises  in  Cal- 
muck  Tartary,  and  falls  into  the  Oby,  is  situated 
Tobolsk,  the  capital  of  Siberia ;  bounded  on  the 
north  by  forests  eleven  hundred  versts  in  length, 
extending  to  the  borders  of  the  frozen  ocean,  and 
interspersed  with  rocky  mountains  covered  with 
perpetual  snows.  Around  it  are  sterile  plains, 
whose  fi'ozen  sands  have  seldom  received  an  im- 
pression from  the  human  foot,  and  numerous  fri- 
gid lakes,  or  rather  stagnant  marshes,  whose  icy 
streams  never  watered  a  meadow,  nor  opened  to 
the  sunbeam  the  beauties  of  a  flower.  On  ap- 
proaching neai-er  to  the  pole,  these  stately  pro- 
ductions of  nature,  whose  sheltering  foliage  is  so 
grateful  to  the  weary  traveller,  totally  disappear. 
Brambles,  dwarf-birches,  and  shrubs,  alone  orna- 
ment this  desolate  spot ;  and  farther  on,  even 
these  vanish,  leaving  nothing  but  swamps  covered 
with  a  useless  moss,  and  presenting,  as  it  were, 
the  last  efforts  of  expiring  nature.  But  still, 
amidst  the  horror  and  gloom  of  an  eternal  winter, 
nature  displays  some  of  her  grandest  spectacles;— 
the  aurora  borealis,  enclosing  the  horizon  like  a 

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resplendent  arch,  emits  columns  of  quivering  light, 
and  frequently  offers  to  view  sights  which  are  un- 
known in  a  more  southern  hemisphere.  South 
of  Tobolsk  is  the  province  called  Ischim :  plains 
strewed  with  the  repositories  of  the  dead,  and 
divided  by  lakes  of  stagnant  and  unwholesome 
water,  separate  it  from  the  Kirguis,  an  idolatrous 
and  wandering  people.  It  is  bounded  on  the  left 
by  the  river  Irtish,  and  on  the  right  by  the  Tobol, 
the  naked  and  barren  shores  of  which  present  to 
the  eye  fragments  of  rocks  promiscuously  heaped 
together,  with  here  and  there  a  solitary  fir-tree 
rearing  its  head.  Beneath  them,  in  a  space  formed 
by  an  angle  of  the  river,  is  the  small  village  of 
Saimka,  about  six  hundred  versts  from  Tobolsk : 
situated  in  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  circle,  in 
the  midst  of  a  desert,  its  environs  are  as  gloomy 
as  the  sombre  light  which  illuminates  the  hemi- 
sphere, and  as  dreary  as  the  climate. 

The  province  of  Ischim  is  nevertheless  denomi- 
nated the  Italy  of  Siberia ;  since  it  enjo3^s  nearly 
four  months  of  summer,  though  the  winter  is  rigor- 
ous to  an  excess.  The  north  winds  which  blow 
during  that  period  are  so  incessant,  and  render 
the  cold  so  piercing,  that  even  in  September  the 
Tobol  is  paved  with  ice.  A  heavy  snow  falls  upon 
the  earth,  and  disappears  not  before  the  end  of 
May ;  but  from  the  time  that  it  begins  to  dissolve, 
the  celerity  witli  which  the  trees  shoot  forth  their 
leaves,  and  the  fields  display  their  verdure,  is 
almost  incredible  ;  three  days  is  the  short  period 
that  nature  requires  to  bring  her  plants  to  ma- 
turity. The  blossoms  of  the  birth-tree  exhale  an 
odoriferous  scent,  and  the  wild  flowers  of  the  field 
decorate  the  ground ;  flocks  of  various  kinds  of 
fowl  play  upon  the  surface  of  the  lakes ;  the  white 
crane  plunges  among  the  rushes  of  the  solitary 
marsh  to  build  her  nest,  which  she  plaits  with 
reeds ;  whilst  the  flying  squirrels,  in  the  woods, 
cutting  the  air  with  their  bushy  tails,  hop  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  nibble  the  buds  of  the  pines,  and 
the  tender  leaves  of  the  birch.  Thus  the  natives 
of  these  dreary  regions  experience  a  season  of 
pleasure  ;  but  the  xmhappy  exiles  who  inhabit  it, 
alas !  experience  none. 

Of  these  miserable  beings  the  greatest  part  re- 
side in  the  villages  situated  on  the  borders  of  the 
river,  between  Tobolsk  and  the  extreniest  boundary 
of  Ischim  ;  others  are  dispersed  in  cottages  about 
the  country.  The  government  })rovides  for  some  : 
but  many  are  abandoned  to  the  scanty  subsistence 
they  can  procure  from  the  chase  during  the  winter 
season,  and  all  are  objects  of  general  commisera- 
tion. Indeed  the  name  they  give  to  the  exiles 
seems  to  have  been  dictated  by  the  tenderest  sym- 
pathy, as  well  as  by  a  strong  conviction  of  their 
innocence  ;   they  call  them  "  Unfortunates." 

A  few  versts  fVom  Saimka.  in  the  centre  of  a 
marshy  forest,  npon  the  border  of  a  deep  circular 
lake,  surrounded  with  black  poplars,  resided  one 
of  these  banished  families,  consisting  of  three 
persons — a  man  about  five-and-forty,  his  wife,  and 
a  beautiful  daughter  in  the  bloom  of  youth. 

Secluded  in  the  desert,  this  little  family  were 
strangers  to  the  intercourse  of  society  :  the  father 
went  alone  to  the  chase ;  but  neither  had  he,  his 


wife,  or  his  daughter,  ever  been  seen  at  Saimka ; 
and,  except  one  poor  Tartarian  peasant,  who 
waited  on  them,  no  human  being  had  entered  their 
dwelling.  The  governor  of  Tobolsk  only  was  in- 
formed of  their  birth,  their  country,  and  the  cause 
of  their  banishment :  and  this  secret  he  had  not 
even  confided  to  the  lieutenant  of  his  jurisdiction, 
who  was  established  at  Saimka.  In  committing 
these  exiles  to  his  care,  the  governor  had  merely 
given  orders  that  they  should  be  provided  with  a 
comfortable  lodging,  a  garden,  food,  and  raiment; 
and  he  had  given  to  the  lieutenant  a  positive 
charge  to  restrict  them  from  all  communication 
with  any  one,  and  particularly  to  intercept  any 
letter  they  might  attempt  to  convey  to  the  court 
of  Russia. 

So  much  consideration,  so  much  mystery,  and 
such  strict  precaution  excited  a  suspicion  that, 
under  the  simple  name  of  Peter  Springer,  the 
father  of  this  family  concealed  a  name  more  illus- 
trious, and  misfortunes  of  no  common  nature. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  guilty  of  some  great  crime ; 
or  possibly  he  was  a  victim  to  the  hatred  and  in- 
justice of  the  Russian  ministers. 

WINTER    IN    SIBERIA. 

Siberia,  in  winter,  is  subject  to  sudden  storms. 
Often,  during  this  season,  when  the  sky  appears 
serene,  dreadful  hurricanes  arise  instantaneously, 
and  obscure  the  atmosphere.  They  are  impelled 
from  the  opposite  sides  of  the  horizon  ;  and,  when 
they  meet,  the  strongest  trees  in  vain  oppose  their 
violence.  In  vain  the  pliant  birch  bends  to  the 
ground  :  its  flexible  branches,  with  their  trembling 
leaves,  are  broken  and  dispersed.  The  snow  rolls 
from  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  carrying  with  if 
enormous  masses  of  ice  which  break  against  the 
points  of  the  rocks ;  these  break  in  their  turn ; 
and  the  wind,  carrying  away  the  fragments,  toge- 
ther with  those  of  the  falling  huts,  in  which  the 
terrified  animals  have  in  vain  sought  shelter, 
whirls  them  aloft  in  the  air,  and,  dashing  them 
back  to  the  earth,  strews  the  ground  with  the 
ruins  of  evei"y  production  of  nature. 


THE    MOTHER    AND    DATIGHTEK. 

The  cold  was  intense,  the  firs  appeared  like  trees 
of  ice,  their  branches  being  hid  under  a  thick  co- 
vering of  hoar  frost.  A  mist  obscured  the  horizon. 
Night's  near  approach  gave  to  each  object  a  still 
gloomier  shade,  and  the  ground,  smooth  as  glass, 
refused  to  support  the  steps  of  the  trembling  Phe- 
dora.  Elizabeth,  reared  in  this  climate,  and  ac- 
customed to  brave  the  extremest  severity  of  the 
weather,  assisted  her  mother,  and  led  her  on. 
Thus  a  tree,  transplanted  from  its  native  soil,  lan- 
guishes in  a  foreign  land,  while  the  young  suckling 
that  springs  from  its  root,  habituated  to  the  new 
climate,  acquires  strength,  flourishes,  and,  in  a 
few  years,  sustains  the  branches  of  the  trunk  that 
nourished  it ;  protecting,  by  its  friendly  shade,  the 
tree  to  which  it  is  indebted  for  existence.  Before 
Phedora  had  reached  the  plain,  her  strength  totally 
failed  :  "  Rest  here,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Eliza- 
betli,  "  and  let  me  go  alone  to  the  edge  of  the 

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forest.  If  we  stay  longer,  the  darkness  of  the 
night  will  prevent  me  from  distinguishing  my  fa- 
ther in  the  plain."  Phedora  supported  herself 
against  a  tree,  while  her  daughter  hastened  for- 
ward, and  in  a  few  seconds  she  reached  the  plain. 
Some  of  the  monuments  with  which  it  is  inter- 
spersed are  very  high.  Elizabeth  climbed  up  the 
most  elevated  of  them :  her  heart  was  full  of  grief, 
and  her  eyes  dim  with  tears.  She  gazed  around 
in  vain  for  her  father :  all  was  still  and  lonely ; 
the  obscurity  of  night  began  to  render  the  search 
useless.  Terror  almost  suspended  her  faculties, 
when  the  report  of  a  gun  revived  her  hopes.  She 
had  never  heard  this  sound  but  froru  the  hand  of 
her  father,  and,  to  her,  it  appeared  a  certain  indi- 
cation that  he  was  near.  She  rushed  towards  the 
spot  whence  the  noise  proceeded,  and,  behind  a 
pile  of  rocks,  discovered  a  man  in  a  bending  pos- 
ture, apparently  seeking  for  something  upon  the 
ground.  "  My  father,  my  father,  is  it  you?"  she 
exclaimed.  He  turned  hastily ;  it  was  not  Springer. 
His  countenance  was  youthful,  and  his  air  noble ; 
at  the  sight  of  Elizabeth  he  stood  amazed.  "  Oh  ! 
it  is  not  my  father,"  resumed  she  with  anguish, 
"but  perhaps  you  may  have  seen  him  on  the 
plain?  Oh  !  can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  him  ?" 
— "I  know  nothing  of  your  father,"  replied  the 
stranger ;  "  but  surely  you  ought  not  to  be  here 
alone  at  this  unseasonable  hour ;  you  are  exposed 
to  great  danger,  and  should  not  venture." — "  Oh !" 
interrupted  she,  "I  fear  nothing  but  losing  my 
father."  As  she  spoke  she  raised  her  eyes  to  hea- 
ven :  their  expression  revealed,  at  once,  firmness 
in  affliction,  and  dignity  vinited  with  softness. 
They  expressed  the  feelings  of  her  soul,  and 
seemed  to  foretell  her  future  destiny.  The  stran- 
ger had  never  seen  a  jjerson,  nor  had  his  imagina- 
tion ever  painted  a  vision,  like  Elizabeth :  he 
almost  believed  himself  in  a  dream.  AVhen  the 
first  emotion  of  surprise  had  subsided,  he  inquired 
the  name  of  her  father;  "Peter  Springer,"  she 
replied.  —  "How!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  the 
daughter  of  the  exile  residing  in  a  cottage  by  the 
lake  !  be  comforted,  I  have  seen  your  father.  It 
is  not  an  hour  since  he  left  me ;  he  intended  to 
make  a  circuit,  and  must  be  at  home  ere  this." 

CROSSING    THE    WOLGA. 

She  travelled  so  slowly  that  she  was  unable  to 
reach  Casan  till  the  beginning  of  October.  A  strong 
wind  from  the  north-west  had  prevailed  for  several 
days,  and  had  collected  so  great  a  quantity  of  ice 
upon  the  Wolga,  as  to  render  the  passage  of  that 
river  almost  impracticable.  It  could  only  be  cross- 
ed by  going  partly  in  a  boat  and  partly  on  foot, 
leaping  from  one  piece  of  ice  to  another.  Even 
the  boatmen  who  were  accustomed  to  this  danger- 
ous navigation,  would  not  undertake  it  but  in  con- 
sideration of  a  high  reward ;  and  no  passenger 
ever  ventured  to  expose  his  life  with  them  in  the 
attempt.  Elizabeth,  without  thinking  of  the  dan- 
ger, was  about  to  enter  one  of  their  boats ;  they 
roughly  pushed  her  away,  declaring  that  she  could 
not  be  permitted  to  cross  till  the  river  was  quite 
ft-ozen  over.  She  inquired  how  long  she  would 
probably  have  to  wait.     "  A  fortnight,  at  least," 


they  replied.  This  determined  her  immediately  to 
proceed.  "  I  beseech  you,  in  the  name  of  Heaven 
I  beseech  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "aid  me  in  cross- 
ing the  river.  I  come  from  beyond  Tobolsk,  and 
am  going  to  Petersburgh,  to  petition  the  emperor 
in  behalf  of  my  father,  who  is  now  an  exile  in 
Siberia ;  and  I  have  so  little  money  that  if  I  am 
obliged  to  remain  a  fortnight  at  Casan,  I  shall 
have  nothing  left  for  the  rest  of  my  journey." 

This  affecting  appeal  softened  the  heart  of  one 
of  the  boatmen,  who,  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
"Come,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  good  girl;  I  will 
endeavour  to  ferry  you  over :  the  fear  of  God,  and 
the  love  of  your  parents,  guide  your  steps,  and 
Heaven  will  protect  you."  He  then  took  her  into 
his  boat,  which  he  rowed  half-way  over :  not  be- 
ing able  to  work  it  farther,  he  lifted  Elizabeth  on 
his  shoulder ;  and  alternately  walking  and  leaping 
over  the  masses  of  ice,  he  reached,  by  the  assist- 
ance of  an  oar,  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Wolga, 
where  he  set  her  down  in  safety.  Elizabeth  ex- 
pressed her  acknowledgments  of  the  kindness  in 
the  most  animated  terms  that  her  grateful  heart 
could  dictate,  and.  taking  out  her  purse,  which 
contained  now  but  two  rubles  and  a  few  smaller 
coins,  offered  a  trifling  reward  for  his  services. 
"  Poor  child,"  said  the  boatman,  looking  at  the 
contents  of  her  purse,  "is  that  all  the  money  you 
have  to  defray  the  expenses  of  your  journey  hence 
to  Petersburgh  ?  Believe  me,  that  Nicholas  Kiso- 
lofF  will  not  deprive  you  of  a  single  obol !  No, 
rather  let  me  add  to  your  little  store ;  it  will  bring 
down  a  blessing  upon  me  and  my  children."  He 
then  threw  her  a  small  piece  of  money,  and  re- 
turned to  his  boat,  exclaiming,  "  May  God  watch 
over  and  protect  you,  my  child!" 

Elizabeth  took  up  the  monej^  and  regarding  it 
with  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  said,  "  I  will  pre- 
serve thee  for  my  father :  thou  wilt  prove  to  him 
that  his  prayers  have  been  heard,  and  that  a  pa- 
ternal protection  has,  evei'ywhere,  been  extended 
to  me." 

THE    MITE    GIVEN    IN    CUARITY. 

She  had  occupied  nearly  three  months  in  her 
journey  from  Sarapol  to  Voldomir ;  but,  through 
the  kind  hospitality  of  the  Russian  peasants,  who 
never  take  any  payment  for  milk  and  bread,  her 
little  treasure  had  not  been  yet  exhausted.  Now, 
however,  all  began  to  fail ;  her  feet  were  almost 
bare,  and  her  ragged  dress  ill  defended  her  from 
a  frigidity  of  atmosphere,  which  had  already  sunk 
the  thermometer  thirty  degrees  below  the  freezing 
point,  and  which  increased  daily.  The  ground 
was  covered  with  snow  more  than  two  feet  deep. 
Sometimes  it  congealed  while  falling,  and  appear- 
ed like  a  shower  of  ice,  so  thick  that  the  eartli 
and  sky  were  equally  concealed  from  view.  At 
other  times  torrents  of  rain  rendered  the  roads 
almost  impassable,  or  gusts  of  wind  so  violent 
arose,  that  Elizabeth,  to  defend  herself  from  its 
rude  assaults,  was  obliged  to  dig  holes  in  the 
snow,  covering  her  head  with  large  pieces  of  the 
bark  of  pine  trees,  whicli  she  dexterously  stripped 
otF,  as  she  had  seen  done  bj'  the  inliabitants  of 
Siberia. 

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One  of  these  tempestuous  hurricanes  had  raised 
the  snow  in  thick  clouds,  and  had  created  an  ob- 
scurity so  impenetrable,  that  Elizabeth,  no  longer 
able  to  discern  the  road,  and  stumbling  at  every 
step,  was  obliged  to  stop.  She  took  refuge  under 
a  lofty  rock,  to  which  she  clung  as  firmly  as  she 
could,  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  withstand  the 
fury  of  a  storm  which  overthrew  all  around  her. 
Whilst  she  was  in  this  perilous  situation,  with  her 
head  bent  down,  a  confused  noise,  that  appeared 
to  issue  from  behind  the  spot  where  she  stood, 
raised  a  hope  that  a  better  shelter  might  be  pro- 
cured. With  difficulty  she  tottered  round  the 
rock,  and  discovered  a  kibitki,  which  had  been 
overturned  and  broken,  and  a  hut  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. She  hastened  to  demand  entrance.  An 
old  woman  opened  the  door ;  and,  struck  with  the 
wretchedness  of  her  appearance,  "  My  poor  child," 
said  she,  "  whence  dost  thou  come,  and  why  art 
thou  wandering  thus  alone  in  this  dreadful  wea- 
ther?" To  this  interrogation  Elizabeth  made  her 
usual  reply:  "I  come  from  beyond  Tobolsk,  and 
am  going  to  Petersburg!!  to  solicit  my  father's 
pardon."  At  these  words,  a  man  who  was  sitting, 
dejectedly,  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  suddenly  raised 
his  head  from  between  his  hands,  and,  regarding 
Elizabeth  with  an  air  of  astonishment,  exclaimed, 
"Is  it  possible  that  you  come  from  so  remote  a 
country,  alone,  in  this  state  of  distress,  and  during 
this  tempestuous  season,  to  solicit  pardon  for  your 
father  ?  Alas !  my  poor  child  would  perhaps  have 
done  as  much,  had  not  the  barbarians  torn  me 
from  her  arms,  leaving  her  in  ignorance  of  my 
fate.  She  knows  not  what  has  become  of  me. 
She  cannot  plead  for  mercy.  No,  never  shall  I 
again  behold  her —  this  afflicting  thought  will  kill 
me  —  separated  for  ever  from  ray  child,  I  cannot 
live.  Now,  indeed,  that  I  know  my  doom,"  con- 
tinued the  unhappy  father,  "  I  might  inform  her 
of  it ;  I  have  written  a  letter  to  her,  but  the  car- 
rier belonging  to  this  kibitki,  who  is  returning  to 
Riga,  the  place  of  her  abode,  will  not  undertake 
the  charge  of  it  without  some  small  compensation, 
and  I  am  unable  to  olFer  him  any.  Not  a  single 
copec  do  I  possess :  the  barbarians  have  stripped 
me  of  everything." 

Elizabeth  drew  from  her  pocket  the  last  ruble 
she  possessed,  and,  blushing  deeply  at  the  insigni- 
ficance of  the  trifle,  asked,  in  timid  accents,  as 
she  presented  it  to  the  unfortunate  exile,  "  If  that 
would  be  enough  ?"  He  pressed  to  his  lips  the 
generous  hand  that  was  held  forth  to  succour 
him ;  and  then  ran  to  offer  the  money  to  the  car- 
rier. As  with  the  widow's  mite.  Heaven  bestowed 
its  blessing  on  the  off"ering.  The  carrier  was  satis- 
fied, and  took  charge  of  tlie  letter.  Thus  did  her 
noble  sacrifice  produce  a  fruit  worthy  of  the  heart 
of  Elizabeth :  it  relieved  the  agonized  feelings  of 
a  parent,  and  carried  consolation  to  the  wounded 
bosom  of  a  child. 

When  the  storm  had  abated,  Elizabeth,  before 
she  pursued  her  journey,  embraced  the  old  wo- 
man, who  had  bestowed  upon  her  all  the  care  and 
tenderness  of  a  mother ;  and  said  in  a  low  voice, 
that  she  might  not  be  heard  by  the  exile,  "  I  have 
nothing  left  to  give :  the  blessing  of  my  parents 


is  the  only  recompense  I  have  to  offer  for  your 

kindness ;  it  is  the  only  treasure  I  possess." 

"How!"  interrupted  the  old  woman  aloud,  "My 
poor  child,  have  you  then  given  away  all  you  pos- 
sessed ?"  Elizabeth  blushed,  and  hung  down  her 
head.  The  exile  started  from  his  seat,  and  raising 
his  hands  to  Heaven,  threw  himself  upon  his  knees 
before  her.  "  Angel  that  thou  art,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  can  I  make  no  return  to  you,  who  have  thus  be- 
stowed your  all  upon  me  ?"  A  knife  lay  upon  the 
table :  Elizabeth  took  it  up,  cut  off  a  lock  of  her 
hair,  and  said,  "  Sir,  you  are  going  into  Siberia, 
and  will  see  the  governor  of  Tobolsk ;  give  him 
this,  I  beseech  you,  and  tell  him,  that  Elizabeth 
sends  it  to  her  parents.  He  will  perhaps  consent 
to  forward  it  to  them  as  a  token  by  which  they 
may  know  that  their  daughter  is  still  in  exist- 
ence."  

"  Your  wish  shall  be  accomplished,"  answered 
the  exile,  "  and  if,  in  those  deserts  of  which  I  am 
to  be  an  inhabitant,  I  am  not  absolutely  a  slave,  I 
will  seek  out  the  dwelling  of  your  parents,  and 
will  tell  them  what  you  have  this  day  done  for 
me." 

To  the  heart  of  Elizabeth,  the  gift  of  a  throne 
would  have  afforded  less  delight,  than  the  pros- 
pect of  thus  being  able  to  convey  consolation  to 
her  parents.  She  was  now  bereft  of  all,  except 
the  little  piece  of  money  given  to  her  by  the  boat- 
man of  the  AVolga.  Yet  she  might  deem  herself 
rich,  for  she  had  just  tasted  the  only  pleasure 
which  opulence  could  bestow  ;  she  had  conferred 
happiness  on  a  fellow-creature,  had  revived  the 
desponding  heart  of  a  father,  and  had  converted 
tears  of  sadness,  shed  by  the  orphan,  into  those 
of  consolation.  Such  were  the  blessings  which 
even  a  single  ruble  had  effected. 

COUVREUR,  ADRIANNE  LE, 
A  French  actress,  born  at  Fismes,  in  Cham- 
pagne, in  1690.  She  first  appeared  in  1717,  in 
the  character  of  Electra,  and  was  received  with 
universal  applause.  Her  best  personation  was  Phae- 
dra. She  was  for  some  time  mistress  to  marshal 
Saxe,  whom,  when  reduced  to  distress,  she  assisted 
with  a  large  sum  of  money  raised  upon  her  jewels. 

COWLEY,  HANNAH, 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Parkhouse,  was  born  at 
Tiverton,  in  Devonshire,  in  1743,  and  died  there  in 
1809.  She  is  the  author  of  nine  comedies,  among 
which  are,  the  "  Runaway,"  the  "  Belle's  Strata- 
gem," and  "  More  Ways  than  One;"  the  tragedies 
of  "Albina,"  and  "  The  Fate  of  Sparta ;"  two  farces  ; 
and  the  poems  of  "  The  Siege  of  Acre,"  "  The  Maid 
of  Aragon,"  and  "  The  Scottish  Village."  Her  poems 
are  of  that  description  which  Horace  deprecates ; 
but  her  comedies  have  considerable  merit. 

CRAVEN,  ELIZABETH,  LADY, 
Margravine  of  Anspach,  youngest  daughter  of 
the  earl  of  Berkeley,  was  born  in  1750,  and  mar- 
ried, in  1767,  William,  last  earl  of  Craven,  by 
whom  she  had  seven  children.  But  in  conse- 
quence of  his  ill-treatment,  they  were  separated 
in  1781.    After  this,  lady  Craven  lived  successively 

276 


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at  the  courts  of  Versailles,  Madrid,  Lisbon,  Vi- 
enna, Berlin,  Constantinople,  Warsaw,  St.  Peters- 
burgh,  Jlome,  Florence,  Naples,  and  Anspach, 
where  she  became  acquainted  with  the  margrave 
Christian  Frederick  Charles  Alexander,  a  nephew 
of  Frederick  the  Great.  On  this  tour,  in  1787, 
she  was  persuaded  to  descend  into  the  grotto  of 
Antiparos,  which  no  woman  had  ever  before  visit- 
ed. Lord  Craven  died  at  Lisbon  in  1791,  and  his 
widow  soon  after  married  the  margrave,  who  sur- 
rendered his  estates  to  the  king  of  Prussia  for  a 
pension,  and  went  to  reside  in  England  with  his 
wife.  He  died  there  in  1806.  The  account  of 
lady  Craven's  travels  through  the  Crimea  to  Con- 
stantinople was  first  published,  in  a  series  of  let- 
ters, in  1789.  Besides  these,  she  has  written 
poems,  plays,  romances,  and  her  own  memoirs, 
entitled  "Memoirs  of  the  Margrave  of  Anspach, 
formerly  Lady  Craven,  &c."  London,  182-5.  These 
are  interesting  on  account  of  her  intercourse  with 
Catharine  II.,  Joseph  II.,  and  other  princes. 

CRAWFORD,    ANNE, 
A  CELEBRATED  English  actress,  both  in  comedy 
and    tragedy ;    but   better   remembered    by   her 
maiden  name  of  Barry.     She  was  born  at  Bath, 
in  1734,  and  died  in  1801. 

CREGUY,   VICTOIRE   D'HOULAY, 
MARQUISE   DE, 

A  DisTiNGt'isHED  French  lady,  was  born  in  1699, 
and  died  in  1804.  She  has  left  several  volumes 
of  souvenirs,  which  form  a  sort  of  panorama  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  Allied  by  birth  to  the 
highest  nobility,  and  inspired  by  nature  with  a 
taste  for  literary  society,  she  was  acquainted  with 
most  of  the  celebrated  characters  of  all  descrip- 
tions, that  flourished  during  that  lapse  of  time. 

As  a  girl,  being  presented  to  Louis  XIV.,  when, 
according  to  the  etiquette  of  the  court,  she  ad- 
vanced to  kiss  the  king's  hand,  the  gallant  monarch 
prevented  the  action  by  rendering  this  homage  to 
herself;  a  fact  only  worth  recording  because  the 
very  same  circumstance  occurred  on  a  presenta- 
tion to  Napoleon  eighty  years  afterwards. 

A  family  of  the  name  of  Cr^guy,  but  whose 
ancestor  had  been  an  upholsterer  in  the  time  of 
Louis  XII.,  claimed  to  belong  to  the  great  de 
Crfeguy  race.  "  There  was  some  similarity  in  the 
pursuits  of  our  ancestors,"  said  Madame  de  Cre- 
guy,  "  c'est  que  les  iins  gagnaient  des  balai/le.i,  tandis 
quo  les  autres  faisaient  des  sieges." 

Louis  XIV.  said  to  her  one  day  in  the  presence 
of  marshal  Saxe,  "  Look  at  the  happy  effects  of 
the  victory  of  Montenay !  The  marshal's  legs 
were  horribly  puffed  up  with  gout ;  he  has  come 
back  active  and  well-proportioned!" 

"  All  other  heroes  have  been  puffed  up  with 
glory,"  returned  Madame  de  Cr&guy.  "  Marshal 
Saxe  is  the  first  upon  whom  it  has  had  a  contrary 
effect." 

These  are  but  random  examples  of  the  ready 
wit  for  which  she  was  celebrated  among  her  con- 
temporaries. Held  at  the  baptismal  font  by  the 
distinguished  princess  des  TJrsins,  who  governed 
Spain  despotically  under  Philip  V.,  she  lived  to 


see  that  monarchy  submitted  to  the  disposal  of 
France,  and  its  crown  awarded  to  one  bom  the 
private  subject  of  an  obscure  province.  That  the 
marchioness  de  Crfeguy  maintained  through  all 
these  changes  her  cheerfulness  of  mind,  shows 
that  her  literary  pursuits  had  a  happy  effect  on 
the  tranquillity  and  usefulness  of  her  long  life. 
An  ignorant  old  lady  is  a  pitiful  object  —  she  has 
then  only  frivolous  pursuits,  which  appear  more 
foolish  with  every  increasing  year. 

CRETA,    LAURA, 

Was  born  in  Italy,  in  16G9.  She  received  a 
learned  education,  and  was  a  proficient  in  lan- 
guages and  philosophy.  She  married  Pietro  Le- 
reni,  but  he  died  in  less  than  two  years  after  their 
union.  She  had  been  much  attached  to  her  hus- 
band, and  refusing  several  advantageous  offers  of 
marriage,  devoted  herself  to  her  studies,  and  lived 
in  honoured  widowhood  to  the  close  of  her  life. 
She  corresponded  with  most  of  the  eminent  scho- 
lars and  philosophers  then  living  in  Europe,  who 
were  happy  in  forming  an  acquaintance,  through 
the  medium  of  letters,  with  such  a  lady,  renowned 
as  the  most  learned  woman  of  the  age.  She  died 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
was,  says  a  contemporary  writer,  "lamented 
throughout  Christendom." 

CROMWELL,    ELIZABETH, 

Wife  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  was  the  daughter  of 
Sir  .James  Bourchier,  knight,  of  Felsted,  in  Essex. 
She  was  married  on  tho  22d  of  August,  1620.  In 
person  and  manners  she  was  very  plain,  and  not 
well  educated,  even  for  those  times.  She  seems 
to  have  been  an  upright,  religious  and  charitable 
woman,  who  however  did  not  possess  much  influ- 
ence over  her  husband.  After  the  death  of 
Cromwell,  in  1658,  she  retired  for  a  short  time 
into  Wales,  and  then  went  to  the  house  of  her 
son-in-law  Claypole,  at  Norborough,  in  Lincoln- 
shire, where  she  lived  till  her  death,  October  8th, 
1672.  She  was  probably  upwards  of  seventy 
when  she  died. 

CRUZ,  JUANA  INEZ  DE  LA, 
Was  born  in  November,  1651,  a  few  leagues 
from  the  city  of  Mexico.  Her  father,  a  Spaniard, 
had  sought  wealth  by  an  establishment  in  Ame- 
rica, where  he  married  a  lady  of  the  country,  but 
of  Spanish  extraction.  Juana,  the  fruit  of  this 
union,  displayed  in  early  childhood  a  passion  for 
letters,  and  an  extraordinary  facility  in  the  com- 
position of  Spanish  verse.  At  eight  years  of  age, 
she  was  placed  by  her  parents  with  an  uncle,  who 
resided  in  Mexico,  and  who  caused  her  to  receive 
a  learned  education.  Her  talents  having  attracted 
notice  and  distinction,  she  was  patronized  by  the 
lady  of  the  viceroy,  the  marquis  de  Mancera,  and, 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  was  received  into  his 
family. 

A  Spanish  encomiast  of  Juana,  relates  a  curious 
anecdote  respecting  her,  communicated  to  him,  as 
he  affirms,  by  the  viceroy.  Her  patrons,  filled 
with  admiration  and  astonishment,  by  the  powers 
and  attainments  of  their  young  protegie,  deter- 


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mined  to  prove  the  extent  <and  solidity  of  hei*  eru- 
dition. For  this  purpose  they  invited  forty  of  the 
most  eminent  literary  characters  of  the  country, 
■who  assembled  to  examine  Juana  in  the  different 
branches  of  learning  and  science.  Questions,  ar- 
guments, and  problems,  were  accordingly  proposed 
to  her,  by  the  several  professors,  in  philosophy, 
mathematics,  history,  theology,  poetry,  &c.,  to  all 
of  which  she  answered  with  equal  readiness  and 
skill,  acquitting  herself  to  the  entire  satisfaction 
of  her  judges.  To  this  account  it  is  added,  that 
she  received  the  praises  extorted  on  this  occasion 
by  her  acquirements,  with  the  most  perfect  mo- 
desty; neither  did  she,  at  any  period  of  her  life, 
discover  the  smallest  tendency  to  presumption  or 
vanity,  though  honoured  with  the  title  of  the  tenth 
muse:  a  pious  humility  was  her  distinguishing 
characteristic.  She  lived  forty-four  years,  twen- 
ty-seven of  which  she  passed  in  the  convent  of  St. 
Geronimo  (where  she  took  the  veil)  in  the  exercise 
of  the  most  exemplary  virtues. 

That  enthusiasm  by  which  genius  is  character- 
ised, necessarily  led  to  devotion  in  circumstances 
like  those  in  which  Juana  was  placed.  In  the 
fervour  of  her  zeal,  she  wrote  in  her  blood  a  con- 
fession of  her  faith.  She  is  said  to  have  collected 
a  library  of  four  thousand  volumes,  in  the  study 
of  which  she  placed  her  delight :  nevertheless, 
towards  the  close  of  her  life,  she  sacrificed  this 
darling  propensity  for  the  purpose  of  applying  the 
money  which  she  acquired  by  the  sale  of  her  books, 
to  the  relief  of  the  indigent.  However  heroic  may 
be  the  motive  of  this  self-denial,  the  rectitude  of 
the  principle  is  doubtful :  the  cultivation  of  the 
mind,  with  its  consequent  influence  upon  society, 
is  a  more  real  benefit  to  mankind  than  the  partial 
relief  of  pecuniary  exigences. 

Juana  was  not  less  lamented  at  her  death,  than 
celebrated  and  respected  during  her  life :  her 
writings  were  collected  in  three  quarto  volumes, 
to  which  are  prefixed  numerous  panegyrics  upon 
the  author,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  by  the  most 
illustrious  persons  of  old  and  new  Spain.  It  is 
observed  by  the  Spanish  critic,  father  Feyjoo,  that 
the  compositions  of  Juana  excel  in  ease  and  ele- 
gance, rather  than  in  energy  and  strength.  This 
is  perhaps  in  some  degree  attributable  to  the  age 
in  which  she  lived,  and  to  the  subjects  of  her  pro- 
ductions, which  were  principally  compliments  ad- 
dressed to  her  friends,  or  sacred  dramas,  to  which 
an  absurd  and  senseless  superstition  aflForded  the 
materials.  The  following  is  an  imitation  in  Eng- 
lish of  one  of  her  poems,  in  which  she  complains 
of  what  is  keenly  felt  by  every  woman  of  under- 
standing, the  injustice  suffered  by  her  sex. 

Weak  men,  who  without  reason  aim 
To  load  poor  woman  with  abuse, 
Not  seeiiif;  that  yourselves  produce 

The  very  evils  that  you  blame ! 

you  'gainst  her  firm  resistance  strive. 
And  having  struck  her  judgment  mute, 
Soon  to  her  levity  impute 

What  from  your  labour  you  derive. 

Of  woman's  weakness  much  afraid. 
Of  your  own  prowess  still  you  boast; 
Like  the  vain  chiM  who  makes  a  ghost, 

Then  fears  what  he  himself  has  made. 


Her  whom  your  arms  have  once  embrac'd, 
You  think  presumptuously  to  find. 
When  she  is  woo'd,  as  Thais  kind, 

Wlien  wedded,  as  Lucretia  chaste. 

IJow  rare  a  fool  must  he  appear. 
Whose  folly  mounts  to  such  a  pass, 
That  first  he  breathes  upcm  the  glass. 

Then  grieves  because  it  is  not  clear. 

Still  with  unjust,  ungrateful  pride. 
You  must  both  favour  and  disdain  ; 
The  firm,  as  cruel  you  arraign. 

The  tender,  you  as  weak  deride. 

Your  foolish  huinnur  none  can  please, 
Since  judging  all  with  equal  phlegm  ; 
One  for  her  rigour  you  condemn. 

And  one  you  censure  for  her  ease. 

But  while  you  show  your  pride  and  power, 
With  tyrant  passions  vainly  hot. 
She's  only  blest  who  heeds  you  not, 

And  leaves  you  all  in  happy  hour. 

CULMAN,    ELIZABETH, 

Is  worthy  of  a  place  beside  Lucretia  Davidson; 
she  died  when  only  seventeen  years  old.  Miss 
Culman  was  born  in  the  year  1816  at  St.  Peters- 
burg. She  was  already  a  prodigy  of  learning  at 
an  age  when  other  children  only  commence  their 
education.  In  her  fourteenth  year  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  ancient  and  modern  Greek,  the 
Latin,  German,  English,  French,  Italian,  Spanish, 
and  Portuguese  languages  and  literature,  and  had 
then  already  translated  the  Odes  of  Anacreon  into 
her  vernacular.  But  just  when  her  mind  gave 
promise  of  becoming  one  of  the  greatest  ornaments 
of  her  country,  death  removed  her  to  a  higher 
state  of  existence.  She  died,  in  1833,  at  St  Pe- 
tersburg ;  and  a  year  after  her  death,  her  writings, 
making  three  volumes,  were  published  in  that  city. 

CUNITIA,  or  CUNITZ,  MARIA, 

A  L.\DY  of  great  genius  and  learning,  was  bom 
in  Silesia,  about  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  She  became,  when  very  young,  cele- 
brated for  her  extensive  knowledge  in  many 
branches  of  learning,  particularly  in  mathematics 
and  astronomy,  upon  which  she  wrote  several  in- 
genious treatises ;  one  of  which,  vmder  the  title 
of  "  Urania  Propitia,"  printed  in  1650,  in  Latin 
and  German,  she  dedicated  to  Ferdinand  III.,  em- 
j)eror  of  Germany.  In  this  work  are  contained 
astronomical  tables,  of  great  care  and  accuracy, 
founded  upon  Kepler's  hypotheses.  She  acquired 
languages  with  amazing  facility  ;  and  understood 
Polish,  German,  French,  Italian,  Latin,  Greek,  and 
Hebrew.  With  equal  care  she  acquired  a  know- 
ledge of  the  sciences,  history,  ^physic,  poetry, 
painting,  music,  both  vocal  and  instrumental ; 
and  yet  they  were  no  more  than  her  amusements. 
Her  favourite  studies  were  mathematics  and  astro- 
nomy ;  and  she  was  ranked  among  the  ablest  as- 
tronomers of  the  age.  The  exact  time  of  her  birth 
is  not  known.  She  married  Elias  de  Lewin,  M.  D., 
and  died  at  Pistcheu,  in  1664.  The  name  of  this 
learned  lady  is  now  little  known,  but  several  fa- 
mous men  have  borrowed  from  her  works  to  en- 
rich their  own,  without  any  acknowledgment  of 
the  real  author. 

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D. 

DACIER,   ANNE, 

Was  daughter  of  Tanneguy  le  Fevre  and  Marie 
Oliver  his  wife.  Anne  was  born  at  Saumur,  in 
1651.  Her  father,  it  is  related,  had  an  acquaint- 
ance who  practised  judicial  astrology,  and  who, 
on  the  birth  of  the  infant,  desired  he  might  be 
allowed  to  cast  her  nativity.  After  finishing  his 
figures,  he  told  M.  le  Fevre  there  must  have  been 
some  mistake  respecting  the  exact  instant  of  the 
birth  of  the  child,  since  her  horoscope  promised  a 
future  and  fame  quite  foreign  to  a  female.  This 
story  must  be  left  to  the  faith  of  the  reader  ;  but, 
whatever  might  be  its  truth,  it  is  certain  that  an 
incident  occurred,  when  Mademoiselle  Le  Fevre 
was  about  ten  years  of  age,  which  determined  her 
father,  who  was  professor  of  the  Belles-Lettres  at 
Saumur,  to  give  her  the  advantage  of  a  learned 
education. 

M.  Le  Fevre  had  a  son  whom  he  instructed  in 
the  classics ;  and  to  whom  he  usually  gave  lessons 
in  the  room  in  which  his  daughter  worked  in 
tapestry.  The  youth,  whether  from  incapacity  or 
inattention,  was  sometimes  at  a  loss  when  ques- 
tioned by  his  father ;  on  these  occasions  his  sister, 
who  appeared  to  be  wholly  occupied  with  her 
needle  and  her  silks,  never  failed  to  suggest  to 
him  the  proper  reply,  however  intricate  or  embar- 
rassing the  subject.  M.  Le  Fevre  was,  by  this 
discovery,  induced  to  cultivate  the  talents  of  his 
daughter.  Mademoiselle  Le  Fevre  afterwards 
confessed  that  she  felt,  at  the  time,  a  secret  vexa- 
tion for  having  thus  betrayed  her  capacity,  and 
exchanged  the  occupations  and  amusements  of  her 
sex,  under  the  eye  of  an  indulgent  mother,  for  the 
discipline  of  her  father,  and  the  vigilance  and  ap- 
plication necessary  to  study. 

After  having  learned  the  elements  of  the  Latin 
language,  she  applied  herself  to  the  Greek,  in  which 
she  made  a  rapid  progress,  and  at  the  end  of  eight 
years  no  longer  stood  in  need  of  the  assistance  of 
a  master.  As  her  mind  strengthened  and  acquired 
a  wider  range,  she  emancipated  herself  from  the 
trammels  of  authority,  and  laid  down  plans  of 
study  which  she  pursued  with  perseverance.  She 
now  read  and  thought  for  herself;  and  frequently, 
though  with  tlie  utmost  modesty  and  deference, 
presumed  to  differ,  on  subjects  of  literature  and 
criticism,  from  her  respectable  father.  Of  this  the 
translation  of  Quintus  Curtius,  by  the  celebrated 
Vaugelaus  afforded  an  example.  M.  Le  Fevre 
accorded,  on  this  occasion,  with  the  popular 
opinion  of  the  times,  in  considering  this  perform- 
ance as  a  masterpiece  of  eloquence :  his  daughter, 
on  the  conti'ary,  whether  more  acute  or  less  easily 
satisfied,  censured  the  ti-anslation  as  defective  in 
purity  of  style,  and  in  the  idiom  of  the  French 
language. 

Her  father  died  in  1673,  and  the  following  year 
Mademoiselle  Le  Fevre  went  to  Paris,  and  took 
up  her  residence  in  that  city.  She  was  then  en- 
gaged on  an  edition  of  "  Callimachus,"  which  she 
published  in  1674.  Some  sheets  of  that  work 
having  been  shown  to  M.  Huet,  preceptor  to  the 
dauphin,  and  other  learned  men,  a  proposal  was 


made  to  her  to  prepare  some  Latin  authors  for  the 
dauphin's  use  ;  which  proposal  she  accepted,  and 
published  an  edition  of  Florus  in  1674. 

Her  reputation  being  now  spread  all  over  Eu- 
rope, Christina  of  Sweden  ordered  a  present  to  be 
sent  to  her,  in  her  name ;  upon  which  Mademoi- 
selle Le  Fevre  sent  the  queen  a  Latin  letter,  with 
her  edition  of  Florus.  Her  majesty  not  long  after 
wrote  to  her,  to  persuade  her  to  abandon  the  Pro- 
testant faith,  and  made  her  considerable  offers  to 
settle  at  court.  But  this  she  declined,  and  con- 
tinued to  publish  works  for  the  use  of  the  dauphin. 
"  Sextus  Aurelius  Victor"  came  out  under  her  care, 
at  Paris,  in  1681 ;  and  in  the  same  year  she  pub- 
lished a  French  translation  of  the  poems  of  Ana- 
creon  and  Sappho,  with  notes,  which  were  so 
much  admired  as  to  make  Boileau  declare  that  it 
ought  to  deter  any  one  from  attempting  to  trans- 
late those  poems  in  verse.  She  also  published, 
for  the  use  of  the  dauphin,  "Eutropius,"  in  1683  ; 
and  "Dictys  Cretensis"  and  "  Dares  Phrygius"  in 
1684.  She  wrote  French  translations  of  the  "Am- 
phitryo,"  "Epidicus,"  and  "Prudens,"  comedies 
of  Plautus,  in  1683;  and  of  the  "Plutus"  and 
"Clouds"  of  Aristophanes,  with  notes.  She  was 
so  charmed  with  this  last  comedy,  that  she  had 
read  it  two  hundred  times. 

She  married  M.  Dacier,  with  whom  she  had 
been  brought  up  in  her  father's  house,  in  1683, 
and  soon  after  declared  to  the  duke  of  Montausier 
and  the  bishop  of  Meaux  a  design  of  reconciling 
herself  with  the  church  of  Rome ;  but  as  M.  Da- 
cier was  not  satisfied  as  to  the  propriety  of  the 
change,  she  retired  with  him  to  Castres  in  1684, 
to  examine  the  controversy  between  the  Protest- 
ants and  Papists.  They  determined  in  favour  of 
the  latter,  and,  after  their  conversion,  the  duke  de 
Montausier  and  the  bishop  of  Meaux  recommended 
them  at  court,  and  the  king  settled  a  pension  of 
1500  livres  on  M.  Dacier,  and  of  500  upon  his 
wife.  They  then  returned  to  Paris  and  resumed 
their  studies. 

In  1688,  she  published  a  French  translation  of 
"  Terence's  Comedies,"  with  notes,  in  three  vol- 
umes. She  rose  at  five  in  the  morning,  during  a 
very  cold  winter,  and  finished  four  of  them,  but 
reading  them  over  a  few  months  afterwards,  she 
was  so  dissatisfied  with  them  that  she  burnt  them, 
and  began  the  translation  again.  She  brought  the 
work  to  the  highest  perfection,  and  even  equalled 
the  grace  and  noble  simplicity  of  the  original. 
She  assisted  in  the  translation  of  "  Marcus  Anto- 
ninus," published  by  her  husband  in  1691,  and  in 
the  specimen  of  the  translation  of  "  Plutarch's 
Lives,"  which  he  published  three  years  after- 
wards. 

In  1711,  she  published  a  French  translation, 
with  notes,  of  "  Homer's  Iliad,"  which  was  thought 
faithful  and  elegant.  In  1714,  she  published  the 
"  Causes  of  the  Corruption  of  Taste."  This  was 
written  against  M.  de  la  Motte,  who,  in  the  pre- 
face to  his  "  Iliad,"  had  expressed  but  little  admi- 
ration for  that  poem.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
a  literary  war,  in  the  course  of  wliich  a  number 
of  books  were  produced.  In  1716,  she  published 
a  defence  of  Homer  against  the  apology  of  father 

279 


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Hardouin,  in  which  she  attempts  to  show  that 
father  Hardouin,  in  endeavouring  to  apologize  for 
Homer,  has  done  him  a  greater  injustice  than  his 
declared  enemies.  Her  last  work,  the  "  Odyssey 
of  Homer,"  with  notes,  translated  from  the  Greek, 
was  published  the  same  year. 

She  died,  after  a  painful  sickness,  August  17th, 
1720,  at  sixty-nine  years  of  age.  She  had  two 
daughters  and  a  son,  whom  she  educated  with  the 
greatest  care ;  but  the  son  died  young,  one  daugh- 
ter became  a  nun,  and  the  other,  who  is  said  to 
have  united  all  the  virtues  and  accomplishments 
of  her  sex,  died  at  eighteen. 

M.  Dacier  was  inconsolable  for  his  loss ;  nor  did 
he  long  survive  his  wife.  Never  had  there  been  a 
couple  more  united,  better  suited  to  each  other, 
and  between  whom  a  more  entire  affection  had 
subsisted.  They  had  been  educated  together,  and 
for  more  than  forty  years  they  lived  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  that  harmony  of  tastes  and  pursuits 
which  enhanced  their  mutual  esteem  and  love. 
Marriage,  when  thus  made  holy  by  the  union  of 
souls,  as  well  as  hearts  and  hands,  while  life  is 
devoted  to  noble  pursuits,  displays  human  nature 
in  the  happiest  light. 

Madame  Dacier  was  remarkable  for  firmness, 
generosity,  good-nature,  and  piety.  Her  modesty 
was  so  great,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could 
be  induced  to  speak  on  literary  subjects.  A 
learned  German  once  visited  her  and  requested 
her  to  write  her  name  and  a  sentence  in  his  book 
of  collections.  She,  seeing  in  it  the  names  of  the 
greatest-  scholars  in  Europe,  told  him  that  she 
could  not  presume  to  put  her  name  among  so  many 
illustrious  persons.  But  as  he  insisted,  she  wrote 
her  name  with  a  sentence  from  Sophocles  signify- 
ing that  "  Silence  is  the  ornament  of  women." 
She  was  often  solicited  to  publish  a  translation  of 
some  books  of  Scripture,  with  remarks  upon 
them;  but  she  always  answered  that  "A  woman 
ought  to  read  and  meditate  on  the  Scriptures,  and 
regulate  her  conduct  by  them,  and  to  keep  silence, 
agreeably  to  the  command  of  St.  Paul." 

We  must  not  forget  to  mention,  that  the  aca- 
demy of  Ricovrati  at  Padua  chose  her  one  of  their 
body  in  1684,  and  learned  men  of  all  countries 
vied  with  each  other  in  proving  their  sense  of  her 
merit. 

DAMER,  ANNE  SEYMOUR, 
Only  child  of  Field-marshal  Conway,  was  born 
in  1748.  Almost  in  childhood,  she  imbibed  a  love 
of  literature,  and  became  highly  accomplished. 
An  accidental  conversation  with  Hume,  respecting 
some  plaster  casts,  turned  her  attention  to  sculp- 
ture, and  she  took  lessons  from  Ceracchi  and  Ba- 
con, and  studied  in  Italy.  She  was  also  fond  of 
dramatic  amusements,  ana  was  an  excellent  ama- 
teur actress.  She  died  May  28th,  1808.  The 
productions  of  her  chisel  are  numerous  and  do  her 
honour.  Among  them  is  a  bust  of  Nelson  in 
Guildhall,  and  two  colossal  heads  on  Henley 
bridge,  and  a  statue  in  marble,  of  George  III.,  in 
the  Edinburgh  Register  office. 

It  is  not  so  much  the  excellence  of  her  works 
of  art  that  entitles  this  lady  to  admiration,  as  that 


a  person  of  her  rank,  wealth,  and  beauty,  should 
give  up  society,  in  a  great  measure,  to  devote  her- 
self to  so  arduous  an  occupation  as  that  of  sculp- 
ture. She  was  a  warm-hearted  politician,  and 
exerted  all  her  influence,  which  was  not  trifling, 
in  favour  of  Fox. 

DANCY,  ELIZABETH, 

Second  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  was  born 
in  London,  1509,  and  educated  very  carefully  un- 
der her  father's  care.  She  corresponded  with 
Erasmus,  who  praises  the  purity  of  her  Latin 
style.  She  married,  when  very  young,  Mr.  Dancy, 
son  and  heir  of  Sir  John  Dancy.  Her  productions 
and  the  time  of  her  death  are  uncertain. 

DANGEVILLE,  MARY   ANNE   BOTOL, 

A  CELEBRATED  French  actress,  considered  as 
superior  to  any  of  her  profession  in  the  class  of 
characters  she  personated ;  she  was  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  waiting-maids  of  French  comedy. 
She  died,  March,  1796;  but,  more  fortunate  than 
people  of  higher  station  and  greater  talents,  her 
eulogium  was  pronounced  two  years  before  her 
decease.  In  September  1794,  M.  Mol^,  at  the 
Lyceum  of  Arts,  at  Paris,  delivered  a  panegyric 
on  this  distinguished  actress. 


DARLING,   GRACE, 

Whose  name,  by  an  act  of  heroic  daring,  has 
resounded  through  the  civilized  world,  was  born 
November  24th,  1815,  at  Bamborough,  on  the  coast 
of  Northumberland,  England.  She  was  the  se- 
venth child  of  William  Darling,  a  steady,  judicious, 
and  sensible  man,  who  held  the  responsible  office 
of  keeper  of  the  Longstone  Lighthouse,  situated 
on  one  of  the  most  distant  and  exposed  of  the 
Fame  Islands,  a  rockj-  group  extending  some  seven 
or  eight  miles  beyond  this  dangerous  coast.  In 
this  isolated  position,  where  weeks  sometimes 
elapsed  without  communication  with  the  main- 
land, the  greater  part  of  Grace's  existence  was 
passed,  with  no  other  companionship  than  that  of 
her  parents  and  brother,  who  resided  at  the  Light- 
house. She  benefited  by  the  advantages  of  a 
respectable  education,  suited  to  one  in  her  sphere 

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of  life,  and  her  time  was  principally  occupied  in 
assisting  her  mother  in  household  affairs. 

Grace  had  reached  her  twenty-second  year, 
when  the  incident  occurred  which  has  given  her 
so  wide-spread  and  just  a  fame.  The  Forfarshire 
steamer,  proceeding  from  Hull  to  Dundee,  with 
sixty-three  persons  on  board,  was  wrecked  upon 
one  of  the  fearful  crags  of  the  Fame  group,  on 
the  night  of  the  6th  of  September,  1838.  The 
vessel,  which  subsequent  enquiry  proved  to  have 
been  utterly  unseaworthy,  was  broken  in  two 
pieces,  the  after  part,  with  many  souls  upon  it, 
being  swept  away  instantly,  while  the  fore  part 
remained  upon  the  rock.  The  captain  and  his 
wife  were  among  the  number  of  those  who  per- 
ished. Nine  persons  survived  the  horrors  of  that 
night  upon  the  remaining  fragment  of  the  wreck, 
exposed,  amid  rain  and  profound  darkness,  to  the 
fury  of  the  waves,  and  expecting  momentarily  to 
be  engulfed  by  the  boiling  surge. 

At  daybreak  on  the  morning  of  the  7th,  these 
poor  people  were  discovered  from  Longstone  by 
the  Darlings,  at  nearly  a  mile's  distance,  by  means 
of  a  glass,  clinging  to  the  rocks  and  remnants  of 
the  vessel.  Grace,  the  moment  she  caught  sight 
of  them,  perceiving  their  imminent  danger  —  for 
the  returning  tide  must  wash  them  off — immedi- 
ately determined  to  save  them ;  and  no  remon- 
strances of  her  father,  who,  in  the  furious  state 
of  the  sea,  considered  it  a  desperate  and  hopeless 
adventure,  had  any  power  in  dissuading  her. 
There  was  no  one  at  the  time  at  the  Lighthouse 
but  her  parents  and  herself,  her  brother  being 
absent  on  the  mainland ;  and  she  declared  if  her 
father  did  not  accompany  her,  she  would  go  alone ; 
that,  live  or  die,  she  would  attempt  to  save  the 
wretched  sufferers. 

Her  father  consented  to  the  trial.  The  boat 
was  launched  with  the  assistance  of  the  mother, 
and  the  father  and  daughter,  each  taking  an  oar, 
proceeded  upon  their  errand  of  mercy.  They  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  in  no  instance  has  lowly  virtue  and 
unobtrusive  heroism  met  with  more  prompt  ac- 
knowledgment or  just  reward.  The  highest  enthu- 
siasm prevailed  throughout  Great  Britain  as  the 
adventure  became  known,  and  distant  nations  re- 
sponded with  hearty  sympathy.  To  reward  the 
bravery  and  humanity  of  Grace  Dai-ling,  a  sub- 
scription was  raised  in  England,  which  amounted 
to  £700,  and  she  received  besides  numberless  pre- 
sents from  individuals,  some  of  them  of  distin- 
guished rank.  Her  portrait  was  taken  and  multi- 
plied over  the  kingdom  ;  the  Humane  Society  sent 
her  a  flattering  vote  of  thanks  and  a  piece  of 
plate  ;  dramatic  pieces  were  performed  represent- 
ing her  exploit ;  her  sea-girt  home  was  invaded 
by  steamboat  loads  of  wonder-seeking  admirers, 
and  offers  of  marriage,  not  a  few,  flowed  in  upon 
her. 

Amid  all  this  tumult  of  applause,  so  calculated 
to  unsettle  the  mind,  Grace  Darling  never  for  a 
moment  swerved  from  the  modest  dignity  which 
belonged  to  her  character.  She  continued,  not- 
withstanding the  improvement  in  her  circum- 
stances, to  reside  at  the  Lighthouse  with  her  pa- 
rents, content  to  dwell  in  the  secluded  and  humble 


sphere  in  which  her  lot  had  been  cast ;  proving  by 
her  conduct  that  the  liberality  of  the  public  had 
not  been  unworthily  bestowed. 

Grace  Darling,  as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the 
noble  and  good,  was  not  destined  to  long  life. 
She  survived  only  a  few  years  to  enjoy  her  well- 
earned  fame.  In  1841,  symptoms  of  declining 
health  exhibited  themselves,  and,  on  the  20tli  of 
October,  1842,  she  died  of  consumption. 

Grace  Darling  is  described  as  a  woman  of  the 
middle  size,  comely,  though  not  handsome,  but 
with  an  expression  of  mildness  and  benevolence 
most  winning.  Her  disposition  was  always  retir- 
ing and  reserved,  the  effect,  no  doubt,  of  her  soli- 
tary mode  of  life ;  a  life  which  unquestionably 
fostered  and  concentrated  the  quiet  enthusiasm  of 
her  character,  and  made  her  the  heroine  of  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  episodes  that  ever  adorned 
the  history  of  Avoman. 

DARRAH,    LYDIA, 

A  MEMBER  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  the 
wife  of  William  Darrah,  of  Philadelphia,  rendered 
an  important  service  to  the  American  army  during 
the  revolutionary  war.  The  house  of  William 
Darrah  was  chosen  by  General  Howe,  while  the 
British  army  had  possession  of  Philadelphia,  as  a 
place  for  private  conference  with  the  other  officers. 
On  the  night  of  the  second  of  December,  1777, 
Lydia  Darrah  overheard  an  order  read,  for  the 
troops  to  march  out  of  the  city  on  the  night  of  the 
fourth,  to  a  secret  attack  on  the  American  camp 
at  White  Marsh.  Not  wishing  to  endanger  her 
husband's  life  by  making  him  a  sharer  of  the 
secret,  she  resolved  to  give  the  important  informa- 
tion to  General  Washington  herself.  Obtaining 
permission  from  General  Howe  to  leave  the  city 
on  some  domestic  errand,  she  went  directly  to- 
wards the  American  camp.  Meeting  an  American 
officer  on  her  way,  she  disclosed  the  secret  to  him, 
making  him  promise  not  to  betray  her,  and  re- 
turned without  any  suspicions  having  been  excited 
concerning  her  errand.  In  consequence  of  her 
information,  when  the  British  army  marched  out 
to  the  attack,  on  the  night  of  the  fourth,  they 
found  the  enemy  so  well  prepared,  that  they  were 
obliged  to  return  without  firing  a  gun.  Lydia 
Darrah's  interposition  was  never  discovered  by 
the  British. 

DASCHKOFF,  CATHARINE  ROMANOWNA, 
Princess  of,  was  descended  from  the  noble 
family  of  AVorenzoff,  and  was  the  early  friend  and 
confidant  of  the  empress  Catharine  II.  of  Russia. 
She  was  born  in  1744,  and  became  a  widow  at  the 
age  of  eighteen.  She  endeavoured  to  effect  the 
accession  of  Catharine  to  the  throne,  but,  .nt  the 
same  time,  was  in  favour  of  a  constitutional  limi- 
tation of  the  imperial  power.  In  a  military  dress, 
and  on  horseback,  she  led  a  body  of  troops  to  the 
presence  of  Catharine,  who  placed  herself  at  their 
head,  and  precipitated  her  husband,  Peter  III., 
from  the  throne.  The  request  of  the  princess 
Daschkoff  to  receive  the  command  of  the  imperial 
guards,  was  refused.  She  did  not  long  remain 
about  the  person  of  Catharine.     Study  became 

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her  favourite  employment ;  and,  after  her  return 
from  abroad,  in  1782,  slie  was  made  director  of 
the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and  president  of  tlie 
newly-established  Russian  Academy.  She  wrote 
much  in  the  Russian  language,  and  promoted  the 
publication  of  the  Dictionary  of  the  Russian  Aca- 
demy.    She  died  at  Moscow,  in  1810. 

Her  courage  and  decision  were  extraordinary. 
Although  her  exertions  in  Catharine's  favour  had 
been  repaid  by  ingratitude,  neglect  and  coldness, 
yet  the  empress  did  not  hesitate,  when  a  conspi- 
racy was  formed  to  dethrone  her,  of  which  she 
thought  the  princess  must  be  cognizant,  to  write 
her  a  long  and  llattering  letter,  in  which  she  con- 
jured her,  in  the  name  of  their  friendship,  to  re- 
veal the  projects  against  her,  promising  the  prin- 
cess full  pardon  for  all  concerned.  The  indignant 
princess  replied  to  the  four  pages  she  had  received 
iu  four  lines.  "  Madam,  I  have  heard  nothing : 
but,  if  I  had,  I  should  beware  of  what  I  spoke. 
What  do  you  require  of  me  ?  That  I  should  ex- 
pire on  the  scaffold  ?     I  am  ready  to  ascend  it." 

V  DAVIDSON,    LUCRETIA   MARIA, 

Second  daughter  of  Dr.  Oliver  and  Margaret 
Davidson,  was  born  at  Plattsburg,  on  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  Sept.  27th,  1808.  Her  parents  were  then 
in  indigent  circumstances,  and,  to  add  to  their 
troubles,  her  mother  was  often  sickly.  Under 
such  circumstances,  the  little  Lucretia  would  not 
be  likely  to  owe  her  precocity  to  a  forced  educa- 
tion. The  manifestations  of  intellectual  activity 
were  apparent  in  the  infant,  we  may  say ;  for  at 
four  j^ears  old  she  would  retire  by  herself  to  pore 
over  her  books,  and  draw  pictures  of  animals,  and 
soon  illustrated  these  rude  drawings  by  poetry. 
Her  first  specimens  of  writing  were  imitations  of 
printed  letters;  but  she  was  very  much  distressed 
when  these  were  discovered,  and  immediately  de- 
stroyed them. 

The  first  poem  of  hers  which  has  been  preserved, 
was  written  when  she  was  nine  years  old.  It  was 
an  elegy  on  a  Robin,  killed  in  the  attempt  to  rear 
it.  This  piece  was  not  inserted  in  her  works. 
The  earliest  of  her  poeans  which  has  been  printed, 
was  written  at  eleven  years  old.  Her  parents 
were  much  gratified  by  her  talents,  and  gave  her 
all  the  indulgence  in  their  power,  which  was  only 
time  for  reading  such  books  as  she  could  obtain 
by  borrowing ;  as  they  could  afford  no  money  to 
buy  books,  or  to  pay  for  her  instruction.  Before 
she  was  twelve  years  old,  she  had  read  most  of 
the  standard  English  poets — much  of  history,  both 
sacred  and  profane — Shakspeare's,  Kotzebue's  and 
Goldsmith's  dramatic  works,  and  many  of  the  popu- 
lar novels  and  romances  of  the  day.  Of  the  latter, 
however,  she  was  not  an  indiscriminate  reader — 
many  of  those  weak  and  worthless  productions, 
which  are  the  61ite  of  the  circulating  libraries, 
this  child,  after  reading  a  few  pages,  would  throw 
aside  in  disgust.  Would  that  all  young  ladies  j)OS- 
sessed  her  delicate  taste  and  discriminating  judg- 
ment ! 

When  Lucretia  was  about  twelve  years  old,  a 
gentleman,  who  had  heard  of  her  genius  and  seen 
Bome  of  her  verses,  sent  her  a  complimentary  note, 


enclosing  twenty  dollars.  Her  first  exclamation 
was,  "  Oh,  now  I  shall  buy  me  some  books!"  But 
her  dear  mother  was  lying  ill — the  little  girl  looked 
towards  the  sick-bed  —  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes, 
and  putting  the  bill  into  her  father's  hand,  she 
said — "Take  it,  father;  it  will  buy  many  comforts 
for  mother;   I  can  do  without  books." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  her  parents  should  feel  the 
deepest  affection  for  such  a  good  and  gifted  child. 
Yet  there  will  always  be  found  officious,  meddling 
persons,  narrow-minded,  if  not  envious,  who  are 
prone  to  prophesy  evil  on  any  pursuits  in  which 
they  or  theirs  cannot  compete.  These  meddlers 
advised  that  she  should  be  deprived  of  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  and  rigorously  confined  to  domestic 
pursuits.  Her  parents  were  too  kind  and  wise  to 
follow  this  counsel;  but  Lucretia,  by  some  means, 
learned  that  such  had  been  given.  Without  a 
murmur,  she  resolved  to  submit  to  this  trial ;  and 
she  faithfully  adhered  to  the  resolution.  She  told 
no  one  of  her  intention  or  feelings,  but  gave  up 
her  writing  and  reading,  and  for  several  months 
devoted  herself  entirely  to  household  business. 
Her  mother  was  ill  at  the  time,  and  did  not  notice 
the  change  in  Lucretia' s  pursuits,  till  she  saw  the 
poor  girl  was  growing  emaciated,  and  a  deep  de- 
jection was  settled  on  her  countenance.  She  said 
to  her,  one  day,  "  Lucretia,  it  is  a  long  time  since 
you  have  written  any  thing."  The  sweet  child 
burst  into  tears,  and  replied,  "0,  mother,  I  have 
given  that  up  long  ago."  Her  mother  then  drew 
from  her  the  reasons  which  had  influenced  her  to 
relinquish  writing  —  namely,  the  opinions  she  had 
heard  expressed  that  it  was  wrong  for  her  to  in- 
dulge in  mental  pursuits,  and  the  feeling  that  she 
ought  to  do  all  in  her  power  to  lighten  the  cares 
of  her  parents.  Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  good,  sen- 
sible woman ;  with  equal  discretion  and  tender- 
ness, she  counselled  her  daughter  to  take  a  middle 
course,  resume  her  studies,  but  divide  her  time 
between  these  darling  pursuits  and  the  duties  of 
the  household.  Lucretia  from  thenceforth  occa- 
sionally resumed  her  pen,  and  soon  regained  her 
quiet  serenity  and  usvial  health. 

Her  love  of  knowledge  grew  with  her  growth, 
and  strengthened  by  evei'y  accession  of  thought. 
"Oh!"  said  she  one  day  to  her  mother — "Oh! 
that  I  only  possessed  half  the  means  of  improve- 
ment which  I  see  others  slighting !  I  should  be 
the  happiest  of  the  happy  !"  At  another  time  she 
exclaimed  —  "  How  much  there  is  yet  to  learn!  — 
If  I  could  only  grasp  it  at  once !" 

This  passionate  desire  for  instruction  was  at 
length  gratified.  When  she  was  abovit  sixteen,  a 
gentleman,  a  stranger  at  Plattsburg,  saw,  by  ac- 
cident, some  of  her  poems,  and  learned  her  his- 
tory. With  the  prompt  and  warm  generosity  of  a 
noble  mind,  he  immediately  proposed  to  place  her 
at  school,  and  give  her  every  advantage  for  which 
she  had  so  ardently  longed.  Her  joy  on  learning 
this  good  fortune  was  almost  overwhelming.  She 
was,  as  soon  as  possible,  placed  at  the  Troy  Fe- 
male Seminary,  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Emma 
AVillard.  She  was  there  at  the  fountain  for  which 
she  had  so  long  thirsted,  and  her  spiritual  eager- 
ness could  not  be  restrained.     "  On  her  entering 

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the  Seminary,"  says  the  Principal,  "she  at  once 
surprised  us  by  the  brilliancy  and  pathos  of  her 
compositions  —  she  evinced  a  most  exquisite  sense 
of  the  beautiful  in  the  productions  of  her  pencil ; 
always  giving  to  whatever  she  attempted  to  copy, 
certain  peculiar  and  original  touches  which  marked 
the  liveliness  of  her  conceiDtions,  and  the  power 
of  her  genius  to  embody  those  conceptions.  But 
,  from  studies  which  required  calm  and  steady  in- 
vestigation, efforts  of  memory,  judgment  and  con- 
secutive thinking,  her  mind  seemed  to  shrink.  She 
had  no  confidence  in  herself,  and  appeared  to  re- 
gard with  dismay  any  requisitions  of  this  nature." 
—  In  truth,  she  had  so  long  indulged  in  solitary 
musings,  and  her  sensibility  had  become  so  exqui- 
site, heightened  and  refined  as  it  had  been  by  her 
vivid  imagination,  that  she  was  dismayed,  agonized 
even,  with  the  feeling  of  responsibility,  which  her 
public  examination  involved.  She  was  greatly  be- 
loved and  tenderly  cherished  by  her  teachers  ;  but 
it  is  probable  that  the  excitement  of  the  new  situa- 
tion in  which  she  was  placed,  and  the  new  studies 
she  had  to  pursue,  operated  fatally  on  her  consti- 
tution. She  was,  during  the  vacation,  taken  with 
an  illness,  which  left  her  feeble  and  very  nervous. 
AVhen  she  recovered,  she  was  placed  at  Albany,  at 
the  school  of  Miss  Gilbert  —  but  there  she  was 
soon  attacked  by  severe  disease.  She  partially 
recovered,  and  was  removed  to  her  home,  where 
she  gradually  declined  till  death  released  her  pure 
and  exalted  mind  from  its  prison-house  of  clay. 
She  died,  August  27th,  182-5,  before  she  had  com- 
pleted her  seventeenth  year. 

In  person  she  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  Her 
forehead  was  high,  open,  and  fair  as  infancy — her 
eyes  large,  dark,  and  of  that  soft  beaming  expres- 
sion which  shows  the  soul  in  the  glance — her  fea- 
tures were  fine  and  symmetrical,  and  her  com- 
plexion brilliant,  especially  when  the  least  excite- 
ment moved  her  feelings.  But  the  prevailing 
expression  of  her  face  was  melancholy.  Her 
beauty,  as  well  as  her  mental  endowments,  made 
her  the  object  of  much  regard ;  but  she  shrunk 
from  observation — any  particular  attention  always 
seemed  to  give  her  pain ;  so  exquisite  was  her 
modesty.  In  truth,  her  soul  was  too  delicate  for 
this  "cold  world  of  storms  and  clouds."  Her 
imagination  never  revelled  in  the  "  garishness  of 
joy;"  —  a  pensive,  meditative  mood  was  the  na- 
tui'al  tone  of  her  mind.  Tlie  adverse  circumstances 
by  which  she  was  surrounded,  no  doubt  deepened 
this  seriousness,  till  it  became  almost  morbid  me- 
lancholy—  but  no  external  advantages  of  fortune 
would  have  given  to  her  disposition  buoyant  cheer- 
fulness. It  seems  the  lot  of  youthful  genius  to  be 
sad ;  Kirke  White  was  thus  melancholy.  Like 
flowers  opened  too  early,  these  children  of  song 
shrink  from  the  storms  of  life  before  they  have 
felt  its  sunbeams. 

The  writings  of  Miss  Davidson  were  astonish- 
ingly voluminous.  She  had  destroyed  many  of  her 
pieces;  her  mother  says,  at  least  one-third  —  yet 
those  remaining  amount  to  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
eight  pieces.  There  are  among  them  five  regular 
poems  of  several  cantos  each,  twenty-four  school- 
exercises,  three  unfinished  romances,  a  complete 


tragedy,  written  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  and 
about  forty  letters  to  her  mother.  Her  poetry  is 
marked  by  strong  imaginative  powers,  and  the 
sentiment  of  sad  forebodings.  These  dai'k  visions, 
though  they  tinged  all  her  earthly  horizon,  were 
not  permitted  to  cloud  her  hope  of  heaven.  She 
died  calmly,  relying  on  the  merits  of  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  for  salvation.  The  last  word  she  spoke 
was  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  had  so  kindly 
assisted  her.  And  if  his  name  were  known,  often 
would  it  be  spoken;  for  his  generosity  to  this 
humble,  but  highly  gifted  daughter  of  song,  will 
make  his  deed  of  charity  a  sacred  remembrance 
to  all  who  love  genius,  and  sympathize  witli  the 
suiFering. 

Her  poems,  with  a  biographical  sketch,  were 
published  in  1829,  under  the  title  "  Amir  Khan, 
and  other  poems,  the  remains  of  L.  M.  David- 
son." This  work  was  reviewed  in  the  London 
Quarterly  of  the  same  year ;  and  the  writer  says, 
"  Hi  our  own  language,  except  in  the  cases  of 
Chatterton  and  Kirke  White,  we  can  call  to  mind 
no  instance  of  so  early,  so  ardent,  and  so  fatal  a 
pursuit  of  intellectual  advancement." 

TO    A    FRIEXD. 

And  thou  hast  marked  in  childhood's  hour 
The  fearless  boundings  of  my  breast, 

When  fresh  as  summer's  opening  flower, 
I  freely  frolicked  and  was  blest. 

Oh  say,  was  not  this  eye  more  bright  ? 

Were  not  these  lips  more  wont  to  smile  ? 
Methinks  that  then  my  heart  was  light, 

And  I  a  fearless,  joyous  child. 

And  thou  didst  mark  me  gay  and  wild, 
My  careless,  reckless  laugh  of  mirth; 

The  simple  pleasures  of  a  child. 
The  holiday  of  man  on  earth. 

Then  thou  hast  seen  mc  in  that  hour, 
When  every  nerve  of  life  was  new. 

When  pleasures  fanned  youth's  irjfant  flower. 
And  Hope  her  witcheries  round  it  threw. 

That  hour  is  fading;  it  halh  fled; 

And  I  am  left  in  darkness  now, 
A  wanderer  towards  a  lowly  bed. 

The  grave,  that  home  of  all  below. 

THE    GUAKDIAN    ANGEL. 

To  Miss  E.  C. — Composed  on  a  blank  leaf  of  her  Paletj  during 
recitation. 

I'm  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid,  and  I  rest 
In  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast ; 
At  midnight  I  steal  frou)  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses  flow 
In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow, 

0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul,     • 
My  tempest  the  clouds  which  around  thee  may  roll ; 

1  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fouiu  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me  ; 

There  are  some  which  half-breathed,  lialf  acknowledged  by 

thee. 
Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruflling  its  calmness,  then  murmuring  to  rest. 

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Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With  its  own  mimic  mountains,  and  star-spangled  skies, 
I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  vvl>cn  sleeping. 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night; 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie. 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy, 

ATy  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 

My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 

Farewell !  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled. 

And  the  young  rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round  my  head. 

TO   A   STAE. 

Thou  brightly  glittering  Star  of  Even  — 

Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  heaven  ! 

Oh!  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 

How  quick  't  would  spread  its  wings  to  thee! 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thnu  shine. 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine  ; 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  mayst  boast 
Was  never  ransomed  —  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string. 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  heaven's  refulgent  lights; 
There,  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll. 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  Star  of  Even  — 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven  ! 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee. 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free! 

STANZAS. 

Mdresscd  to  her  Sister,  requesting  her  losing  "  Moore's  Fare- 
well to  his  Harp." 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven, 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given  ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie ;  — 

Th^n,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give. 

Oh.  sister!  sing  the  song  I  love. 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core. 
And.  hovering,  trembles  half  afraid. 

Oh.  sister !  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made 

'Tvvere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 
Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day  ; 

Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing. 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above. 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head. 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love? 

LINES, 

Mdresscd  to   her  mother,   a  few   months   before    Lucretia's 

death. 
Oh  thou  whose  care  sustained  my  infant  years. 

And  taught  my  prattling  lip  each  note  of  love; 
Whose  soothing  voice  breathed  comfort  to  my  fears. 

And  round  my  brow  hope's  brightest  garland  wove: 


To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simplest  song, 
Which  Nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day ; 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart  indulgent  will  not  spurn  my  lay. 

O  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life, 

What  bosom  would  liave  throbbed  like  thine  for  me? 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive  ? —  who  in  grief 

Would  e'er  have  felt,  and,  feeling,  grieved  like  thee? 

Who  would  have  guarded,  with  a  falcon  eye. 
Each  trembling  footstep  or  each  sport  of  fear  ? 

Who  would  have  marked  my  bosom  bounding  high. 
And  clasped  me  to  her  heart,  with  love's  bright  tear? 

Who  would  have  hung  around  my  sleepless  couch. 
And  fanned,  with  an.xious  hand,  my  burning  brow  ? 

Who  would  have  fondly  pressed  my  fevered  lip. 
In  all  the  agony  of  love  and  wo? 

None  but  a  mother  —  none  but  one  like  thee, 
Whose  bloom  has  faded  in  the  midnight  watch; 

Whose  eye,  for  me,  has  lost  its  witchery; 
Whose  form  has  felt  disease's  mildew  touch. 

Ves,  thou  hast  lighted  me  to  health  and  life. 
By  the  bright  lustre  of  thy  youthful  bloom  — 

Yes,  thou  hast  wept  so  oft  o'er  every  grief, 
That  wo  hath  traced  thy  brow  with  marks  of  gloom. 

Oh,  then,  to  thee  this  rude  and  simple  simg. 
Which  breathes  of  thankfulness  and  love  for  thee. 

To  thee,  my  mother,  shall  this  lay  belong. 
Whose  life  is  spent  in  toil  and  care  for  me. 

FRAGMENT.* 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread,  — 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread. 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness  or  of  sadness ; 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death  —  't  is  more. 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness ! 

Oh!  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause. 
Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course  ; 

May  this  hot  brain,  which  burning  glows 
With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force. 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed  ; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal  — 


DAVIDSON,  MARGARET   MILLER, 

Sister  of  Lucretia,  was  also  the  daughter  of  Dr. 
Davidson  of  Plattsburg,  N.  Y.  She  was  born  in 
1823,  and  though  her  health  was  alwaj'S  extremely 
delicate,  she  early  devoted  lierself  to  study  and 
literary  pursuits.  In  1838,  her  father  removed  to 
Saratoga,  where  she  died  on  the  twenty-fifth  of 
November  of  the  same  year,  in  her  sixteenth  year. 
She  was  distinguished,  as  well  as  her  sister,  for 
remarkable  precocity  of  genius,  and  her  poems 
would  be  creditable  to  much  more  experienced 
writers.  In  personal  appearance  and  character, 
she  was  lovely  and  estimable.  The  particular  bias 
of  her  mind  towards  poetry  was,  probably,  in- 
duced, certainly  fostered,  by  the  example  of  her 
sister.  Margaret  was  but  two  years  old  when  Lu- 
cretia died,  yet  the  sad  event  was  never  effaced 
from  her  mind.  This  impression  was  deepened  as 
she  grow  older  and  listened  to  the  story  of  her 
lovely  and  gifted  sister,  who  had  been  a  star  of 
hope  in  her  humble  home.     Often,  when  Mrs.  Da- 

*  These  lines  are  the  last  she  ever  wrote;  they  were  left 
thus  unfinished. 

284 


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vidson,  the  mother,  was  relating  what  Lucretia 
had  said  aud  done,  little  Margaret  would  exclaim, 
"  Oh,  I  will  try  to  fill  her  place ;  teach  me  to  be 
like  her !"  And  she  was  like  her,  both  in  the  pre- 
cocity of  her  genius  and  in  her  early  death.  Their 
mother  was  kind,  and,  in  some  things,  judicious  ; 
but  we  think  she  encouraged,  or  permitted  rather, 
the  development  of  the  imagination  of  Margaret 
at  the  expense  of  her  constitution,  when,  by  pa- 
tient and  prudent  training,  it  might  have  been 
suppressed.  The  following  is  among  her  best 
productions,  and  memorable  as  the  last  she  ever 
wrote,  only  a  few  days  before  her  death. 

TO    MT    MOTHER. 

oil.  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lovesl  to  hear, 

And  breathe  earh  trenjbling  new-born  thought 
Within  thy  fondly  listening  ear. 

As  when,  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

3Iy  hopes  and  fancies  vvander'd  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  liath  passed 

Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here  ; 
A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapped 

The  remnant  of  my  brief  career : 
No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win. 
The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  mure, 
And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before  ; 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow. 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife  ; 
Oh.  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life  ! 
Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I'll  sing  thee  as  in  "days  of  yore." 

I  said  that  Hope  had  pass'd  from  earth — 
'T  was  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  heaven. 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth. 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven  : 

When  mine  are  wash'd  in  tears  away, 

Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  the  lay. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above. 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love- 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart. 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise; 
And  all  not  ofTor'd  at  his  shrine. 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 

DA  VIES,  LADY   ELEANOR, 

Was  the  fifth  daughter  of  lord  George  Audley, 
earl  of  Castlehaven,  and  born  about  1603.  She 
received  a  learned  education,  and  married,  first, 
Sir  John  Davies,  who  died  1644;  three  months 
after  his  death,  she  married  Sir  Archibald  Douglas. 
Neither  of  these  marriages  was  happy,  the  lady's 
pretension  to  the  spirit  of  prophecy  seeming  to 
have  disgusted  her  husbands.  She  fancied  that 
the  spirit  of  the  prophet  Daniel  had  been  infused 
into  her  body,  and  this  she  founded  on  an  anagram 
she  had  made  of  her  own  name. 

Dr.  Heylin,  in  his  Life  of  Archbishop  Laud, 
thus  speaks  of  her:  "And  that  the  other  sex 
might  whet  their  tongues  upon  him  also,  the  lady 
Davies,  the  widow  of  Sir  John  Davies,  attorney- 
general  for  king  James  in  Ireland,  scatters  a  pro- 
phecy against  him.  This  lady  had  before  spoken 
somewhat  unluckily  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham, 
importing  that  he  should  not  live  till  the  end  of 


August,  which  raised  her  to  the  reputation  of  a 
Cunning  Woman  among  the  ignorant  people  :  and 
now  (1634)  she  prophesies  of  the  new  archbishop, 
that  he  should  live  but  a  few  days  after  the  5th 
of  November ;  for  which  and  other  prophecies  of 
a  more  mischievous  nature,  she  was  after  brought 
into  the  court  of  high  commission ;  the  woman 
being  grown  so  mad,  that  she  fancied  the  spi- 
rit of  the  prophet  Daniel  to  have  been  infused 
into  her  body ;  and  this  she  grounded  on  an  ana- 
gram which  she  made  up  of  her  name  :  viz.  Elea- 
\0E  Davies  :  Reveal,  0  Daniel.  And  though  it 
had  too  much  by  an  S,  and  too  little  by  an  L,  yet 
she  found  Daniel  and  reveal  in  it,  and  that  served 
her  turn.  Much  pains  was  taken  to  dispossess 
her  of  this  spirit ;  but  all  would  not  do,  till  Lamb, 
then  dean  of  the  arches,  shot  her  through  and 
through  with  an  arrow  borrowed  from  her  own 
quiver :  for  whilst  the  bishops  and  divines  were 
reasoning  the  point  with  her  out  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  he  took  a  pen  into  his  hand,  and  at 
last  hit  upon  this  excellent  anagram  :  Dame  Elea- 
nor Davies  :  Never  so  mad  a  Lady  ;  which  hav- 
ing proved  to  be  true  by  the  rviles  of  art,  '  Madam,' 
said  he,  '  I  see  you  build  much  on  anagrams,  and 
I  have  found  out  one  which  I  hope  will  fit  you.' 
This  said,  and  reading  it  aloud,  he  put  it  into  her 
hands  in  -writing  ;  which  happy  fancy  brought  that 
grave  court  into  such  a  laughter,  and  the  poor 
woman  thereupon  into  such  a  confusion,  that  after- 
ward she  grew  either  wiser,  or  was  less  regarded." 

In  the  continuation  of  Baker's  Chronicle,  the 
lady  Davies  is  mentioned  with  more  respect.  Dr. 
Peter  du  Moulin  also  thus  speaks  of  her:  "She 
was  learned  above  her  sex,  humble  below  her  for- 
tune, having  a  mind  so  great  and  noble,  that  pros- 
perity could  not  make  it  remiss,  nor  the  deepest 
adversity  cause  her  to  shrink,  or  discover  the  least 
pusillanimity  or  dejection  of  spirit ;  being  full  of 
the  love  of  God,  to  that  fulness  the  smiling  world 
could  not  add,  nor  the  frowning  from  it  detract." 
It  is  probable  that  the  learning  of  this  lady,  acting 
upon  a  raised  imagination,  and  a  fanatic  turn  of 
mind,  produced  a  partial  insanity. 

•'Great  wit  to  madness  nearly  is  allied." 

The  year  before  her  death,  which  took  place  in 
1652,  lady  Davies  published  a  pamphlet,  entitled 
"  The  Restitution  of  Prophecy ;  that  buried  Talent 
to  be  revived.  By  the  lady  Eleanor,  1651."  In 
this  tract,  written  very  obscurely,  are  many  seve- 
rities against  the  persecutors  of  the  author. 

DEBORAH, 

A  Jewess,  living  at  Rome,  who  died  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  seventeenth  century.  She  was  dis- 
tinguished while  she  lived  for  her  poems  and  other 
works.  None  of  these  are  now  to  be  obtained ; 
but  if  a  literary  work  serves  one  generation  of 
readers  the  author  should  be  satisfied. 

DEFFAND,  MARIE  DE  VICHY  CHAM- 
BROND   DU, 

One  of  the  most  prominent  French  women  of 
the  regency  and  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  was  born  at 
Paris  in  1697,  of  a  family  noble  and  military. 
Educated  in  a  convent,    she  early  distinguished 

285 


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herself  for  a  tone  of  raillery  on  religious  subjects. 
Massillon  was  called  in  to  talk  -with  her,  but  ' '  Elle 
est  charmante"  was  his  only  reproof.  At  the  age 
of  twenty,  IMademoiselle  de  Vichy  mai-ried  the 
marquis  du  Deffand,  from  whom  her  intrigues  soon 
caused  her  to  separate.  Eyes  remarkable  for  their 
beauty  and  brilliancy,  a  pleasant  smile,  and  a 
countenance  full  of  piquancy  and  expression,  were 
the  chief  personal  attractions  of  the  young  mar- 
chioness. Brilliant,  witty,  sceptical,  and  sarcastic, 
she  drew  around  her  the  most  distinguished  men 
and  women  of  her  time.  She  had  numerous 
lovers,  the  regent  himself  being  for  a  short  time 
among  the  number ;  and  she  possessed  the  power 
of  securing  the  constancy  of  many  of  them,  even 
up  to  their  dotage. 

Her  hard  selfishness  of  character  and  want  of 
sympathy,  rendered  her  incapable  of  love ;  but 
her  clear  cool  judgment  and  abhorrence  of  finesse, 
rendered  her  perfectly  frank  and  sincere.  When 
the  celebrated  work  of  Helvetius  appeared,  he 
was  blamed,  in  her  presence,  for  having  made  sel- 
fishness the  great  motive  of  human  actions. 

"Bah!"  said  she,  "he  has  only  revealed  every 
one's  secret." 

The  greater  portion  of  Madame  du  DefiFand's 
eai-ly  life  was  passed  at  the  court  of  the  brilliant 
Duchess  du  Maine,  whose  friendship  she  enjoyed. 
At  a  later  period,  failing  m  her  repeated  attempts 
to  become  a  devotee,  for  which  she  manifestly  had 
no  vocation,  she  nevertheless  established  herself 
in  the  convent  of  St.  JosejDh's,  where,  in  handsome 
apartments,  she  gave  evening  parties  and  suj)pers 
to  her  friends.  Soon  after  her  retreat  to  the  con- 
vent, she  became  totally  blind,  and  continued  in 
that  melancholy  condition  for  the  last  thirty  years 
of  her  life ;  a  misfortune  which  she  endured  with 
great  fortitude.  She  gathered  around  her,  how- 
ever, a  brilliant  intellectual  circle,  to  which  she 
gave  the  tone,  who  met  for  common  amusement, 
and  served  to  dispel  the  ennui  by  which  she  was 
constantly  attacked. 

Horace  Walpole,  Avho  became  acquainted  with 
her  at  this  period  of  her  life,  has  celebrated  her 
in  his  amusing  letters.  Their  friendship  conti- 
nued uninterrupted  till  her  death,  and  was  ce- 
mented by  frequent  visits  to  Paris  by  Walpole, 
and  constant  correspondence.  Her  treatment  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  whom  she  first  suc- 
coured, and  then  discarded  through  jealousy,  made 
her  many  enemies,  and  drew  from  her  ranks  many 
of  her  most  brilliant  visitors.  The  latter  part  of 
her  life  was  only  the  shadow  of  what  it  had  been, 
her  ennui,  selfishness,  and  ill-temper  repelling 
even  her  most  attached  friends.  She  died,  after 
a  final  and  unsuccessful  attempt  to  become  devout, 
in  the  month  of  September,  1780,  in  the  eighty- 
fourth  year  of  her  age. 

Madame  du  Deffand's  epistolai-y  writings  were 
characterized  by  an  exquisite  style  ;  not  obtained, 
however,  it  is  said,  without  a  degree  of  labour  and 
study  somewhat  surprising  to  the  readers  of  those 
■ipontaneous  effusions.  Her  poetry  never  rose  above 
mediocrity.  The  following  are  specimens ;  the 
first  alludes  to  her  own  blindness,  which  gives  a 
melancholy  interest  to  the  little  song. 


CHANSON. 

Le  ver  a  soie  est  a  mes  yeux 
L'etre  doiit  le  sort  vaut  le  mieux: 
II  travaille  dans  sa  jeiinesse; 
II  dnrt  dans  sa  maturity; 
II  nieurt  enfin  dans  sa  vieillesse 
All  conible  de  la  volupte. 

Notre  sort  est  bien  different; 
II  va  toujours  en  enipirant: 
duelques  plalsirs  dans  la  jeunesse: 
Des  soins  dans  la  maturite; 
Tons  les  mallieurs  de  la  vieillesse  ; 
Puis  la  peur  de  T^ternite. 


LES    DEUX    AGES    DE    LHOMME. 

II  est  un  iige  lieureux,  inais  qu'on  perd  sans  retour, 
Ou  la  foible  jeunesse  entrainc  sur  ses  traces 

Le  plaisir  vif  avec  Tanioiir 

Et  les  d^sirs  avec  les  graces. 
II  est  un  age  affreux,  sombre  et  froide  saison. 
Oil  rhomnie  encor  s'egare  et  prend  dans  sa  tristesse 

Son  impuissance  pour  sagesse, 

Et  ses  craintes  pour  la  raison. 


DEKKEN,  AGATHE, 

A  Dutch  authoress,  born  in  1741,  in  the  village 
of  Amstelveen,  near  Amsterdam,  on  the  10th  of 
December,  1741.  AVhen  three  years  old  she  lost 
her  parents,  and  being  very  poor,  was  placed  in 
the  Amsterdam  orphan  asylum.  Her  natural  abi- 
lities and  industry  soon  distinguished  her  from 
her  companions,  and  her  early  and  successful  ef- 
forts in  poetry,  procured  the  protection  and  assist- 
ance of  the  "  Diligentite  Omnia"  society.  When 
she  left  the  asylum,  she  accepted  a  place  as  com- 
panion to  Miss  Maria  Borsh,  a  young  lady  who 
was  herself  a  poetess.  She  lived  with  Miss  Borsh 
till  1773.  After  the  death  of  her  friend  and  bene- 
factress. Miss  Dekken  published  a  collection  of 
poems,  the  result  of  their  joint  labours.  She  then 
went  to  live  with  another  friend,  Elizabeth  Beeker, 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman.  Their  united  labours 
produced  the  first  Dutch  domestic  novel,  and  they 
became  thus  the  founders  of  a  new  school  of  novel 
writers.  Shortly  afterwards  they  published  the 
"  Wanderlengen  door  Bougogne,"  (1779.)  In  1787 
she  removed  to  Paris,  and  had  subsequent^,  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  terror,  some  very  narrow  escapes 
from  the  guillotine.  In  1790  she  returned  to  Hol- 
land, when  the  dishonesty  of  a  friend  deprived 
her  of  her  little  property.  She  had  now  again  to 
resort  to  her  pen  as  a  means  of  subsistence.  She 
translated  therefore  several  English  novels,  and 
published  a  collection  of  poems,  which  contains 
some  patriotic  and  religious  pieces,  which  are  to 
this  day  esteemed  master-pieces  of  Dutch  poetry. 
She  died  on  the  15th  of  November,  1807. 

DEL  ANY,    MARY, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Bernard  Granville,  Esq., 
afterwards  Lord  Lansdowne,  a  nobleman  celebrated 
for  his  abilities  and  virtues.  His  character  as  a 
poet,  and  his  friendship  with  Pope,  Swift,  and 
other  eminent  writers  of  the  time,  as  well  as  his 
general  patronage  of  men  of  genius  and  literature, 
have  been  so  often  recorded  that  they  must  be 
familiar  to  our  readers.     His  daughter  Mary  re- 


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ceived  a  very  careful  education,  and  at  the  age  of 
seventeen  was  induced  to  marn%  against  her  own 
inclination,  Alexander  Pendarves,  a  gentleman  of 
large  property  at  Roscrow,  in  Cornwall.  From  a 
great  disparity  of  years,  and  other  causes,  she  was 
very  unhappy  during  this  connexion.  However, 
she  wiselj'  employed  the  retirement  to  which  she 
was  confined  in  cultivating  her  mind  and  her  mu- 
sical talents.  She  was  distinguished  for  her  powere 
of  conversation,  for  her  epistolary  writing,  and 
her  taste. 

In  1724  Mrs.  Pendarves  became  a  widow,  when 
she  left  Cornwall  for  London.  For  several  years 
after  this  she  corresponded  with  Dean  Swift.  In 
1743  she  married  Dr.  Patrick  Delany,  whom  she 
had  long  known,  and  their  union  was  a  very  happy 
one.  He  died  in  1768,  and  after  that  she  was  in- 
duced by  the  duchess-dowager  of  Portland,  who 
had  been  an  early  and  constant  friend  of  hers,  to 
reside  a  part  of  the  time  with  her ;  and  Mrs.  De- 
lany divided  the  year  between  London  and  Bul- 
strode. 

On  the  death  of  the  duchess-dowager  of  Port- 
land, the  king  assigned  Mrs.  Delany,  as  a  summer 
residence,  the  use  of  a  furnished  house  in  St.  Al- 
ban's  street,  Windsor,  adjoining  the  entrance  to 
the  castle,  and  a  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  Mrs.  Delany  died  at  her  own  house  in 
St.  James'  street,  on  the  l-5th  of  April,  1788,  hav- 
ing nearly  completed  her  eighty-eighth  year. 

The  circumstance  that  has  principally  entitled 
IMrs.  Delany  to  a  place  in  this  dictionary  was  her 
skill  in  painting,  and  other  ingenious  arts.  She 
was  thirty  years  old  before  she  learned  to  draw, 
and  forty  before  she  attempted  oil-painting ;  but 
she  devoted  herself  to  it,  and  her  proficiency  was 
remarkable.  She  was  principally  a  copyist,  but 
painted  a  few  original  pictures,  the  largest  of 
which  was  the  raising  of  Lazarus.  She  excelled 
in  embroidery  and  shell-work,  and  at  the  age  of 
seventy-four  invented  a  new  and  beautiful  mode 
of  exercising  her  ingenuity.  This  was  in  the  con- 
struction of  a  Flora.  She  cut  out  the  various 
parts  of  the  flower  she  wished  to  imitate,  in  co- 
loured paper,  which  she  sometimes  dyed  herself, 
and  pasted  them,  accurately  ai-ranged,  on  a  black 
ground.  The  effect  was  so  admirable  that  it  was 
impossible  often  to  distinguish  the  original  from 
the  imitation.  Mrs.  Delany  continued  to  carry 
out  this  favourite  design  till  she  was  eighty-three, 
when  the  partial  failure  of  her  sight  obliged  her 
to  lay  it  aside,  but  not  till  she  had  finished  nine 
hundred  and  eighty  flowers.  This  is  tlie  com- 
pletest  Flora  ever  executed  by  one  hand,  and  re- 
quired great  knowledge  of  botanical  di'awing. 

She  bequeathed  this  work  to  her  nephew,  count 
Dewes.  At  the  age  of  eighty  she  began  to  write 
poeti-y ; — the  following  she  prefixed  to  the  first 
volume  of  her  Flora,  or  Herbal : 

"  Hail  to  the  liappy  times  when  fancy  led 
My  pensive  mind  the  flovv'ry  path  to  tread, 
And  gave  me  emulation  to  presume. 
With  timid  art,  to  trace  fair  nature's  bloom  : 
To  view  with  awe  the  great  creative  power 
That  shine.sconfest  in  tlie  minutest  flower: 
With  wonder  to  pursue  the  ^'lorions  line, 
And  gratefully  adore  the  hand  divine." 


It  was  said  of  Mrs.  Delany's  poetry  that  "her 
verses  show  at  least  a  pious  disposition."  At 
eighty  piety  is  the  charm  of  woman's  life  and  con- 
versation, and  also  required  for  her  own  happiness. 
Mrs.  Delany  has  left  a  beautiful  example  to  her 
sex,  by  the  manner  in  which  she  improved  her 
time ;  she  never  gi-ew  old  in  feeling ;  always  em- 
ployed, and  always  improving  her  talents,  she 
kept  youth  in  her  heart,  and  therefore  never  lost 
her  power  of  pleasing.  Miss  Burney,  who  was 
the  intimate  friend  of  her  last  years  of  life,  thus 
describes  Mrs.  Delany  just  before  her  death,  when 
she  had  entered  her  88th  year : — 

"Her  eyes  alone  had  failed,  and  these  not  to- 
tally. Not  even  was  her  general  frame,  though 
enfeebled,  wholly  deprived  of  its  elastic  powers. 
She  was  upright ;  her  air  and  her  carriage  were 
full  of  dignity ;  all  her  motions  were  graceful ; 
and  her  gestures,  when  she  was  animated,  had  a 
vivacity  almost  sportive.  Her  exquisitely  suscep- 
tible soul,  at  every  strong  emotion,  still  mantled 
in  her  cheeks,  and  h«r  spirits,  to  the  last,  retained 
their  innocent  gaiety  ;  her  conversation  its  balmy 
tone  of  sympathy ;  and  her  manners  their  soft  and 
resistless  attraction  :  while  her  piety  was  at  once 
the  most  fervent,  yet  most  humble." 

Mrs.  Delany  died  April  IStli,  1788,  and  was  in- 
terred in  a  vault  belonging  to  St.  James'  church, 
where  a  monument  has  been  erected  to  her  me- 
mory. 

DELORME,    MARION, 

Born  in  1612,  at  Chalons,  in  Champagne,  was 
the  mistress  of  Cinq-Mars,  who  was  executed  by 
Richelieu  for  high-treason,  in  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIII.  Even  before  the  death  of  her  lover  she 
was  unfaithful  to  him,  and  her  house  was  the  ren- 
dezvous of  the  young  courtiers.  In  1650  she  was 
involved  in  another  difficulty  with  the  government, 
and  only  escaped  arrest  by  a  report  of  her  sick- 
ness, followed  by  one  of  her  death.  She  is  said 
to  have  seen  her  own  funeral  from  a  window.  She 
then  went  to  England,  married  a  wealthy  noble- 
man, and  being  soon  left  a  widow,  she  returned  to 
France.  On  her  way  to  Paris  she  was  attacked 
by  robbers  and  foried  to  marry  their  captain. 
Becoming  a  widow  a  second  time,  she  married  a 
man  named  Lebrun,  with  whom  she  went  to  Paris, 
where  she  died,  in  1706,  in  great  indigence.  She 
was  a  friend  of  the  celebrated  Ninon  de  I'Enclos. 

DEROCHES,  MADELEINE  REVUO, 

And  her  daughter  Catherine,  were  famed  among 
the  French  literati  for  wit  and  sparkling  vivacity 
of  mind.  Their  names  cannot  be  separated,  for 
like  twin  stars  they  illuminated  the  literary  sky. 
The  greatest  minds  of  France  soitght  and  enjoyed 
their  conversation:  Marley,  Scaliger,  Rapin,  an<I 
Pasquier,  considered  it  more  improving  than  tliat 
of  their  male  friends,  and  Pasquier  published  a 
collection  of  their  poems,  with  the  curious  title 
"Fleas  of  Miss  Deroches,"  (1582).  They  were 
inseparable  in  death  as  during  their  life.  They 
always  expressed  a  wish  that  they  mi.ulit  die  at 
the  same  time  ;  and  Providence  granted  it.  They 
died  on  the  same  day  at  Poictiers,  victims  of  the 

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plague,  which  prevailed  there  at  that  time.  Their 
works  were  published,  in  two  volumes,  in  the 
year  1604. 

DESCARTES,  CATHARINE, 
Daughter  of  a  councillor  of  the  Parliament  of 
Brittany,  and  niece  of  the  celebrated  philosopher 
of  that  name,  was,  from  her  learning  and  talents, 
so  worthy  of  her  origin,  that  it  was  said,  "  The 
mind  of  the  great  Descartes  had  fallen  on  a 
distaff."  Her  most  considerable  work  was  an  ac- 
count of  the  death  of  her  uncle,  in  prose  and  verse. 
She  led  a  very  quiet  life  in  Brittany,  and  died,  in 
1706,  of  a  disease  brought  on  by  hard  study.  She 
was  born  at  Rennes  in  1635. 


DESHOULIERES,    ANTOINETTE 
LIGIER  DE  LA  GARDE, 

AVas  born  at  Paris,  in  1638.  At  that  period  the 
education  of  young  ladies  was  very  carefully  at- 
tended ;  usage  required  them  to  be  instructed  in 
many  subjects  that  are  not  always  open  to  their 
sex.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Garde  evinced  a  bright- 
ness of  mind,  and  love  for  study,  at  a  very  early 
age.  Her  taste  for  poetry  manifested  itself  almost 
in  infancy;  she  "lisped  in  number."  Henault,  a 
poet  of  some  reputation,  was  a  friend  of  the  family, 
and  he  took  pleasui-e  in  instructing  this  charming 
damsel  in  the  rules  of  versification ;  it  has  even 
been  said  that  he  sacrificed  some  poems  of  his 
own  to  add  to  the  celebrity  of  his  pupil.  Made- 
moiselle de  la  Garde  added  the  charms  of  beauty, 
and  pleasing  manners,  to  her  literary  abilities. 
Perhaps  her  admirers,  who  were  many,  would 
have  expressed  it  —  her  beauty  rendered  her 
chai'ming  in  spite  of  her  literary  abilities.  In 
1651  she  became  the  wife  of  the  seigneur  Deshou- 
lieres,  a  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  great  Conde. 
He  participated  actively  in  the  civil  war  of  the 
Fronde,  and  becoming  obnoxious  to  the  queen- 
regent,  suffered  a  confiscation  of  his  property. 
Madame  Deshouliferes,  who  had  accompanied  her 
husband  through  the  changes  and  chances  of  a 
soldier's  life,  went  to  Brussels,  where  a  Spanish 
court  resided,  to  obtain  some  claims  which  the 


colonel  was  not  himself  at  leisure  to  pursue  ;  this 
step  resulted  in  an  arbitrary  imprisonment.  She 
was  confined,  in  a  state  prison,  for  eight  months, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  with  difiSculty  released 
by  the  exertions  of  her  husband.  At  the  close  of 
the  civil  wars  M.  Deshoulieres  obtained  an  office 
in  Guienne,  where  he  retired  with  his  family.  At 
this  time  Antoinette  had  the  opportunity  of  visit- 
ing Vaucluse :  the  scene  of  Petrarch's  inspiration ; 
and  here  it  was  that  she  composed  her  happiest 
effusions.  Her  pastorals,  particularly  "  Les  Mou- 
tons"  and  "  Le  Ruisseau,"  are  universally  allowed 
to  be  among  the  very  best  of  that  sort  of  writing 
in  the  French  language.  Some  of  her  maxims  are 
still  frequently  cited,  the  following  especially, 
whose  truth  comes  home  to  everybody. 

11  n'est  pas  si  facile  qu'on  pensp, 
D'etre  hoiinete  hoiiime,  et  de  jouer  "^ros  jeu, 
Le  desir  de  gagner,  qui  unit  et  jour  occupe, 

Est  uii  dangereux  aiguillou  : 
Souvent.  quoique  I'esprit,  quoique  le  cceur  soil  bon, 

On  commence  par  etre  dupe ; 

On  fiiiit  par  etre  fripon. 
L'amour  propre  est,  lielas  !  le  plus  sot  des  amours  ■ 
Cependaiit  des  erreurs  il  est  la  plus  commune  : 
Quelque  puissant  qu'on  soit  en  rithesse,  en  credit, 
Quelque  niauvais  succes  q'ait  tout  ce  qu'on  ecrit, 

Nul  n'est  content  de  sa  fortune 

Ni  mecontont  de  son  esprit. 

A  little  anecdote  may  serve  for  a  moment's 
amusement,  while  it  displays  no  inconsiderable 
courage  in  the  heroine.  It  should  be  prefaced, 
by  recalling  to  the  reader  that  in  the  seventeenth 
century  a  ghost  was  a  thing  to  be  afraid  of,  and 
that  not  merely  the  "  fair  and  innocent"  succumbed 
to  the  unreal  terrors  of  superstition.  The  cardi- 
nal de  Retz  gives  a  curious  proof  of  this,  in  the 
account  of  the  dismay  cast  over  himself  and  the 
great  Turenne,  with  many  other  of  less  note,  by 
an  imaginary  band  of  spectres.  Madame  Deshou- 
lieres went  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  friend  of  hers  in  the 
country.  She  was  informed  that  one  of  the  cham- 
bers was  haunted  ;  that  for  some  time,  every  night, 
a  phantom  repaired  there ;  and  that,  consequently, 
nobody  would  inhabit  that  side  of  the  chateau. 
Madame  Deshoulieres  was  neither  credulous  nor 
superstitious,  and  she  immediately  offered  to  uut, 
dertake  the  adventure  of  sleeping  in  the  fsxtal 
apartment.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  heard 
the  door  open  —  she  spoke  —  the  spectre  made  no 
reply,  but  walked  on  with  a  heavy  tread,  uttering 
rough  sounds.  A  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was 
thrown  down,  and  the  curtains  pushed  back  with 
a  great  noise  ;  the  phantom  approached,  the  lady, 
nowise  disconcerted,  stretched  out  her  hands  to 
discover  whether  it  had  a  palpable  form.  She 
seized  two  long,  soft  ears ;  she  dared  not  let  go, 
lest  she  should  lose  the  fruit  of  her  undertaking, 
but  actually  remained  in  that  attitude  till  the 
dawn  of  day  revealed,  as  the  cause  of  all  the 
alarm,  a  large  dog,  very  much  petted  by  the 
family.  This  animal,  not  liking  to  sleep  in  open- 
yard,  formed  the  habit  of  betaking  himself  to  this 
room,  the  door  of  which  was  so  constructed  thai 
he  could  push  it  open. 

Madame  Deshoulieres  was  made  a  member  of 
the  Academy  of  Aries  and  of  that  of  the  Ricoverati. 
in   Padua.      She   numbered   among   her  friends. 

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many  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  of  the 
day.  The  two  Corneilles,  Flechier,  Quinault,  the 
duke  of  Nevers,  and  La  Rochefoucault,  professed 
for  her  the  highest  esteem  as  a  woman  and  as  an 
authoress.  The  great  Cond6  appears  to  have  en- 
tertained for  her  a  more  tender  sentiment — his 
ranli,  power,  and  many  dazzling  qualities,  might 
have  proved  dangerous  to  a  lighter  mind ;  but  her 
firm  principles  of  virtue,  and  love  for  her  husband, 
preserved  her  from  the  shadow  of  reproach.  She 
had  several  children — a  daughter,  Antoinette,  who 
inherited  some  of  her  mother's  poetical  talent;  she 
took  a  prize  at  the  French  Academy,  though  Fon- 
tenelle  was  her  competitor. 

Madame  Deshouliferes  achieved  her  literary  re- 
putation, not  by  isolating  herself  from  the  duties 
of  society,  as  some  poets  have  deemed  necessary 
to  the  development  of  the  poetic  temperament. 
A  tender  mother  —  an  active  friend  —  as  we  have 
seen  above,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  plunge  into 
the  difficulties  of  diplomacy,  when  called  upon 
to  aid  her  husband, — proving  that  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  mind  is  by  no  means  incompatible 
with  attention  to  the  minute  and  daily  duties  of 
the  mother  of  a  family.  And  those  ladies  who 
affect  to  despise  feminine  pursuits,  or  who  com- 
plain of  the  cramping  effect  of  woman's  household 
cares,  may  learn  from  the  example  of  this  success- 
ful authoress,  that  neither  are  obstacles  in  the 
path  of  real  genius,  but  rather  an  incentive  to  call 
forth  talents,  by  developing  the  character  in  con- 
formity with  nature.  Madame  Deshouliferes  had 
studied  with  success  geometry  and  philosophy, 
and  was  well  versed  in  the  Latin,  Italian,  and 
Spanish  languages.  She  died  in  1694.  The  fol- 
lowing poem  was  very  popular: — 

LES    MOUTONS. 
IDYLLE. 

Helas!  petits  moutons,  que  vous  etes  heureux  ! 

Vous  paissez  dans  nos  champs  sans  soucis,  sane  alarmes: 

Aussitdt  amies  qu'amoureux. 
On  ne  vous  force  point  a  repandre  des  larmes; 
Vous  ne  forniez  jamais  d'inutiles  desirs. 
Dans  vos  Iranquilles  coeurs  ramour  suit  la  nature; 
Sans  ressentir  ses  maux,  vous  avez  ses  plaisirs. 
L'ambition,  I'honneur,  I'interet,  Timposture, 

Qui  font  tant  de  niaux  parnii  nous, 

Ne  se  recontrent  point  chez  vous. 
Cependant  nous  avons  la  raison  pour  partage, 

Et  vous  en  ignorez  I'usage. 
Innocens  animaux,  n'en  soyez  point  jaloux  : 

Ce  n'est  pas  un  grand  avantage. 
Cette  fiere  raison,  dont  on  fait  tant  de  bruit, 
Contre  les  passions  n'est  pas  un  siir  remede : 
Un  peu  de  vin  la  trouble,  un  enfant  la  seduit; 
Et  diichirer  un  cceur  qui  I'appelle  a  son  aide, 

Est  tout  I'effet  qu'elle  produit. 

Toujours  inipuissante  et  severe, 
Elle  s'oppose  a  tout  et  ne  surmonte  rien. 

Sous  la  garde  de  votre  chien, 
Vous  devez  beauroup  moins  redouler  la  colere 

Des  loups  cruels  et  ravissans, 
Q.ue,  sous  I'autorite  d'une  telle  chimere. 

Nous  ne  devons  craindre  nos  sens. 
Ne  vaudroit-il  pas  mieux  vivre  comme  vous  failes, 

Dans  une  douce  oisivet6? 
Ne  vaudroit-il  pas  mieux  etre  comme  vous  etes, 

Dans  une  heureuse  obscurite, 

Que  d'avoir,  sans  tranquillite, 

Des  richesses,  de  la  naissance, 

De  I'esprit  et  de  la  beaut6  ? 
Ces  pretendus  tresors,  dont  on  fait  vanite, 

Valent  moins  que  votre  indolence ; 


lis  nous  livrent  sans  cesse  a  des  soins  criminels; 

Par  eux  plus  d'un  rernords  nous  ronge ; 

Nous  voulons  les  rendre  elernels. 
Sans  songer  qu'eux  et  nous  passerons  comme  un  songe. 

II  n'est  dans  ce  vaste  univers 

Rien  d'assurti,  rien  de  solide: 
Des  choses  d'ici-bas  la  fortune  decide 

Selon  ses  caprices  divers. 

Tout  I'effort  de  notre  prudence 
Ne  pent  nous  derober  au  moindre  de  ses  coups. 
Paissez,  moutons,  paissez  sans  regie  et  sans  science ; 

Malgrd;  la  tronipeuse  apparence, 

Vous  etes  plus  sages  que  nous. 

DESMOULINS,  LUCILLE, 
AVas  born  in  Paris,  in  1771.  Her  father  was 
a  clerk  of  the  finances,  and  her  mother  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  of  the  age.  Lucille, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Duplessis,  was  carefully 
educated.  She  formed  an  attachment,  when  very 
young,  to  Camille  Desmoulins,  a  young  man  of 
great  talent,  who  became  one  of  the  first  leaders 
and  victims  of  the  revolution.  They  were  married 
in  1790.  Camille  Desmoulins,  after  having  made 
himself  conspicuous  by  his  speeches  in  favour  of 
the  death  of  Louis  XVI.,  was  appointed  a  member 
of  the  Convention,  and  for  some  time  was  very 
much  followed.  But  as  his  feelings  gradually 
changed  from  hatred  against  the  aristocrats  to 
pity  for  the  innocent  victims  of  the  people's  fury, 
he  lost  his  popularity,  was  denounced,  and  impri- 
soned. Lucille  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to 
save  him,  and  wandered  continually  around  his 
prison,  trying  to  rouse  the  people  in  his  favour ; 
but  in  vain.  He  was  guillotined,  and  she  was 
tried  and  condemned  for  having  endeavoured  to 
rescue  him.  She  was  calm,  and  even  cheerful, 
during  her  hasty  trial ;  and  dressing  herself  with 
the  greatest  care,  she  entered  the  fatal  cart,  and, 
in  the  full  bloom  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  ascended, 
with  the  most  perfect  serenity,  the  scaffold.  She 
was  executed  in  1794,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three. 


DEVONSHIRE,   GEORGIANA  CAVENDISH, 

DUCHESS  OF, 

A  LADY  as  remarkable  for  her  talents  as  her 

beauty,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  earl  Spencer, 

and  was  born  in  1757.     In  her  seventeenth  year, 

she   married   the  duke  of  Devonshire,   a  distin- 

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guished  nobleman.  The  beautiful  duchess,  in  the 
bloom  of  youth,  became  not  only  the  leader  of 
female  fashions,  and  the  star  of  the  aristocratic 
world,  but  she  also  aspired  to  political  influence. 
In  1780,  she  became  the  zealous  partizan  of  Mr. 
Fox,  and  canvassed  successfully  for  votes  in  his 
favour.  The  story  of  the  butcher  selling  her  his 
vote  for  a  kiss,  is  well  known.  Among  a  variety 
of  other  jeux  d'esprits  which  appeared  on  that  oc- 
casion, was  the  following  : — 

"  Array'd  in  inatcliless  beauty,  Devon's  fair, 
In  Fox's  favour  takes  a  zealous  part; 
But  oh !  where'er  the  pilferer  comes,  beware — 
She  supplicates  a  vote,  and  steals  a  heart." 

The  duchess  was  benevolent,  as  well  as  patriotic, 
and  few  ladies  in  her  high  station  have  left  such 
an  impression  of  the  kindly  feelings  of  the  heart 
on  the  public  mind. 

An  anecdote  is  related  of  her  by  Gibbon,  the 
celebrated  historian,  who  became  acquainted  with 
her  while  she  passed  through  Switzerland,  diu-ing 
her  travels  abroad.  The  duchess  returned  to 
London;  it  was  in  the  year  1793,  when  England 
was  at  war  with  France.  The  patriotism  of  the 
duchess  now  displayed  a  true  feminine  character ; 
she  took  an  anxious  interest  in  the  health  and 
comfort  of  the  protecting  armies  ;  and  when,  late 
in  the  autumn,  Gibbon  revisited  England,  and  re- 
newed his  acquaintance  with  the  duchess  of  De- 
vonshire, he  found  her  "making  flaiuiel  waistcoats 
for  the  soldiers."  This  was  more  lady -like  than 
canvassing  for  votes. 

The  duchess  had  three  children,  two  daughters 
and  a  son,  and  seems  to  have  been  a  careful  and 
loving  mother,  as  she  was  an  excellent  wife.  She 
died,  after  a  short  illness,  on  the  30th  of  March, 
1806,  in  the  forty-ninth  year  of  her  life.  She 
possessed  a  highly  cultivated  taste  for  poetry  and 
the  fine  arts,  and  was  liberal  in  her  encourage- 
ment of  talents  and  genius.  She  had  written 
many  poems,  but  only  a  few  pieces  have  been 
published.  These  are  spirited  and  elegant,  and 
show  a  mind  filled  with  enthusiasm  for  the  true 
and  the  good.  We  subjoin  an  extract  from  the 
longest  and  most  elaborate  poem,  entitled 

THE    PASSAGE    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN    OF    ST.    GOTHAKD. 

But  though  no  more  amidst  those  scenes  I  roam, 
My  fancy  long  its  image  shall  retain — 

The  flock  returning  to  its  welcome  home— 
And  the  wild  carol  of  the  cow-herd's  strain. 

Lucerna's  lake  its  glassy  surface  shows, 

Whilst  nature's  varied  beauties  deck  its  side  : 

Here  rocks  and  woods  its  narrow  waves  enclose. 
And  there  its  spreading  bosom  opens  wide. 

And  hail  the  chapel !  hail  the  platform  wild  I 
Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart ; 

With  well-strung  arm,  at  first  preserved  his  child. 
Then  winged  the  arrow  to  the  tyrant's  heart. 

Across  the  lake,  and  deep  embower'd  in  wood. 
Behold  another  linllow'd  chapel  stands. 

Where  three  Swiss  heroes  lawless  force  withstood. 
And  stamp'd  the  freedom  of  their  native  land. 

Their  Liberty  requir'd  no  rites  uncouth. 

No  blood  demanded,  and  no  slaves  enchain'd ; 

Her  rule  was  gentle,  and  her  voice  was  truth. 
By  social  order  form'd,  by  law  restrain'd. 


We  quit  the  lake— and  cultivation's  toil. 
With  nature's  charms  combin'd,  adorn  the  way; 

And  well-earn'd  wealth  improves  the  ready  soil. 
And  simple  manners  still  maintain  their  sway. 

Farewell,  Helvetia — from  whose  lofly  breast 
Proud  Alps  arise,  and  copious  rivers  flow;  ' 

Where,  source  of  streams,  eternal  glaciers  rest, 
And  peaceful  science  gilds  the  plains  below. 

Oft  on  thy  rocks  the  wond'ring  eye  shall  gaze, 
Thy  valleys  oft  the  raptur'd  bosom  seek — 

There,  nature's  hand  her  boldest  work  displays; 
Here,  bliss  domestic  beams  on  every  cheek. 

Hope  of  my  life !  dear  children  of  my  heart ! 

That  anxious  heart,  to  each  fond  feeling  true, 
To  you  still  pants,  each  pleasure  to  impart. 

And  more— O  transport ! — reach  its  home  and  you. 

DEYSTER,  ANNA, 
The  daughter  of  Louis  Deyster,  a  Flemish 
painter,  was  boi'n  at  Bruges  in  1696.  She  ex- 
celled in  landscapes,  and  imitated  her  father's 
works  so  well,  that  few  of  the  best  judges  could 
distinguish  the  copies  from  the  originals.  She 
died  in  poverty,  because,  abandoning  painting,  she 
devoted  her  time  to  constructing  organs  and  harp- 
sichords, and  was  not  successful.  She  died  in 
1746. 

DIGBY,    LETTICE, 

Was  descended  from  the  ancient  family  of  the 
Fitzgeralds  of  Kildare.  She  was  created  baroness 
of  Offale  for  life,  and  on  her  marriage  with  lord 
Digby,  of  Coleshill,  in  the  county  of  Longford, 
brought  her  large  possessions  into  that  family. 
As  lady  Digby  lived  in  the  time  of  the  rebellion, 
the  insurgents  often  assaulted  her  in  her  castle  of 
Geashill,  which  she  defended  with  great  resolu- 
tion. She  died  in  1658,  and  lies  buried  in  the 
cathedral  of  St.  Patrick.  She  left  seven  sons  and 
three  daughters. 

DOMEIR,    ESTHER,    BORN   GAD, 

Was  a  woman  of  great  genius  and  masculine 
powers  of  mind.  She  was  born  at  Breslau,  1770, 
of  Jewish  parents.  Already  in  her  early  youth, 
she  busied  herself  with  plans  for  improving  the 
condition  and  education  of  her  sex,  and  wi'ote 
several  essays  on  the  subject.  When  twenty  years 
old,  she  went  to  Berlin,  where  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  Madame  de  Genlis,  who  contributed 
much  to  model  her  mind.  In  1791,  she  embraced 
Christianity;  and  in  1792  married  Dr.  W.  F.  Do- 
meir.  With  him  she  travelled  through  southern 
Europe,  and  spent  several  years  in  Portugal.  The 
result  of  her  observations  was  published  in  the 
year  1803,  in  Hamburg,  under  the  title  "Letters 
during  my  residence  in  Portugal  and  England." 
She  wrote  also  several  smaller  works,  and  trans- 
lated a  number  of  French  books  into  English. 
She  died  in  1802,  lamented  by  all  her  friends. 
Her  writings  are  distinguished  for  vivid  descrip- 
tion, strong  sense,  and  beauty  of  thought,  without 
much  polish  of  sentiment  or  style. 

DUBOIS,   DOROTHEA, 

Daughter  of  Annesley,  earl  of  Anglesea,  by 
Anne  Sympson,  married  a  musician,  and  endea- 

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voured,  by  her  writings,  to  reclaim  her  rights  from 
her  father,  who  had  basely  denied  his  marriage 
with  her  mother,  and  disowned  her  as  his  child. 
She  wrote  the  "  Divorce,"  a  musical  entertainment, 
and  "  Theodora,"  a  novel,  in  which  she  delineates 
her  own  history.     She  died  in  Dublin,  in  1774. 

DUCLOS,  MARIE  ANNE, 
A  French  actress  of  great  merit,  was  born  at 
Paris,  where  she  died  in  1748,  aged  seventy-eight. 
She  excelled  in  the  representation  of  queens  and 
princesses.  Her  maiden  name  was  Chateauneuf ; 
that  of  Duclos  was  assumed ;  she  married,  in  1730, 
Duchemin,  an  actor,  from  whom  she  was  divorced 
three  years  after. 

DUFRESNOY,  MADEMOISELLE, 
Was  born  in  Paris,  and  entered  "Za  congrega- 
tion des  fillcs  de  la  Croix."     Her  poems  were  very 
popular,  and  she  holds  a  respectable  rank  among 
the  female  poets  of  France.     She  died  in  1825. 

DUMEE,  JOAN, 
Was  born  at  Paris,  and  instructed,  from  her 
earliest  infancy,  in  belles-lettres.  She  mai-ried 
very  young,  and  was  scarcely  seventeen  when 
her  husband  was  killed,  in  Germany,  at  the  head 
of  a  company  he  commanded.  She  employed  the 
liberty  her  widowhood  gave  her  in  ardent  appli- 
cation to  study,  devoting  herself  especially  to  as- 
tronomy. She  published,  in  1680,  at  Paris,  a 
r^uarto  volume  under  the  title  of  "Discourses  of 
Copernicus  touching  the  Mobility  of  the  Earth,  by 
Madame  Joanne  Dum^e,  of  Paris."  She  explains 
with  clearness  the  three  motions  attributed  to  the 
earth,  and  the  arguments  that  establish  or  mili- 
tate against  the  system  of  Copernicus. 

DUMESNIL,  MARIE  FRANCES, 
A  CELEBRATED  tragic  actrcss,  was  boim  at  Paris 
in  1713,  went  upon  the  stage  in  1737,  and  re- 
mained popular  till  the  moment  of  her  retirement, 
in  1775.  She  died  in  1803,  having  preserved  her 
intellectual  powers  to  the  last.  She  displayed  her 
talents  most  strikingly  in  queens  and  lofty  char- 
acters, especially  in  the  parts  of  Merope,  Clytem- 
riestra,  Athaliah,  and  Agrippina.  When  she  ex- 
erted her  full  powers,  she  surpassed  all  her  thea- 
trical contemporaries  in  exciting  emotions  of  pity 
and  of  terror. 

DUMONT,   MADAME, 

Was  born  at  Paris,  in  the  18th  century.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  M.  Lutel,  an  officer  in  the 
household  of  the  duke  of  Orleans,  then  regent. 
She  was  celebrated  for  her  poetical  talents,  and 
she  published  a  collection  of  fugitive  pieces,  trans- 
lations of  Horace,  fables,  songs,  &c. 

DUPRE,    MARY, 

Daughter  of  a  sister  of  des  Marets  de  St.  Sor- 
lin,  of  the  French  Academy,  was  born  at  Paris 
and  educated  by  her  uncle.  Endowed  with  a  hap- 
py genius  and  a  retentive  memory,  she  read  the 
principal  French,  Italian,  and  Latin  authors,  in 
the  original,  and  understood  Greek  and  philosophy. 


She  studied  Descartes  so  thoroughly,  that  she  ob- 
tained the  surname  of  la  Cartesienne  ;  and  she 
also  wrote  very  agreeable  verses,  and  corresponded 
with  several  of  her  learned  contemporaries.  The 
answers  of  Isis  to  Climene,  in  the  select  pieces  of 
poetry  published  by  father  Bouhors,  are  by  this 
lady.     She  lived  in  the  seventeenth  century. 

DURAND,   CATHARLNE, 

A  French  poetess,  married  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Bedacien,  and  died  in  1736.  She  kept  the 
name  of  Durand  because  she  had  begun  to  write 
under  it.  She  published  several  romances,  come- 
dies, in  prose  and  verse,  and  some  poetry.  An 
"Ode  a  la  Louange  de  Louis  XIV."  gained  the 
prize  for  poetry  at  the  French  Academy,  in  1701. 
It  is  too  long  for  insertion,  and  its  chief  merit, 
that  which  obtained  the  prize,  was  doubtless  the 
homage  the  author  rendered  the  Grand  Monarque. 

DURAS,  DUCHESS  OF, 
A  MODERN  French  authoress,  best  known  from 
her  novel  Aurika.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
captain  in  the  navy,  count  Corsain.  During  the 
French  revolution,  in  1793,  she  left  France  and 
went  with  her  father  to  England.  There  she  mar- 
ried the  refugee  duke  Duras,  a  firm  royalist.  In 
the  year  1800,  she  i-eturned  with  her  husband  to 
France,  where  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  Ma- 
dame de  Stael,  and  then  opened  her  labours  to  a 
literary  circle,  composed  of  the  greatest  minds  of 
the  country.  When  Louis  XVIII.  retui-ned  to 
France,  he  called  her  husband  to  his  court,  and 
gave  him  a  place  near  his  person.  The  duchess, 
although  now  a  great  favourite  at  court,  devoted 
much  of  her  time  to  a  school  a\  hicli  she  established, 
and  in  sujierintending  several  benevolent  societies 
of  which  she  was  an  active  member.  Her  novel 
Aurika,  in  which  she  attacks,  in  a  firm  but  gentle 
way,  the  prejudices  of  the  nobility  of  birth,  made 
quite  a  sensation,  and  was  translated  in  several 
countries.  Her  next  work,  "Edward,"  was  not 
quite  equal  to  the  first.     She  died  in  the  year  1828. 

DUSTON,  HANNAH, 
Was  the  wife  of  Thomas  Duston,  of  Haverhill, 
in  Massachusetts.  In  1679,  Haverhill  was  attack- 
ed by  the  Indians ;  and  ]\Irs.  Duston,  with  her 
infant,  only  a  week  old,  and  the  nurse,  were  taken 
by  them.  Mr.  Duston  succeeded  in  saving  him- 
self and  the  other  seven  children.  After  proceed- 
ing a  short  distance,  the  Indians  killed  the  child, 
by  dashing  out  its  brains  against  a  tree,  because 
it  embarrassed  their  march.  Proceeding  on  the 
fatiguing  journey,  they  arrived  at  an  island  in  the 
Merrimack,  just  above  Concord,  N.  H.,  now  called 
Duston's  Island.  AVlien  they  reached  the  place  of 
rest,  they  slept  soundly.  Mrs.  Duston  did  not 
sleep.  The  nurse,  and  an  English  boy,  a  prisoner, 
were  apprised  of  her  design,  but  were  not  of  much 
use  to  her  in  the  execution  of  it.  In  the  stillness 
of  the  night  she  arose  and  went  out  of  the  wig- 
wam to  test  the  soundness  and  security  of  savage 
sleep.  They  moved  not ;  they  were  to  sleep  until 
the  last  day.  She  returned,  took  one  of  their 
hatchets,  and  dispatched  ten  of  them, — each  with 

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a  single  blow.  An  Indian  woman,  who  was  rising 
when  she  struck  her,  fled  with  her  probable  death- 
wound  ;  and  an  Indian  boy  was  designedly  spai'ed  ; 
for  the  avenger  of  blood  was  a  woman  and  a  mo- 
ther, and  could  not  deal  a  death-blow  upon  a 
helpless  child.  She  surveyed  the  carnage  ground 
by  the  light  of  the  fire,  which  she  stirred  up  after 
the  deed  was  done ;  and  catching  a  few  handfuls 
of  roasted  corn,  she  commenced  her  journey ;  but 
on  reflecting  a  moment,  she  thought  the  people  of 
Haverhill  would  consider  her  tale  as  the  ravings 
of  madness,  when  she  should  get  home,  if  ever 
that  time  might  come ;  she  therefore  returned, 
and  scalped  the  slain;  then  put  her  nurse  and 
English  boy  into  the  canoe,  and  with  herself  they 
floated  down  to  the  fjills,  when  she  landed,  and 
took  to  the  woods,  keeping  the  river  in  sight, 
which  she  knew  must  direct  her  on  her  way  home. 
After  suffering  incredible  hardships  by  hunger, 
cold,  and  fatigue,  she  reached  home,  to  the  sur- 
prise and  joy  of  her  husband,  children  and  friends. 
The  general  court  of  Massachusetts  examined  her 
story,  and  being  satisfied  of  the  truth  of  it,  took 
her  trophies,  the  scalps,  and  gave  her  fifty  pounds. 
The  people  of  Boston  made  her  many  presents. 
All  classes  were  anxious  to  see  her;  and  they 
found  her  as  modest  as  brave. 

In  1830,  the  house  in  Haverhill  where  Mrs. 
Duston  had  resided  was  standing,  and  was  visited 
as  a  memorable  spot,  the  home  of  an  American 
neroine. 


DWIGHT,   ELIZABETH   BAKER, 

Was  born  at  Andover,  in  Massachusetts,  in 
1808.  Her  maiden  name  was  Baker.  She  was 
carefully  educated  ;  and  her  naturally  strong  mind 
was  thus  disciplined  to  give  greater  effect  to  her 
graces  of  character.  She  was  about  seventeen 
years  of  age  when  she  became  a  member  of  the 
church  of  which  Dr.  Justin  Edwards  was  pastor. 
From  this  period  till  the  time  of  her  marriage,  Miss 
Baker  was  remarkable  for  the  mingled  sweetness 
and  discretion  of  her  manners  ;  constantly  striving 
to  improve  her  time  and  talents  in  the  service  of 
the  Saviour,  whom  she,  like  Mary  of  Bethany,  had 
chosen  for  her  portion. 


In  1830,  she  married  the  Rev.  H.  G.  0.  Dwight, 
and  sailed  with  him  to  Malta,  where  she  resided 
two  years,  her  husband  being  a  missionary  to  that 
place.  She  was  actively  and  very  usefully  engaged 
while  there,  and  when  her  husband  removed  to 
Constantinople. 

Her  correspondence  at  this  period,  and  the  tes- 
timony of  her  associates,  show  how  earnestly  her 
spirit  entered  into  the  work  she  had  undertaken. 
Her  pious  and  tender  sympathy  was  most  efficient 
help  to  her  husband,  in  his  arduous  missionary 
duties ;  though  her  delicate  health,  and  many 
household  cares,  prevented  her  from  giving  the 
active  assistance  in  the  teacher's  department  she 
had  intended,  and  was  well  qualified  to  have  done. 
She  had  anticipated  this  work  as  her  happiest 
privilege ;  to  be  able  to  imbue  the  minds  of  the 
children  of  unbelievers  with  the  sweet  and  salu- 
tary truths  of  the  gospel  had  been  Mrs.  Dwight's 
most  cherished  desire. 

The  missionary  family  resided  at  San  Stefano, 
near  the  Bosphorus.  Scenes  of  beauty  and  of 
storied  interest  were  around  Mrs.  Dwight ;  still 
she  had  few  opportunities  of  visiting  the  remark- 
able places  in  this  region  of  the  world.  Once  she 
made  an  excursion  with  Lady  Frankland  and  an 
American  friend  to  the  Black  Sea,  and  found  her 
health  renovated ;  still  she  was  drooping  and  deli- 
cate, like  a  transplanted  flower,  which  pines  for 
its  own  mountain  home,  and  the  fresh  breezes  and 
pure  sunshine  of  its  first  blossoming. 

In  the  spring  of  1837,  the  plague  appeared  at 
Constantinople,  and  Mrs.  Dwight  felt  she  was  one 
of  its  doomed  victims.  The  presentiment  proved 
true.  She  died  on  the  8th  of  Jul}',  1837 ;  her 
devoted  husband  being  the  only  person  who  re- 
mained to  watch  over,  comfort  her,  and  receive 
her  last  breath.  She  was  only  twenty-nine  years 
of  age,  and  had  hardly  become  habituated  to  the 
missionary  cross,  when  she  was  called  to  wear  its 
crown. 

DYER,    MARY, 

Was  the  wife  of  AVilliam  Dyer,  who  removed 
from  Massachusetts  to  Rhode  Island  in  1638. 
Having  been  sentenced  to  execution  for  "rebel- 
lious sedition  and  obtruding  herself  after  banish- 
ment upon  pain  of  death,"  she  was  reprieved  at 
the  request  of  her  son,  on  condition  that  she  de- 
parted in  forty-eight  hours,  and  did  not  return. 
She  returned,  and  was  executed  June  1st,  1660. 
She  was  a  Quakei-ess,  and,  in  the  estimation  of  her 
friends,  a  martyr. 


E. 

EBOLI,  ANNE  DE  MENDOZA  LA  CERDA, 

Princess  of,  was  married  to  Rui  de  Gomez  de 
Silva,  the  favourite  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain,  whose 
favour  he  was  supposed  to  have  owed  to  the  at- 
tractions of  his  wife.  Her  ambition  induced  her 
to  listen  to  the  king's  passion,  by  which  means  she 
obtained,  for  a  time,  great  influence  in  the  state. 
Antonio  Perez,  the  secretary  of  state,  was  the 
rival  of  his  master,  who,  discovering  the  circum- 

292 


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stance,  would  have  sacrificed  the  lovers  to  his  ven- 
geance ;  but  Perez  made  his  escape  to  France,  and 
the  princess  was  imprisoned. 

EDGEWORTH,    MARIA, 

Descended  from  a  respectable  Irish  family,  was 
born  in  Oxfordshire,  England,  January  1st,  1767. 
Her  father  was  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  Esq., 
who,  succeeding  to  an  estate  in  Ireland,  removed 
thither  when  Maria  was  about  four  years  old. 
The  family  residence  was  at  Edgeworthstown, 
Longford  county ;  and  here  the  subject  oi  our 
sketch  passed  her  long  and  most  useful  life,  leaving 
an  example  of  literary  excellence  and  beneficent 
goodness  rarely  surpassed  in  the  annals  of  woman. 


Mr.  Edgeworth  was  a  man  of  talent,  who  de- 
voted his  original  and  very  active  mind  chiefly  to 
subjects  of  practical  utility.  Mechanics  and  gene- 
ral literature  were  his  pursuits,  in  so  far  as  he 
could  make  these  subservient  to  his  theories  of 
education  and  improvement;  but  his  heart  was 
centered  in  his  home,  and  his  eldest  child,  Maria, 
was  his  pride.  She  early  manifested  a  decided 
taste  for  literary  pursuits ;  and  it  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  her  father's  greatest  pleasures  to 
direct  her  studies  and  develope  her  genius.  This 
sympathy  and  assistance  were  of  invaluable  ad- 
vantage to  her  at  the  beginning  of  her  literary 
career ;  and  sweetly  did  she  repay  these  atten- 
tions when  her  own  ripened  talents  outstripped 
his  more  methodical  but  less  gifted  intellect ! 

The  father  and  daughter  wrote,  at  first,  toge- 
ther, and  several  works  were  their  joint  produc- 
tions. The  earliest  book  thus  written  in  partner- 
ship was  "Practical  Education;"  the  second  bore 
the  title  of  "An  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls,"  which  docs 
not  sound  significantly  of  a  young  lady's  agency, 
yet  the  book  was  very  popular,  because,  with  much 
wit,  there  was  deep  sympathy  with  the  peculiar 
virtues  of  the  Irish  character,  and  pathetic  touches 
in  the  stories  illustrating  Irish  life,  which  warmed 
and  won  the  heart  of  the  reader.  Miss  Edgeworth 
was  an  earnest  philanthropist,  and  herein  lay  the 
secret  strength  of  her  literary  power.  She  felt 
for  the  wants  and  weaknesses  of  humanity ;  but 


as  she  saw  human  nature  chiefly  in  Irish  nature, 
her  thoughts  were  directed  towards  the  improve- 
ment of  her  adopted  country,  rather  more,  we 
suspect,  from  propinquity  than  patriotism.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  her  best  novels  are  those  in  which 
Irish  character  is  pourtrayed  ;  but  her  best  books 
are  those  written  for  the  young ;  because  in  these 
her  genuine  philanthropy  is  most  freely  unfolded. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  century,  1800,  when 
Miss  Edgeworth  commenced  her  literary  career, 
till  1825,  almost  every  year  was  the  herald  of  a 
new  work  from  the  pen  of  this  distinguished  lady. 
"  Castle  Rackrent,"  "  Belinda,"  "  Leonora,"  "  Po- 
pular Tales,"  "Tales  of  Fashionable  Life,"  "Pa- 
tronage," "Vivian,"  "Harrington  and  Ormond," 
followed  each  other  rapidly,  and  all  were  welcomed 
and  approved  by  the  public  voice.  In  1817,  Mr. 
Edgeworth  died,  and  Maria's  profound  sorrow  for 
his  loss  suspended  for  some  time  her  career  of 
authorship.  She  did  not  resume  her  tales  of  fic- 
tion until  she  had  given  expression  to  her  filial 
aifection  and  gratitude  to  her  father  for  his  pre- 
cious care  in  training  her  mind  and  encouraging 
her  talents,  and  also  to  her  deep  and  tender  grief 
for  his  loss,  by  completing  the  "  Memoir"  he  had 
commenced  of  his  owrf  life.  This  was  published 
in  1820.  Then  she  resumed  her  course  of  moral 
instruction  for  the  young,  and  published  that 
work,  which  so  many  children,  in  America  as  well 
as  in  Great  Britain,  have  been  happier  and  better 
for  reading,  namely,  "Rosamond,  a  Sequel  to 
Early  Lessons."  In  1825,  "  Harriet  and  Lucy," 
a  continuation  of  the  "Early  Lessons,"  in  four 
volumes,  was  issued. 

In  1823,  Miss  Edgeworth  visited  Sir  Walter 
Scott  at  Abbotsford.  "Never,"  says  Mr.  Lock- 
hart,  "  did  I  see  a  brighter  day  at  Abbotsford  than 
that  on  which  Miss  Edgeworth  first  arrived  there  ; 
never  can  I  forget  her  look  and  accent  when  she 
was  received  by  him  at  his  archway,  and  exclaimed, 
'  Everything  about  you  is  exactly  what  one  ought 
to  have  had  wit  enough  to  dream.'  The  weather 
was  beautiful,  and  the  edifice  and  its  appurte- 
nances were  all  but  complete ;  and  day  after  day, 
so  long  as  she  could  remain,  her  host  had  always 
some  new  plan  of  gaiety.  Miss  Edgeworth  re- 
mained a  fortnight  at  Abbotsford.  Two  years 
afterwards,  she  had  an  opportunity  of  repaying 
the  hospitalities  of  her  entertainer,  by  receiving 
him  at  Edgeworthtown,  where  Sir  Walter  met  with 
as  cordial  a  welcome,  and  where  he  found  '  neither 
mud  hovels  nor  naked  peasantry,  but  snug  cot- 
tages and  smiling  faces  all  about.'  Literary  fame 
had  spoiled  neither  of  these  eminent  persons,  nor 
unfitted  them  for  the  common  business  and  enjoy- 
ment of  life.  '  AVe  shall  never,'  said  Scott,  '  learn 
to  feel  and  respect  our  real  calling  and  destiny, 
unless  we  have  taught  ourselves  to  consider  every- 
thing as  moonshine  compared  with  the  education 
of  the  heart.'  Maria  did  not  listen  to  this  without 
some  water  in  her  eyes ;  her  tears  are  always 
ready  when  any  generous  string  is  touched — (for, 
as  Pope  says,  "the  finest  minds,  like  the  finest 
metals,  dissolve  the  easiest") ;  but  she  brushed 
them  gaily  aside,  and  said,  "You  see  how  it  is; 
Dean  Swift  said  he  had  written  his  books  in  order 

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that  people  might  learn  to  treat  him  like  a  great 
lord.  Sir  Walter  writes  his  in  order  that  he  may 
be  able  to  treat  his  people  as  a  great  lord  ought 
to  do." ' 

In  1834,  Miss  Edgeworth  made  her  last  appear- 
ance as  a  novelist,  ■with  the  exquisite  story  of 
"  Helen,"  in  three  volumes.  It  is  her  best  work 
of  fiction,  combining  with  truth  and  nature  more 
of  the  warmth  of  fancy  and  pathos  of  feeling  than 
she  displayed  in  her  earlier  writings.  As  though 
the  last  beams  from  the  sun  of  her  genius  had,  like 
the  departing  rays  of  a  long  unclouded  day,  be- 
come softer  in  their  brightness  and  beauty,  while 
stealing  away  from  the  woi-ld  they  had  blessed. 

As  every  thing  pertaining  to  the  private  life  of 
a  woman  whose  intellect  has  had  such  wide-spread 
and  happy  influence  on  the  risen  and  rising  gene- 
rations of  the  Saxon  race,  is  of  incalculable  im- 
portance to  the  literary  character  of  her  sex,  we 
will  give  a  sketch  of  Miss  Edgeworth  at  home, 
from  the  pen  of  one  who  knew  her  well,  and  has 
most  charmingly  described  her.  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall, 
in  the  "Art- Journal,"  thus  delineates  the  domes- 
tic life  of  her  revered  friend,  whom  she  visited  in 
1842: 

"  The  entrance-hall  at  Edgeworthstown  was  an 
admirable  preface  to  the  house  and  family ;  it  was 
spacious,  hung  with  portraits ;  here,  a  case  of 
stuffed  birds ;  there,  another  of  curiosities ;  spe- 
cimens of  various  kinds,  models  of  various  things, 
all  well  arranged  and  well  kept,  all  capable  of  af- 
fording amusement  or  instruction ;  an  excellent 
place  it  was  for  children  to  play  in,  for  at  every 
pause  in  their  games  their  little  minds  would  be 
led  to  question  what  they  saw ;  a  charming  wait- 
ing-room, it  might  have  been,  were  it  not  that  at 
Edgeworthstown  no  one  was  ever  kept  waiting, 
everything  was  as  well-timed  as  at  a  railway-sta- 
tion. Many  of  this  numerous  family  at  that  pe- 
riod had  passed  from  time  to  eternity ;  others 
were  absent ;  but  there  still  remained  a  large 
family  party.  Among  them  were  two  of  Miss 
Edgeworth's  sisters,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francis 
Edgeworth,  and  their  children. 

The  library  at  Edgeworthstown  is  by  no  means 
the  stately,  solitary  room  that  libraries  generally 
are ;  it  is  large,  spacious,  and  lofty,  well  stored 
with  books,  and  embellished  with  those  most 
valuable  of  all  classes  of  prints,  the  '  suggestive.' 
It  is  also  picturesque,  having  been  added  to,  and 
supported  by  pillars,  so  as  to  increase  its  breadth, 
and  the  beautiful  lawn  seen  through  the  windows, 
embellished  and  varied  by  clumps  of  trees,  im- 
parts much  cheerfulness  to  the  exterior.  If  you' 
look  at  the  oblong  table  in  the  centre,  you  Avill  see 
the  rallying-point  of  the  family,  who  were  gene- 
rally grouped  around  it,  reading,  writing,  or 
working;  while  Miss  Edgeworth,  only  anxious 
upon  one  point, — that  all  in  the  house  should  do 
exactly  as  they  liked,  without  reference  to  her, — 
sat  in  her  own  peculiar  corner  on  the  sofa :  her 
desk, — upon  which  was  Sir  AValter  Scott's  pen, 
given  to  her  by  him,  when  in  Ireland, — placed 
before  her  on  a  little  quaint,  unassuming  table, 
constructed  and  added  to  for  convenience.  Miss 
Edgeworth's  abstractedness,  and  yet  power  of  at- 


tention to  what  was  going  on, — the  one  not  seem- 
ing to  interfere  with  the  other, — puzzled  me  ex- 
ceedingly. In  that  same  corner,  and  upon  that 
table,  she  had  written  nearly  all  that  has  enlight- 
ened and  delighted  the  world ;  the  novels  that 
moved  Sir  Walter  Scott  '  to  do  for  Scotland  what 
Miss  Edgeworth  had  done  for  Ireland;'  the  works 
in  which  she  brought  the  elevated  sensibilities  and 
sound  morality  of  maturer  life  to  a  level  with  the 
comprehension  of  childhood,  and  rendered  know- 
ledge, and  virtue,  and  care,  and  order,  the  play- 
things and  companions  of  the  nursery; — in  that 
spot, — and  while  the  multitudinous  family  were 
moving  about  and  talking  of  the  ordinary  and 
everyday  things  of  life, —  she  remained,  wrapt  up, 
to  all  appearance,  in  her  subject,  yet  knowing,  by 
a  sort  of  instinct,  when  she  was  really  wanted  in 
the  conversation ;  and  then,  without  laying  down 
her  pen, — hardly  looking  up  from  her  page, — she 
would,  by  a  judicious  sentence,  wisely  and  kindly 
spoken,  explain  and  illustrate,  in  a  few  words,  so 
as  to  clear  up  any  difficulty ;  or  turn  the  conver- 
sation into  a  new  and  more  pleasing  current.  She 
had  the  most  harmonious  way  of  throwing  in  ex- 
planations ;  informing,  while  entertaining,  and 
that  without  embarrassing. 

It  was  quite  charming  to  see  how  Mr.  Francis 
Edgeworth's  children  enjoyed  the  freedom  of  the 
library  without  abusing  it ;  to  set  these  little 
people  right  when  they  were  wrong,  to  rise  from 
her  table  to  fetch  them  a  toy,  or  even  to  save  a 
servant  a  journey ;  to  run  up  the  high  steps  and 
find  a  volume  that  escaped  all  eyes  but  her  own ; 
and  having  done  all  this,  in  less  space  of  time  than 
I  have  taken  to  write  it,  to  hunt  out  the  exact 
passage  wanted  or  referred  to  —  were  the  hourly 
employments  of  this  unspoiled  and  admirable  wo- 
man. She  would  then  resume  her  pen,  and  con- 
tinue writing,  pausing  sometimes  to  read  a  pas- 
sage from  an  article  or  letter  that  pleased  herself, 
and  would  please  her  still  more  if  it  excited  the 
sympathy  of  those  she  loved.  I  expressed  my 
astonishment  at  this  to  Mrs.  Edgeworth,  who  said 
that  "  Maria  was  always  the  same  ;  her  mind  was 
so  rightly  balanced,  everything  so  honestly  weighed, 
that  she  suffered  no  inconvenience  from  what  would 
disturb  and  distract  an  ordinary  writer."  Per- 
haps to  this  habit,  however,  may  be  traced  a  want 
of  closeness  in  her  arguments  ;  indeed,  neither  on 
paper  or  in  conversation  was  she  argumentative. 
She  would  rush  at  a  thing  at  once,  rendering  it 
sparkling  and  interesting  by  her  playfulness,  and 
informing  by  anecdote  or  illustration,  and  then 
start  another  subject.  She  spoke  in  eloquent 
sentences,  and  felt  so  truly  what  she  said,  that 
she  made  others  instantly  feel  also. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  I  regretted  that  so  much  of  Miss  Edgeworth's 
mind  and  attention  were  given  to  local  matters, 
but  the  pleasure  she  herself  derived  from  the  im- 
provement of  every  living  thing  around  her,  was 
delightful  to  witness.  I  thought  myself  par- 
ticvdarly  good  to  be  up  and  about  at  half-past 
seven  in  the  morning ;  but  early  as  it  was.  Miss 
Edgeworth  had  preceded  me ;  and  a  table  heaped 
with  early  roses,  upon  which  the  dew  was  still 

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moist,  and  a  pair  of  gloves,  too  small  for  any 
hands  but  hers,  told  who  was  the  early  florist. 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  flowers :  she  liked 
to  grow  them,  and  to  give  them  ;  one  of  the  most 
loved  and  cherished  of  my  garden's  rose-bushes, 
is  a  gift  from  Miss  Edgeworth.  There  was  a  rose, 
or  a  little  bouquet  of  her  an-anging,  always  by 
each  plate  on  the  breakfast-table,  and  if  she  saw 
my  bouquet  faded,  she  was  sure  to  tap  at  my 
door  with  a  fresh  one  before  dinner.  And  this 
from  Maria  Edgeworth  —  then  between  seventy 
and  eighty! — to  me!!  These  small  attefitions 
enter  the  heart  and  remain  there,  when  great  ser- 
vices and  great  talents  are  regarded  perhaps  like 
great  mountains, — distant,  and  cold,  andungenial. 
I  linger  over  what  I  write,  and  yet  feel  I  cannot 
pourtray  her  at  all  as  I  desire  to  do. 

***** 

"  Her  whole  life  was  a  lesson  of  truth,  and  yet 
her  truths  never  ofi"ended ;  she  took  the  rough 
edge  oif  an  opinion  with  so  tender  and  skilful  a 
hand,  she  was  so  much  fonder  of  wiling  you  into 
a  virtue  than  exciting  terror  at  a  vice  ;  so  stedfast 
yet  so  gentle,  that  whenever  she  left  the  room, 
there  was  something  wanting,  a  joy  departed,  a 
light  gone  out. 

She  had  a  vivid  perception  of  the  ridiculous, 
but  that  was  kept  in  admirable  order  by  her  be- 
nevolence. Her  eyes  and  mouth  would  often 
smile,  when  she  restrained  an  observation,  which, 
if  it  had  found  words,  would  have  amused  us, 
while  it  perhaps  pained  others  ;  and  yet  she  had 
the  hajjpiest  manner  of  saying  things,  drawing  a 
picture  with  a  few  words,  as  a  great  artist  pro- 
duces a  likeness  with  a  few  touches  of  his  pencil. 
I  remember  Cuvier  excited  my  admiration  very 
much,  during  one  of  our  visits  to  Paris ;  I  saw 
him  frequently  in  society,  and  his  magnificent 
head  captivated  my  imagination.  "Yes,"  said 
Miss  Edgeworth,  "he  is  indeed  a  wonder,  but  he 
has  been  an  example  of  the  folly  of  literary  and 
scientific  men  being  taken  out  of  their  sphere ; 
Cuvier  was  more  vain  of  his  bad  speeches  in  the 
Chamber  of  Peers,  than  he  was  of  his  vast  reputa- 
tion as  a  naturalist." 

I  never  knew  any  one  so  ready  to  give  informa- 
tion ;  her  mind  was  generous  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  in  small  things  as  well  as  in  large ;  she 
gave  away  all  the  duplicates  of  her  shells — "  One 
is  enough,"  she  would  say,  "I  must  keep  that  out 
of  compliment  to  the  giver."  She  was  not  re- 
served in  speaking  of  her  literary  labours,  but  she 
never  volunteered  speaking  of  them  or  of  herself; 
she  never  seemed  to  be  in  her  own  head,  as  it  were 
—  much  less  in  her  own  heart :  she  loved  herself, 
thought  of  herself,  cared  for  herself,  infinitely  less 
than  she  did  for  those  around  her.  Naturally 
anxious  to  know  everything  connected  with  her 
habits  of  thought  and  wi'iting  —  I  often  reverted 
to  her  books,  which  she  said  I  remembered  a  great 
deal  better  than  she  did  herself.  When  she  saw 
that  I  really  enjoyed  talking  about  them,  she 
spoke  of  them  with  her  usual  frankness.  I  told 
her  I  observed  that  she  spoke  to  children  as  she 
wrote  for  them,  and  she  said  it  was  so ;  and  she 
believed  that  having  been  so  much  with  children, 


had  taught  her  to  think  for  them.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  succession  of  children  in  the  Edge- 
worth  family,  kept  alive  her  interest  in  childhood  ; 
those  who  withdraw  from  the  society  of  youth, 
when  they  themselves  are  no  longer  young,  turn 
away  from  the  greenness  and  freshness  of  exist- 
ence ;  it  is  as  if  winter  made  no  preparation  for, 
and  had  no  desire  to  be  succeeded  by  spring. 

While  seeing  the  little  weaknesses  of  humanity, 
clearly  and  truly,  she  avoided  dwelling  upon  them, 
and  could  not  bear  to  inflict  pain :  "  People,"  she 
said,  "see  matters  so  differently  that  the  very 
thing  I  should  be  most  proud  of  makes  others 
blush  with  shame  ;  AVedgwood  carried  the  '  hod ' 
of  mortar  in  his  youth,  but  his  family  objected  to 
that  fact  being  stated  in  '  Harry  and  Lucy.'  " 

I  once  asked  her  how  long  she  took  to  write  a 
novel.  She  replied,  she  had  generally  taken 
ample  time  ;  she  had  written  "  Ormond"  in  three 
months;  "but  that,"  she  added,  "was  at  m}- 
father's  command ;  I  read  to  hjm  at  night  what  I 
wrote  by  day,  and  I  never  heard  of  the  book,  nor 
could  I  think  of  it,  after  his  death,  until  my  sister, 
two  years  after,  read  it  me ;  then  it  was  quite 
forgotten."  She  had  a  great  veneration  for  father 
Matthew,  and  said  Mr.  Hall  did  himself  honoui- 
by  being  the  first  Protestant,  and  the  first  Con- 
servative, who  advocated  his  cause  in  print: 
"What  authors  say  goes  for  nothing,"  she  ob- 
served; "it  is  what  they  icrite  they  should  be 
judged  by." 

***** 

I  remember  saying  to  her,  how  happy  it  was 
for  Ireland  that  she  had  overcome  every  religious 
prejudice. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  never  had  religious 
prejudices  to  overcome,  so  I  deserve  no  praise  for 
being  without  them."  Miss  Edgeworth  never 
wrote  that  other  people  might  practise,  but  she 
wrote  what  she  and  hers  practised  daily ;  it  was 
evident  from  the  children  being  constantly  with 
the  family,  that  they  still  held  by  the  opinion  that 
intercourse  between  children  and  servants  is  inju- 
rious to  the  former.  "  AYe  believe  in  it,"  said 
Miss  Edgeworth  ;  "  but  I  have  long  learned  how 
very  impossible  it  is  for  others  to  practise  it.  My 
father  made  it  easy ;  for  not  only  his  wife,  but  his 
children  knew  all  his  affairs.  Whatever  business 
he  had  to  do  was  done  in  the  midst  of  his  family, 
usually  in  the  common  sitting-room ;  so  that  we 
were  intimately  acquainted,  not  only  with  his 
general  principles  of  conduct,  but  with  the  most 
minute  details  of  their  every-day  application." 
*  *  *  *  * 

Some  of  the  "unco  good"  have  complained  of 
what  they  call  the  want  of  religions,  but  what  I 
should  rather  call  sectarian,  instruction,  in  Miss 
Edgeworth's  juvenile  works.  "  We  wrote,"  she 
said  to  me,  "  for  every  sect,  and  did  not,  nor  do 
I  now,  think  it  right,  to  introduce  the  awful  idea 
of  God's  superintendence  upon  puerile  occasions. 
I  hold  religion  in  a  more  exalted  view  than  as  a 
subject  of  perpetual  outward  exhibition.  Many 
dignitaries  of  the  established  church  honoured  my 
father  by  their  esteem  and  private  friendship ;  this 
could  not  have  been,  had  they  believed  him  to  be 

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either  an  open  or  concealed  enemy  to  Christianity." 
Certainly,  as  a  magistrate,  as  a  member  of  the 
Board  of  Education,  as  a  member  of  parliament, 
Mr.  Edgeworth  had  public  opportunities  of  record- 
ing his  opinions ;  and  there  is  no  trace,  that  I 
could  ever  discover,  of  his  desiring  to  found  a 
system  of  morality  exclusive  of  religion.  Unfor- 
tunately, in  Ireland,  if  you  are  not, — I  do  not  like 
the  word,  but  I  can  find  no  other, — bigoted,  to  one 
or  the  other  party,  you  are  marked  and  stigma- 
tised as  irreligious  —  or  worse  —  by  both. 

I  do  not  design  to  write  a  panegyric.  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  own  works  will  suffice  for  that ;  they  are 
imperishable  monuments  of  her  usefulness  and 
her  "goodwill,"  especially  towards  the  country 
of  her  adoption  and  towards  children.  But  even 
after  a  visit  to  Edgeworthstown,  where  a  natural 
habit  of  observation,  as  well  as  a  desire  to  read 
her  rightly,  made  me  more  than  usually  awake  to 
every  word  and  every  passing  incident  —  bright 
days  of  rambling  and  sunshine,  and  dark  days  of 
rain  and  conversation  with  her  and  hers  —  seeing 
her  thus  away  from  the  meretricious  glare  and 
false  lights  of  London  society,  where  I  had  first 
met  her  —  in  the  trying  seclusion  of  a  country- 
house,  in  the  midst  of  a  most  mingled  family  — 
where  her  father's  last  wife  was  many  years 
younger  than  herself,  and  the  half  foreign  chil- 
dren and  foreign  wife  of  her  youngest  brother, 
rendered  the  mingling  still  more  extraordinary  — 
recalling  all  seen  and  known  of  other  families, 
where  children  of  the  same  parents  too  seldom 
live  together  in  unity  —  I  remember  nothing  that 
at  this  distance  of  time  does  not  excite  my  admi- 
ration and  increase  my  affection  for  this  admirable 
woman,  combining  in  her  small  self  whatever  we 
believe  to  be  most  deserving  of  praise  in  her  sex. 
She  was  a  literary  woman,  without  vanity,  affec- 
tation, or  jealousy  —  a  very  sunbeam  of  light,  in 
a  home  rendered  historic  by  her  genius  —  a  per- 
fect woman  in  her  attention  to  those  little  offices 
of  love  and  kindness  which  sanctify  domestic  life ; 
a  patriot,  but  not  a  politician — the  champion  of  a 
country's  virtues,  without  being  blind  either  to  its 
follies  or  its  crimes.  Honoured  wherever  her 
name  was  heard  during  half  a  century  of  literary 
industry  —  idolized  by  a  family  composed  as  I 
have  said  of  many  members  under  one  roof,  yet 
tuned  into  matchless  harmony  by  admirable  ma- 
nagement and  right  affection,  —  this  woman,  so 
loved,  so  honoured,  so  chei-ished  to  the  very  last, 
was  entirely  miselfish." 

The  true  feminine  beauty  and  excellence  of  Miss 
Edgeworth's  character  seem  to  rise  palpably  be- 
fore us  as  we  read  these  delineations  by  one  who 
knew  her  so  intimately  and  loved  her  so  well.  And 
these  reminiscences  gain  enhanced  value  from  the 
circumstance  that  Miss  Edgeworth  left  positive 
orders  her  private  correspondence  should  not  be 
published ;  we  cannot,  therefore,  hope  for  a  more 
intimate  knowledge  of  this  estimable  Avoman  than 
Mrs.  Hall  has  given.  One  more  trait  from  this  re- 
miniscence, a  xoritten portrait  of  Miss  Edgeworth.* 

*  Miss  Edgeworth  would  never  sit  for  her  picture ;  the  one 
we  have  given  is  from  a  sketch  taken  by  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall, 
ivhcn  at  Edgeworthstown. 


In  person  she  was  very  small,  —  smaller  than 
Hannah  More,  —  and  with  more  than  Hannah 
More's  vivacity  of  manner ;  her  face  was  pale  and 
thin ;  her  feattires  irregular ;  they  may  have  been 
considered  plain,  even  in  youth ;  but  her  expres- 
sion was  so  benevolent,  her  manner  so  entirely 
well  bred,  —  partaking  of  English  dignity  and 
Irish  frankness,  —  that  you  never  thought  of  her, 
in  reference  either  to  plainness  or  beauty ;  she 
was  all  in  all ;  occupied,  without  fatiguing  the 
attention ;  charmed  by  her  pleasant  voice ;  while 
the  earnestness  and  truth  that  beamed  in  her 
bright  blue  —  very  blue  —  eyes,  made  of  value, 
every  word  she  littered,  —  her  words  were  always 
well  chosen ;  her  manner  of  expression  was  grace- 
ful and  natural ;  her  sentences  were  frequently 
epigrammatic ;  she  knew  how  to  listen  as  well  as 
to  talk,  and  gathered  information  in  a  manner 
highly  complimentary  to  the  society  of  which,  at 
the  time,  she  formed  a  part ;  while  listening  to 
her,  she  continually  recalled  to  me  the  story  of 
the  fairy  whose  lips  dropped  diamonds  and  pearls 
whenever  they  opened. 

Miss  Edgeworth  was  remarkably  neat  and  par- 
ticular in  her  dress ;  her  feet  and  hands  were  so 
very  small  as  to  be  quite  child-like.  I  once  took 
a  shoe  of  hers  to  Melnotte's,  in  Paris,  she  having 
commissioned  me  to  procure  her  some  shoes  there, 
and  the  people  insisted  that  I  must  require  them 
'■'■pour  une  jeune  demoiselle." 

***** 

We  have  chosen  the  first  work  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth  from  which  to  make  our  extracts,*  partly 
because  it  is  less  read  than  her  novels,  but  chiefly 
because  the  sentiments  are  those  which  actuated 
her  own  life,  and  form  the  moral  of  all  she  wrote. 
In  the  "Practical  Education"  is  contained  the 
soul,  so  to  speak,  of  her  genius.  She  wrought  out 
her  materials  of  thought  into  many  forms,  and 
coloured  these  with  the  rainbow  tinting  of  her 
fancy,  and  ornamented  them  with  the  polished 
beauty  of  benevolent  feeling;  but  the  precious 
gold  of  truth,  which  she  first  assayed  in  this  ele- 
mentary book,  makes  the  sterling  worth  of  all  her 
books.  And  what  a  number  she  has  written !  The 
term  of  her  life  was  long,  but  measured  by  what 
she  accomplished  seems  to  comprise  the  two  cen- 
turies in  which  she  lived.  So  quiet  and  easy  was 
her  death,  it  seemed  but  a  sweet  sleep,  after  only 
a  half-hour's  illness.  May  21st,  1849.  She  died 
in  her  eighty-third  year,  ripe  in  good  works,  and 
in  the  "  charity  which  never  faileth,"  for  the  king- 
dom of  love  and  peace. 

From  "  Practical  Education.' 
ONLY    CHILDREN. 

An  only  child  runs  a  dreadful  chance  of  being 
spoiled.  He  is  born  a  person  of  consequence ;  he 
soon  discovers  his  innate  merit ;  every  eye  is  turn- 
ed upon  him  the  moment  he  enters  the  room  ;  his 
looks,  his  dress,  his  appetite,  are  all  matters  of 
daily  concern  to  a  whole  family ;  his  wishes  are 
divined ;  his  wants  are  prevented  ;  his  witty  say- 
ings are  repeated  in  his  presence ;  his  smiles  are 
courted;  his  caresses  excite  jealousy ;  and  he  soon 

296 


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learns  how  to  avail  himself  of  his  central  situa- 
tion. His  father  and  mother  make  him  alternately 
their  idol,  and  their  plaything  ;  they  do  not  think 
of  educating,  they  only  think  of  admiring  him: 
they  imagine  that  he  is  unlike  all  other  children 
in  the  universe ;  and  that  his  genius  and  his  tem- 
per are  independent  of  all  cultivation.  But  when 
this  little  paragon  of  perfection  has  two  or  three 
brothers  and  sisters,  the  scene  changes ;  the  man 
of  consequence  dwindles  into  an  insignificant  little 
boy.        • 

THE    POWER    OF    SYMPATHY. 

Long  before  children  can  understand  reasoning, 
they  can  feel  sympathy ;  during  this  early  period 
of  their  education,  example  and  habit,  slight  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  and  the  propensity  to  imita- 
tion, govern  their  thoughts  and  actions.  Imitation 
is  the  involuntary  effect  of  sympathy  in  children ; 
hence,  those  who  have  the  most  sympathy  are  most 
liable  to  be  improved  or  injured  by  early  exam- 
ples. Examples  of  the  malevolent  passions  should 
therefore  be  most  carefully  excluded  from  the  sight 
of  those  who  have  yet  no  choice  in  their  sympathy ; 
expressions  of  kindness  and  aifection  in  the  coun- 
tenance, the  voice,  the  actions,  of  all  who  ap- 
proach, and  of  all  who  have  the  care  of  infants, 
are  not  only  immediately  and  evidently  agreeable 
to  children,  but  ought  also  to  be  used  as  the  best 
possible  means  of  exciting  benevolent  sympathies 
in  their  minds.  Children  who  habitually  meet  with 
kindness,  habitually  feel  complacency ;  that  spe- 
cies of  instinctive,  or  rather  of  associated  affec- 
tion, which  always  rises  in  the  mind  from  the 
recollection  of  past  pleasures,  is  immediately  ex- 
cited in  such  children  by  the  sight  of  their  parents. 
By  an  easy  transition  of  ideas,  they  expect  the 
same  benevolence,  even  from  strangers,  which 
they  have  experienced  from  their  friends,  and 
their  sympathy  naturally  prepares  them  to  wish 
for  society ;  this  wish  is  often  improperly  in- 
dulged. 

At  the  age  when  children  begin  to  unfold  their 
ideas,  and  to  express  their  thoughts  in  words,  they 
are  such  interesting  and  entertaining  companions, 
that  they  attract  a  large  portion  of  our  daily  at- 
tention :  we  listen  eagerly  to  their  simple  obser- 
vations ;  we  enter  into  their  young  astonishment 
at  every  new  object ;  we  are  delighted  to  watch 
all  their  emotions ;  we  help  them  with  words  to 
express  their  ideas ;  we  anxiously  endeavour  to 
understand  their  imperfect  reasonings ;  and  are 
pleased  to  find,  or  put  them  in  the  right.  This 
season  of  universal  smiles  and  courtesy  is  delight- 
ful to  children  while  it  lasts ;  but  it  soon  passes 
away:  they  soon  speak  without  exciting  any 
astonishment ;  and  instead  of  meeting  with  admi- 
ration for  every  attempt  to  express  an  idea,  they 
are  soon  repulsed  for  troublesome  volubility  ;  even 
when  they  talk  sense,  they  are  suffered  to  talk 
unheard,  or  else  they  are  checked  for  unbecoming 
presumption.  Children  feel  this  change  in  public 
opinion  and  mannei's  most  severely ;  they  are  not 
sensible  of  any  change  in  themselves,  except,  per- 
haps, they  are  conscious  of  having  improved  both 
in  sense  and  language. 


MUSIC    AS    AN    ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

Out  of  the  prodigious  number  of  young  women 
who  learn  music  and  drawing,  for  instance,  how 
many  are  there  who,  after  they  have  become  mis- 
tresses of  their  own  time,  and  after  they  have  the 
choice  of  their  own  amusements,  continue  to  prac- 
tise these  accomplishments  for  the  pure  pleasure 
of  occupation  ?  As  soon  as  a  young  lady  is  mar- 
ried, does  she  not  frequently  discover  that  "she 
really  has  not  leisure  to  cultivate  talents  which 
take  up  so  much  time  ?"  Does  she  not  complain 
of  the  labour  of  practising  four  or  five  hours  a  day, 
to  keep  up  her  musical  character  ?  AVhat  motive 
has  she  for  perseverance  ?  She  is,  perhaps,  already 
tired  of  jilaying  to  all  her  acquaintance.  She  may 
really  take  pleasure  in  hearing  good  music ;  but 
her  own  performance  will  not,  then,  please  her  ear 
so  much  as  that  of  many  others.  She  will  prefer 
the  more  indolent  pleasure  of  hearing  the  best 
music  that  can  be  heard  for  money  at  public  con- 
certs. She  will  then,  of  course,  leave  off  playing, 
but  continue  very  fond  of  music.  How  often  is 
the  labour  of  years  thus  lost  for  ever  ! 

THE    BEST    ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 

We  must  further  observe,  that  the  habit  of  pur- 
suing any  occupation  which  requires  no  mental 
exertion,  induces  an  indolence  or  incapacity  of 
intellect.  Mere  artists  are  commonly  as  stupid 
as  mere  artificers,  and  these  are  little  more  than 
machines. 

The  length  of  time  which  is  required  to  obtain 
practical  skill  and  dexterity  in  certain  accomplish- 
ments, is  one  reason  why  there  are  so  few  people 
who  obtain  any  thing  more  than  mechanical  ex- 
cellence. They  become  the  slaves  of  custom,  and 
they  become  proud  of  their  slavery.  At  first,  they 
might  have  considered  custom  as  a  tyrant ;  but 
when  they  have  obeyed  her  for  a  certain  time, 
they  do  her  voluntary  homage  ever  after,  as  to  a 
sovereign  by  divine  right.  To  prevent  this  species 
of  intellectual  degradation,  we  must,  in  education, 
be  careful  to  rank  mere  mechanical  talents  below 
the  exercise  of  the  mental  powers.  Thus  the  am- 
bition of  young  people  will  be  directed  to  high  ob- 
jects ;  and  all  inferior  qualifications  may  be  attained 
without  contracting  the  understanding.  Praise 
children  for  patience,  for  perseverance,  for  indus- 
try ;  encourage  them  to  reason  and  to  invent  upon 
all  subjects,  and  you  may  direct  their  attention 
afterwards  as  you  think  proper.  But  if  you  ap- 
plaud children  merely  for  drawing  a  flower  neatly, 
or  copying  a  landscape,  without  exciting  their  am- 
bition to  any  thing  higher,  you  will  never  create 
superior  talents,  or  a  superior  character.  The 
proficiency  that  is  made  in  any  particular  accom- 
plishment, at  any  given  age,  should  not  be  con- 
sidered so  much,  even  by  those  who  highly  value 
accomplishments,  as  the  power,  the  energy,  that 
is  excited  in  the  pupil's  mind,  from  which  future 
progress  is  insured.  The  writing  and  drawing 
automaton  performs  its  advertised  wonders  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  spectators ;  but  the  machine  is 
not  "instinct  with  spirit;"  j'ou  cannot  expect 
from  its  pencil  the  sketch  of  a  Raphael,  or  from 

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its  pen  the  thoughts  of  a  Shakspeare.  It  is  easy 
to  guide  the  hand,  but  who  can  transfuse  a  soul 
into  the  image  ? 

LITERARY    EDUCATION. 

It  will  be  sufBcient  to  profess  the  distinct  opinion 
whicli  a  longer  consideration  of  the  subject  has  yet 
more  fully  confirmed,  That  it  will  tend  to  the  hap- 
piness of  society  in  general,  that  women  should 
have  their  understandings  cultivated  and  enlarged 
as  much  as  possible ;  that  the  happiness  of  do- 
mestic life,  the  virtues  and  the  powers  of  pleasing 
in  the  female  sex,  the  yet  more  desirable  power 
of  attaching  those  worthy  of  their  love  and  esteem, 
will  be  increased,  by  the  judicious  cultivation  of 
the  female  understanding,  more  than  by  all  that 
modern  gallantry  or  ancient  chivalry  could  devise 
in  favour  of  the  sex.  Much  prudence  and  ability 
are  requisite  to  conduct  properly  a  young  woman's 
literary  education.  Her  imagination  must  not  be 
raised  above  the  taste  for  necessary  occupations, 
or  the  numerous  small,  but  not  trifling,  pleasures 
of  domestic  life ;  her  mind  must  be  enlarged,  yet 
the  delicacy  of  her  manners  must  be  preserved ; 
her  knowledge  must  be  various,  and  her  powers 
of  reasoning  unawed  by  authority ;  yet  she  must 
habitually  feel  that  nice  sense  of  propriety,  which 
is  at  once  the  guard  and  the  charm  of  every  femi- 
nine virtue.  By  eai'ly  caution — unremitting,  scru- 
pulous caution  —  in  the  choice  of  the  books  which 
are  put  into  the  hands  of  girls,  a  mother,  or  a 
preceptress,  may  fully  occupy  and  entertain  their 
pupils,  and  excite  in  their  minds  a  taste  for  pro- 
priety, as  well  as  a  taste  for  literature.  It  cannot 
be  necessary  to  add  more  than  this  general  idea, 
that  a  mother  ought  to  be  answerable  to  her 
daughter's  husband  for  the  books  her  daughter 
had  read,  as  well  as  for  the  company  she  had  kept. 

ON    PRUDENCE. 

In  the  education  of  girls,  we  must  teach  them 
much  more  caution  than  is  necessary  to  boys: 
their  prudence  must  be  more  the  result  of  reason- 
ing than  of  experiment;  they  must  trust  to  the 
experience  of  others ;  they  cannot  always  have 
recourse  to  what  ought  to  be;  they  must  adapt 
themselves  to  what  is.  They  cannot  rectify  the 
material  mistakes  in  their  conduct.  Timidity,  a 
certain  tardiness  of  decision,  and  reluctance  to  act 
in  public  situations,  are  not  considered  as  defects 
in  a  woman's  character;  her  pausing  prudence 
does  not,  to  a  man  of  discernment,  denote  imbe- 
cility ;  but  appears  to  him  the  graceful,  auspi- 
cious characteristic  of  female  virtue.  There  is 
always  more  probability  that  women  should  en- 
danger their  own  happiness  by  precipitation,  than 
by  forbearance.  Promptitude  of  choice  is  seldom 
expected  from  the  female  sex ;  they  should  avail 
themselves  of  the  leisure  that  is  permitted  to  them 
from  reflection.  "  Begin  nothing  of  which  you 
have  not  considered  the  end,"  was  the  piece  of 
advice  for  which  the  Eastern  sultan  paid  a  purse 
of  gold,  the  price  set  upon  it  by  a  sage.  The 
monarch  did  not  repent  of  his  purchase.  This 
maxim  should  be  engraved  upon  the  memory  of 
our  female  pupils,  by  the  repeated  lessons  of  edu- 


cation. We  should,  even  in  trifles,  avoid  every 
circumstance  which  can  tend  to  make  girls  ven- 
tui'esome ;  which  can  encourage  them  to  trust 
their  good  fortune,  instead  of  relying  on  their  own 
prudence. 

ECONOMY. 

Economy  in  women  is  an  essential  domestic  vir- 
tue. Some  women  have  a  foolish  love  of  expensive 
baubles  ;  a  taste  which  a  very  little  care,  probably, 
in  their  early  education  might  have  prevented. 
We  are  told  that  when  a  collection  of  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  was  made  for  the  celebrated 
Cuzzona,  to  save  her  from  absolute  want,  she  im- 
mediately laid  out  two  hundred  pounds  of  the 
money  in  the  purchase  of  a  shell-cap,  which  was 
then  in  fashion.  Prudent  mothers  will  avoid  show- 
ing any  admiration  of  pretty  trinkets  before  their 
young  daughters ;  and  they  will  oppose  the  ideas 
of  utility  and  durability  to  the  mere  caprice  of 
fashion,  which  creates  a  taste  for  beauty,  as  it 
were,  by  proclamation.  "  Such  a  thing  is  pretty, 
but  it  is  of  no  use.  Such  a  thing  is  i^retty,  but  it 
will  soon  wear  out"  —  a  mother  may  say  ;  and  she 
should  prove  the  truth  of  her  assertions  to  her 
pupils. 

ELEONORE   OF   TOLEDO, 

Daughter  of  Pertor  of  Toledo,  viceroy  of  Na- 
ples, was  born  in  the  year  1526,  and  showed,  even 
when  a  child,  marks  of  an  extraordinary  mind. 
In  1543,  she  married  Cosmos  I.,  a  Medici.  Her 
husband  was  only  twenty-four  years  old,  though 
already  six  years  a  ruling  prince.  He  had  ascend- 
ed the  throne  after  the  assassination  of  Alexander, 
in  the  year  1533,  and  found  himself  now  constantly 
engaged  in  active  hostilities  with  the  Strozzi,  the 
hereditary  enemies  of  his  house.  Bloody  and  ter- 
rible were  the  battles  fought  in  this  struggle  ;  but 
Eleonore  never  left  the  side  of  her  husband  even 
during  the  hottest  encounters  of  the  fight.  Her 
extraordinary  courage  contributed  greatly  to  the 
termination  of  the  war  ;  for,  one  day  while  riding 
with  an  escort  of  only  fifteen  horsemen,  she  met 
the  leader  of  the  hostile  forces,  Philip  Strozzi, 
with  a  force  of  forty-five  horsemen,  reconnoitring 
the  camp.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
threw  herself  upon  them,  cut  them  to  pieces,  and 
made  Strozzi  prisoner.  Philip  knew  that  no  pri- 
soner had  hitherto  been  spared,  and,  in  order  to 
escape  an  ignominious  death  upon  the  scaffold, 
committed  suicide  in  prison.  This  sad  event  in- 
duced Eleonore  to  prevail  upon  her  husband  to 
promise  that  henceforth  he  would  spare  the  lives 
of  his  prisoners.  Eleonore  also  accompanied  her 
husband  in  the  war  between  Charles  V.  and  Fran- 
cis I.,  and  was  actively  engaged  in  the  storming 
and  taking  Sienna.  She  afterwards  urged  her 
husband  to  have  himself  crowned  a  king,  but  in 
this  he  failed.  Pius  V.  finally  changed  his  title, 
duke  of  Florence,  into  that  of  grand-duke  of  Tus- 
cany. 

Eleonore's  ambition  being  now  satisfied,  she  de- 
voted the  rest  of  her  life  to  encourage  education, 
the  fine  arts,  and  benevolent  institutions.  The 
exact  time  of  her  decease  is  not  known. 

298 


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ELIZABETH,  QUEEN  OF  ENGLAND, 

Was  the  daiighter  of  Henry  VIII.  by  his  second 
wife,  Anne  Boleyn,  and  born  September  7th,  1533. 
Upon  that  king's  marriage  with  Jane  Seymour,  in 
1535,  she  was  declared  illegitimate,  with  her  half- 
sister  Mary ;  and  the  succession  to  the  crown  esta- 


blished on  the  king's  issue  by  his  third  wife.  Her 
mother,  at  her  death,  had  eai-nestly  recommended 
her  to  tlie  care  of  Dr.  Parker,  a  great  reformer, 
and  afterwards  archbishop  of  Canterbury ;  who 
had  the  charge  of  her  education,  and  instructed 
her  carefully  in  the  principles  of  the  Christian  re- 
ligion. She  spent  her  youth  in  the  manner  of  a 
private  person,  and  was  unmolested ;  but,  when 
her  sister  Mary  ascended  the  throne,  she  was  im- 
prisoned on  suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  lady 
Jane  Grey's  promotion ;  and  in  March,  1557,  com- 
mitted to  the  Tower.  She  came  near  losing  her 
life,  for  bishop  Gardiner  was  against  her,  suppos- 
ing Popery  but  half  re-established  while  she  lived. 
But  Philip  of  Spain,  Mary's  husband,  interceded 
for  her,  and  saved  her.  For  as  Philip  and  Mary 
had  no  children,  he  considered  that  if  Elizabeth 
were  removed,  the  crown  of  England,  after  Mary's 
death,  would  pass  to  Mary  of  Scotland,  who  had 
just  married  the  dauphin  of  France.  And  his 
hatred  of  France  proved  stronger  than  his  zeal 
for  his  religion.  Nevertheless,  Elizabeth  under- 
went great  sufferings  and  ill  treatment  during  her 
sister's  reign. 

Elizabeth  began  to  reign  in  1558.  She  was  then 
twenty-five,  and  highly  accomplished.  Her  person 
was  graceful,  her  carriage  noble  and  majestic,  and 
though  her  features  were  not  regular,  yet  her  fair 
complexion,  her  lustrous  eyes,  and  intelligent, 
animated  expression,  hardly  suffered  smaller  im- 
perfections to  be  observed.  She  was  endowed  with 
great  talents,  enlarged,  cultivated,  and  refined  by 
education.  She  wrote  letters  in  English  and  Ita- 
lian at  thirteen ;  and,  before  she  was  seventeen, 
was  perfect  in  the  Latin,  Greek,  and  French,  and 
not  unacquainted  with  other  European  languages. 
She   also   studied   philosophy,   rhetoric,   histoiy, 


divinity,  poetry  and  music,  and  everything  that 
could  improve  or  adoi'n  her  mind. 

Her  first  object,  after  her  accession,  was  to  re- 
store the  Protestant  religion  ;  to  this  she  was  led 
by  interest  as  well  as  principle.  For  the  pope 
treated  her  in  such  a  manner,  that  she  clearly  per- 
ceived, if  she  professed  Popery,  she  must  allow 
her  father's  divorce  from  Catharine  of  Arragon 
to  be  void,  and  consequently  herself  illegitimate  ; 
and  this  would  have  annulled  her  pretensions  to 
the  crown.  She  has  been  strongly  suspected  by 
some  of  an  inclination  to  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
ligion ;  but  there  is  no  proof  of  this.  Indeed  she 
was  the  real  foundress  of  the  English  Episcopal 
Church,  as  it  now  exists.  True,  she  was  greatly 
assisted  by  her  counsellor,  Cecil,  afterwai-ds  lord 
Burleigh ;  still  Elizabeth  herself  always  held  the 
reins  of  government  over  the  church,  as  well  as 
over  the  state ;  and  what  she  founded  and  upheld 
steadily  for  fifty  years,  must  have  been  conforma- 
ble to  her  own  faith. 

The  queen,  while  she  was  princess,  had  a  pri- 
vate proposal  of  marriage  from  the  king  of  Swe- 
den; but  she  declared  "  she  could  not  change  her 
condition,"  though  it  was  then  very  disagreeable. 
Upon  her  becoming  queen,  Philip  of  Spain,  her 
late  sister's  husband,  made  an  offer  of  himself  to 
her,  which  she  declined.  In  the  first  parliament 
of  her  reign,  the  house  of  commons  addressed 
her,  and  represented  to  her  how  necessary  it  was, 
for  the  happiness  of  the  nation,  that  she  should 
think  of  marrying.  She  replied,  "  That,  by  the 
ceremony  of  her  inauguration,  she  was  mai-ried 
to  her  people,  and  her  subjects  were  to  her  instead 
of  children  ;  that  they  should  not  want  a  successor 
when  she  died ;  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  should 
be  very  well  contented  to  have  her  tomb-stone  tell 
posterity,  '  Here  lies  a  queen,  who  reigned  so  long, 
and  lived  and  died  a  virgin.' "  Several  matches 
were  afterwards  proposed  to  her  by  her  people, 
and  many  distinguished  personages  were  desirous 
of  uniting  themselves  to  this  illustrious  princess, 
but  she  maintained  her  celibacy. 

It  was  not  long  before  Elizabeth,  by  the  advice 
of  her  council,  began  to  interfere  in  th^  affairs  of 
Scotland.  Mary,  the  young  queen  of  that  country, 
was  the  next  heir  in  blood  to  the  crown  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  as  the  zealous  Romanists  considered 
the  birth  of  Elizabeth  illegitimate,  and  her  suc- 
cession as  rendered  invalid  by  the  papal  excom- 
munication she  had  undergone,  they  regarded 
Mary  as  the  true  sovereign  of  England.  In  ac- 
cordance with  this  idea,  when  queen  Mary  died, 
Mary  of  Scotland  and  her  husband,  the  dauphin 
of  France,  openly  assumed  the  arms  and  title  of 
English  royalty.  This  act  of  hostility  Elizabeth 
never  forgot.  When  Mary  returned  to  Scotland, 
some  ineffectual  attempts  were  made  to  induce  Eli- 
zabeth to  recognize  her  as  presumptive  successor 
to  the  English  throne ;  but  Elizabeth  then,  as  ever 
afterwards,  displayed  the  greatest  aversion  to  the 
nomination  of  a  successor.  The  matter  was  suf- 
fered to  rest,  and  the  two  queens  lived  in  apparent 
amity.  The  queen  of  England  always  evinced  a 
weak  jealousy  of  Mary's  superior  personal  charms, 
and  attempted  a  rivalry  in  that  respect,  as  mean 

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as  it  was  hopeless.  Another  weakness  of  hers  was 
a  propensity  to  adopt  court  favourites,  whom  she 
selected  rather  on  account  of  their  external  ac- 
complishments than  their  merit.  This  foible  was 
sometimes  detrimental  to  her  state  affairs  ;  though 
she  generally  gave  her  ministers  and  counsellors, 
who  were  chosen  for  their  real  merit,  a  due  supe- 
riority in  business  affairs  over  her  favourites. 

One  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  these,  Dudley, 
earl  of  Leicester,  who  obtained  a  great  ascendency 
over  her,  aspired  to  her  hand ;  but  she  checked 
his  presumption,  and  proposed  him  as  a  husband 
to  the  queen  of  Scotland,  whom  she  had  thwarted 
in  every  attempt  she  made  to  ally  herself  to  a 
foreign  potentate.  But  when  Mary  seemed  dis- 
posed to  listen  favourably  to  this  proposal,  Eliza- 
beth interfered  and  prevented  her  rival  from  taking 
away  her  favourite.  Elizabeth  and  her  ministers 
had  also  fomented  those  political  dissensions  which 
gave  Mary  so  much  disquiet. 

In  1568,  Mary  fled  from  Scotland,  and  took  re- 
fuge in  England,  having  previously  informed  Eli- 
zabeth of  her  determination.  The  English  queen 
resolved  to  detain  her  rival  in  perpetual  imprison- 
ment ;  in  consequence  of  which  two  or  three  rebel- 
lions were  excited  by  the  Catholics  of  England, 
but  these  were  soon  quelled  by  the  prompt  mea- 
sures of  Elizabeth. 

The  Puritan  party  began  at  this  time  to  give 
the  queen  some  uneasiness ;  for  with  a  haughty 
and  arbitrary  temper,  and  a  high  idea  of  her  pre- 
rogative, she  was  greatly  offended  by  the  spirit  of 
civil  liberty  which,  from  their  earliest  rise,  marked 
the  Puritans.  Elizabeth,  however,  understood  so 
well  the  art  of  making  concessions,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  supporting  her  dignity,  that  though 
she  ruled  her  people  with  a  rigorous  hand,  she 
always  retained  their  confidence  and  affection. 
Her  wise  frugality  prevented  her  from  being  bur- 
densome to  the  nation ;  and  she  is  a  singular  in- 
stance of  a  sovereign  who  returned  a  portion  of 
the  people's  grants.  The  principal  pecuniary 
cause  of  complaint  in  her  reign  arose  from  her 
custom  of  rewarding  her  courtiers  with  monopolies. 
One  of  the  most  singular  instances  of  contention 
between  the  feminine  weakness  and  the  political 
prudence  of  Elizabeth,  was  her  conduct  with  re- 
spect to  her  suitor,  the  Duke  d'Anjou,  youngest 
brother  of  Charles  IX.  of  France.  This  prince, 
about  twenty-five  years  younger  than  herself,  had 
been  encouraged  to  come  over  to  England,  and 
prosecute  his  courtship  in  person.  The  negotia- 
tions for  the  marriage  were  nearly  completed ;  and 
the  queen  was  seen,  in  public,  to  take  a  ring  from 
her  own  finger,  and  put  it  on  his,  as  a  pledge  of 
their  union.  At  length,  perhaps  in  consequence 
of  the  great  dislike  of  the  nation  to  the  match,  she 
suddenly  broke  off  the  affair,  and  sent  back  the 
enraged  prince  to  his  government  of  the  Nether- 
lands. 

In  1585,  Elizabeth  openly  defied  the  hostility 
of  Spain,  by  entering  into  a  treaty  with  the  re- 
volted Low  Comitries,  by  which  she  bound  herself 
to  assist  them  with  a  considerable  force,  on  condi- 
tion of  having  some  ports  in  her  hands  for  her  se- 
curity.    She  refused  the  offer,  which  was  twice 


made,  of  the  sovereignty  of  these  provinces,  but 
stipulated  for  the  admission  of  her  general  into 
the  council  of  the  states.  The  person  she  chose 
for  this  high  trust,  was  the  earl  of  Leicester,  who 
did  little  honour  to  her  choice.  She  at  the  same 
time  sent  a  powerful  armament  against  the  Spa- 
nish settlement  of  the  West  Indies,  under  Sir 
Francis  Drake.  She  likewise  made  a  league  of 
mutual  defence  with  James,  king  of  Scotland, 
whose  friendship  she  courted,  while  she  kept  his 
mother  imprisoned. 

In  1586,  a  conspiracy  was  formed  against  the 
life  of  Elizabeth,  the  detection  of  which  had  very 
important  consequences.  Ballard,  a  Catholic  priest, 
induced  Anthony  Babington,  a  Derbyshire  gentle- 
man of  fortune,  to  undertake  the  queen's  assassi- 
nation. He  was  acting  in  the  service  of  the  queen 
of  Scots,  biit  it  is  doubtful  whether  Mary  was 
awai*e  of  the  intended  murder  of  Elizabeth.  The 
plot  was  discovered,  and  letters  of  Mary  found, 
which  rendered  her  participation  in  it,  to  a  certain 
extent,  a  matter  of  judicial  proof.  Fourteen  of 
the  principal  conspirators  were  executed,  and 
Mary  was  tried  and  condemned  to  death.  Eliza- 
beth, though  consenting  to  her  execution,  prac- 
tised all  the  artifice  and  dissimulation  which  be- 
longed to  her  character,  to  avoid  as  much  as  pos- 
sible the  odium  of  putting  to  death  a  queen  and  a 
near  kinswoman.  She  wept  and  lamented  as 
though  she  had  lost  a  dear  friend;  she  stormed  at 
her  council,  and  inflicted  on  her  secretary,  Davi- 
son, who  had  sent  off  the  warrant,  a  ruinous  fine. 

The  next  gi-eat  event  of  this  reign  was  the  ex- 
pedition sent  against  England  by  the  Spaniards. 
A  large  fleet,  the  Invincible  Armada,  as  it  was 
called,  set  sail  in  the  summer  of  1588,  and  pre- 
sented a  more  formidable  spectacle  in  the  English 
channel  than  had  been  witnessed  for  many  centu- 
ries. Elizabeth  exerted  all  her  energy  to  infuse 
confidence  in  her  subjects.  She  rode  on  horseback 
through  the  camp  at  Tilbury,  with  a  cheerful  and 
undaunted  demeanour,  and  addressed  the  troops 
with  the  true  spirit  of  a  hero.  Happily  the  Eng- 
lish fleet,  aided  by  the  winds,  conquered  the  invin- 
cible armada,  before  it  reached  the  coast.  Eliza- 
beth also  assisted  Henry  IV.,  of  Navarre,  in  ob- 
taining possession  of  the  throne  of  France. 

In  these  enterprises  by  land  and  sea,  the  gallant 
Robert  Devereux,  earl  of  Essex,  distinguished 
himself  very  much.  On  the  death  of  Leicester, 
he  had  succeeded  to  his  place  in  the  estimation  of 
the  queen;  and  his  splendid  qualities  and  heroic 
valour  seemed  to  justify  her  partiality.  Her  par- 
tiality, however,  did  not  prevent  her  from  assert- 
ing her  own  dignity ;  and  once,  when  in  the  heat 
of  debate  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  her,  she 
resented  the  affront  by  a  sound  box  on  his  ear. 
She  afterwards  mollified  his  deeply-injured  pride, 
and  sent  him  over  to  Ireland  as  lord-lieutenant. 
Through  his  mismanagement  the  expedition  failed. 
Upon  his  unpermitted  return  to  justify  himself, 
she  at  first  received  him  graciously ;  but  after  a 
few  hours  of  reflection  her  conduct  changed  so 
towards  him,  that  he  became  really  ill.  This 
roused  the  pity  of  the  queen,  who  sent  her  physi- 
cians to  him  with  kind  messages.     After  his  reco- 

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very  he  again  lost  her  favour,  and  urged  hy  his 
enemies,  and  his  own  impetuous  temper,  Essex 
broke  out  in  open  rebellion  against  his  sovereign. 
Elizabeth,  after  a  long  delay,  signed  his  death- 
vrarrant  with  the  most  painful  reluctance.  He 
was  executed  in  1600. 

In  1601,  Elizabeth  held  a  conference  with  Sully, 
who  came  from  Henry  IV.  of  France,  concerning 
the  establishment  of  a  new  system  of  European 
power,  which  was  to  produce  a  lasting  peace. 
Sully  retui-ned  much  impressed  by  the  solidity 
and  enlargement  of  her  views.  She  never  was 
more  respected  abroad,  or  more  beloved  and  che- 
rished by  her  subjects,  than  just  at  the  termina- 
tion of  her  reign.  But  the  last  scene  was  dark- 
ened by  a  deep  melancholy,  and  she  died  in  a 
most  deplorable  state  of  despondency. 

An  incident  relative  to  the  unfortunate  Essex 
has  been  suggested  as  the  cause  of  her  grief.  She 
had  given  him  a  ring,  as  a  pledge  of  her  affection, 
promising  him  at  sight  of  it  a  favourable  hearing, 
with  whatever  offences  h^  might  be  charged. 
After  his  condemnation,  Essex  had  sent  this  ring 
to  the  queen  by  the  countess  of  Nottingham,  who 
had  been  persuaded  by  her  husband,  an  enemy  of 
the  earl,  to  retain  the  pledge.  On  her  death-bed, 
the  countess  sent  for  the  queen,  and  revealed  the 
secret  to  her,  entreating  her  pardon.  The  queen, 
in  a  violent  rage,  shook  the  dying  countess  in  her 
bed,  exclaiming,  "  that  God  might  pardon  her, 
but  she  never  could." 

From  this  time,  she  rejected  all  consolation, 
refused  food,  and  throwing  herself  on  the  floor, 
passed  days  and  nights  without  changing  her 
place.  Nature,  at  length,  began  to  sink  ;  and  as 
her  end  drew  near,  she  was  urged  to  declare  her 
successor.  She  said  she  had  held  a  regal  sceptre, 
and  would  have  none  but  a  king  to  succeed  her ; 
and  who  should  that  be  but  her  nearest  kinsman, 
the  king  of  Scots  ?  She  died  March  24th,  1602,  in 
the  seventieth  year  of  her  age. 

Elizabeth  was  rather  noble  as  a  queen,  than 
amiable  as  a  woman.  Pope  Sixtus  V.,  who  highly 
admired  her,  gave  her  a  place  among  the  only 
three  persons  then  living  who  deserved  to  reign — 
the  other  two  were  himself  and  Henry  IV.  The 
character  of  this  great  queen  has  been  misunder- 
stood, because  she  has  been  judged  as  a  woman 
rather  than  as  a  sovereign.  It  should  never  be 
forgotten,  that  she  voluntarily  relinquished  the 
enjoyment  of  domestic  life,  where  woman's  nature 
is  most  truly  and  beautifully  displayed,  in  order 
to  devote  herself  to  the  cares  of  state  and  the  hap- 
piness of  her  people.  She  should  therefore  be 
judged  as  a  ruler ;  only  it  should  ever  be  borne 
in  mind  that  a  higher  degree  of  moral  power  ought 
to  be  found  in  the  character  of  woman,  in  what- 
ever station  she  occupies,  than  is  manifested  by 
man.  It  was  this  moral  sense  in  which  Elizabeth 
excelled  all  the  kings  of  England,  from  the  time 
of  Alfred  to  her  own  day,  that  made  her  power 
and  her  glory.  This  intuitive  wisdom  guided  her 
in  the  choice  of  able  counsellors,  and  kept  her 
true  to  the  best  interests  of  her  subjects ;  and  in- 
spired her  to  preserve  the  manners  of  her  court 
in  that  chastity  which  is  the  atmosphere  of  the 


highest  genius  as  well  as  the  purest  patriotism. 
Thus  it  was  from  her  wise  rule  that  the  English 
nation  prospered,  and,  as  an  eloquent  vn-iter  ad- 
mits— "  The  kingdom,  under  her  government,  ac- 
quired and  maintained  a  higher  and  more  influen- 
tial place  among  the  states  of  Europe,  principally 
by  policy,  than  it  had  ever  been  raised  to  by  the 
most  successful  military  exertions  of  former  ages. 
Commerce  flourished  and  made  great  advances, 
and  wealth  was  much  more  extensively  and  more 
rapidly  difi'used  among  the  body  of  the  people 
than  at  any  foi-mer  period.  It  is  the  feeling  of 
progress,  rather  than  any  degree  of  actual  attain- 
ment, that  keeps  a  nation  in  spirits  ;  and  this  feel- 
ing every  thing  conspired  to  keep  alive  in  the 
hearts  of  the  English  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth ;  even 
the  remembrance  of  the  stormy  times  of  their 
fathers,  from  which  they  had  escaped,  lending  its 
aid  to  heighten  the  charm  of  the  present  calm. 
To  these  happy  cii-cumstances  of  the  national  con- 
dition was  owing,  above  all,  and  destined  to  sur- 
vive all  their  other  products,  the  rich  native  lite- 
rature, more  especially  in  poetry  and  the  drama, 
which  now  i-ushed  up,  as  if  from  the  tillage  of  a 
virgin  soil,  covering  the  land  with  its  perennial 
fruit  and  flowers.  Spenser  and  Shakspeare,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  Kaleigh  and  Bacon,  and  many 
other  distinguished  names,  gained  their  earliest 
celebrity  in  the  Elizabethan  age." 

Elizabeth  was  herself  fond  of  learning,  and  no 
mean  scholar  in  her  attainments.  She  was  well 
skilled  in  the  Greek,  and  translated  from  that  lan- 
guage into  Latin,  a  dialogue  of  Xenophon,  two 
orations  of  Isocrates,  and  a  play  of  Euripides ; 
she  also  wi'ote  a  "  Commentary  on  Plato."  From 
the  Latin,  she  translated  Boethius'  Consolations 
of  Philosophy,  Sallust's  Jugurthian  War,  and  a 
part  of  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry.  In  the  Royal 
and  Noble  Authors  of  Lord  Orford,  may  be  found 
a  catalogue  of  translations  from  the  French, 
prayers,  meditations,  speeches  in  parliament,  and 
letters,  which  testify  sufiiciently  to  the  learning 
and  general  capacity  of  Elizabeth.  She  was  also 
skilled  in  the  art  of  poetry.  Being  pressed  by  a 
Catholic  priest,  during  the  life  of  her  sister  Mary, 
while  she  was  undergoing  great  persecution,  to 
declare  her  opinion  concerning  the  real  presence 
of  Christ  in  the  wafer,  she  answered  in  the  follow- 
ing imj)romptu : — 

"Christ  was  the  Word  that  spake  it; 
He  toolt  the  bread  aiul  brake  it; 
And  what  that  Word  did  make  it, 
That  I  believe,  and  take  it." 

When  she  was  a  prisoner  at  Woodstock,  she 
composed  the  following  verses,  and  wrote  them 
with  charcoal  on  a  shutter: — 

Oh,  Fortune!  how  thy  restlesse  wavering  state 

Hath  fraught  with  cares  my  troubled  wilt ! 
Witness  this  present  prisonn,  whither  fate 

Could  beare  me,  and  the  joys  1  quit. 
Thou  causedest  the  guiliie  to  be  losed 
From  bandes,  wherein  are  innocents  inclosed  : 
Causing  the  gniltles  to  be  straite  reserved. 
And  freeing  those  that  death  had  well  deseived 
But  by  her  envie  can  be  nothing  wroughte, 
So  God  send  to  my  foes  all  they  have  thoughle. 

Elizabeth,  Prisonek. 
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We  will  add  a  specimen  of  the  prose  of  this  great 
queen  and  learned  lady ;  namely,  a  letter,  written 
by  Elizabeth  to  her  sister,  queen  Mary.  The  ori- 
ginal is  preserved  in  the  Cottonian  Library,  and 
was  iirst  published  in  D'Israeli's  "  Curiosities  of 
Literatm-e."  The  letter,  besides  showing  the  lite- 
rary taste  of  that  age,  and  the  manner  in  which 
the  English  language  was  then  written,  also  dis- 
plays the  subjection  in  which  Elizabeth  was  then 
compelled  to  keep  her  haughty  spirit.  D'Israeli 
remarks  on  this  letter :  —  "  She  was,  at  the  time 
of  its  composition,  in  habitual  intercourse  with 
the  most  excellent  winters  of  antiquity ;  her  letter 
displays  this  in  every  part  of  it;  it  is  polished  and 
i-epolished." 

LETTER. 

Like  as  the  riche  man  that  dayly  gathereth 
riches  to  riches,  and  to  one  bag  of  money  layeth 
a  greate  sort  til  it  come  to  infinit,  so  me  thinkes, 
your  Majestic  not  beinge  suffised  with  many  bene- 
fits and  gentilnes  shewed  to  me  afore  this  time, 
dothe  now  increase  them  in  askinge  and  desiring 
wher  you  may  bid  and  coiiiaunde,  requiring  a 
thinge  not  worthy  the  desiringe  for  it  selfe,  but 
made  worthy  for  your  highness  request.  My  pic- 
tur  I  mene,  in  wiche  if  the  inward  good  myude 
towarde  your  grace  might  as  wel  be  declared  as 
the  outwarde  face  and  countenance  shal  be  seen, 
I  wold  nor  haue  taried  the  comandement  but  pre- 
vent it,  nor  haue  bine  the  last  to  graunt  but  the 
first  to  offer  it.  For  the  face,  I  graunt,  I  might 
wel  blusche  to  offer,  but  the  mynde  I  shall  neur 
be  ashamed  to  present.  For  thogth  from  the 
grace  of  the  pictur,  the  coulers  may  fade  by  time, 
may  giue  by  wether,  may  be  spotted  by  chance, 
yet  the  other  nor  time  with  her  swift  winges  shall 
ouertake,  nor  the  mistie  cloudes  with  their  lower- 
inges  may  darken,  nor  chance  with  her  slipery 
fote  may  overthrow.  Of  this  althogth  yet  the 
profe  could  not  be  greate  because  the  occasions 
hathe  bine  but  smal,  notwithstandinge  as  a  dog 
hathe  a  day,  so  may  I  perchaunce  haue  time  to 
declare  it  in  dides  wher  now  I  do  write  them  but 
in  wordes.  And  further  I  shal  most  humbly  be- 
seche  your  Maiestie  that  whan  you  shal  loke  on 
my  pictur  you  wil  witsafe  to  thinke  that  as  you 
haue  but  the  outwarde  shadow  of  the  body  afore 
you,  so  my  inward  minde  wischeth,  that  the  body 
it  selfe  wer  oftener  in  your  presence ;  howbeit 
bicause  bothe  my  so  beinge  I  thinke  coulde  do 
your  Maiestie  litel  pleasure  thogth  my  selfe  great 
good,  and  againe  bicause  I  se  as  yet  not  the  time 
agreing  theruto,  I  shal  lerne  to  folow  this  sainge 
of  Orace,  Feras  non  culpes  quod  vitari  non  potest. 
And  thus  I  wil  (troblinge  your  Maiestie  I  fere) 
ende  with  my  most  humble  thankes,  besechinge 
God  longe  to  preserue  you  to  his  honour,  to  your 
cofort,  to  the  realmes  profit,  and  to  my  joy.  From 
Hatfilde  this  1  day  of  May. 

Your  Maiesties  most  humbly  Sister 
and  Seruante. 

Elizabeth. 

Eut  more  to  be  praised  than  her  poetry,  is  the 
encouragement  she  gave  to  the  design  of  printing 
in  English  the  large  folio  edition  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  known  as  "The  Bishop's  Bible."    This 


was  the  best  translation  of  the  sacred  book  which 
had  then  appeared.  It  was  jirinted  in  1568,  and 
the  version,  made  by  order  of  king  James  I.,  differs 
little  from  the  Bible  used  by  Elizabeth. 

That  she  did  not  conform  her  own  spirit  to  the 
Gospel  requirements,  but  allowed  pride,  vanity,  a 
violent  temper,  and  selfishness,  frequently  to  ob- 
scure her  many  great  qualities,  is  to  be  regretted ; 
but,  compared  with  the  kings  her  successors,  she 
rises  so  high  above  their  standard  of  character, 
that  we  almost  forget  to  record  her  faults.  To 
quote  the  remarks  of  a  learned  historian,  —  "  The 
page  of  history  has  seldom  to  record  a  reign  more 
honourable  to  the  intellect  and  capacity  of  the 
person  presiding  over  it,  than  that  of  Elizabeth 
of  England." 

ELIZABETH   OF   FRANCE, 

Daughter  of  Henry  II.  and  of  Catharine  de 
Medicis,  was  born  at  Fontainebleau,  in  1545.  She 
was  the  destined  wife  of  Edward  VI.  of  England ; 
but  the  marriage  was  prevented  by  his  premature 
death.  Elizabeth  was  then  betrothed  to  Don 
Carlos,  Infant  of  Spain ;  and  though  they  were 
mutually  attached  to  each  other,  she  was  com- 
pelled, in  spite  of  her  repugnance,  to  marry  his 
father,  Philip  II.,  who  became  a  widower  by  the 
death  of  his  wife  Mary.  Don  Carlos  never  forgave 
this  injury ;  and  having  expressed  his  sentiments 
too  freely,  was  murdered,  probably  by  the  com- 
mand of  his  father,  who  was  jealous  of  him.  Eli- 
zabeth was  deeply  affected  by  the  fate  of  Don 
Carlos ;  she  died,  in  child-bed,  ten  weeks  after 
him,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two.  She  left  two 
daughters. 

ELIZABETH   OF   AUSTRIA, 

Daughter  of  the  cmi^eror  jMaximilian  II.,  and 
wife  of  Charles  IX.,  king  of  France,  was  married 
at  M^zieres,  Nov.  26th,  1570.  She  was  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  women  of  her  time  ;  but  her  virtue 
even  surpassed  her  beauty.  The  jealousy  of  the 
queen-mother,  Catharine  de  Medicis,  and  the  in- 
fluence she  possessed  over  the  mind  of  her  son, 
prevented  Elizabeth  from  having  any  share  in  the 
events  that  occurred  in  the  tumultuous  reign  of 
Charles  IX. 

The  deplorable  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew 
affected  her  extremely ;  though  she  was  not  in- 
formed of  it  till  the  morning,  lest  her  opposition 
should  influence  the  king. 

She  was  gentle  and  patient,  and  devoted  herself 
entirely  to  domestic  concerns.  Warmly  attached 
to  the  king,  during  his  illness,  slie  spent  all  the 
time,  when  she  was  not  attending  on  him,  in 
prayers  for  his  recovery.  Thus  she  always  pre- 
served his  affection  and  esteem ;  and  he  often  said, 
that  he  might  boast  of  having  the  most  discreet 
and  virtuous  wife,  not  only  in  all  France,  or  in  all 
Europe,  but  in  the  whole  world. 

Elizabeth  wrote  two  books:  one  "On  the  AVord 
of  God  ;"  the  other,  "On  the  principal  events  that 
happened  during  her  residence  in  France."  After 
the  death  of  the  king,  her  husband,  she  retired  to 
Vienna,  where  she  died,  in  1592,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-eight,  in  a  convent  of  her  own  foundation. 

302 


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ELIZABETH,  CHARLOTJE, 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  only  daughter  of  the  elec- 
tor Charles  Louis,  of  the  Palatinate,  was  born  at 
Heidelberg  in  1652.  She  was  a  princess  of  dis- 
tinguished talents  and  character,  and  lived  half 
a  century  in  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  without 
changing  her  German  habits  for  French  manners. 
Educated  with  the  greatest  care,  at  the  court 
of  her  aunt,  afterwards  the  electoress  Sophia  of 
Hanover,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  she  married 
duke  Philip  of  Orleans,  from  reasons  of  state  po- 
licy. She  was  without  personal  charms,  but  her 
understanding  was  strong,  and  her  character  un- 
affected ;  and  she  was  characterized  by  liveliness 
and  wit.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  she  exercised 
no  more  influence  on  the  education  of  her  chikken. 
Her  second  son  was  afterwards  known  as  regent. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  was  lier  implacable  enemy ; 
but  Louis  XIV.  was  attracted  by  her  integrity  and 
frankness,  her  vivacity  and  wit.  She  often  attend- 
ed him  to  the  chase.  She  preserved  the  highest 
respect  for  the  literary  men  of  Germany,  particu- 
lai-ly  for  Leibnitz,  whose  correspondence  with  the 
French  literati  she  promoted.  She  died  at  St. 
Cloud  in  1722.  She  has  described  herself  and  her 
situation  with  a  natural  humour,  perfectly  original, 
in  her  German  letters,  which  form  an  interesting 
addition  to  the  accounts  of  the  court  of  Louis  XIV. 
The  most  valuable  of  her  letters  are  contained  in 
the  "  Life  and  Character  of  the  Duchess  Elizabeth 
Charlotte  of  Orleans,"  by  Professor  Schutz,  Leip- 
sic,  1820. 

ELIZABETH,  PHILIPPINE  MARIE  HELENE, 
OF  FRANCE,  MADAME, 

Sister  of  Louis  XVI.,  was  born  at  Versailles, 
May  23d,  17G4,  and  perished  by  the  guillotine. 
May  10th,  1794.  She  was  the  youngest  child  of 
the  dauphin  Louis  and  his  second  wife,  Josephine 
of  Saxony,  who  died  when  Elizabeth  was  but  three 
years  old.  She  received  an  excellent  education, 
and  her  acquirements  were  considerable.  Her 
proposed  union  with  the  duke  of  Aosta,  Infant  of 
Spain,  second  son  of  the  king  of  the  Two  Sicilies, 
was  never  concluded.  When  the  private  establish- 
ment of  Elizabeth  was  fixed,  she  received  25,000 
francs  annually  for  the  purchase  of  diamonds  ;  but 
she  requested  that  tliis  sum  should  be  paid  for  six 
years  to  a  young  favourite,  whose  poverty  prevent- 
ed her  marriage.  The  revolution  destroyed  her 
happiness ;  but,  during  all  its  scenes  of  terror, 
she  devoted  herself  to  her  brother  the  king  and 
his  family.  She  attended  him  everywhere,  and 
often  inspired  him  with  firmness.  When  mistaken 
for  the  queen,  .June  20th,  1792,  tlie  cry  was  raised, 
"Down  with  the  Austrian  woman!"  and  the  mob 
were  about  to  kill  her.  An  officer  of  the  guard 
corrected  the  mistake,  when  she  said  calmly,  "  Why 
undeceive  them  ?  You  might  have  spared  them  a 
greater  ci'ime." 

She  was  confined  with  the  royal  family  in  the 
Temple,  where  she  devoted  herself  to  her  fellow- 
prisoners.  On  the  evening  of  May  9th,  1794,  Eli- 
zabeth was  led  from  the  Temple  to  the  Conciergerie, 
and  tried  for  carrying  on  a  correspondence  with 


her  brother.  When  asked  her  name  and  rank 
before  the  revolutionary  tribunal.  May  10th,  she 
replied  with  dignity,  "I  am  Elizabeth  of  France, 
the  aunt  of  yom-  king."  This  bold  answer  filled 
the  judges  with  astonishment.  Twenty-four  others 
were  sentenced  with  her,  and  she  had  to  witness 
the  execution  of  them  all.  She  met  death  calmly, 
without  uttering  a  single  complaint  against  her 
judges. 

Though  not  beautiful,  Elizabeth  was  very  at- 
tractive and  lovely.  She  was  modest  and  timid  in 
prosperity,  but  calm  and  courageous  in  adversity. 
Her  character  was  spotless. 

ELIZABETH  CHRISTINA, 
Wife  of  Frederic  II.  of  Prussia,  princess  of 
Brunswick-Wolfenbiittel,  was  born  in  1715,  at 
Brunswick;  married  in  1733;  and  died  in  1797. 
Being  compelled  to  this  marriage,  Frederic  lived 
separate  from  her  during  his  whole  life.  But  on 
his  ascending  the  throne  in  1740,  he  gave  her 
proofs  of  his  esteem,  and  on  his  death  ordered 
her  revenue  of  40,000  crowns  to  be  increased  to 
50,000;  "for,"  said  he,  "  during  my  whole  reign 
she  has  never  given  me  the  slightest  cause  of  dis- 
satisfaction." Half  of  her  income  she  appropriated 
to  benevolent  purposes.  She  translated  several 
German  works  into  French  ;  and  wrote  in  French, 
"  La  Sage  Revolution ;"  "  Meditation  a  I'Occasion 
du  Renouvellement  de  I'Annee,  sur  les  Soins  que 
le  Providence  a  pour  les  Humains,  &c. ;"  "  Re- 
flexions pourtous  les  Jours  de  la  Semaine ;"  "  Re- 
flexions sur  I'Etat  des  Aff"airs,  publiques  en  1778, 
addresses  aux  Pcrsonnes  craentives." 

ELIZA b'eTH  PETROWNA, 

The  second  daughter  of  czar  Peter  the  Great, 
was  placed  on  the  throne  of  Russia  by  the  revolu- 
tion of  1741.  She  was  born  in  1709,  and  was 
extremely  beautiful.  This,  as  well  as  her  exalted 
rank  and  large  dowry,  occasioned  her  several 
off'ers ;  but  she  refused  them  all,  and  died  unmar- 
ried. During  the  life  of  her  father,  Peter  I.,  ne- 
gotiations commenced  for  her  marriage  with  Louis 
XV.,  but  were  not  adopted  by  the  court  of  France. 
By  the  will  of  Catharine,  Elizabeth  was  betrothed 
to  Charles  Augustus,  bishop  of  Lubec,  duke  of 
Sleswick  and  Holstein,  and  brother  to  the  king  of 
Sweden ;  but  he  died  before  the  completion  of  the 
ceremonj'.  In  the  reign  of  Peter  II.  she  was  de- 
manded by  Charles,  margrave  of  Anspach ;  in 
1741,  by  tlie  Persian  tyrant  Kouli  Khan;  and,  at 
the  time  of  the  revolution,  the  regent  Ann  endea- 
voured to  force  her  to  espouse  prince  Louis  of 
Brunswick,  for  whom  she  had  a  settled  aversion. 
From  the  period  of  her  accession  she  renounced 
all  thoughts  of  marriage,  and  adopted  her  nephew 
Peter.  Her  dislike  to  marriage  did  not  proceed 
from  any  aversion  to  the  other  sex ;  for  she  would 
frequently  own  that  she  was  never  happy  but  when 
she  was  in  love.  The  same  warmth  of  temper 
carried  her  to  extremes  of  devotion  ;  and  she  was 
scrupulously  exact  in  her  annual  confessions,  ex- 
pressed the  utmost  contrition  for  her  numerous 
transgressions,  and  adhered  to  the  minutest  cere- 
monies and  ordinances  of  the  church. 

303 


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She  is  generally  styled  the  humane  Elizabeth, 
as  she  made  a  vow  upon  her  accession  to  inflict 
no  capital  punishments  during  her  reign ;  and  is 
reported  to  have  shed  tears  upon  the  news  of  every 
victory  gained  by  her  troops,  from  the  reflection 
that  it  could  not  have  been  obtained  without  great 
bloodshed.  But,  although  no  criminal  was  for- 
mally executed  in  public,  yet  the  state  prisons 
were  filled  with  wretched  sufi"erers,  many  of  whom, 
unheard  of  and  unknown,  perished  in  damp  and 
unwholesome  dungeons.  The  state  inquisition,  or 
secret  committee,  appointed  to  judge  persons  sus- 
pected of  high  treason,  had  constant  occupation 
during  her  reign  ;  many  on  the  slightest  suspicion 
were  secretly  tortured,  and  many  expired  under 
the  knout.  But  the  transaction  that  reflects  the 
deepest  disgrace  on  her  reign  was  the  public 
punishment  of  two  ladies  of  rank,  the  countesses 
Bestuchef  and  Sapookin,  who  each  received  fifty 
strokes  of  the  knout  in  the  open  square  of  St.  Pe- 
tersburg ;  their  tongues  were  then  cut  out,  and 
they  were  banished  to  Siberia.  Madame  Sapookin, 
who  was  thought  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Russia,  was  accused  of  carrying  on  a  secret  cor- 
respondence with  the  French  ambassador  ;  but  her 
real  crime  was,  her  having  commented  too  freely 
on  the  amours  of  the  empress. 

Elizabeth  died  on  the  25th  of  December,  1761, 
in  the  twenty-first  year  of  her  reign,  and  the  53d 
of  her  age. 

During  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  Ivan,  grandson 
of  Peter  the  Great,  and  rightful  heir  to  the  throne 
of  Russia,  was  kept  by  her  in  strict  confinement. 

ELSTOB,  ELIZABETH, 
Sister  of  William  Elstob,  and  famous  for  her 
skill  in  the  Saxon  language,  was  born  in  1683. 
Her  mother,  to  whom  she  owed  the  rudiments  of 
her  extraordinary  education,  dying  when  she  was 
but  eight  years  old,  her  guardians  discouraged 
her  progress  in  literature,  as  improper  for  her 
sex ;  and,  after  her  brother's  death,  she  met  with 
so  little  patronage,  that  she  retired  to  Evesham, 
in  AVorcestershire,  where  she  with  difiBculty  sub- 
sisted by  keeping  a  small  school. 

Three  lettei-s  of  hers  to  the  lord  treasurer  of 
Oxford  are  extant  among  the  Harleian  MSS.,  from 
which  it  appears  that  he  obtained  for  her  the 
queen's  bounty  towards  printing  the  Saxon  homi- 
lies ;  but,  after  the  death  of  this  queen,  (Caroline, 
wife  of  George  II.,)  she  was  so  low  in  her  finances, 
as  to  be  forced,  though  a  mistress  of  nine  lan- 
guages, to  become  a  governess.  For  this  pui'pose 
she  was  taken  into  the  family  of  the  duchess-dow- 
ager of  Portland,  in  1739;  and  continued  there 
till  she  died.  May  30th,  1756. 

The  homily  of  "  St.  Gregory's  Day,"  published 
by  her  brother,  has  her  English  translation,  be- 
sides his  Latin  one.  She  appears  to  have  written 
the  preface  too,  in  which  she  answers  the  objec- 
tions made  to  women's  learning,  by  producing 
"  that  glory  of  her  sex,"  as  she  calls  her,  Mrs. 
Anna  Maria  a  Shurman.  In  1715  she  published 
a  "Saxon  Grammar."  Had  her  talents  been 
kindly  encouraged,  she  would,  probably,  have 
equalled  Madame  Dacier. 


ENGLISH,    HESTER, 

A  Frenchwoman  by  extraction,  was  eminent 
for  her  fine  chirogi-aphy  in  the  time  of  Queen  Eli- 
zabeth and  .James  I.  Many  of  her  pei'formances 
are  still  extant,  both  in  public  libraries  and  in  the 
hands  of  individuals.  She  was  thought  the  most 
exquisite  sci-ibe  of  her  age.  She  married,  at  the 
age  of  forty,  Mr.  Bartholomew  Kello,  a  North 
Briton,  and  had  a  son,  who  was  educated  at  Ox- 
ford, and  was  minister  of  Speckshall,  in  Sufi'olk. 

ENNETIERES,    MARIE   D', 
A  LEARNED  lady  of  Tournay,  who  wrote  many 
works,  particularly  an  epistle  against  Turks,  Jews, 
Lutherans,  &c.,  printed  in  1539. 

EPINAY,   LOUISE   D', 

Celebrated  for  her  connexion  with  Rousseau, 
was  the  daughter  of  M.  Sardieu  Desclavelles,  who 
lost  his  life  in  Flanders,  in  the  service  of  Louis 
XV.,  and  left  his  family  in  moderate  circum- 
stances. She  married  M.  Delalive  de  Bellegarde, 
who  received  the  ofiice  of  farmer-general.  The 
extravagance  of  M.  Delalive  soon  disturbed  their 
happiness,  and  his  indiS'erence  to  the  conduct  of 
his  wife,  was  equalled  by  his  own  dissolute  life, 
and  no  doubt  influenced  hers.  She  gathered 
around  her  a  distinguished  circle,  which  though 
neither  brilliant  nor  renowned,  was  free  and  natu- 
ral. Here  the  man  of  learning  consented  to  doflf 
his  philosophical  armour,  through  which  posterity 
has  found  it  so  difiicult  to  discern  his  real  fea- 
tures ;  and  here,  authors,  artists,  and  men  and 
women  of  the  world,  met  without  restraint.  Pos- 
sessed of  judgment  and  penetration,  Madame 
d'Epinay  had  neither  originality  nor  imagination. 
Her  mind  was  of  that  plastic  order  which  led  her 
to  yield  to  the  opinions  of  those  in  whose  intimacy 
she  lived ;  and  she  never  attempted  to  exercise 
over  her  circle,  a  control  for  which  her  good  sense 
told  her  she  was  little  adapted.  Hume,  Diderot, 
D'Holbach,  and  Grimm,  were  habitues  of  her  so- 
ciety. It  is  to  her  connexion  with  Rousseau, 
however,  that  she  owes  the  interest  attached  to 
her  name,  and  the  attention  she  excited  in  her 
own  time.  The  details  of  their  intimacy  and 
quarrel  for  some  time  occupied  all  Paris.  Ma- 
dame d'Epinay  was  constantly  engaged  in  some 
literary  labour.  In  1783,  she  wrote  "Les  Con- 
versations d'Emilie,"  which  obtained  the  prize 
offered  by  Monthieu  for  useful  works  of  that  kind, 
in  preference  to  the  "  Adele  et  Theodore"  of  Ma- 
dame de  Genlis.  She  also  wrote  "  Lettres  a  mon 
Fils,"  and  "  Mes  Moments  Heureux."  An  abridg- 
ment of  her  letters  and  correspondence,  showing 
her  relations  with  Duclos,  Rousseau,  Grimm,  Hol- 
bach,  Lambert,  &c.,  appeared  in  Paris,  in  1818. 
Madame  d'Epinay  died  in  1783. 

ERAUSO,    CATALINA   DE, 

The  Monja  Alferez,  or  Nun-Lieutenant.  More 
famous  women  have  lived  than  this,  but  a  more 
extraordinary  one  has  never  been  recorded.  Her 
career  was  one  of  singular  adventure,  of  wild  pas- 
sions, of  unsparing  cruelty,  of  heroic  bravery ;  the 

30i 


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EB 


few  virtues  which  palliate  her  vices  and  savage 
conduct  are  such  as  are  found  to  vindicate  the 
dormant  element  in  the  breasts  of  brigands  and 
pirates.  And  it  is  not  the  least  singular  circum- 
stance connected  with  such  a  histoi'v,  that  it  has 
been  written  down,  detailed,  and  powerfully  de- 
scribed by  the  heroine  herself,  in  a  style  wonder- 
fully vigorous,  clear,  and  in  pure  and  classic 
Spanish. 


She  was  born  in  the  city  of  Sebastian,  in  1585, 
daughter  of  Don  Miguel  de  Erauso.  At  that  pe- 
riod, when  families  were  numerous  it  was  the 
custom  to  dispose  of  the  girls  by  putting  them  into 
the  church.  Such  was  the  destiny  of  Donna  Cata- 
lina.  At  the  age  of  four  years  she  was  sent  to  her 
aunt,  prioress  of  a  convent  of  Dominicans.  She 
remained  there  till  the  age  of  fifteen.  Rebellious 
fancies  had  frequently  arisen  in  her  mind :  she 
had  entered  her  noviciate,  and  as  the  fatal  day  for 
her  profession  approached,  her  desire  for  liberty 
increased.  Being  sent  one  day  by  her  aunt  into 
the  parlour  of  that  lady  for  a  book,  she  saw  the 
keys  of  the  convent  hanging  on  a  nail.  In  one 
moment  her  resolution  was  taken  ;  the  nuns  were 
all  assembled  in  the  choir  for  the  matin  service ; 
she  begged  permission  to  go  to  bed,  complaining 
of  indisposition ;  this  was  granted  her.  We  give 
the  sequel  in  her  own  words  : 

"  I  went  out  of  the  choir,  took  a  light,  went  to 
the  cell  of  my  aunt,  took  scissors,  needle  and 
thread,  and  a  little  money.  I  went  out  of  the 
convent ;  I  found  myself  in  the  street,  without 
knowing  where  to  go ;  that  was  no  matter ;  all  I 
wanted  was  liberty.  I  ran  without  stopping,  till 
I  reached  a  grove  of  chestnuts." 

Such  was  her  escape.  She  remained  in  that 
wood  three  daj-s,  subsisting  on  roots  and  wild 
fruits.  She  made  herself  male  garments  out  of 
her  petticoats,  cut  her  hair,  and  started  forth  in 
the  character  of  man.  After  going  through  va- 
rious scenes  in  Spain ;  meeting  her  own  father  in 
search  of  her;  acting  as  page,  clerk,  servant  — 
always  adroit,  always  able  to  serve  herself  with 
expedients — she  joined  an  expedition  to  the  New 
\V'orld.  There  she  ent(>rcd  the  army,  and  distiu- 
U 


guished  herself  by  the  most  daring  actions.  She 
adopted  different  names,  at  different  periods ;  but 
the  most  noted  one,  that  which  she  bore  after 
being  made  lieutenant,  was  Alonzo  Dias.  She 
gained  several  battles.  It  seems  that  her  sense 
and  judgment  in  council  were  not  inferior  to  her 
redoubtable  prowess  in  the  field.  In  the  intervals 
of  her  military  duty,  she  connected  herself  with 
the  most  desperate  and  vicious  beings  to  be  met 
with.  Gambling,  stabbing,  robbing,  were  her 
pastimes.  A  curious  caprice,  which  she  diverted 
herself  with  not  unfrequently,  was  to  gain  the  af- 
fection of  some  young  lady,  by  every  art  and  assi- 
duity, and  when  all  was  ready  for  the  marriage, 
to  disappear.  It  would  be  impossible,  in  this 
sketch,  to  detail  her  numerous  homicides  and 
fierce  anger ;  but  one  may  be  alluded  to  from  it.s 
Qonsequences.  Becoming  enraged,  at  a  gambling- 
house,  with  a  man  of  consequence,  of  Chili,  she 
attacked  him,  and  savagely  killed  him.  She  was 
obliged  to  takethe  refuge  of  a  sanctuary  ;  but  as 
the  friends  of  the  mui-dered  person  were  of  rank 
and  power,  her  retreat  was  carefully  guarded,  and 
after  remaining  there  eight  months,  she  felt  the 
necessity  of  escaping  into  another  government. 
The  only  way  to  effect  this  was  by  traversing  the 
icy  deserts  of  the  Andes.  "  In  this  attempt  I  may 
find  death,"  said  she  ;  "  by  remaining  here  I  shall 
certainly  find  it."  At  the  outset  she  met  three 
outlaws,  who,  like  herself,  were  fugitives  from 
justice.  These  banded  themselves  by  necessity  : 
fatigue  and  hunger  were  their  first  difficulties. 
Successively  they  killed  their  horses,  when  all 
other  food  was  spent;  but  soon  advancing  into 
higher  regions  of  the  mountain,  the  cold  became 
intense  and  biting.  Still  Catalina  cheered  on  her 
companions,  infused  her  own  courage,  and  sus- 
tained their  efforts  to  drag  on,  when  one  of  them 
uttered  a  cheerful  cry  —  help,  aid  dawned  !  Two 
men  were  standing  at  a  little  distance ;  the  wretched 
creature  tried  to  spring  forward ;  he  fell  on  a  heap 
of  snow.  Catalina  followed  his  indication  ;  alas  I 
horror  and  misery — the  two  men  were  unfortunate 
beings,  dead,  frozen  stiff,  with  a  ghastly  look  of 
anguish  stamped  on  their  frightful  faces !  Even 
Catalina  was  for  an  instant  daunted.  She  turned 
to  the  man  who  had  first  seen  them — he  was  dead  ! 
She  felt  it  was  no  time  to  pause,  but  urging  on 
her  remaining  companions,  sought  a  new  impetus 
for  exertion  in  her  very  despaii-.  The  cold  became 
more  and  more  bitter;  still  she  stopped  not.  She 
saw  her  companions  sink,  one  by  one ;  she  had  no 
time  to  mourn  them  —  recommending  herself  t<> 
the  Virgin,  she  went  on.  The  temperature  be- 
came milder;  at  last  she  reached  Tucuman,  where 
she  met  with  the  utmost  kindness  and  hospitality. 
She  soon  resumed  her  wild  military  life,  always 
involving  herself  in  quai-rels. 

On  one  occasion  she  was  condemned  to  be  hung, 
and  actually  taken  to  the  gallows.  Even  there 
no  feminine  tremors  discomposed  her  firmness. 
The  executioner  was  awkward  in  placing  the  cord. 

"Put  it  on  right,  or  let  me  alone,"  said  slie ; 
"  this  priest  will  do  it  a  great  deal  better  tha; 
you  I" 

A  pardon    arrived   in    the   mean   time ;  for  lier 

805 


ER 


ES 


gallant  actions  in  battle,  and  real  services,  pro- 
cured for  her  many  protectors.  She  traversed 
every  part  of  the  Spanish  countries,  and  acquitted 
herself  in  the  most  able  manner  of  the  duties  of  a 
sailor,  soldier,  and  even  lawyer ;  in  every  field  for 
enterprise  she  appeared,  and  always  in  a  distin- 
guished manner;  but  all  her  merits  as  an  able 
man  were  tarnished  by  a  mad  love  for  rapine, 
cruelty,  gaming,  and  every  vice  save  one,  to  which 
the  soldiers  of  that  epoch  and  country  abandoned 
themselves.  It  is  to  be  observed  that  she  had 
carefully  guarded  the  knowledge  of  her  sex  from 
everybody  until  an  exigency  occurred,  when  she 
disclosed  her  real  condition.  Her  many  deeds  of 
violence  provoked  pursuit,  and  at  last  she  was 
once  more  reduced  to  take  refuge  in  a  church  at 
Guamango,  in  Peru ;  the  bishop,  a  saintly  person, 
considered  it  his  duty  to  exhort  the  criminal ;  his 
tender  and  seai'ching  admonitions  had  their  eifect 
on  the  iron-hearted  lieutenant.  She  sank  on  her 
knees,  and  said,  "  Father,  I  am  a  woman !"  Then 
followed  a  complete  confession. 

The  bishop  was  excited  by  this  strange  story ; 
he  pitied  the  unfortunate  young  woman,  only 
thirty-five  years  of  age,  who,  by  a  dark  fatality, 
had  incurred  such  reprobation ;  he  thought  he 
perceived  signs  of  compunction;  these  he  fostered, 
and  being  encouraged  by  the  result,  obtained  her 
pardon,  and  even  a  permission  to  return  to  Spain, 
without  dread  of  ecclesiastic  punishment.  One 
cause  of  hope  for  her  remained,  she  had  preserved 
her  chastity ;  and  thus,  though  stained  with  many 
crimes,  she  was  not  abandoned  to  vice.  Her  will 
was  strong,  and  her  passions  often  violent ;  but 
she  was  not  sensual  or  selfish.  Had  she  been  pro- 
perly educated,  and  allowed  to  live  in  society,  she 
would  probably  have  proved  a  woman  of  superior 
powers  of  mind,  and  been  active  in  good  works  as 
she  -was  in  evil,  when  driven  to  abandon  her  coun- 
try and  put  off  the  semblance  of  her  own  sex. 

Donna  Catalina  set  sail  and  arrived  at  Cadiz  in 
1624.  Already  her  fame  had  preceded  her,  and 
during  her  travels  through  Spain  and  Italy  she  was 
looked  upon  as  an  object  of  curiosity.  The  pope, 
Urban  VIII.,  gave  her  permission  to  retain  for  life 
her  male  attire.  The  period  of  her  death  is  un- 
known; but  some  documents  which  have  been 
preserved  in  a  convent  at  Vera  Cruz  testify  that 
she  devoted  the  remainder  of  her  life  to  commerce, 
under  the  name  of  Antonio  de  Erauso.  The  cele- 
brated Spanish  painter,  Pacheco,  took  her  portrait 
from  life,  when  she  was  at  Seville.  From  the 
original,  still  preserved,  is  taken  the  print  affixed 
to  this  sketch. 

ERDMUTHE,   SOPHIA,   MARGRAVINE, 

■Of  Baireuth,  was  born  February  15th,  1G44. 
True  devotional  feelings  animated  her  mind  al- 
ready when  quite  a  child,  and  these  were  guided 
by  an  intellect  which  belonged  only  to  riper  years. 
When  she  was  in  her  tenth  year  she  wrote  a  series 
of  poetical  and  prose  papers,  and  a  volume  to 
which  she  gave  the  title  of  "  Christian  Closet  for 
the  Heart."  Her  teacher,  the  celebrated  Dr. 
Weber,  discovered  them  accidentally  in  her  desk, 
and  was  so  much  struck  with   their  beauty  and 


pious  tendency,  that  he  prevailed  upon  her  parents 
to  have  them  published ;  and  he  accompanied  them 
with  a  preface.  Many  of  the  hymns  which  she 
wrote  at  that  age  are  still  incorporated  in  the 
German  books,  though  few  know  at  the  present 
time  that  they  were  composed  by  so  young  a  child. 
In  1662,  on  the  19th  of  October,  she  married  the 
margrave  Christian  Ernst  of  Baireuth,  to  whom 
she  became  a  loving  wife  and  able  coadjutor  in 
deeds  of  charity  and  piety  ;  but  she  would  never 
consent  to  take  part  in  his  government  affairs. 
She  established  the  first  Magdalene  house  of  re- 
fuge in  that  part  of  Germany.  Much  of  her  time 
was  devoted  to  writing.  One  of  her  best  works 
was  published  in  1666,  "  A  Treatise  on  the  Age  of 
the  AVorld,  and  a  Consideration  of  the  States  of  the 
Roman  Empire  and  their  Condition."  It  is  replete 
with  theological,  geographical,  historical,  and  ge- 
nealogical information.  She  died  in  the  year  1670, 
on  the  12th  of  June,  and  was  buried  in  the  court 
chapel  which  she  had  just  caused  to  be  built. 

ERNECOURT,  BARBARA  OF, 
Better  known  as  the  Lady  of  St.  Balmont,  a 
second  Joan  of  Arc,  was  born  in  the  year  1609, 
at  the  castle  of  Newville,  between  Bar  and  Verdun. 
From  the  earliest  childhood  she  trained  herself  to 
the  use  of  arms,  and  in  all  knightly  accomplish- 
ments. She  married,  when  quite  young,  the  lord 
of  Balmont,  who  met  and  fell  in  love  with  her 
while  hunting,  and  whom  she  frequently  accom- 
panied in  the  chase.  During  the  "  thirty  years' 
war"  in  Germany,  she  always  took  command  of 
her  husband's  castle,  while  he  accompanied  the 
duke  of  Lothrengein  to  the  field.  This  brave 
woman  repulsed  the  enemy  frequently,  and  on 
several  occasions  made  sorties  and  succeeded  in 
capturing  both  men  and  baggage.  AVhen  peace 
was  restored,  she  laid  aside  the  sword  and  took 
up  the  pen,  which  she  wielded  with  equal  skill. 
Her  first  work,  "  Les  Jumeaux  Martyrs,"  was 
published  in  1651 ;  several  other  works,  of  consi- 
derable merit,  appeared  afterwards.  The  death 
of  her  husband,  to  whom  she  was  tenderly  at- 
tached, made  her  resolve  to  retire  from  the  world, 
and  she  entered  a  nunnery;  but  died,  before  taking 
the  veil.  May  22d,  1660,  aged  fifty-one. 

ESCOBAR,    MARINE   D', 

The  foundress  of  the  "  Reconciliation  of  St. 
Bridget,"  in  Spain.     She  died  in  1633. 

ESSARS,    CHARLOTTE   DES, 

Countess  of  Romorentin,  and  daughter  of  lieu- 
tenant-general des  Essars  in  Champagne,  was  a 
woman  of  great  beauty.  She  was  introduced,  in 
1590,  to  Henry  IV.  of  France,  by  whom  she  had 
two  children,  afterwards  legitimated.  She  next 
lived  with  Louis  de  Lorraine,  cardinal  de  Guise, 
by  whom  she  had  a  son  called  the  chevalier  de 
Romorentin ;  and  she  married,  in  1630,  marshal 
de  rilopital.  Her  wishes  to  advance  her  son  Ro- 
morentin by  her  intrigues  proved  fatal  to  her,  as 
she  fell  under  the  resentment  of  the  king  and 
Richelieu,  by  whom  she  was  thrown  into  prison, 
where  she  died  in  1651. 

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ESTAMPES,    ANNE,    OF    PISSELEU, 
DUCHESS   OF, 

Was  a  beautiful  woman,  daugbter  of  de  Hcrfeli. 
Sbe  accompanied,  as  maid  of  honoui-,  Louise  of 
Savoy,  wbeu  sbe  went,  in  1526-,  to  meet  ber  son 
Francis  I.  of  France,  at  Madrid ;  wbo  no  sooner 
saw  ber  tban  be  loved  ber.  lie  attempted  to  cover 
ber  dislionour  by  marrying  ber  to  one  of  bis  fol- 
lowers, wbom  be  created  duke  d'Estampes.  In 
tbe  last  years  of  Francis,  tbe  ducbess,  to  counter- 
act tbe  views  of  the  daupliin  and  his  mistress, 
Diana  of  Poictiers,  entered  into  correspondence 
with  Charles  V.,  emperor  of  Germany;  and  by 
her  perfidious  communications,  enabled  him  to 
surprise  and  take  Epernay  and  Chateau-Lierri, 
where  tbe  magazines  of  the  French  were  deposited. 
Francis  confided  entirely  in  ber,  and  sbe  sent  con- 
stant information  to  Charles,  so  that  the  ruin  of 
tbe  kingdom  seemed  inevitable ;  but  the  quarrel 
that  arose  between  Charles  V.  and  Heni-y  VIII. 
of  England  saved  France.  After  tbe  death  of 
Francis,  the  favourite  retired  to  her  country-seat, 
.and  was  screened  from  the  prosecution  of  her  bus- 
band,  wbo  wished  to  punish  her  for  adultery,  by 
tbe  interference  of  the  reigning  monarch.  She 
died  a  protestant. 


ESTE,    ELEONORA   D', 

Was  descended  from  the  most  illustrious  of  Ita- 
lian princely  races — that  of  the  sovereigns  of  Este, 
Modena,  and  Reggio.  She  was  daughter  of  Her- 
cules II.,  marquis  of  Este,  and  Ren^e,  daughter  of 
Louis  XII.,  king  of  France,  and  was  born  in  1537. 
Endowed  by  fortune  with  an  exalted  station,  by 
nature  with  extraordinary  beauty,  fine  taste  and 
intellect,  Eleonora  drew  the  admiration  of  all,  and 
seemed  destined  to  a  life  whose  tissue  was  woven 
in  golden  threads ;  but  these  very  qualities,  while 
they  added  lustre  to  ber  station,  led  to  a  true 
romance,  tbe  melancholy  course  of  which  clouded 
not  only  her  own  life,  but  tliat  of  one  of  the  greatest 
geniuses  that  has  ever  shone  and  suff'ered. 

Tasso  was  twenty-one  years  old  when  he  ap- 
peared at  tbe  court  of  Alplionso  of  Este.  He  bad 
just  given  to  the  world  his  "Jerusalem  Delivered," 


and  a  well-founded  enthusiasm  for  the  poet  per- 
vaded all  Italy.  He  was  endowed  with  evei-y 
pleasing  quality  —  a  handsome  countenance,  win- 
ning address,  a  captivating  voice  in  speaking,  and, 
what  all  poets  do  not  possess,  most  extraordinary 
bravery.  An  indiscreet  remark  having  been  made 
by  a  certain  cavalier  upon  bis  devotion  to  the 
princess  Eleonora,  he  challenged  the  offender,  wbo, 
with  three  brothers  to  aid  him,  basely  attacked 
tbe  bard.  Tasso  valiantly  combated  the  whole  four, 
until  persons  interfered  to  put  an  end  to  tbe  duel. 
The  duke  Alpbonso  felt  bis  pride  offendeil  at  tbe 
cause  of  this  rencontre ;  it  is  true,  be  punished 
the  four  cowardly  brothers,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  sent  Tasso  into  exile,  where  he  remained  until 
the  duke  was  persuaded  to  recall  him.  After  this 
time,  Eleonora  appears  to  have  become  cautious 
in  her  encouragement  of  the  poet ;  but  when  we 
read  tbe  verses  in  which  he  speaks  of  her  charms 
and  his  passion,  who  can  wonder  that  a  heart  of 
any  sensibility  should  be  touched  ? 

Eleonora  was  in  ber  thirtieth  j'ear  when  Tasso 
was  first  introduced  at  her  brother's  court ;  a  dis- 
parity of  age  —  the  poet  being  nine  jears  her 
junior,  which  is  certainly  no  argument  against 
the  passion  sbe  inspired.  For  a  young  man,  at 
his  first  entrance  into  life,  to  fall  in  love  ambi- 
tiously— with  a  woman  older  tban  himself,  or  with 
one  wbo  is,  or  ought  to  be,  unattainable  —  is  a 
common  occurrence.  Tasso  was  an  admirer  of 
beauty.  Eleonora  was  exceedingly  lovely ;  sbe  had 
a  transparent  delicacy  of  complexion — a  "Paleur, 
qui  marque  une  ame  tendre,"  as  the  lover  thought. 
It  is  said  tliat  Tasso,  being  at  a  wedding  of  one  of 
the  Gonzago  family,  celebrated  at  the  court  of 
Este,  blinded  by  bis  passion,  impressed  a  kiss  on 
the  cheek  of  the  princess  Eleonora.  The  colour 
mounted  to  Alphonso's  brow ;  but  be  turned  coldly 
to  his  courtiers,  and  said,  "What  a  great  pity  that 
the  finest  genius  of  the  age  has  become  suddenly 
mad!" 

Upon  this  charge  of  madness,  the  prince  caused 
Tasso  to  be  shut  up  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna. 
His  long  years  of  imprisonment,  his  sufferings, 
his  laments,  are  known  to  everybody.  In  a  few 
words,  we  will  close  the  story  of  the  unfortunate 
Eleonora.  Obliged  to  witness  tbe  cruel  punish- 
ment of  her  lover,  and  knowing  the  inflexible  cha- 
racter of  ber  brother,  she  fell  into  a  slow  fever ; 
constantly  receiving  the  tender  complaints  of  the 
poet,  whose  pangs  were  daggers  to  her  heart,  she 
gradually  sank  into  the  grave.  Solitary  and  me- 
lancholy, she  dragged  on  the  last  days  of  her  life ; 
holding  converse  with  no  one,  living  on  sad  me- 
mories, languishing,  and  fading  away.  The  doors 
of  Tasso's  prison  were  at  length  opened ;  but  she 
was  dead !  Youth,  love,  fortune,  all  had  vanished  ; 
fame,  it  is  true,  remained.  Tbe  laurel-crown  was 
placed  on  his  brow  at  Rome,  in  the  midst  of  a 
pompous  festival.  Could  this  recompense  him  for 
his  wasted  youth  and  his  lost  Eleonora?  Sbe  dicil 
in  1581,  about  a  year  after  Tasso's  imprisonment. 

ESTRADA,    MARIA  D', 
Wife  of  a  soldier  of  Fernandez  Cortez,  followed 
her  husband  to  Mexico,  in  1519,  where  sbe  fought 

307 


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by  his  side,  and  performed  extraordinary  exploits 
of  valour,  to  the  astonishment  and  admiration  of 
all  who  beheld  her. 

ESTREES,  GABRIELLE  D',  DUCHESS 
OF  BEAUFORT, 

The  mistress  of  Henry  IV.  of  France,  born  about 
1571,  was  the  daughter  of  Antoine  d'Estr^es,  a  de- 
scendant of  one  of  the  noblest  houses  in  Picardy, 
for  along  time  grand  maitre  de  I'artillerie,  who  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  defence  of  Noyon  against 
the  duke  of  Mayenne,  for  which  Henry  IV.  made 
him  governor  of  the  Isle  de  France.  Gabrielle 
was  about  twenty  years  of  age  when  Henry  first 
saw  her,  on  a  visit  to  Coeuvres  castle ;  and  her 
beauty  immediately  captivated  him.  Gabrielle, 
however,  who  was  attached  to  the  duke  of  Belle- 
garde,  was  at  first  little  inclined  to  gratify  the 
wishes  of  the  king.  But  Henry  still  ui'ged  his 
suit,  and  often  stole  by  the  sentinels  of  his  ene- 
mies, in  the  dress  of  a  peasant,  to  see  the  object 
of  his  love.  The  heart  of  the  lady  was  at  length 
moved  by  such  ardour  and  devotion.  She  became 
the  mistress  of  the  chivalric  monarch,  who  never 
loved  any  other  woman  so  passionately.  To  escape 
the  severe  scrutiny  of  her  father,  Henry  married 
her  to  a  nobleman  named  Damerval,  of  Liancourt; 
but,  says  Sully,  il  sut  empecher  la  consommation  du 
marriage,  and  subsequently  dissolved  the  marriage. 
Henry  intended  to  raise  Gabrielle  to  the  throne 
as  his  lawful  wife.  For  this  purpose,  he  not  only 
procured  a  divorce  from  Margaret  of  Valois,  but 
also  raised  the  county  of  Beaufort  to  a  duchy, 
which  he  bestowed  on  Gabrielle,  thus  giving  her 
a  high  rank  at  court.  This  design  was  strongly 
opposed  by  Sully,  who  often  represented  to  the 
monarch  the  bad  consequences  of  such  a  measure. 
Gabrielle,  therefore,  became  his  bitter  enemy, 
and,  instigated  by  the  adversaries  of  the  minister, 
she  once  so  far  forgot  herself  as  to  urge  the  king 

to  discharge  him.     Henry's  reply  was,  "By , 

madam,  if  I  must  lose  one  of  you,  I  would  rather 
give  up  ten  mistresses  like  you,  than  one  servant 
like  him."  So  ardent,  however,  was  his  passion 
for  Gabrielle,  that  he  once  wrote  to  her  in  a  mo- 
ment of  danger, — "  If  I  am  conquered,  you  know 
me  too  well  to  believe  that  I  shall  flee.  My  last 
thought  shall  be  God's  ;  my  last  but  one,  yours." 

Notwithstanding  the  determination  of  the  king, 
and  the  wishes  of  Gabrielle,  their  marriage  never 
took  place.  Just  before  Easter,  in  1599,  when  ne- 
gotiations were  already  in  train  for  the  divorce  of 
the  king,  she  retired  from  court,  by  the  advice  of 
Ren6  Benoit,  the  king's  confessor,  and  went  to 
Paris  to  spend  the  Passion-week.  On  iMaundy 
Thursday,  having  eaten  an  orange  after  dinner, 
she  was  suddenly  seized  witli  convulsions,  which 
distorted  licr  beautiful  covmtenance,  and,  on  Satur- 
day, she  died  in  the  most  excruciating  torments. 
Apoplexy,  with  convulsions,  was  the  cause  as- 
signed for  her  death  ;  but  no  one  can  doubt  that 
she  was  poisoned.  The  king's  grief  for  her  loss 
was  excessive ;  and,  what  is  seldom  the  case,  the 
royal  mistress  was  universally  lamented.  Her 
amiable  disposition,  the  gentleness  of  her  charac- 
ter, and  the  modesty  which  prevented  her  from 


meddling  with  public  affairs,  won  her  general 
favour.  She  had  three  children  by  the  king  — 
Caesar  and  Alexander,  afterwards  dukes  of  Ven- 
dome,  and  a  daughter,  Catharine  Henrietta,  after- 
wards the  wife  of  the  duke  of  Elbeuf.  Her  bio- 
graphy, which  appeared  some  years  ago  in  France, 
is  accompanied  by  an  interesting  correspondence 
between  Gabrielle  and  her  royal  lover. 

EUDOCIA,    FEODOROWNA, 
FiKST  wife  of  Peter  I.,  czar  of  Russia,  was 
daughter  of  the  boyar  Feodor  Lapookin.     Peter 
married  her  in  1689,  when  he  was  only  seventeen, 
and  Alexis  was  born  in  1690. 

Peter  had  caused  it  to  be  proclaimed  throughout 
his  empire,  that  he  intended  to  bestow  his  crown 
and  his  heart  on  the  woman  he  judged  most  wor- 
thy. A  hundred  young  girls  were  brought  to 
Moscow,  and  his  choice  fell  on  Eudocia.  But  her 
joy  was  of  short  duration.  Her  opposition  to 
Peter's  reforms,  and  her  remonstrances  against 
his  faithlessness,  irritated  him;  and  in  1696  she 
was  divorced,  compelled  to  assume  the  veil,  and 
confined  in  a  convent  at  Susdal.  There  she  wa.s 
said  to  have  entered  into  a  contract  of  marriage 
with  general  Glebof,  by  exchanging  rings  with 
him ;  but,  though  Glebof  was  afterwards  tortured 
to  the  utmost  extremity,  he  persisted  in  asserting 
his  own  and  her  innocence ;  and  when  the  czar 
came  to  him  and  offered  him  pardon  if  he  would 
confess,  he  spit  in  the  czar's  face,  and  told  him 
that  "he  should  disdain  to  speak  to  him,  if  it 
were  not  his  desire  to  clear  his  mistress,  who  was 
as  virtuous  as  any  woman  in  the  world." 

Encouraged  by  the  predictions  of  the  archbishop 
of  Rostof,  who,  from  a  dream,  announced  to  her 
the  death  of  Peter  and  her  return  to  court,  under 
the  reign  of  her  son  Alexis,  she  reassumed  the 
secular  dress,  and  was  publicly  prayed  for  in  the 
church  of  the  convent,  under  the  name  of  the  em- 
press Eudocia.  Being  brought  to  Moscow  in 
1718,  and  examined,  she  was,  by  her  husband's 
order,  scourged  by  two  nuns,  and  imprisoned  in 
the  convent  of  Nova  Ladoga,  and  allowed  to  see 
no  one  but  the  persons  who  brought  her  food, 
which  she  prepared  herself;  for  she  was  allowed 
no  servant,  and  but  one  cell.  From  thence  she 
was  removed  to  the  fortress  at  Shlusselburgh. 
Being  released  on  the  accession  of  her  grandson, 
Peter  II.,  she  repaired  to  Moscow,  and  was  pre- 
sent at  his  coronation,  as  well  as  that  of  the  em- 
press Anne ;  and  expired  in  the  Devitza  monastery, 
where  she  held  her  court,  in  1731,  in  the  fifty- 
ninth  year  of  her  age. 


F. 

FAIN  I,    DIAMANTE, 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Medaglia,  one  of  the 
most  noted  Italian  poets,  was  born  in  Roako,  a 
village  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Breschia.  Her 
poetic  talent  developed  itself  while  she  was  yet 
quite  a  child.  When  she  reacLad  her  fifteenth 
year,  she  was  well  acquainted  with  tlie  ancient 
languages,  and  had  written  several  poems,  which 

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excited  the  adnuration  of  the  literary  world.  The 
academies  of  Unanimi  in  Italy,  of  Ardetti  in  Pa- 
dua, and  that  of  the  Arcadi  of  Rome,  were  proud 
to  inscribe  her  name  among  their  members.  But 
she  was  not  only  a  poetess,  — philosophy,  mathe- 
matics, theology,  and  astronomy,  all  found  in  her 
a  devoted  admirer  and  a  close  student.  She  died 
the  13th  of  July,  1770,  at  Salo. 

FALCONBERG,  MARY, 
Third  daughter  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  second 
wife  of  Thomas  lord  viscount  Falconberg,  was  dis- 
tinguished for  her  talents,  her  spii'it,  and  her 
beauty.  Bishop  Burnet,  who  styles  her  "  a  wise 
and  worthy  woman,"  adds,  "  that  she  was  more 
likely  to  have  maintained  the  post  of  protector 
than  either  of  her  brothers ;  according  to  an  ob- 
servation respecting  her,  that  those  who  wore 
breeches  deserved  petticoats  better ;  but  if  those 
in  petticoats  had  been  in  breeches,  they  would 
have  held  faster."  After  the  deposition  of  Richard, 
of  whose  incapacity  his  sister  was  aware,  she  ex- 
erted herself  in  favour  of  Charles  II.,  and  is  said 
to  have  greatly  contributed  towards  the  Restora- 
tion. It  is  certain  that  her  husband  was,  by  the 
committee  of  safety,  sent  to  the  Tower  a  short 
time  before  the  return  of  Chai-les,  in  whose  favour 
he  held  a  distinguished  place.  Lady  Falconberg 
was  a  member  of  the  established  church,  and  re- 
.spected  for  her  munificence  and  charity. 

FANE,    ELIZABETH, 

Author  of  several  pious  meditations  and  pro- 
verbs in  the  English  language,  pi'inted  in  London 
in  1550,  was  probably  either  the  wife  of  Richard 
Fane,  who  married  Elizabeth,  daughter  and  heiress 
of  Stidolph,  or  of  Sir  Thomas  Fane,  who  was  en- 
gaged in  Wyatt's  rebellion  in  the  reign  of  queen 
Mary.  Her  writings  were  entitled  "Lady  Eliza- 
beth Fane's  twenty-one  Psalms,  and  one  hundred 
and  two  Proverbs." 


FANSHAWE,  ANN  HARRISON,  LADY, 

The  eldest  daughter  of  Sir  John  Harrison,  of 
Balls,  England,  was  born  in  London,  March  25th, 
1625.     Her  mother  was  Margaret  Fanshawe,  of 


an  ancient  and  highly  respectable  family ;  and, 
what  was  of  more  importance  to  her  daughter,  she 
was  an  eminently  pious  as  well  as  accomplished 
lady.  So  well  did  this  careful  mother  instruct 
her  eldest  daughter,  that  when  the  former  died, 
the  latter,  though  only  fifteen  years  of  age,  took 
charge  of  her  father's  house  and  family,  and  ful- 
filled all  her  duties  in  a  manner  highly  exemplary. 

Ann  Harrison  married,  when  about  nineteen, 
Mr.,  afterwards  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe,  a  relation 
of  her  mother's.  He  had  been  educated  a  lawyer, 
but  not  liking  his  profession,  went  abroad,  with 
his  wife,  and  was  finally  appointed  secretary  to 
the  English  ambassador  at  the  Spanish  court. 
Mr.  Fanshawe  was  a  loyal  follower  of  the  house 
of  Stuart,  true  to  the  falling  fortunes  of  Charles  I., 
and  the  confidant  and  counsellor  of  Charles  II., 
while  he  was  striving  to  obtain  the  throne.  Dur- 
ing all  the  struggles  and  violence  of  those  terrible 
times,  Mrs.  Fanshawe  shared  every  danger  and 
sympathized  with  every  feeling  of  her  dearly  be- 
loved husband.  He  was  taken  and  imprisoned 
after  the  battle  of  Worcester,  and  during  his  im- 
prisonment, she  never  failed  to  go  secretly  with  a 
dark  lantern,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to 
his  window.  She  minded  neither  darkness  nor 
storms,  and  often  stood  talking  with  him  with  her 
garments  drenched  in  rain.  Cromwell  had  a  great 
respect  for  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe,  and  would  have 
bought  him  into  his  service  upon  almost  any  terms. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshawe  was  finally  i-eleased,  on 
a  heavy  bail,  and  they  removed  to  Tankersly  Park, 
Yorkshire,  where  the  husband  devoted  himself  to 
literary  pursuits,  which  were  also  the  taste  of  his 
wife.  After  the  restoration.  Sir  Richard  Fan- 
shawe was  in  great  favour  at  court,  had  a  seat  in 
parliament,  was  sent  ambassador  to  Portugal  and 
Spain ;  but  in  all  these  high  stations  the  hearts 
of  both  husband  and  wife  were  centred  in  their 
domestic  happiness.  Sir  Richard  was  recalled, 
unexpectedly,  through  some  change  of  policy,  and 
they  were  preparing  to  return,  when  he  suddenly 
died.  The  queen  of  Spain  was  so  moved  by  the 
desolation  of  the  heart-broken  widow,  that  she 
offered  her  a  pension  of  thirty  thousand  ducats 
per  annum,  and  a  handsome  provision  for  her 
children,  if  she  would  embrace  the  Catholic  reli- 
gion. Lady  Fanshawe  was  deeply  grateful  for 
this  kind  interest,  but  could  not  accept  any  favour 
with  such  conditions.  Her  own  language  will 
best  portray  her  feelings  under  this  severe  afflic- 
tion.    She  thus  writes  in  her  journal : 

"Oh!  all  powerful  and  good  God,  look  down 
from  heaven  upon  the  most  distressed  wretch  on 
earth.  My  glory  and  my  guide,  all  my  comfort 
in  this  life,  is  taken  from  me.  See  me  staggering 
in  my  path,  because  I  expected  a  temporal  ])less- 
ing  as  a  reward  for  the  great  innocence  and  in- 
tegrity of  his  whole  life.  Have  pity  on  me,  0 
Lord,  and  speak  peace  to  my  disquieted  soul,  now 
sinking  under  this  great  weight,  which  without 
thy  support  cannot  sustain  itself.  See  me,  with 
five  children,  a  distressed  family,  the  temptation 
of  the  change  of  my  religion,  out  of  my  country, 
away  from  my  friends,  without  counsel,  and  with- 
out means  to  return  with  my  sad  family  to  Eng- 

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land.  Do  with  me,  and  for  me,  what  thou  pleasest ; 
for  I  do  wholly  rely  on  thy  promises  to  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless  ;  humbly  beseeching  thee  that, 
when  this  mortal  life  is  ended,  I  may  be  joined 
with  the  soul  of  my  dear  husband." 

The  body  of  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe  was  em- 
balmed, and  for  several  months  his  widow  had  it 
daily  in  her  sight.  She  wished  to  accompany  the 
remains  to  England,  but  could  obtain  no  money 
from  government ;  even  the  arrears  due  her  hus- 
band were  withheld  by  the  ungrateful  and  profli- 
gate Charles  II.,  who  lavished  upon  his  Avorthless 
minions  and  mistresses  what  was  due  his  tried  and 
suffering  friends.  At  length  Anne  of  Austria, 
widow  of  Philip  IV.,  gave  lady  Fanshawe  two 
thousand  pistoles,  saying  with  true  feminine  deli- 
cacy, "That  the  sum  had  been  appropriated  to 
purchasing  a  farewell  present  for  Sir  Richard,  had 
he  lived  to  depart  from  Spain."  The  mournful 
train  reached  England,  October,  1666.  The  body 
was  interred  in  the  vault  of  St.  Mary's  chapel, 
AVare  church,  and  Lady  Fanshawe  erected  a  hand- 
some monument  to  her  husband's  memory.  Their 
union  of  twenty-two  years  had  been  a  pattern  of 
conjugal  truth  and  happiness ;  the  widow  conti- 
nued as  constant  to  the  memory  of  the  dear  de- 
parted as  she  had  been  in  her  affection  to  him 
while  he  lived.  Her  whole  aim  and  plan  of  life 
was  to  educate  their  children  ;  and  she  wrote  her 
own  Memoir,  "for  her  dear  and  only  son."  She 
survived  her  husband  fourteen  years,  dying  Janu- 
ary, 1680,  aged  fifty-four. 

Lady  Fanshawe  deserves  to  be  honoured  as  the 
exemplar  of  what  a  good  wife  is  and  should  be. 
Her  interesting  "  Memoir"  contains  many  in- 
stances of  this  ;  one,  displaying  what  we  mean  by 
the  obedictice  a  true  wife  owes  to  her  husband,  we 
will  give  in  her  own  words.  Her  husband  was 
secretary  to  the  prince  of  Wales,  afterwards 
Charles  II. 

"And  now  I  thought  mj'self  a  perfect  queen, 
and  my  husband  so  glorious  a  crown,  that  I  more 
valued  myself  to  be  called  by  his  name  than  born 
a  princess,  for  I  knew  him  very  wise  and  very 
good,  and  his  soul  doted  on  me ;  upon  which  con- 
fidence I  will  tell  you  what  happened.  My  Lady 
Rivers,  a  brave  woman,  and  one  that  had  suffered 
many  thousand  pounds'  loss  for  the  king,  for  whom 
I  had  a  great  reverence,  and  she  a  kinswoman's 
kindness  for  me,  in  discourse  tacitly  commended 
the  knowledge  of  state  affairs ;  she  mentioned 
several  women,  who  were  very  happy  in  a  good 
understanding  thereof,  and  said  none  of  them  was 
originally  more  capable  than  I.  She  said  a  post 
would  arrive  from  Paris  from  the  queen  that  night, 
and  she  should  extremely  like  to  know  what  news 
it  brought;  adding  if  I  would  ask  my  husband 
privately,  he  would  tell  me  what  he  found  in  the 
packet,  and  I  might  tell  her.  I,  that  was  young 
and  innocent,  and  to  that  day  had  never  in  my 
mouth,  '  What  news  ?'  now  began  to  think  there 
was  more  in  enquiring  into  pubfic  affairs  than  I 
had  thought  of;  and  that  being  a  fashionable 
thing  it  would  make  me  more  beloved  of  my  hus- 
band than  I  already  was,  if  that  had  been  possible. 
When  my  husband  returned  home  from  the  coun- 


cil, after  recei-sdng  my  welcome,  he  went  with  his 
hands  full  of  papers  into  his  study.  I  followed 
him  ;  he  turned  hastily,  and  said,  '  What  wouldst 
thou  have,  my  life  V  I  told  him  I  heard  the 
prince  had  received  a  packet  from  the  queen,  and 
I  guessed  he  had  it  in  his  liand,  and  I  desired  to 
know  what  was  in  it.  He  smilingly  replied,  '  My 
love,  I  will  immediately  come  to  thee  ;  pray  thee 
go;  for  I  am  very  busy.'  When  he  came  out  of 
his  closet,  I  revived  my  suit ;  he  kissed  me,  and 
talked  of  other  things.  At  supper  I  would  eat 
nothing ;  he  as  usual  sat  by  me,  and  drank  often 
to  me,  which  was  his  custom,  and  was  full  of  dis- 
course to  company  that  was  at  table.  Going  to 
bed  I  asked  him  again,  and  said  I  could  never  be- 
lieve he  loved  me,  if  he  refused  to  tell  me  all  he 
knew.  He  answered  nothing,  but  stopped  my 
mouth  with  kisses.  I  cried,  and  he  went  to  sleep. 
Next  morning  very  early,  as  his  custom  was,  he 
called  to  rise,  but  began  to  discourse  with  me 
first,  to  which  I  made  no  reply ;  he  rose,  came  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bed,  kissed  me,  drew  the 
curtains  softly,  and  went  to  court.  When  he  came 
home  to  dinner,  he  presently  came  to  me  as  was 
usual,  and  when  I  had  him  by  the  hand,  I  said, 
'  Thou  dost  not  care  to  see  me  troubled  ;'  to  which 
he,  taking  me  in  his  arms,  answered,  '  My  dearest 
soul,  nothing  on  earth  can  afflict  me  like  that; 
when  you  asked  me  of  my  business,  it  was  wholly 
out  of  my  power  to  satisfy  thee.  My  life,  my  for- 
tune, shall  be  thine,  and  every  thought  of  my 
heart,  in  which  the  trust  I  am  in  may  not  be  re- 
vealed ;  but  my  honour  is  my  own,  which  I  cannot 
preserve,  if  I  communicate  the  prince's  affairs.  I 
pray  thee  with  this  answer  rest  satisfied.' 

"  So  great  was  his  reason  and  goodness,  that 
upon  consideration  it  made  my  folly  appear  to  me 
so  vile,  that  from  that  day  until  the  day  of  his 
death,  I  never  thought  fit  to  ask  him  any  business, 
except  what  he  communicated  freely  to  me  in 
order  to  his  estate  or  family." 

FARREN,  MISS, 
A  HIGHLY  accomplished  actress,  and  an  excel- 
lent and  beautiful  woman,  was  born  in  1 759.  Her 
father  was  a  surgeon  at  Cork,  in  Ireland,  but  his 
habits  were  so  irregular  that  his  family  were  often 
in  great  want.  Miss  Farren  was  driven  to  exer- 
tions for  her  own  support,  and  made  her  first  ap- 
pearance at  Liverpool  in  1773.  She  was  very  well 
received.  In  1777  she  went  to  London,  where  she 
met  with  much  applause.  She  excelled  principally 
in  high  comedy.  April  7th,  1797,  Miss  Farren 
retired  from  the  stage ;  and  in  May  she  married 
the  earl  of  Derby,  who  had  been  long  attached 
to  her,  but  who  had  been  unable  to  ofl^er  his  hand 
during  the  life  of  the  countess  of  Derby,  from 
whom  he  had  long  been  separated.  The  new 
countess  was  esteemed  and  respected  by  all  who 
knew  her ;  and  died,  greatly  regretted,  April  23d, 
1829. 

FARNESE,    FRANCESCA, 

Commonly  called  Sister  Francesca,  was  born 
at  Rome.  She  was  a  nun,  and  founded  a  con- 
vent.   Her  poems  are  united  to  those  of  her  sister, 

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also  a  mm,  called  Sister  Isabella.  She  was  learned 
in  her  native  literature,  in  Latin,  and  in  theology. 
She  has  left  many  sacred  poems  of  a  very  chaste 
and  correct  style.  Before  taking  vows  she  wrote 
a  romance  and  much  miscellaneous  poeti'y,  which, 
under  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  she  burned.  She 
died  in  1651. 

FAUGERE,  MISS, 
Was  born  in  the  year  1709,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Avignon.  She  was  compelled  by  her  parents 
to  take  the  veil ;  but,  with  an  utter  repugnance  to 
the  life  of  a  nun,  she  strained  every  nerve  to  free 
herself  from  the  thraldom  imposed  upon  her.  Ten 
years  elapsed,  however,  before  her  efforts  were 
crowned  with  success,  when  she  received  a  papal 
permission  to  leave  the  sisterhood.  But  even  then 
she  was  looked  upon  by  her  family  as  having  dis- 
graced herself  and  them.  She,  however,  removed 
to  Paris,  and  from  there  to  London.  Wholly  de- 
pendent upon  her  literary  labours,  she  was  com- 
pelled to  write  too  much,  and  her  writings  are  of 
very  unequal  merit.  The  best  of  her  works  are 
"Le  Triumphe  de  I'Amitie,"  published  in  1751; 
"  Abassai',  Histoire  Orientale,"  in  1753;  "  Contes 
du  Serail,"  in  1753;  and  "  Les  Zelindiens,"  in 
1758.  She  also  wrote  "  Dialogues  Moraux  et  Amu- 
sans,"  published  in  1777. 

FAUGERES,  MARGARETTA  V., 
An  American  lady,  born  in  1777,  the  daughter 
of  Anne  Elizabeth  Bleeker,  was  distinguished  for 
her  literary  accomplishments.  Her  youth  was  spent 
in  the  country ;  but  she  afterwards  married  and 
lived  in  New  York.  Many  of  her  poetical  pieces 
were  published  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  and 
much  admired.  She  also  wrote  the  tragedy  of 
"  Belisarius"  and  some  other  works.  By  the  pro- 
fligacy of  her  husband,  Peter  Faugeres,  a  physi- 
cian, she  was  reduced  to  extreme  poverty ;  and 
after  his  death  was  obliged  to  resort  to  teaching 
for  support.  Her  fine  talents  were  wasted  in  her 
struggles  with  misfortune,  and  she  never  accom- 
plished what  her  genius  promised.  She  died  in 
1801. 

FAVART,  MARIE  JUSTINE  BENOITE, 
MADAME, 

Was  a  celebrated  French  actress,  whose  maiden 
name  was  du  Roncerai.  She  was  always  a  great  fa- 
vourite with  the  public,  in  comedies,  comic  operas, 
and  other  lively  pieces.  Beloved  among  her  friends 
for  her  sensibility,  gentleness,  and  generosity  of 
character,  she  was  also  a  favourite  with  the  public 
for  her  inexhaustible  vivacity.  She  was  born  at 
Avignon  in  1727,  and  died  at  Paris  in  1772. 

FAYETTE,  LOUISE  DE  LA, 
Was  celebrated  for  her  friendship  for  Louis 
XIII.,  and  for  her  self-denial  in  that  dangerous 
situation.  She  was  of  a  noble  family,  and  a  fa- 
vourite maid  of  honour  to  the  queen,  Anne  of 
Austria.  The  king,  enslaved  by  Richelieu,  sought 
consolation  in  the  society  of  this  lady,  who  took  a 
sincere  interest  in  his  welfiire,  and  was  instrumen- 
tal in  reconciling  him  to  his  queen.     When  she 


found  her  regard  for  the  king  growing  more  ten- 
der than  prudence  allowed,  she  retired  to  a  con- 
vent and  took  the  veil.  The  king  continued  to 
visit  her  till  the  intrigues  of  Richelieu  interrupted 
their  friendship.  The  queen  urged  her  return  to 
court,  but  she  rejected  all  temptations,  and  con- 
tinued in  her  convent,  with  the  universal  esteem 
of  France. 

FAYETTE,  MARIE  MADELEINE, 
COUNTESS  DE, 

Daughter  of  Aymar  de  la  Vergne,  marechal- 
de-camp,  and  governor  of  Havre-de-Grace,  was 
more  distinguished  by  her  wit  and  literary  pro- 
ductions than  by  her  family.  She  married  the 
Count  de  Fayette,  in  1655,  and  removing  to  Paris, 
cultivated  letters  and  the  fine  arts.  Her  house 
was  the  rendezvous  for  the  most  distinguished 
literati  in  Paris,  especially  the  Duke  de  la  Roche- 
foucault,  Huet,  Menage,  La  Fontaine,  and  Legrais. 
The  last,  when  obliged  to  leave  the  house  of  Ma- 
dame de  Montpensier,  found  an  honourable  retreat 
with  her.  Madame  S6vigne,  who  knew  her  well, 
speaks  of  her  as  an  amiable  and  estimable  lady. 
Her  principal  works  are  the  three  romances, 
"  Zaide,"  "La  Princesse  de  Cleves,"  and  "La 
Princesse  de  Montpensier;"  which  were  the  first 
romances  that  exhibited  the  manners  of  fashion- 
able life  in  an  easy  and  natural  manner.  She  also 
wrote  "Memoires  de  la  cour  de  France  pour  les 
annees,  1688  et  1689,"  "Histoire  d'Henriette 
d'Angleterre,"  and  "  Divers  portraits  de  quelques 
personnes  de  la  cour."  All  these  works  are  still 
esteemed.  She  also  wrote  memoirs  of  other  per- 
sons, which  were  not  published,  and  were  lost  by 
her  son,  the  Abb(5  de  la  Fayette.  She  understood 
Latin,  which  she  learned  in  a  very  short  time. 
Her  works  are  written  in  an  easy  and  elegant 
style,  which  was,  at  that  time,  unequalled.  We 
will  insert  one  of  her  letters,  in  the  original,  as  a 
specimen  of  the  French  prose  of  that  period,  and 
the  style  of  epistolary  composition  among  the  best 
educated.  Madame  de  la  Fayette  died  at  Paris, 
in  1693. 

LETTRE    A    MADAME    DE    SEVIGNE. 

He  bien,  h6  bien,  ma  belle,  qu'avez-vous  a  crier 
comme  un  aigle  ?  Je  vous  mande  que  vous  atten- 
diez  a  juger  de  moi  quand  vous  serez  ici ;  qu'y 
a-t-il  de  si  ten-ible  a  ces  paroles  ?  mes  journees- 
sont  remplies.  H  est  vrai  que  Bayard  est  ici,  et 
qu'il  fait  mes  affaires ;  mais  quand  il  a  couru  tout 
le  jour  pour  mon  service,  6crirai-je?  encore  faut-il 
lui  parler?  quand  j'ai  couru,  moi,  et  que  je  re- 
viens,  je  trouve  M.  de  la  Rochefoucault,  que  je 
n'ai  point  vu  de  tout  le  jour  ;  ecrirai-je  ?  M.  do 
la  Rochefoucault  et  Gourville  sont  ici;  <>crirai-je? 
mais  quand  ils  sont  sortis  ?  ah !  quand  ils  sont 
sortis,  il  est  onze  heures,  et  je  sors,  moi.  Je 
couche  chez  nos  voisins  a  cause  qu'on  batit  devant 
nos  fenetres.  Mais  Taprfes-diniSe  ?  j'ai  mal  a  la 
tete  ;  mais  le  matin,  j'y  ai  mal  encore,  et  je  prends 
des  bouillons  d'herbes  qui  m'enivrent.  Vous  etes 
en  Provence,  ma  belle ;  vos  heures  sont  libres,  et 
votre  tete  encore  plus :  le  gout  d'^crire  vous  dure 
encoi-e  pour  tout  le  monde ;  il  m'est  pass^  pour 
tout  le  monde  ;  et  si  j 'avals  un  amant  qui  voulut 

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lie  mes  lettres  tous  les  matins,  je  romprais  avec 
liii.  Ne  mesurez  done  point  notre  amiti^  sur 
r^criture ;  je  vous  aimei-ai  autant,  en  ne  vous 
eci'ivant  qu'une  page  eu  un  mois,  que  vous  en 
m'en  ^crivant  dix  en  huit  jours.  Quand  je  suis  a 
8aint-Maur,  je  puis  ^crire,  parce  que  j'ai  plus  de 
tete  et  de  loisir ;  mais  je  n'ai  pas  celui  d'y  eti-e : 
je  n'y  ai  passe  que  liuit  jours  cette  ann^e.  Paris 
me  tue.  Adieu,  ma  tres-clicre ;  votre  defiance 
seule  compose  votre  unique  defaut,  et  la  seule 
chose  qui  pent  me  deplaire  en  vous.  M.  de  la 
llocliefoucault  vous  ecrira. 

FEDELE,  CASSANDRA, 
Of  Venice,  born  1465.  This  noted  lady  was 
well  acquainted  with  Greek,  Latin,  and  with  his- 
tory. Julius  II.,  Leo  X.,  Louis  XIII.,  and  Ferdi- 
nand of  Arragon,  invited  her  to  their  courts ;  but 
her  own  republic  would  not  allow  her  departure. 
Iler  death,  which  happened  in  1558,  was  commemo- 
rated by  the  ti-ibutary  praises  of  the  literati  of 
that  day.  Poliziano  eulogizes  her  in  the  highest 
terms.  There  remain  some  letters  and  Latin  ora- 
tions of  her  composition. 

FEDOROWNA,    MARIA, 

Empress  of  the  unfortunate  Paul  of  Russia,  and 
mother  of  the  emperors  Alexander  and  Nicholas, 
was  born  princess  of  Wurtemburg,  in  1759.  Se- 
lected by  Catharine  II.  as  bride  for  the  heir  to  the 
throne,  her  early  married  life  was  one  of  mortifica- 
tion and  insignificance.  The  capricious  temper  and 
ill-regulated  character  of  Paul,  vented  themselves 
frequently  in  harsh  measures  towards  this  exem- 
plary woman.  Her  sons,  however,  unceasingly 
manifested  towards  her  the  affection  and  duty  her 
devotion  to  their  childhood  had  so  well  merited. 
After  the  death  of  Paul,  in  1801,  she  was  released 
from  the  trammels  in  which  her  youth  had  been 
spent.  From  that  epoch  till  the  day  of  her  death, 
she  was  occupied  in  attention  to  the  poor  and  suf- 
fering. The  number  of  magnificent  institutions 
for  the  benefit  of  the  unfortunate  and  afflicted, 
which  she  founded  and  directed,  is  really  wonder- 
ful.    She  was  the  first  person  to  introduce  into 


Piussia  an  attempt  to  instruct  the  deaf  and  dumb, 
employing  for  that  purpose  a  pupil  of  the  Abbe 
Sicard.     She  died  in  1828. 

FERGUSON,  ELIZABETH  GR^ME, 
Daughter  of  Dr.  Thomas  Grajme,  who  came 
from  Scotland  to  America,  was  born  in  Philadel- 
phia, in  1739.  She  was  very  carefully  educated, 
and  showed  uncommon  abilities.  While  still  young, 
she  translated  Fenelon's  Telemacl|ius  .into  English 
verse ;  she  also  wrote  several  smaller  poems,  which, 
together  with  her  essays  and  some  of  her  letters, 
have  been  published.  She  married  Mr.  Hugh 
Henry  Ferguson ;  but  on  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Revolution,  in  1775,  as  he  adhered  to  the  British 
government,  and  she  was  faithful  to  her  country, 
they  separated,  and  never  lived  together  again. 
Mrs.  Ferguson  died  in  1801. 


FERNANDEZ,    MARIA    MADDALENA 
MORELLI, 

Won  the  admiration  of  all  Italy  as  an  improvi- 
satrice.  The  talent  of  improvising  in  poetry  seems 
to  be  almost  exclusively  allotted  to  the  Italians, 
among  whom  the  structure  of  their  verse,  and  the 
conventional,  ever-recurring  rhymes,  render  it  an 
easier  matter  to  employ  this  frame-work  to  thought, 
than  would  be  possible  under  a  different  system 
of  prosody.  If,  however,  the  powers  of  ordinary 
improvisatori,  from  these  reasons,  are  not  to  be 
overvalued, — when  thought,  imagery,  feeling,  pas- 
sion, harmony  of  numbers,  flow  spontaneously, 
the  admiration  and  wonder  they  excite  must  be 
unbounded,  as  these  qualities  are  independent  of 
any  rhythm,  and  would  command  praise  and  en- 
thusiasm, even  when  these  effusions  were  produced 
upon  study,  and  corrected  efforts. 

Among  the  improvisatori  whose  fame  has  been 
more  than  ephemeral,  perhaps  the  first  was  Maria 
Morelli.  She  was  born  of  noble  parents,  in  the 
city  of  Pistoja,  in  the  year  1740.  From  her  ear- 
liest years  she  manifested  a  quick  ear  for  harmony, 
and  a  talent  for  improvisation.  This  talent  was 
heightened  by  an  excellent  education ;  her  mind 
was  stored  with  history  and  science,  and  her  ima- 
gination improved  by  assiduous  reading  of  the 

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best  poets.  Her  parents,  proud  of  her  genius, 
took  lier  to  Rome,  to  exhibit  her  powers  to  the 
academy  of  "Arcadia."  Gifted  with  personal 
beauty  and  grace,  she  received  the  highest  ap- 
plause, and  was  made  a  member  of  that  society, 
under  the  name  of  Gorilla  Olympia,  by  which  she 
was  afterwards  universally  designated.  At  Na- 
ples she  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  and  there 
captivated  a  young  Sicilian  gentleman,  named 
Fernandez,  to  whom  she  was  united  in  marriage. 
Her  fame  soon  resounded  throughout  Europe,  and 
she  was  noticed  by  the  most  illustrious  persons  of 
the  age.  The  emperor  Joseph  II.  visited  her  at 
Naples ;  and  pope  Clement  XIV.  directed  to  her 
an  honourable  brief,  by  which  he  permitted  her 
to  read  forbidden  books.  She  published  some 
poems,  an  epic  poem  dedicated  to  the  empress  of 
Russia,  an  epistle  to  Metastasio,  and  some  others, 
[n  1776,  she  went  through  the  ordeal  of  a  trial  of 
her  poetic  powers,  for  three  days,  at  Rome,  before 
a  vast  concourse  of  literary  and  noble  personages. 
Some  of  the  subjects  were.  Moral  Philosophy, 
Revealed  Religion,  Physics,  Metaphysics,  Heroic 
Poetry,  Harmony,  Pastoi-al  Poetry,  &c.  These 
were  handed  to  her  in  order,  in  sealed  notes,  and 
she  acquitted  herself  in  every  case  so  as  to  disarm 
criticism.  She  then  was  solemnly  crowned  with 
a  laurel  wreath.  A  minute  description  of  this 
ceremony,  which  was  accompanied  with  wonder- 
ful pomp  and  pageantry,  has  been  written  by  two 
literary  abb6s,  and  published  by  the  celebrated 
Bodoni,  in  1779.  Our  poetess,  after  passing  her 
youth  amidst  the  homage  of  the  great  and  power- 
ful, retired  upon  her  laurels  to  Florence,  where 
she  lived  tranquilly  to  the  age  of  sixty.  She  died 
in  1800. 

FERRIOL,    MADAME   DE, 

Was  the  sister  of  Madame  de  Tencin;  handsome 
and  intriguing,  like  her  sister,  but  without  her  wit 
and  suppleness.  She  was  early  married  to  M.  de 
Ferriol,  a  magistrate,  who  cared  little  about  his 
wife,  and  philosophically  permitted  her  to  have  a 
long  and  open  liason  with  the  Marechal  d'Uxelles. 
This  connexion  with  a  minister,  added  to  Madame 
de  Ferriol's  power.  Her  house  was  frequented 
by  all  those  who  had  favours  to  ask  ;  every  class, 
and  every  party,  were  represented  in  her  society. 
Voltaire  and  Bolingbroke  formed  a  part  of  her 
circle.  As  long  as  the  marechal  continued  con- 
stant, his  handsome  mistress  remained  in  vogue  ; 
but  his  love  cooled  with  age  and  the  decline  of  her 
charms,  and  Madame  de  Ferriol,  who  had  never 
been  very  witty,  grew  ill-tempered  and  morose 
with  years.  The  world  would  no  doubt  have  be- 
come indifferent  and  estranged,  like  the  marechal, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  attractions  of  a  young  and 
lovely  Circassian  slave,  whom  she  had  brought  up, 
and  who  resided  beneath  her  roof. 

The  origin  of  the  connexion  between  Mademoi- 
selle Aiss6  and  her  protectress,  was  singvilar  and 
romantic.  She  was  purchased,  when  a  child,  in 
the  slave-market  of  Constantinople,  by  Monsieur 
de  Ferriol's  elder  brother.  Struck  by  her  singular 
beauty,  he  questioned  her  owner,  and  found  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  Circassian  prince,  who 


had  been  massacred,  with  all  his  people.  M.  de 
Ferriol  confided  the  child  to  the  care  of  his  sister- 
in-law,  and  returned  to  Constantinople,  where  he 
resided  as  ambassador  until  the  year  1711.  A'l'sse 
was  kindly  treated  by  Madame  de  Ferriol,  and 
brought  up  on  an  equality  with  her  two  sons. 
Aiss^  grew  up  in  surpassing  loveliness,  and  at- 
tracted considerabte  attention  in  the  circle  of 
Madame  de  Ferriol.  Her  beauty  was  not  her 
only  attraction ;  she  possessed  the  most  noble  and 
amiable  qualities  of  the  heart.  She  was  in  all  the 
bloom  and  freshness  of  her  beauty,  when  M.  de 
Ferriol  returned  to  France.  He  Avas  on  the  verge 
of  seventy ;  his  protegee  barely  seventeen.  He 
endeavoured,  nevertheless,  to  inspire  her  with  a 
more  tender  feeling  than  gratitude  ;  and  when  he 
failed,  he  asserted  his  right  over  her  with  oriental 
despotism.  To  escape  this  persecution,  Ai'ss6  ap- 
pealed to  her  adopted  brother,  whose  influence 
convinced  her  ancient  admirer  of  the  uselessness 
of  his  suit.  M.  de  Ferriol  consented  to  be  reason- 
able, and  thenceforward  received  from  A'iss€  all 
she  could  give — the  aifection  of  a  daughter.  She 
had  many  admirers ;  among  them  the  regent,  who 
urged  his  suit  in  explicit  language.  Stung  and 
astonished  by  her  coldness,  he  made  her  the  most 
brilliant  offers,  all  of  which  Aisse  indignantly  re- 
fused. 

Madame  de  Ferriol,  to  whom  it  was  inconceiv- 
able that  a  young  girl  should  resist  the  wishes  of 
the  first  prince  of  the  blood,  and  regent  of  the 
kingdom,  combated  her  arguments,  and  called  her 
moral  scruples  folly,  exhorting  her  to  do  as  all 
around  her  did.  Unlike  the  noble  and  free-born 
ladies  of  France,  the  Circassian  slave,  bought  in 
the  market  of  Constantinople,  inexorably  refused 
to  sell  herself  for  gold  or  power.  When  the  perse- 
cution she  endured  became  intolerable,  the  young 
girl  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  protectress, 
declaring,  if  the  subject  was  urged  again,  she 
would  seek  refuge  in  a  convent.  Alarmed  at  a 
threat  which  would  have  deprived  her  society  of 
its  greatest  attraction,  Madame  de  Ferriol  was 
compelled  to  desist. 

Soon  after  this,  an  ardent  attachment  sprung 
up  between  Mademoiselle  Mss6  and  the  Chevalier 
d'Aydie,  a  young  knight  of  St.  John,  represented 
as  a  true  hero  of  romance.  Bound  by  his  vows  to 
a  life  of  celibacy,  their  love  was  madness  ;  and  it 
was  then,  in  the  struggle  between  conscience  and 
passion,  that  Madame  de  Ferriol's  arguments  re- 
curred to  the  mind  of  Ai'ss^.  She  j-ielded  to  them; 
and  Madame  de  Ferriol  openly  sanctioned  between 
her  ward  and  the  chevalier,  a"  connexion  which 
was  only  treated  as  a  matter  of  course  by  the 
society  in  which  they  moved.  Naturally  too  pure 
and  delicate  for  the  errors  into  which  her  unhappy 
education  had  made  her  fiill,  IMademoiselle  Aisse 
soon  felt  all  the  horrors  of  remorse  and  shame,  in 
the  conviction  of  her  degradation.  Her  lover, 
whose  ardent  attachment  had  been  rendered  more 
tender  by  the  birth  of  a  child,  offered  to  procure 
a  dispensation  from  the  pope,  and  marry  her;  but 
she  steadily  refused;  her  unknown  origin,  the 
poverty  of  her  lover,  and  the  prejudices  of  the 
age,  which  would  have  rendered  such  an  alliance 

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degrading  for  him,  made  her  persist  in  her  refusal. 
She  announced  to  her  lover,  after  a  long  period 
of  painful  struggles,  that  henceforward  friendship 
must  be  the  only  feeling  between  them.  He  sub- 
mitted to  her  decision,  protesting  that  her  affec- 
tion, whatever  name  she  might  give  it,  would  be 
his  only  source  of  happiness ;  and  promising  never 
to  seek  to  influence  her  against  her  conscience. 
He  religiously  kept  his  word ;  and  his  love  for 
his  Circassian  mistress  ever  remained  fervent  and 
true. 

Signs,  she  could  not  mistake,  soon  told  Aiss6 
that  her  life  was  drawing  to  a  close.  She  ardently 
desired  to  reconcile  herself  to  God ;  and,  by  the 
aid  of  the  chevalier,  she  was  enabled  to  confess 
herself  to  a  priest  at  the  liouse  of  Madame  du 
DefiFand.  The  Chevalier  d'Aydie  survived  his  mis- 
tress many  years ;  his  sorrow  was  severe  and  last- 
ing. He  retired  to  the  country,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  the  education  of  his  daughter.  Madame 
de  Ferriol  is  chiefly  remarkable  as  liaving  been 
the  protectress  of  Aiss6,  of  whose  history  a  beau- 
tiful little  sketch  may  be  found  in  that  clever  book, 
"  The  AVomen  of  France,"  by  Miss  Kavanach. 

FIELDING,    SARAH, 

The  third  sister  of  Henry  Fielding,  the  novelist, 
and  herself  a  writer  of  some  celebrity,  was  born 
in  1714,  lived  unmarried,  and  died  in  1768.  She 
showed  a  lively  and  penetrating  genius  in  many 
of  her  productions,  especially  in  the  novel  entitled 
"  David  Simple,"  and  in  the  Letters  afterwards 
published  between  the  principal  characters  in  that 
work.  She  also  translated  "  Xenophon's  Memo- 
rabilia." The  following  eulogy  on  this  lady,  was 
composed  by  Dr.  John  Hoadley,  who  erected  a 
monument  to  her  memory : — 

"Her  unaffected  manners,  candiil  iniml, 
Her  heart  benevolent,  anil  soul  resigned. 
Were  more  her  praise,  than  all  she  knew  or  thought. 
Though  Athens'  wisdom  to  her  sex  she  taught." 

FICKER,    CHRISTIANE   D.  S., 

The  inventor  of  the  tambour-needle,  was  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Nier,  the  comptroller  of  the  mines 
in  Eibenstock,  Saxony.  She  was  born  November 
12th,  1769.  She  was  led  to  the  invention  by  Iter 
love  for  embroidering,  and  the  desire  to  trace 
raised  figures,  by  means  of  a  thread  and  needle', 
upon  the  cloth.  The  invention  has  been  of  great 
use  to  the  poor  women  of  Saxony,  to  whom  it 
became  a  fruitful  source  of  employment  from 
abroad.  The  inventor,  though,  like  Fulton,  gained 
nothing  by  the  invention,  except  a  present  of  a 
.  small  sum  of  money,  given  to  her  by  the  queen 
Amelia  Auguste.  She  died  on  the  22d  of  October, 
1811,  as  the  wife  of  Christian  G.  Ficker,  pastor 
of  Eibenstock. 

FISHER,    CATHARINE. 

The  biographers  of  this  lady  appear  to  have 
been  ignorant  of  her  origin,  thougli  they  all  agree 
in  allowing  that  she  possessed  grejit  comprehension 
of  mind,  and  acknowledge  that  she  was  one  of  the 
most  perfect  linguists  that  adorned  the  sixteenth 
century.    About  the  year  1559,  she  married  Gual- 


theius  Gruter,  aburgomaster  of  Antwerp,  by  whom 
she  had  one  son,  the  celebrated  James  Gruter, 
whose  philosophical  works  have  been  so  univer- 
sally admired.  In  the  early  part  of  his  life,  he 
had  no  other  instructor  than  his  mother,  who  was 
perfect  mistress  both  of  Latin  and  Greek ;  and  to 
her  has  been  ascribed  his  fondness  for  study,  as 
it  is  during  childhood  that  a  bias  is  given  to  the 
mind.  At  what  age  she  died,  has  not  been  spe- 
cified ;  but  the  year,  her  biographers  believe  to 
have  been  1579,  the  time  when  her  son  left  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  to  study  at  Leyden ;  but 
this  circumstance  is  not  positively  ascertained. 

FISHER,    MARY, 

An  enthusiastic  English  Quakeress  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  who  travelled  to  Constantinople, 
with  the  intention  of  converting  the  grand  seignior. 
She  embarked  at  Smyrna  in  an  Italian  vessel  for 
Adrianople ;  but  her  design  being  discovered,  she 
was  taken  from  the  ship,  and  sent  to  Venice. 
This  opposition  only  increased  her  zeal,  and  she 
determined  to  pursue  her  journey  by  land.  When 
she  reached  Adrianople,  she  obtained  an  audience 
of  Mahomet  IV.,  who,  surprised  at  her  courage, 
and  the  manner  in  which  she  addressed  him,  re- 
garded her  as  deranged,  and  ordered  her  to  be 
carried  back  to  her  own  country  in  the  first  vessel 
that  sailed.  On  her  return,  she  was  received  in 
triumph  by  the  Quakers,  and  married  to  one  of 
the  principal  members  of  that  sect. 

FLAXMAN,    ANN, 

"VViFE  of  John  Flaxman,  the  celebrated  sculptor, 
deserves  a  place  among  distinguished  women,  for 
the  admirable  manner  in  which  she  devoted  her- 
self to  sustain  her  husband's  genius,  and  aid  him 
in  his  arduous  career. 

Her  maiden  name  was  Denman ;  she  married 
John  Flaxman  when  he  was  about  twenty-seven 
years  old,  and  she  twenty-two.  They  had  been 
for  some  time  mutually  attached  to  each  other ; 
but  he  was  poor  in  purse,  and  though  on  the  road 
to  fame,  had  no  one,  but  this  chosen  partner  of 
his  life,  who  sympathized  in  his  success.  She  was 
amiable  and  accomplished,  had  a  taste  for  art  and 
literature,  was  skilful  in  French  and  Italian,  and, 
like  her  husband,  had  acquired  some  knowledge 
of  the  Greek.  But  what  was  better  than  all,  she 
was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  his  genius  —  she 
cheered  and  encouraged  him  in  his  moments  of 
despondency  —  regulated  modestly  and  prudently 
his  domestic  economy  —  arranged  his  drawings  — 
managed  now  and  then  his  correspondence,  and 
acted  in  all  particulars,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
church,  in  performing  a  marriage,  had  accom- 
plished a  miracle,  and  blended  them  really  into 
one  flesh  and  one  blood.  That  tranquillity  of 
mind,  so  essential  to  those  who  live  by  thought, 
was  of  his  household ;  and  the  sculptor,  happy  in 
the  company  of  one  who  had  taste  and  enthusiasm, 
soon  renewed  with  double  zeal  the  studies  which 
courtship  and  matrimony  had  for  a  time  inter- 
rupted. He  had  never  doubted  that  in  the  com- 
pany of  her  whom  he  loved  he  should  be  able  to 
work  with  an  intenser  spirit ;  but  of  another  opi- 

314 


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ro 


nion  was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  "  So,  Flaxman," 
said  the  president,  one  day,  as  he  chanced  to  meet 
him,  "I  am  told  you  are  married;  if  so,  sir,  I  tell 
you  you  are  ruined  for  an  artist."  Flaxman  went 
home,  sat  down  beside  his  wife,  .took  her  hand, 
and  said,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  ruined  for  an  artist." 
"John,"  said  she,  "how  has  this  happened,  and 
who  has  done  it?"  "It  happened,"  said  he,  "in 
the  church,  and  Ann  Denraan  has  done  it ;  I  met 
Sir  .Joshua  Reynolds  just  now,  and  he  said  mar- 
riage had  ruined  me  in  my  profession." 

For  a  moment,  a  cloud  hung  on  Flaxman's  brow ; 
but  this  worthy  couple  understood  each  other  too 
well,  to  have  their  happiness  seriouslj'  marred  by 
the  unguarded  and  peevish  remark  of  a  wealthy 
old  bachelor.  They  were  proud,  determined  peo- 
ple, who  asked  no  one's  advice,  who  shared  their 
domestic  secrets  with  none  of  their  neighbours, 
and  lived  as  if  they  were  unconscious  that  they 
were  in  the  midst  of  a  luxurious  city.  "Ann," 
said  the  sculptor,  "  I  have  long  thought  that  I 
could  rise  to  distinction  in  art  without  studying 
in  Italy,  but  these  words  of  Reynolds  have  deter- 
mined me.  I  shall  go  to  Rome  as  soon  as  my 
affairs  are  fit  to  be  left ;  and  to  show  him  that  wed- 
lock is  for  a  man's  good  rather  than  his  harm,  you 
shall  accompany  me.  If  I  remain  here,  I  shall  be 
accused  of  ignorance  concerning  those  noble  works 
of  art  which  are  to  the  sight  of  a  sculptor  what 
learning  is  to  a  man  of  genius,  and  you  will  lie 
under  the  charge  of  detaining  me."  In  this  reso- 
lution Mrs.  Flaxman  fully  concurred.  They  re- 
solved to  prepare  themselves  in  silence  for  the 
journey,  to  inform  no  one  of  their  intentions,  and 
to  set,  meantime,  a  still  stricter  watch  over  their 
expenditure.  No  assistance  was  proffered  by  the 
Academy,  nor  was  any  asked ;  and  five  years 
elapsed  from  tlie  day  of  the  memorable  speech  of 
the  president,  before  Flaxman,  by  incessant  study 
and  labour,  had  accumulated  the  means  of  dep.art- 
ing  for  Italy.  They  went  together ;  and  in  all  his 
subsequent  labours  and  triumphs,  the  wife  was 
his  good  angel. 

For  thirty-eight  years  Flaxman  lived  wedded — 
his  health  was  generally  good,  his  spirits  ever 
equal ;  and  his  wife,  to  whom  his  fame  was  hap- 
piness, had  been  always  at  his  side.  She  was  a 
most  cheerful,  intelligent  woman ;  a  collector,  too, 
of  drawings  and  sketches,  and  an  admirer  of  Stot- 
hard,  of  whose  designs  and  prints  she  had  amassed 
more  than  a  thousand.  Her  husband  paid  her  the 
double  respect  due  to  affection  and  talent ;  and 
when  any  difficulty  in  composition  occurred,  he 
would  say,  with  a  smile,  "Ask  Mrs.  Flaxman,  she 
is  my  dictionary."  She  maintained  the  simplicity 
and  dignity  of  her  husband,  and  refused  all  pre- 
sents of  paintings,  or  drawings,  or  books,  unless 
some  reciprocal  interchange  were  made.  It  is 
almost  needless  to  say  that  Flaxman  loved  such  a 
woman  very  tenderly.  The  hour  of  their  separa- 
tion approached — she  fell  ill,  and  died  in  the  year 
1820 ;  and  from  the  time  of  this  bereavement, 
something  like  a  lethargy  came  over  his  spirit.  He 
survived  his  wife  six  years  ;  and,  as  his  biographer 
remarks,  was  "surrounded  with  the  applause  of 
the  world." 


FODOR,    MAINVILLE,  JOSEPHINE, 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  opera-singers  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Her  fame  is  European.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  M.  Fodor,  the  violinist,  and 
born  at  Paris  in  179-3.  Already  in  her  eleventh 
year,  she  appeared  at  the  opera  in  St.  Petersburg 
with  a  success  which  drew  the  eyes  of  all  the 
directors  of  operas  in  Europe  upon  her.  Her 
fame  increased  from  year  to  year,  so  that  even  at 
the  age  of  seventeen  she  had  the  most  brilliant  offers 
from  the  best  theatres  in  Europe.  She  married 
the  actor  Mainville,  and  appeared  with  her  hus- 
band at  all  the  court  theatres  in  Denmark,  Eng- 
land, France,  Germany,  Russia,  Sweden,  and  Italy. 
The  latter  country  greeted  her  with  the  title  of 
Queen  of  Song,  and  Venice  had  a  medal  struck 
to  honour  her.  Mademoiselle  Sontag  owes  much 
to  her  instruction.     She  died  a  few  years  ago. 

FOIX,    MARGARET   DE,   DUCHESS 
D'EPERNON. 

In  1588,  the  chief  of  the  league,  wishing  to 
ruin  the  duke,  rendered  him  an  object  of  suspi- 
cion at  court,  and  obtained  an  order  to  take  from 
him  the  castle  of  Angouleme,  of  which  he  was 
governor.  The  magistrate  charged  with  the  execu- 
tion of  this  act  seized  the  duchess,  and  conducted 
her  to  the  principal  gate  of  the  citadel,  in  order 
that  her  danger  might  induce  the  duke  to  submit. 
In  this  situation,  one  of  the  ofBcers  by  whom  the 
duchess  was  led  was  killed  at  her  feet,  and  another 
mortally  wounded.  Calm  amidst  the  dangers  which 
menaced  her,  and  insensible  to  the  remonstrances 
of  the  enemy,  who  urged  her  to  exhort  her  hus- 
band to  surrender,  she  replied,  magnanimously, 
that  she  knew  not  how  to  give  ill  counsel ;  nor 
would  she  enter  into  a  treaty  with  murderers. 
"In  what  terms,"  said  she,  "can  a  wife,  who  is 
afflicted  only  that  she  has  but  one  life  to  offer  for 
the  honour  and  safety  of  her  husband,  persuade 
him  to  an  act  of  cowardice  ?"  She  went  on  to 
declare,  that  she  would  shed,  with  joy,  the  last 
drop  of  her  blood  to  add  new  lustre  to  the  reputa- 
tion of  her  husband  ;  or  to  lengthen  his  existence 
but  a  single  day ;  that  she  would  be  guilty  of  no 
weakness  tliat  should  disgrace  him  :  and  that  she 
would  die  with  pleasure  at  the  castle-gate  for  him, 
without  whom  she  should  abhor  life  even  on  a 
throne. 

To  the  dvike,  whom  they  endeavoured  to  terrify 
by  the  danger  which  threatened  his  wife,  she  held 
out  her  arms,  and  implored  him  not  to  suffer  his 
resolution  to  be  shaken  by  any  considerations 
which  respected  her  safety.  It  was  her  wish,  she 
told  him,  that  her  body  might  serve  him  for  a  new 
rampart  against  his  enemies.  On  him,  she  de- 
clared, in  whom  alone  she  lived,  depended  her 
fortune  and  her  fate.  That  by  sacrificing  himself 
he  would  gain  no  advantage,  since  she  was  deter- 
mined not  to  survive  him  ;  but  that  to  live  in  his 
remembrance  would,  in  despite  of  their  adversa- 
ries, constitute  her  happiness  and  her  glory. 

The  grace  and  energy  with  wliich  she  expressed 
herself,  softened  the  hearts  of  the  enemy,  who 
deliberated  on  other  means  by  which  their  pur- 

315 


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pose  might  be  effected.  In  the  interval  the  duke 
was  relieved  by  his  friends ;  when  the  duchess, 
impatient  to  rejoin  this  beloved  husband,  of  whom 
she  had  proved  herself  so  worthy,  without  waiting 
till  the  castle-gate  was  cleared,  entered  by  a  ladder 
at  one  of  the  windows,  and  was  received  with  the 
honovirs  and  tenderness  she  merited. 

FONSECA,  ELEONORA,  MAR- 
CHIONESS OF, 

A  LADY  of  great  beauty  and  talents,  was  born 
at  Naples  in  1768.  She  cultivated  botany,  and 
other  branches  of  natural  history,  and  assisted 
Spallanzani  in  his  philosophical  investigations. 
Though  possessed  of  great  beauty,  she  devoted 
her  youth  to  the  cultivation  of  her  mind.  She 
studied  with  much  care  natural  history  and  ana- 
tomy. As  might  be  supposed,  she  was  a  warm 
jiartisan  of  the  French  revolution.  When  the 
king  and  royal  family  were  obliged  to  leave  Naples 
in  1799,  the  marchioness  of  Fonseca  narrowly 
escaped  the  fury  of  the  Lazzaroni,  who  threatened 
the  lives  of  those  who  were  in  the  Fi'ench  interest. 
During  the  short-lived  existence  of  the  Partheno- 
pean  republic,  in  1799,  she  warmly  espoused  the 
popular  cause,  and  edited  a  republican  journal 
called  "  The  Neapolitan  Monitor."  For  these  ex- 
pressions of  her  political  principles  the  marchioness 
was  executed,  on  the  20th  of  July,  by  the  restored 
government.  Her  private  character  was  irre- 
proachable 

FONTANA,   LAVINIA, 

Daughtee  of  Prospero  Fontana,  a  painter  of 
Bologna,  died  in  1602,  aged  fifty.  She  was  emi- 
nent as  a  painter,  and  was  patronized  by  Pope 
Gregory  XIII.,  whose  picture  she  drew  in  a  very 
superior  manner. 

FONTANGES,    MARIE   ANGELIQUE, 
DUCHESS   OF, 

Successor  to  Montespan  in  the  affections  of 
Louis  XIV.,  was  beautiful  as  an  angel,  but  silly 
sis  a  goose,  as  Abbe  Choisi  said.  She  nevertheless 
captivated  the  .affections  of  Louis  XIV.,  who  was 
tired  of  the  pride  and  the  caprice  of  Madame  de 
Montespan.  As  soon  as  she  discovered  the  pas- 
sion which  she  had  inspii-ed,  and  had  secui-ed  her 
royal  conquest,  she  became  haughty  and  extra- 
vagant, spending  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  a 
month,  and  retorting  a  hundred-fold  the  disdain 
she  had  experienced  from  Madame  de  Montespan. 
She  became  the  general  dispenser  of  the  king's 
favours,  and  the  model  of  fashion.  One  day,  when 
she  was  on  a  hunting-party,  the  wind  having  put 
her  head-dress  in  disorder,  she  fastened  it  with  a 
riband,  the  knot  of  which  falling  over  her  fore- 
liead,  this  fashion  spread  all  over  Europe  under 
her  name.  The  king  made  her  a  duchess ;  but  she 
did  not  long  enjoy  the  rank,  as  she  died  when 
scarcely  twenty  years  old,  in  the  abbey  of  Port- 
Royal,  Paris,  shortly  after  an  accouchement. 

FONTE,    MODERATA, 

The  assumed  name  of  a  celebrated  Venetian 
lady,  whose  real  name  was  Modesta  Pazzo.     She 


was  bom  at  Venice,  in  1555,  and  became  an  orphan 
in  her  infancy.  AVhile  young,  she  was  placed  in 
the  convent  of  the  nuns  of  Martha  of  Venice ;  but 
afterwards  left  it,  and  was  married.  She  lived 
twenty  years  very  happily  with  her  husband,  and 
died  in  1592.  She  learned  poetry  and  Latin  with 
the  greatest  ease;  and  is  said  to  have  had  so  pro- 
digious a  memory,  that,  after  hearing  a  sermon 
only  once,  she  could  repeat  it  word  for  word. 
She  wrote  a  poem,  entitled  "  II  Floridoro,"  and  an- 
other on  the  "Passion  and  Resurrection  of  Jesus 
Christ."  Besides  these  and  other  poems,  she  wrote 
a  book  in  prose,  which  was  not  published  till  after 
her  death,  called  "  Dei  Meriti  delle  Donne,"  in 
which  she  maintains  that  women  are  not  inferior 
in  understanding  or  merit  to  men.  None  of  her 
works  are  now  extant. 

FORCE,  CHARLOTTE  ROSE  DE 
CAUMENT  DE  LA, 

A  French  poetess,  who  died  in  1724,  aged  se- 
venty. Her  "  Castle  in  Spain,"  a  poem ;  and  her 
"Secret  History  of  Burgundy,"  a  romance;  her 
tales,  and  other  works,  possess  considerable  merit ; 
but  nothing  she  wrote  has  retained  a  permanent 
place  in  French  literature. 


J'lJ^N 


FOUGERET,  ANNA  FRANCESCA 
DONTREMONT, 

Was  born  at  Paris  in  1745,  in  a  family  where, 
by  example  and  instruction,  she  was  brouglit  up 
to  know  and  practise  the  virtues  of  a  Christian. 
Her  father  was  an  eminent  barrister;  and  her  mo- 
ther, descended  from  a  very  respectable  family, 
was  a  woman  of  superior  ability,  and  esteemed 
for  her  many  virtues.  Anna  was  married  when  very- 
young  to  M.  de  Fougeret,  receiver-general  of  the 
finance.  At  the  head  of  an  establishment  of  which 
she  had  the  management,  and  living  in  an  extended 
circle  of  society,  she  found  time  to  be  the  instruct- 
ress of  her  children,  whom  she  educated  in  a  most 
careful  manner.  Her  love  for  her  own  infants 
awakened  her  sympathy  for  some  unfortunates 
whom  circumstances  brought  under  her  notice. 
Her  father,  who  was  a  dirfector  of  the  hospitals, 
often  deplored  the  miserable  situation  of  that  of 

316 


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the  foundlings,  where  numbers  of  babes  perished 
for  want  of  proper  nutrition,  impossible  to  be 
given,  and  from  the  bad  air  of  overcrowded  rooms. 
The  pictures  of  this  distress  deeply  moved  the 
heart  of  Madame  de  Fougeret;  nor  was  she  satis- 
fied with  a  barren  commiseration ;  she  pondered 
over  the  subject  until  she  devised  the  remedy ; 
but  her  plans  required  more  money  than  a  pi-ivate 
purse  could  supply.  True  benevolence  is  invinci- 
ble. Madame  de  Fougeret,  abdicating  all  personal 
merit  in  this  good  act,  communicated  her  ideas  to 
the  duchess  de  Cosse,  whose  rank  and  power, 
imited  with  her  benevolence  and  piety,  rendered 
her  the  fit  person  to  set  on  foot  this  useful  estab- 
lishment. Soon  all  the  opulent  ladies  of  Paris 
became  interested,  everything  was  arranged,  every 
obstacle  surmounted,  and  the  "  Maternal  Charity" 
became  an  institution. 

Louis  XVI.  and  Maria  Antoinette  headed  the 
list  of  subscribers,  and  in  1788  the  society  began 
their  labours.  These  were  crowned  with  the  ut- 
most success  until  the  whirlwind  of  1789  came  to 
disperse  the  founders  and  patrons.  Amidst  the 
trials  to  which  she  was  exposed,  JMadame  de  Fou- 
geret had  the  opportunity  of  manifesting  the 
greatness  of  her  mind  and  the  energy  of  her  cha- 
racter. Her  husband  expired  on  the  guillotine, 
and  she  was  left  to  sustain,  encourage,  and  main- 
tain her  children ;  and,  by  judicious  exertion  of 
her  abilities,  she  rescued  from  confiscation  the 
patrimony  of  her  family.  After  the  restitution  of 
her  property  she  lived  in  the  country,  surrounded 
by  a  numerous  offspring,  to  whom  she  was  an  ob- 
ject of  love  and  veneration.  In  1813,  a  painful 
malady  terminated  a  life  of  virtue  and  good 
works. 

The  sagacity  of  Napoleon  discerned  the  value 
of  the  institution  devised  by  Madame  de  Fougeret. 
He  adopted  it,  and  declared  it  by  a  decree  of  the 
senate  an  Imperial  Institute ;  and  the  empress, 
Maria  Louisa,  was  its  directress. 

At  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  the  dau- 
phiness  saw,  with  much  emotion,  the  signature  of 
her  unfortunate  mother  among  the  early  promoters 
of  this  charity.  This  was  enough  to  enlist  her  in- 
terest ;  and  she,  by  personal  attention  and  munifi- 
cent donations,  assisted  the  managers.  Since  then 
the  funds  of  the  society  have  been  increased  by 
bequests  and  donations  until  it  has  become  as 
flourishing  as  its  benevolent  originator  could  have 
ever  anticipated  or  desired.  But  Madame  Fou- 
geret was  its  foundress. 

FOUQUE,  CAROLINE  AUGUSTE  DE 
LA  MOTTE, 

Born  in  177^,  at  Hernhauser.  Iler  maiden 
name  was  Von  Briest.  She  married  first  a  gen- 
tleman named  Von  Rochow,  from  whom  she  was 
divoi'ced,  in  1800,  when  she  married  Charles  F. 
Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque,  the  poet  of  the  roman- 
tic school.  In  1807,  she  published  "Roderic;" 
in  1809,  "  Letters  on  Female  Education  ;"  in  1812, 
"Magic  of  Nature;"  in  1814,  "Feodore;"  in 
1811,  "Edmund's  Walks  and  Wanderings;"  in 
1810,  "The  Hero  Mniden  of  the  Verdi;"  and  in 
1808,  "  The  Desk."     She  died  in  1815. 


FRANCISCA,  or  FRANCES, 
A  Roman  lady,  was  the  founder  of  a  convent  at 
Rome,  called  the  Oblates.  She  followed  the  doc- 
trines of  St.  Benedict,  and  was  canonized  in  1608. 
Many  marvellous  stories  are  told  of  the  miracles 
performed  by  Francisca,  who  was  noted  for  the 
religious  mortifications  she  imposed  on  herself. 

FRANKLIN,  ELEANOR  ANN, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Porden,  an  eminent 
architect,  and  was  born  in  1795.  She  early  ma- 
nifested great  talent  and  a  strong  memory,  and 
acquired  considerable  knowledge  of  Greek  and 
other  languages.  A  knot  of  literary  .friends,  who 
occasionally  met  at  her  father's  house,  fostered 
this  natural  bent  of  her  genius :  and  their  habit 
of  furnishing  contributions  to  a  kind  of  album  kept 
by  the  party,  under  the  name  of  the  "  Salt  Box," 
(selections  from  which  have  been  printed,)  did 
much  towards  confirming  in  her  a  passionate  fond- 
ness for  poetry.  In  her  seventeenth  year  she 
wrote,  as  her  share  towards  this  domestic  miscel- 
lany, her  first  jDoem,  "  The  Veils,  or  the  Triumphs 
of  Constancy,"  which  was  published  in  1815,  with 
a  dedication  to  Countess  Spenser.  Three  years 
afterwards  appeared  a  small  "Poetical  Tribute," 
under  the  name  of  "  The  Arctic  Expedition,"  sug- 
gested by  a  visit  to  the  Isabella  and  Alexander 
discovery  ships,  which  visit  led  to  an  acquaintance 
with  Captain  Franklin,  one  of  the  gallant  adven- 
turers, that  ended  in  marriage,  after  his  return 
from  the  expedition,  in  the  month  of  August,  1823. 
The  year  previously  appeared  Miss  Porden's  prin- 
cipal work,  an  epic  poem  on  the  subject  of  tlie 
third  crusade,  entitled  "  Coeurde  Lion,"  dedicated 
by  permission  to  the  king.  In  June,  1824,  the 
birth  of  a  daughter  encouraged  hopes  in  her 
friends,  that  a  strong  tendency  to  a  pulmonary 
complaint,  increased  by  the  bursting  of  a  blood- 
vessel, in  1822,  might  be  counteracted;  but  these 
flattering  expectations  were  soon  destroyed,  and 
she  died,  February  22d,  1825. 

FRANZ,  AGNES, 
BoBN  at  Militsch  in  Silesia,  in  1795,  was  the 
daughter  of  the  government  councillor,  L.  Franz. 
She  passed  her  youth  at  Schweidnitz,  where  she 
wrote  the  greater  number  of  her  fugitive  pieces. 
Her  poems  were  first  published  in  1826;  her  Para- 
bles were  published  at  Wesel  in  1829;  Flowers 
that  Pass,  at  Essen  in  1838.  Her  collected  works 
were  published  in  1824  at  Breslau,  under  the  title 
of  "  Glycerion  ;"  and  under  that  of  "  Cyanen"  in 
1833,  at  Essen.  In  1834,  she  edited- a  portfolio 
on  the  Lower  Rhine. 

FRATELLINI,  GIOVANNA, 
An  Italian  artist,  was  born  at  Florence  in  166ti, 
She  possessed  some  talent  for  historical  painting  ; 
but  her  chief  excellence  consisted  in  painting  por- 
traits. As  she  executed  equally  well  in  oil,  crayons, 
miniature,  and  enamel,  Cosmo  III.  and  most  of  the 
princes  and  princesses  of  Italy  sat  to  her.  Her 
own  portrait  in  the  ducal  gallery,  painted  by  her- 
self, is  a  happy  instance  of  her  talent.     It  repre- 

317 


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sents  her  in  the  act  of  taking  tlie  portrait  of  Lo- 
renzo, her  only  son  and  pupil,  who  died  in  tlie 
bloom  of  life.  It  is  painted  in  crayons,  and  equals 
the  best  productions  of  Rosalba. 

FROHBERG,   REGINA, 

A  German  novelist,  was  born  in  1783,  at  Ber- 
lin. Her  maiden  name  was  Salamon.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  wealthy  Jewish  parents,  and  has 
lived,  since  1813,  in  Vienna.  She  is  quite  a  pro- 
lific authoress,  and  her  works  are  distinguished 
for  purity  of  style,  true  colouring,  and  a  fine 
display  of  imagination.  The  best  of  these  are 
"  Louisa,  or  the  Contest  between  Love  and  Obe- 
dience," published  at  Berlin  in  1808 ;  "  Love  and 
Grief,"  published  at  Amsterdam  in  1812 ;  and 
"  The  Vow,"  brought  out  at  Vienna  in  1816. 


FRY,   ELIZABETH, 

An  English  lady  of  the  sect  of  Friends  or  Qua- 
kers, distinguished  for  her  benevolence,  and  as 
the  originator  of  the  Newgate  female  committee, 
was  born  in  1780.  Her  father  was  Mr.  Gurney, 
of  Norwich,  England ;  and  her  brother  was  the 
celebrated  .John  J.  Gurney.  Before  her  marriage, 
she  established,  by  her  father's  consent,  a  school 
in  his  house  for  eighty  poor  children. 

In  1800,  Miss  Gurney  married  Mr.  Fry,  who 
generously  aided  her  in  her  benevolent  inclina- 
tions. An  accidental  visit  to  the  prison  at  New- 
gate, London,  so  impressed  her  with  the  misery 
of  the  women  confined  there,  that  she  took  imme- 
diate and  eflFectual  means  to  relieve  them.  She 
entered  alone  a  room  where  a  hundred  and  sixty 
women  and  children  surrounded  her  in  the  greatest 
disorder ;  she  offered  them  assistance,  and  spoke 
to  them  words  of  peace,  of  hope,  and  of  consola- 
tion. They  listened  in  silent  astonishment  and 
respect.  Mrs.  Fry  repeated  her  visit,  and  passed 
a  whole  day  with  them,  reading  and  instructing 
them  from  the  Bible.  She  won  their  love  and  their 
confidence ;  founded  in  the  prison  a  school  for  the 
children,  and  societies  for  the  improvement  of 
those  more  advanced.  She  drew  up  rules  for  their 
conduct,  to  which  they  unanimously  consented ; 
and  one  of  their  own  number  was  appointed  a 


matron  or  superintendent,  under  the  inspection 
of  twenty-four  women  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 
Mrs.  Fry  was  engaged  many  years  in  this  arduous 
undertaking.  She  afterwards  travelled  through 
several  countries,  but  always  in  pursuance  of 
some  plan  for  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the 
poor  and  friendless. 

Born  to  fortune,  and  to  those  charms  of  person 
and  graces  of  manner,  which,  making  their  pos- 
sessor the  idol  of  society,  sometimes  stand  in  the 
way  of  an  entire  devotion  to  duty,  Mrs.  Fry  over- 
came all  these  worldly  temptations.  She  was 
blessed  with  a  sweet  voice,  whose  jjersuasive  tones 
proved  no  trifling  advantage  in  her  labours ;  and  a 
yet  sweeter  temper,  without  which  both  philan- 
thropy and  religion  would  have  been  vain  in  deal- 
ing with  the  erring.  In  her  youth  she  was  more 
remarkable  for  seriousness  than  vivacity. 

The  latest  project  of  Mrs.  Fry  was  the  forma- 
tion of  libraries  for  the  use  of  the  Coast  Guards, 
in  their  numerous  stations  round  the  British  Isles; 
and  this,  with  the  aid  of  her  friends  and  the  pa- 
tronage of  government,  she  lived  to  see  completely 
successful. 

As  a  wife  and  mother,  indeed  in  all  her  domestic 
and  social  relations,  she  was  equally  exemplary. 
She  died  in  1845,  aged  sixty-nine  years.  Her 
death  caused  a  great  sensation  throughout  Europe. 
It  was  felt  that  a  star  of  love  and  hope  had  gone 
down ;  and  none  has  yet  risen  to  shine  with  the 
sweet  and  cheering  lustre  for  the  poor  as  did  this 
truly  angelic  woman.  She  not  only  practised  the 
most  disinterested  charity  herself,  but  made  it 
familiar  with  all  under  her  influence.  Her  chil- 
dren were  taught  to  consider  relieving  the  poor  a 
pleasure,  because  their  mother  did  it  in  such  a 
cheerful  spirit.  She  employed  her  children  as 
almoners  when  very  young,  but  required  a  minute 
account  of  their  giving,  and  their  reasons  for  it. 
After  the  establishment  of  the  Tract  Society,  she 
always  kept  a  large  supply  of  such  as  she  ap- 
proved for  distribution.  It  was  her  desire  not 
only  to  relieve  the  bodily  wants,  but  also  in  some 
way  to  benefit  the  souls  of  the  poor.  Among  other 
charities,  Mrs.  Fry  acquired  the  art  of  vaccina- 
tion, in  order  to  vaccinate  the  poor ;  and,  at  inter- 
vals, made  a  sort  of  investigation  of  the  state  of 
the  parish  where  she  resided,  and  persuaded  pa- 
rents to  have  their  children  vaccinated ;  and  she 
sought  to  influence  their  minds  to  escape  the  con- 
tagion of  sin  by  furnishing  Bibles  and  books  of 
instruction  to  all  who  had  them  not. 

Thus  passed  her  life  in  this  round  of  benefi- 
cence ;  beloved  and  honoured  in  a  degree  which 
queens  might  envy ;  and  women  most  renowned 
for  genius  might  gladly  lay  down  their  crowns  of 
laurel  at  her  feet,  and  thank  her  for  the  glory  she 
has  conferred  on  the  sex.  She  was  not  gifted  with 
what  is  termed  genius ;  she  has  left  few  written 
records ;  and  these,  though  expressive  of  piety, 
are  not  like  her  life,  interesting  and  uplifting  in 
their  tendency.  It  was  not  her  mission  to  write 
books ;  but  to  leave  an  example  of  good  works, 
more  impressive  and  beautiful  than  the  pen  can 
teach.  We  give  a  few  extracts  from  her  "Jour- 
nal." 

318 


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QUESTIONS    FOR    MYSELF. 

First, — Hast  thou  this  day  been  honest  and  true 
in  performing  thy  duty  towards  thy  Creator  in  the 
first  place ;  and,  secondly,  towards  thy  fellow- 
creatures  ;  or  hast  thou  sophisticated  and  flinched  ? 

Second, — Hast  thou  been  vigilant  in  frequently 
pausing  in  the  hurry  and  career  of  the  day,  to  see 
who  thou  art  endeavoiu-ing  to  serve  ;  whether  thy 
Maker  or  thyself?  And  every  time  that  trial  or 
temptation  assailed  thee,  didst  thou  endeavour  to 
look  steadily  to  the  Delivering  Power;  even  to 
Christ,  who  can  do  all  things  for  thee  ? 

Third, — Hast  thou  endeavoured  to  perform  thy 
relative  duties  faithfully;  been  a  tender,  loving, 
yielding  wife,  where  thy  own  will  and  pleasure 
were  concerned ;  a  tender,  yet  steady  mother  with 
thy  children,  making  thyself  quickly  and  sti-ictly 
obeyed,  but  careful  in  what  thou  requirest  of 
them ;  a  kind,  yet  honest  mistress,  telling  thy 
servants  of  their  faults,  when  thou  thinkest  it  for 
their  or  thy  good,  but  never  unnecessarily  worry- 
ing thyself  or  them  about  trifles ;  and  to  every 
one  endeavouring  to  do  as  thou  wouldst  be  done 
unto? 

THE    EFFECT    OF    THE    BIBLE    ON    THE    FEMALE    PKI- 
SONEKS. 

Another  vei-y  important  point  is  the  excellent 
effect  we  have  found  to  result  from  religious  edu- 
cation ;  our  habit  is  constantly  to  read  the  Scrip- 
tures to  the  prisoners  twice  a  day  ;  many  of  them 
have  been  taught,  and  some  of  them  have  been 
enabled  to  read  a  little  themselves ;  it  has  had  an 
astonishing  effect.  I  never  saw  the  Scriptures 
received  in  the  same  way ;  and  to  many  of  them 
they  have  been  entirely  new,  both  the  great  sys- 
tem of  religion  and  morality  contained  in  them ; 
and  it  has  been  very  satisfactory  to  observe  the 
effect  upon  their  minds.  When  I  have  sometimes 
gone  and  said  it  was  my  intention  to  read,  they 
would  flock  up  stairs  after  me,  as  if  it  were  a  great 
pleasure  I  had  to  afford  them. 

CAPIT.\L    PUNISHMENT. 

[The  following  rough  memoranda,  in  the  form  of  question 
and  answer,  were  found  in  Mrs.  Fry's  writing  among  her 
papers.] 

Does  capital  punishment  tend  to  the  security 
of  the  people  ? 

By  no  means.  It  hardens  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  makes  the  loss  of  life  appear  light  to  them ; 
and  it  renders  life  insecure,  inasmuch  as  the  law 
holds  out  that  property  is  of  greater  value  than 
life.  The  wicked  are  consequently  more  often  dis- 
posed to  sacrifice  life  to  obtain  property.  It  also 
lessens  the  security  of  the  subject,  because  many 
are  so  conscientious,  that  they  had  rather  suffer 
loss  and  sustain  much  injury,  than  be  instrumental 
in  taking  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature.  The  result 
is,  that  the  innocent  suffer  loss,  and  the  guilty 
escape  with  impunity. 

Does  capital  punishment  tend  to  the  reformation 
of  any  party  ? 

No :  because  in  those  who  suffer  it  leads  to  un- 
belief, hypocrisy,  and  fatalism ;  in  those  who  re- 


main, to  discontent,  dissatisfaction  with  the  law,", 
and  the  powers  which  carry  them  into  execution  : 
to  hardness  of  heart,  unbelief,  and  deceit. 

Does  it  deter  others  from  crime  ? 

No :  because  the  crimes  subject  to  capital  pun- 
ishment are  gradually  increasing.  Punishment  is 
not  for  revenge,  but  to  lessen  crime  and  reform 
the  criminal. 


G. 


GACON,  DUFOUR  MAPJE  A.  JOHANNE, 
A  DESCENDANT  of  the  Celebrated  poet  of  the 
same  name,  devoted  all  her  fine  talents  and  ener- 
gies to  the  study  of  agriculture  and  economy.  Her 
best  works  on  these  subjects  ai-e  "  Bibliotheque 
Agronomique,"  "  Dictionnaire  Rurale  et  Recueil 
Pratique  d'Economie  Rurale  et  Domestique."  She 
wrote,  moreover,  "  La  femme  Grenadier,"  in  1801 ; 
"  Les  Dangers  de  la  Prevention ;"  and  "  Les  Pre- 
juge  Vaincu;"  besides  several  other  woi-ks. 

GAETANS,  AURORA, 
Of  Saponara,  in  Calabria,  born  in  1669.  From 
her  earliest  years  she  devoted  herself  to  elegant 
literature.  She  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  in- 
structed by  the  most  illustrious  men  of  her  age, 
and  to  enjoy  their  friendship ;  such  persons  as 
Leonardo  da  Capua,  il  Calabrese,  il  Vico.  She 
was  much  admired  for  her  j)oetry,  and  belonged 
to  the  Accademia  Arcadica,  under  the  name  of 
Lucinda  Coritesea.  She  died  in  1730.  Her  poems 
are  to  be  found  in  the  collection  of  Bergalli ;  they 
are  written  with  exquisite  delicacy  and  taste. 

GABRIELLI,    CATHARINE, 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  singers  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  was  born  at  Rome  in  1730.  As 
soon  as  her  great  talent  was  discovered,  (by  acci- 
dent,) she  received  instructions  from  Garcia  (la 
Spagnaletto)  and  Porpora.  In  the  year  1747,  she 
sang  at  the  theatre  of  Lucca,  where  she  was  ge- 
nerally admired.  Francis  I.  called  her  subse- 
quently to  Vienna.  Metastasio  gave  her  the  last 
finish,  especially  with  regard  to  the  recitative. 
The  operas  of  this  poet  gained  more  celebrity  by 
her  than  by  any  other  musician.  An  anecdote  is 
told  concerning  the  extreme  capriciousness  of  this 
lady.  The  viceroy  of  Sicily  invited  her  one  day  to 
dine  with  him  and  the  highest  nobility  of  Palermo. 
When  she  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  he  sent  a  messenger  to  inform  her 
that  she  was  expected  by  the  party.  She  was 
found  reading  on  her  sofa,  and  pretended  to  have 
entirely  forgotten  the  invitation.  The  viceroy 
seemed  inclined  to  forgive  this  impoliteness  ;  but 
when,  during  the  opera,  she  acted  her  part  with 
the  utmost  negligence,  and  sang  all  her  airs  sollo 
voce,  he  threatened  her  with  punishment ;  yet  his 
displeasure  seemed  to  have  no  other  effect  but  to 
render  her  still  more  stubborn  ;  she  declared  that 
she  might  be  forced  to  scream,  but  not  to  sing.  She 
was  committed  to  prison  for  twelve  days ;  during 
this  time  she  gave  costly  entertainments,  paid  all 

319 


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G  A 


the  debts  of  the  prisoners,  and,  with  great  charity, 
spent  large  sums  of  money  among  them.  The 
viceroy  being  obliged  to  yield,  she  was  released 
amidst  the  shoutings  of  the  poor.  She  would  never 
go  to  England.  When  offered  an  engagement  at 
the  theati'e  of  London,  she  said,  "  I  should  not  be 
mistress  of  my  own  will ;  whenever  I  should  have 
a  fancy  not  to  sing,  the  people  would  insult,  per- 
haps misuse  me ;  better  is  it  to  remain  here  un- 
molested, were  it  even  in  a  prison." 

In  the  year  1765,  the  empress  Catharine  invited 
her  to  St.  Petersburg,  with  the  intention  to  engage 
her  for  two  months.  When  her  salary  was  men- 
tioned, she  asked  five  thousand  ducats. 

"Five  thousand  ducats!"  exclaimed  the  em- 
press; "none  of  my  field-marshals  receive  so  en- 
ormous a  sum!" 

"In  this  case,"  replied  the  songstress,  "your 
majesty  has  only  to  engage  one  of  yoiu-  field-mar- 
shals to  sing." 

The  empress  laughed,  and  paid  the  desired  sum. 
Towards  the  year  1780,  Gabrielli  went  to  Milan, 
where  she  did  her  utmost  to  triumph  over  and  de- 
feat Marchesi.  In  general,  the  rest  of  the  singers 
were  afraid  of  her.  Pacchiarotti  thought  himself 
lost,  when  he  appeared  for  the  first  time  with  her 
on  the  stage.  She  sang  a  difficult  air  peculiarly 
adapted  to  her  voice,  in  which  she  displayed  her 
whole  power  of  singing  to  such  a  degree,  that  poor 
Pacchiarotti  fled,  with  loud  groans,  behind  the 
scenes,  and  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  come 
forth  again.  She  retired  from  the  stage  in  1780, 
and  died  in  1796. 

GAIL,    SOPHIA, 
Wife  of  John  Baptist  Gail,  a  celebrated  Helle- 
nist, was  born  about  1779,  and  died  at  Paris  in 
1819.    For  the  arts,  particularly  music,  she  Qiani-  I 
fested  an  early  taste,  and  began  to  compose  when  | 
she  was  not  more  than  twelve  years  of  age.  Among  | 
her  principal  compositions  are  the  operas  of  "  The  | 
Jealous  Pair;"  "Mademoiselle  de  Launay  in  the  | 
Bastile  ;"  and  "  The  Serenade."  1 

GAILLARD,    JANE, 

A  POETESS  of  Lyons,  living  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. We  have  found  nothing  concerning  her  writ- 
ings ;  therefore  have  only  the  record  of  her  name, 
as  presented  in  the  collection  of  Lj'onese  authors, 
to  give.  Will  the  numerous  band  of  young  ladies 
who  now  write  "  charming  sonnets"  for  the  public  I 
joiu'nals,  leave  each  one,  a  name  which  will  be  ' 
remembered  after  a  lapse  of  three  hundred  years  ? 

GALLITZIN,  AMALIA,  PRINCESS, 
A  LADY  distinguished  for  talents,  and  a  strong 
propensity  to  mysticism,  was  the  daughter  of  count 
Schmettan,  and  lived  during  part  of  her  youth  at 
the  court  of  prince  Ferdinand,  brother  of  Frederic 
the  Great  of  Prussia.  She  married  prince  Gallit- 
zin,  of  Russia;  and,  as  much  of  his  time  was 
passed  in  travelling,  she  chose  Munstcr,  in  the 
centre  of  Germany,  for  her  pei'raanent  residence. 
Here  she  assembled  around  her  many  of  the  most 
flisfinguished  men  in  Germany,  of  whom  Hamann 
and  Hemsterhuis  were  her  most  intimate  friends. 


She  was  an  ardent  Catholic,  and  very  fond  of 
making  proselytes ;  with  the  exception  of  this 
excessive  zeal,  she  was  a  very  fine  woman.  Her 
children  were  educated  according  to  Rousseau's 
system.  The  princess  is  the  Diotama  to  whom 
Hemsterhuis,  under  the  name  of  Dioklas,  ad- 
dressed his  work  on  Atheism.  She  died  in  1806, 
near  Munster.  Her  only  son  was  a  missionary  in 
America. 

GALIGAI,    ELEONORA, 

The  family  name  of  the  marechale  d'Ancre, 
was  wife  of  Concini,  marechal  d'Ancre.  Born  in 
very  humble  life,  the  daughter  of  a  joiner,  and  a 
washerwoman  in  Italy,  she  enjoyed  for  some  time 
an  irresistible  dominion  in  France ;  and  perished 
at  last  by  a  judicial  sentence  pronounced  upon  her 
for  crimes,  some  of  which  were  not  proved,  and 
others  impossible  to  be  committed.  She  was  foster- 
sister  to  Mary  de  Medicis,  who  loved  her  with  the 
tenderest  affection.  It  was  doubtless  the  favour 
she  enjoyed  with  this  princess  that  induced  Con- 
cini to  marry  her ;  for  she  was  exceedingly  plain. 
Her  talents,  however,  made  amends  for  her  per- 
sonal defects.  They  went  to  France  with  Mary  de 
Medicis,  whom.  Madame  Concini  governed  so  com- 
pletely, that  she  was  virtually  queen,  and  after- 
wards regent  of  France.  Her  excessive  insolence 
so  disgusted  Louis  XIII. ,  the  son  of  her  protectress, 
that  he  gave  her  up  to  the  envy  and  hatred  of  the 
court.  Concini  was  assassinated  by  the  king's 
order,  and  his  wife  was  brought  to  a  trial,  in 
which,  for  want  of  other  crimes,  she  was  accused 
of  sorcery.  Being  asked  by  what  magic  she  had 
so  fascinated  the  queen,  she  replied,  "  By  the 
power  which  strong  minds  naturally  possess  over 
the  weak."  She  was  condemned  in  May,  and  exe- 
cuted in  July,  1617.  She  left  a  son  and  a  daughter. 
The  latter  died  soon  after  her  mother ;  the  son, 
though  he  lost  his  nobility,  retired  to  Italy,  with 
an  ample  fortune,  which  had  been  accumulated 
by  the  avarice  of  his  parents. 

The  marchioness  de  Concini  was  accused,,  with 
her  husband,  of  having  turned  Jews,  and  of  prac- 
tising magic  arts.  Her  fastidiousness,  while  at 
the  height  of  her  power,  was  so  great,  that  the 
princes,  princesses,  and  first  personages  in  the 
kingdom,  were  prohibited  from  coming  to  her 
apartments ;  and  it  was  accounted  a  crime  to  look 
at  her. 

GARRIPK,  EVA  MARIA, 
Wife  of  the  celebrated  David  Garrick,  was  born 
at  Vienna,  February  29th,  1725.  Her  maiden 
name  was.Viegel,  under  which  appellation  she  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  Maria  Theresa,  empress  of 
Austria,  as  a  dancer,  and  by  her  command  changed 
it  to  Violette,  a  translation  of  an  anagram  of  her 
name.  In  1744,  she  arrived  in  England,  bringing 
with  her  a  letter  from  the  countess  of  Ktahreni- 
berg  to  the  countess  of  Burlington,  who  received 
her  as  an  inmate  of  Burlington-house,  and  treated 
her  with  the  greatest  affection.  This  circumstance 
gave  rise  to  a  very  general  but  erroneous  idea,  that 
Eva  or  Violette  was  a  natural  daughter  of  the 
earl's,  born  before  his  mar)-iage  with  the  countess  ; 

320 


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but  the  dates  of  the  respective  events  prove  the 
inaccuracy  of  the  supposition.  While  under  the 
protection  of  this  noble  family,  Mademoiselle  Vio- 
lette  formed  an  attachment  with  David  Garrick, 
and  on  the  22d  of  June,  1749,  the  nuptials  were 
celebrated,  with  the  sanction  of  the  earl  and 
countess ;  a  marriage  portion  of  six  thousand 
pounds  being  bestowed  upon  the  bride  by  the 
former.  In  1751  and  in  1763,  Mrs.  Garrick  ac- 
companied her  husband  to  the  continent ;  and  in 
1769,  the  journals  of  the  day  speak  highly  of  the 
grace  and  elegance  displayed  by  her  at  the  Strat- 
ford jubilee.  After  the  death  of  her  husband, 
though  strongly  solicited  by  several  persons  of 
rank  and  fortune,  (among  others  by  the  learned 
lord  Monboddo,)  to  re-enter  the  marriage  state, 
she  continued  a  widow,  residing  in  her  house  on 
the  Adelphi  terrace,  where  she  died  suddenly  in 
her  chair,  October  16th,  1822,  and  was  buried  in 
the  same  vault  with  her  husband,  near  the  ceno- 
taph of  Shakspeare,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  the 
25th  day  of  October  in  the  same  year. 

The  beauty  and  truth  of  Mrs.  Garrick's  charac- 
ter in  her  conjugal  relation  chiefly  entitles  her  to 
a  notice  in  our  work.  As  the  wife  and  widow  of 
David  Garrick,  she  offers  an  example  of  the  sin- 
gleness and  purity  of  woman's  soul  which  deserves 
a  record.  Miss  Hannah  More,  then  a  young  lady, 
had  been  intimate  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrick  for 
several  years  before  his  decease.  On  her  first  visit 
to  the  new-made  widow,  she  thus  describes  her  — 
"Not  a  sigh  escaped  poor  Mrs.  Garrick  that  she 
could  restrain.  When  I  expressed  my  surprise  at 
her  self-command,  she  answered  — '  Groans  and 
complaints  are  very  well  for  those  who  are  to 
mourn  but  a  little  while  ;  but  a  sorrow  that  is  to 
last  for  life  will  not  be  violent  or  romantic'  "  And 
it  did  last  for  life. 

GASTON,    MARGARET, 

Was  born  in  the  county  of  Cumberland,  England, 
about  the  year  1755.  Her  maiden  name  was  Sharpe. 
Her  parents  being  Catholics,  were  desirous  of 
giving  their  daughter  better  advantages  of  educa- 
tion, connected  with  their  own  faith,  than  could 
be  found  in  their  country  ;  so  Margaret  was  sent 
to  France,  and  brought  up  in  a  convent.  She  was 
very  happy  in  her  secluded  life ;  and  her  conduct 
in  her  subsequent  history  shows  that  she  was  well 
trained.  Having  two  brothers  residing  in  America, 
she  came  hither  to  visit  them ;  and  married,  in 
North  Carolina,  Dr.  Alexander  Gaston,  of  Hugue- 
not ancestry.  This  was  about  the  commencement 
of  the  war  of  our  Independence ;  and  Dr.  Gaston 
took  a  zealous  pai't  with  his  country.  'He  was 
cruelly  murdered,  in  presence  of  his  wife  and  little 
children,  by  a  body  of  tories  in  British  pay  ; — the 
musket  which  found  his  heart  was  levelled  over 
her  shoulder ! 

Her  brothers  and  eldest  son  died  before  this  sad 
event.  Mrs.  Gaston  had  no  relatives  in  America 
but  her  two  surviving  children,  William,  a  boy  of 
three  years  old,  and  an  infant  daughter.  In  the 
eloquent  language  of  Mrs.  Ellet,  who  has  given  the 
biography^  of  this  interesting  latly  in  her  '•  Women 
•f  the  Anie:!;-:;!)  Revolution,"  —  "Many  women, 
V 


possessing  the  acute  sensibility  of  Mrs.  Gaston, 
would  have  been  overwhelmed  in  such  a  situa- 
tion ;  but  severe  trials  served  only  to  develop  the 
admirable  energy  of  her  character.  Every  mo- 
ment of  her  being  guided  by  religion,  she  was 
strong  in  its  support,  and  devoted  herself  to  the 
duties  that  devolved  upon  her,  with  a  firmness 
and  constancy  by  which  all  who  knew  her  saw  that 
she  lived  above  time  and  above  the  world." 

"  — Her  footsteps  seemed  to  touch  tlie  earth 
Only  to  mark  the  track  tliat  leads  to  Heaven." 

Though  still  young  when  left  a  widow,  she  never 
laid  aside  the  habiliments  of  sorrow ;  and  the  an- 
niversary of  her  husband's  murder  was  kept  as  a 
day  of  fasting  and  prayer.  The  great  object  of 
her  life  was  the  instruction  of  her  son,  and  imbu- 
ing his  mind  with  the  high  principles,  the  noble 
integrity,  and  Christian  faith,  which  shone  conspi- 
cuous in  herself.  Her  income  being  small,  she 
practised  economy  to  enable  her  to  gratify  her 
dearest  wish,  and  procure  for  him  a  complete 
education ;  while  her  maternal  tendei-ness  did  not 
dispense  with  implicit  obedience ;  and  strict  admo- 
nitions, or  yet  stricter  discipline,  were  employed 
to  correct  the  faults  of  childhood  and  youth.  One 
slight  anecdote  may  give  an  idea  of  her  method  of 
education.  When  her  son  was  seven  or  eight  years 
of  age,  being  remarkable  for  his  aptitude  and 
cleverness,  a  little  schoolmate  as  much  noted  for 
his  dullness  said  to  him  —  "  William,  what  is  the 
reason  you  are  always  head  of  the  class,  and  I  am 
always  foot  ?"  —  "  There  is  a  reason,"  replied  the 
boy;  "  but  if  I  tell  you,  you  must  i^romise  to  keep 
it  a  secret,  and  do  as  I  do.  AVhenever  I  take  up 
my  book  to  study,  I  first  say  a  little  prayer  my 
mother  taught  me,  that  I  may  be  able  to  learn  my 
lesson^s."  He  tried  to  teach  the  words  of  the  peti- 
tion to  the  dull  boy,  who  could  not  remember  them. 
The  same  night  Mrs.  Gaston  observed  AVilliam 
writing  behind  the  door  ;  and  as  she  permitted  no- 
thing her  children  did  to  be  concealed  from  her, 
he  was  obliged  to  confess  having  been  writing  out 
the  prayer  for  little  Tommy,  that  he  might  be  able 
to  get  his  lessons. 

This  cherished  son  William  (afterwards  the 
distinguished  judge  Gaston,  of  North  Carolina) 
graduated  at  Princeton,  taking  the  highest  honours 
of  the  institution.  AVhen  he  returned  home,  be- 
fore his  mother  embraced  or  welcomed  him,  she 
laid  her  hands  on  his  head,  as  he  knelt  before  her, 
and  breathed  forth  the  feelings  of  her  soul  in  the 
exclamation  —  "  My  God,  I  thank  thee  I" 

GAUSSEM,   JEANNE   CATHERINE, 

A  CELEBRATED  French  actress,  who,  for  thirty 
years,  enjoyed  the  applause  of  the  audience  in  the 
principal  French  theatres.  She  retired  from  the 
stage  in  1664,  and  died  at  Paris  in  1767,  aged 
fifty-six  years. 

GENLIS,    STEPHANIE   FELICITE, 

COUNTESS   DE, 

Was  born  near  Autun,  in  Burgundy,  in  1746. 

Her   maiden   name   was   Ducrest   de   St.  Aubin. 

Though  of  a  good  family,  she  had  no  fortune  :  but 

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her  beauty,  accomplishments,  and  skill  on  the 
harp,  introduced  her  into  high  circles,  where  she 
had  the  opportunity  of  cultivating  her  mind  and 
improving  her  knowledge  of  the  Avorld.  She  re- 
ceived many  offers  of  marriage,  and  accepted  the 
count  de  Genlis,  who,  before  he  saw  her,  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her  from  reading  one  of  her  letters. 


The  union  was  not  a  happy  one ;  and  the  tongue 
of  scandal  did  not  spare  the  character  of  Madame 
de  Genlis.  By  this  marriage,  however,  she  was 
allied  to  Madame  Montesson,  who  was  privately 
married  to  the  duke  d'Orleans ;  and  thus  it  hap- 
pened that  Jladame  de  Genlis  was  chosen  by  the 
duke  de  Chartres  as  the  governess  of  his  children. 
She  conducted  the  education  of  these  children  en- 
tirely herself,  and  wrote  her  first  works  for  their 
instruction.  Appearing  as  an  author,  she  produced 
in  rapid  succession  "  Adele  and  Theodore  ;"  "  The 
Tales  of  the  Castle ;"  "  The  Theatre  of  Education  ;" 
and  "The  Annals  of  Virtue;"  all  of  which  were 
much  praised.  Though  she  was  a  warm  friend 
to  the  revolution,  her  connexion  with  the  duke 
d'Orleans  rendered  her  so  impopular,  that,  in 
1793,  she  was  compelled  to  leave  France. 

She  relates  herself,  in  her  "  Precis  de  ma  Con- 
duite,"  that  Petion  conducted  her  to  London,  that 
she  might  meet  with  no  obstructions  to  her  jour- 
ney. About  the  time  of  the  September  massacres, 
1792,  the  duke  of  Orleans  recalled  her  to  Paris.  As 
the  governess  of  his  daughter,  the  young  duchess 
of  Orleans,  and  the  friend  and  confidant  of  the 
duke,  she  had  become  suspected.  She  therefore 
retired,  with  the  princess,  to  Tournay,  where  she 
married  her  adopted  daughter,  the  beautiful  Pa- 
mela, to  lord  Fitzgerald.  Here  she  saw  general 
Dumouriez,  and  followed  him  to  St.  Amand.  Not 
approving  of  the  plan  of  the  general  (who  had  the 
sons  of  the  duke  of  Orleans  with  him)  to  march  to 
Paris  and  overthrow  the  rcj)ublic,  she  retired  with 
the  princess  to  Switzerland,  in  1793,  where  they 
lived  in  a  convent  at  Bremgarten,  a  few  miles  from 
Zurich.  The  daughter  of  the  duke  of  Orleans 
having  at  length  gone  to  join  her  aunt,  the  princess 
of  Cond^,  at  Friburg,  Madame  de  Genlis  retired 
with  her  foster-daughter,  Henrietta  Sercy,  who 


was  now  alone  left  to  her,  to  Altona.  This  was  in 
1794,  and  there,  in  monastic  solitude,  this  once 
gay  and  brilliant  woman  devoted  herself  entirely 
to  literature.  She  wrote  about  this  time  a  novel, 
"  The  Chevaliers  du  Lygne,"  printed  in  Ham- 
burg, 1795,  which  contains  many  rej)ublican  ex- 
pressions and  very  free  descriptions.  It  was  after- 
wards republished  in  Paris,  but  with  many  altera- 
tions. The  same  year  (1795)  Madame  de  Genlis 
wrote  a  sort  of  autobiography,  which  is  amusing, 
but  not  very  reliable.  Between  her  own  vanity 
and  the  license  usually  granted  to  French  vivacity 
and  sentiment,  the  portrait  she  has  drawn  of  her- 
self is  very  highlj'  coloured  and  flattering.  At  the 
close  of  this  work  is  a  rather  remarkable  letter  to 
her  eldest  pupil,  Louis  Philippe,  in  which  she  ex- 
horts him  not  to  accept  the  crown  of  France,  even 
though  it  should  be  offered  him,  because  the 
French  republic  seemed  to  rest  upon  moral  and 
just  foundations. 

When  Napoleon  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
government,  Madame  de  Genlis  returned  to  France, 
and  received  from  him  a  house ;  and  in  1805,  a 
pension  of  6000  francs.  He  treated  her  always 
with  respect  and  favour;  and  she  corresponded 
with  him.  But,-  on  the  return  of  the  Bourbons, 
she  forgot  her  obligations  to  the  emperor,  and  wel- 
comed the  restoration  of  her  early  friends.  This 
was  not  straiage  ;  but  she  even  stooped  to  join  the 
detraction  of  the  exiled  Corsican,  which  was  not 
creditable  to  her  heart  or  mind. 

For  the  last  thirty  years  of  her  life,  her  inex- 
haustible genius  continued  to  pour  foi'th  a  great 
variety  of  works.  The  whole  number  of  her  pro- 
ductions consists  of  nearly  one  hundred  volumes, 
and  are  characterized  by  great  imagination,  and 
purity  of  style.  She  died  at  Paris,  in  December, 
1830. 

Among  the  multitude  of  her  books,  the  best  arc 
those  she  wrote  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the 
children  under  her  chnrge.  We  will  give  a  few 
selections  from  the  "  Talcs  of  the  Castle." 


Laws,  replied  the  baroness,  are  enacted  for  the 
general  community :  we  must  not  expect  generous 
and  delicate  sentiments  from  the  multitude  ;  con- 
sequently," the  laws  cannot  regulate  certain  ac- 
tions and  sentiments ;  were  they  more  severe,  they 
would  be  observed  only  by  a  few,  therefore  could 
not  contribute  to  the  general  good :  they  confine 
themselves  to  forbid  manifest  violence  and  injus- 
tice, because  they  are  made  for  the  regulation  of 
common  and  not  superior  minds.  For  which  rea- 
son, you  may  observe  that  the  man  whose  probity 
consists  in  merely  obeying  the  laws,  cannot  be 
truly  virtuous  or  estimable ;  for  he  will  find  many 
opportunities  of  doing  contemptible  and  even  dis- 
honest acts,  which  the  laws  cannot  punish.  Hence 
you  may  comprehend  how  law  may  authorize  what 
honour  may  proscribe ;  and  wherefore  it  is  shame- 
ful to  go  to  law  in  many  instances,  where  j-ou 
would  be  certain  of  gaining  the  caixse. 

VIRTUE. 

There  is  no  man,  however  wicked,  or  however 

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vulgar,  but  naturally  loves  virtue,  and  bates  vice. 
His  passions  make  bim  act  against  his  conscience; 
but,  wbile  bis  conscience  reproves  bim  for  bis  own 
errors,  it  demonstrates  more  clearly  tbe  errors  of 
otbers,  because,  with  respect  to  tbem,  be  does  not 
reject  its  testimony.  Hence  it  is  tbat  men  act  ill, 
and  judge  well.  Feeble  and  con-upted,  tbey  give 
way  to  tbeir  passions ;  but  when  tbey  are  cool — 
tbat  is  to  say,  wben  tbey  are  uninterested  —  tbey 
instantly  condemn  wbat  tbey  bave  often  been 
guilty  of;  tbey  revolt  against  every  tbing  tbat  is 
contemptible ;  they  admire  every  thing  generous, 
and  tbey  are  moved  at  every  thing  affecting. 

PKEJUDICE. 

A  prejudice  is  an  opinion  formed  without  due 
reflection,  and  which  cannot  be  supported  by  any 
good  reasons :  thus,  for  example,  Mademoiselle 
Victoire  believes,  tbat  a  bit  of  rope  with  which  a 
man  has  been  hanged,  carried  in  her  pocket,  will 
make  her  win  at  cards.  This  is  a  prejudice ;  for 
it  certainly  is  not  the  effect  of  reasoning  on  tbe 
possibility  of  the  fact,  which  could  first  make  her 
give  into  such  a  belief.  Ask  her  why  she  has  this 
opinion,  and  she  will  tell  you  she  had  it  of  her 
aunt,  her  mother,  or  her  grandmother ;  and  this 
is  all  she  knows. 

All  prejudices  are  not  equally  stupid  with  this ; 
but  I  know  many  which  I  think  so,  and  which  are 
yet  generally  adopted.  I  have  seen  women  run 
away  frightened  at  tbe  entrance  of  a  person  who 
nursed  another  sick  of  tbe  small-pox  or  tbe  mea- 
sles ;  and  I  have  seen  these  same  women,  with 
great  tranquillity,  shut  themselves  up  with  the 
physician  who  attended  those  very  patients.  Many 
other  things,  of  a  like  kind,  may  be  observed, 
equally  rational  with  Mademoiselle  Victoire's  pre- 
dilection for  the  hangman's  rope. 

But  there  is  another  species  of  prejudice,  which, 
far  from  being  ridiculous,  deserves  to  be  resj^ected, 
because  it  is  produced  by  a  lively  and  delicate 
sensibility.  Let  us  continue  to  believe,  that  twins 
are  united  in  perfect  friendship ;  that  they  reci- 
procally sufi'er  the  bodily  evils  of  each  other  ;  that 
a  mother  would  discover  her  child,  whom  she  bad 
never  seen,  amid  a  thousand  other  children :  these 
are  the  errors  of  kind  hearts,  the  consequences  of 
virtuous  sentiments,  and  ought  not  to  be  despised. 

All  opinions  which  cannot  be  maintained  by 
reason,  and  which  facts  and  experiments  demon- 
strate to  be  false,  are  certainly  prejudices ;  yet  we 
must  be  careful  bow  we  affirm,  that  any  tbing, 
with  tbe  nature  of  which  we  are  unacquainted, 
however  strange  it  may  appear  to  us,  is  cbimei-ical 
and  vain.  The  history  of  Alpbonso  has  taught 
us,  that  there  exists  an  infinity  of  phenomena  in 
nature,  tbe  causes  of  which  are  unknown  to  man ; 
for  which  reason  we  ought  only  to  call  those  things 
prejudices,  which  are  not  only  repugnant  to  rea- 
son, but  which  are  capable  of  being  proved  false 
by  facts. 


Can  any  one  be  a  connoisseur  in  music,  without 
a  knowledge  of  the  science  ? 

No ;  it  is  absolutely  impossible.     We  have  al- 


ready allowed,  that,  with  tbe  best  natural  taste 
imaginable,  after  long  study,  after  travelling,  and 
observing  with  attention  the  varieties  of  nature, 
and  all  the  collections  of  pictures  in  Europe,  an 
amateur,  if  he  cannot  paint  himself,  never  can 
distinguish  all  the  beauties  of  a  picture  visible  to 
a  good  painter  :  yet  painting  is  the  real  imitation 
of  nature ;  it  represents  material  objects  as  they 
are  hourly  seen  ;  and  many  parts  of  it  must  equally 
please  the  ignorant  and  the  learned :  the  nicer 
touches  of  art  escape  the  first,  but  they  cannot 
help  being  pleased  with  an  imitation  that  looks 
like  nature  itself. 

It  is  not  the  same  with  music.  The  composer 
of  an  opera,  no  doubt,  must  find  in  nature  that 
kind  of  declamation  which  his  poem  requires  ;  but 
this  species  of  imitation  is  too  abstracted,  to  be 
as  generally  felt  as  that  of  painting.  Besides, 
music  may  have  expression,  and  yet  not  be  good : 
as,  for  example,  if  certain  rules  of  composition  be 
not  observed  ;  of  which,  however,  none  but  a  mu- 
sician will  properly  feel  the  want.  I  own  that,  in 
general,  it  is  my  opinion  tbat  sensibility  and  good 
taste,  without  a  knowledge  of  music,  may  distin- 
guish the  merits  of  certain  passages,  where  the 
expression  is  very  happy ;  may  feel  the  difference 
of  style,  and  determine  whether  the  melody  be 
agreeable,  or  common  and  insipid ;  but  it  is  im- 
possible they  can  bear  the  beauties  and  defects  of 
complicated  harmony  ;  they  absolutely  do  not  hear 
them,  they  are  deaf  to  the  effects  of  an  accompa- 
niment. I  maintain  (and  the  proof  is  easy)  tbat 
a  person  who  does  not  understand  music,  that  is 
to  say,  who  cannot  decipher  it  with  facility,  and 
whose  youth  has  not  been  passed  in  composing  it, 
will  never  be  a  complete  judge  of  it.  Let  a  per- 
former of  any  note  play  a  voluntary,  and  give  a 
mixture  of  good  and  false  concords,  and  you  shall 
see  one  of  these  connoisseurs,  who  declaim  so  em- 
phatically on  barbarous  music,  motives,  and  inten- 
tions, listen  with  delight  to  discords  and  uncon- 
nected resolutions  of  barmonj',  which  would  make 
a  musician  shudder ;  and  bestow  the  most  pompous 
praises  wbile  he  listens.  And  what  do  people 
gain,  who  wish  to  seem  learned  in  things  they 
know  nothing  about  ?  They  impose  on  nobody, 
they  talk  nonsensically,  they  judge  without  taste, 
they  are  accused  of  pedantry  by  the  ignorant,  of 
folly  by  the  well-informed,  and  they  are  tiresome 
and  disagreeable  to  both. 

A    SCENE    IN    "  THE    TWO    REPUTATIONS." 

Luzincourt,  unable  to  support  this  incertitude 
concerning  the  real  sentiments  of  Aurelia,  thought 
at  last  of  declaring  his  own,  really  taking  it  for 
granted,  that  a  woman  whom  he  bad  loved  for 
three  years  had  never  discovered  his  secret. 

Full  of  fears  and  uneasiness,  he  went  to  Aurelia, 
whom  he  found  just  returned  from  a  public  sitting 
of  the  French  Academy.  She  seemed  greatly  agi- 
tated. "  There  is  no  bearing  it,"  said  she  to  Lu- 
zincourt; "all  is  lost;  neither  justice,  reason,  or 
gallantry  remain." 

"  Heavens,  madam,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  A  great  man  has  affirmed  those  nations,  where 
women  are  best  treated,  are  always  most  ci^nlized." 

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"I  flatter  myself  the  great  man  who  spoke  so  I 
well  was  a  Frenchman." 

"By  no  means;  he  was  an  Englishman.  We 
are  not  so  civilly  dealt  with  in  France.  You  shall 
judge  when  I  have  told  you  what  I  have  just  heard. 
A  philosopher,  desirous  of  praising  a  princess, 
who  has  been  dead  these  fifty  years,  could  not  ac- 
complish his  purpose  but  at  the  expense  of  all  the 
princesses,  and  all  the  women,  who  have  ever  ex- 
isted or  do  exist;  and  that  in  a  single  phrase." 

''  He  has  been  very  laconic  indeed." 

"  You  shall  hear — Though  a  wornan  and  a  prin- 
cess, said  he,  she  loved  learning  P'' 

"  The  orator  ought  to  have  been  answered,  that 
though  a  philosopher,  and  an  academician,  he  did 
not,  on  this  occasion,  show  either  much  politeness 
or  equity." 

"And  the  less,  in  that  a  great  princess  honoured 
the  assembly  by  her  presence ;  by  which  she 
proved  that,  though  a  ivoman  and  a  princess,  she 
loved  learning." 

"  And  did  the  public  approve  this  speech  ?" 

"  They  groaned  and  hissed;  that  was  all  they 
did." 

"  That  was  all  they  could  do,  I  think." 

"  What !  among  so  many  auditors,  not  one  cou- 
I'ageous  knight  to  answer  for  us,  and  defend  us  ?" 

"  How  could  you  wish  any  answer  to  be  given 
to  so  foolish  a  thing?  Had  you  been  attacked 
with  any  appearance  of  reason,  you  would,  no 
doubt,  have  found  defenders.  If,  for  example, 
.the  philosophers,  instead  of  accusing  women  of 
not  loving  the  belles-lettres,  had  accused  them  of 
the  contrary,  and  endeavoured  to  turn  their  pas- 
sion for  literature  into  ridicule,  your  knights  might 
then  have  been  of  service." 

• '  Why,  very  true :  for  women  never  wrote  or 
cultivated  literature  so  much  as  at  present.  What 
then  could  this  philosopher  be  thinking  of?  He 
was  absent,  no  doubt ;  mathematicians  are  subject 
to  be  so,  and  we  might  well  advise  them  to  calcu- 
late more  and  wi'ite  less.  For  my  part,  I  own,  I 
am  passionately  interested  in  the  glory  of  my 
sex." 

"  The  sentiment  is  worthy  of  you.  It  is  noble 
and  natural." 

"  It  has  been  said  that  the  age  of  Louis  XIV., 
which  produced  so  many  great  men,  was  the  age 
for  great  women  also :  I  am  afraid  that  they  can- 
not say  as  much  of  this." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  fear  well  founded.  True 
it  is,  I  know  no  woman  who  has  been  appointed 
to  an  embassy,  or  the  sister  of  a  common  soldier 
who  has  married  an  emperor ;  but  in  other  re- 
spects, I  think  the  balance  is  in  favour  of  the 
women  of  the  present  age." 

"An  embassy!  an  empress!  I  am  sorry  to 
think  that  can  never  happen  again." 

"  Oh  that  I  had  a  throne  to  offer  you !" 

' '  Pshaw  !  this  is  not  the  kind  of  gallantry  I 
want :  give  me  your  proofs  in  favour  of  the  women 
of  this  age." 

"  And  is  not  your  ambition  on  this  head  satis- 
fied, madame  ?  Wc  have  queens,  who,  on  the 
throne,  afford  the  brightest  examples  of  the  mild 
and  benevolent  virtues  which  honour  humanity, 


and  of  those  shining  qualities  which  constitute 
heroes.  Women,  in  this  age,  have  written  in  every 
branch  of  literature  with  the  greatest  success. 
The  best  modern  novels  are  the  productions  of 
women ;  the  Pei'uvian  Letters,  the  Letters  of  my 
Lady  Catesby,  &c.,  are  surely  equal  to  the  prin- 
cess of  Cleves  and  Zaide.  Women  have  not  been 
less  distinguished  in  poetry ;  many  may  be  cited 
equal  to  Madame  Deshoulieres ;  and  some  have 
even  discovered  abilities  of  a  higher  kind.  They 
have  written  cantatas,  poems,  and  tragedies.  The 
women  of  Louis  XIV. 's  time  composed  little  ex- 
cept works  of  mere  amusement :  whereas,  within 
these  twenty  years,  they  have  written  a  multitude 
of  truly  useful  and  moral  works  ;  and  there  are  at 
this  moment,  several  women  in  France,  who  culti- 
vate letters  with  reputation  in  various  branches 
of  literature.  In  England  they  have  the  same 
success ;  and  in  Russia,  a  woman  directs  the  la- 
bours of  a  celebrated  academy,  of  which  she  is 
perpetual  president:  and  really,  madam,  if  this 
will  not  satisfy  you,  you  are  very  hard  to  please." 

"You  forget  the  learned  ladies  of  the  last  cen- 
tury." 

"  I  see  you  envy  Madame  Dacier." 

"  You  must  own  that  ladies  do  not  now  under- 
stand Greek." 

"  And  I  must  likewise  own  that  men  do  not 
either.  We  learn  the  Greek  alphabet,  after  which 
we  read  translations  !  then  we  say  we  understand 
Greek,  and  this  is  the  whole  mystery.  As  to  other 
languages,  we  meet  with  many  ladies  who  under- 
stand English,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  even  Latin." 

"Latin!" 

"  Yes  ;  you  yourself  are  acquainted  with  three." 

"  What!    three  women  who  understand  Latin  !" 

"  Yes,  madam,  who  understand  Latin.     There 

are    Madame    N ,    Mademoiselle   N her 

daughter,  and  Madame  the  Marchioness  de  L , 

who  all  understand  it  as  perfectly  as  the  most 
studious  men." 

"  Understand  Latin  !  and  I  who  have  been  ac- 
quainted with  them  these  three  years,  never  to 
suspect  it !  Women  then  may  be  modest  as  well 
as  learned,  and  scholars  without  being  pedants ; 
nay,  without  wishing  to  have  their  abilities  known. 
But  let  us  continue  the  comparison  between  the 
women  of  the  last  century  and  this.  I  do  not  re- 
member any  French  woman  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  who  understood  mathematics  ;  and  we  have 
now  Madame  du  Chatelet  —  do  you  know  any 
foreigners  ? — " 

"England,  Switzerland,  Holland,  Germany,  and 
Italy,  present  a  crowd  of  women  eminent  for  their 
extent  and  depth  of  knowledge.  A  woman  has 
received,  even  in  this  age,  an  honour  which  incon- 
testably  i^roved  her  talents  were  very  superior  to 
those  of  all  the  learned  in  her  nation,  then  in  ex- 
istence. A  pope,  equally  distinguished  for  his 
understanding  and  information,  Benedict  XIV., 
bestowed  on  Maria  Agnezi,  a  celebrated  mathe- 
matician, the  place  of  apostolical  professor  in  the 
university  of  Bologna,  in  1758." 

"  A  woman  apostolical  professor !  Well,  that 
really  delights  me.  How  great  must  be  her  merit 
to  pretend  to  such  a  place !" 


GE 


GE 


"And  does  not  Benedict  XIV.,  who,  to  reward 
superior  merit,  did  a  thing  so  uncommon,  deserve 
a  word  of  praise  from  you  ?" 

"  Oh  yes;  though  a  man  and  a  pope,  he  was  su- 
pei'ior  to  vulgar  prejudices  against  women." 

"These  prejudices  will  be  forgotten  when  edu- 
cation is  better  understood,  and  when  women  will 
imagine  themselves  capable  of  acquiring  all  the 
knowledge  and  all  the  arts,  as  perfectly  as  the 
men !" 

"We  do  not  think  this,  and  therefore  we  remain 
ignorant.  All  serious  studies  seem  superior  to 
our  minds.  So,  it  seems,  you  think  excessive  hu- 
mility makes  us  frivolous.  Well,  I  am  glad  you 
have  found  out  this.  But  I  am  uneasy  about 
another  thing.  No  person  can  deny  there  have 
been  women  of  genius ;  the  famous  Elizabeth, 
i(ueen  of  England,  and  other  heroines,  are  our 
proofs :  yet  it  is  obstinately  maintained,  that  there 
are  certain  works  of  imagination  which  require  a 
force  and  energy  that  women  have  not.  Thus, 
for  example,  it  is  affirmed  no  woman  can  write  an 
excellent  tragedy.  The  tragedies  of  Mademoiselles 
Barbier  and  Bernard,  and  of  Madame  de  Gomez, 
were  performed  with  success  at  first,  it  is  true ; 
but  they  are  not  acted  at  present." 

"  Remember,  madam,  since  the  Cleopatra  of 
lodelle,  only  five  women  have  written  tragedies 
that  have  been  performed  on  the  French  stage ; 
and  you  must  allow  it  would  have  been  miracu- 
lous, if,  out  of  this  small  number,  one  had  been 
found  equal  to  Racine.  These  five  authors,  far 
from  having  written  contemptible  works,  were 
successful ;  and  what  could  reasonably  be  hoped 
for  more  ?  Think,  on  the  other  hand,  what  an 
innumerable  swai-m  of  tragic  writers  have  preceded 
and  come  after  Corneille :  how  many  have  been 
condemned,  for  one  who  was  approved  ;  how  many 
have  been  forgotten,  and  how  many  shall  be  for- 
gotten ?  I,  therefore,  do  not  see  what  foundation 
there  is  to  assert,  that  to  wx'ite  a  tragedy  belongs 
only  to  men,  and  that  women  ought  not  to  pretend 
to  it;  it  is  wrong  to  judge  them  till  they  have 
been  oftener  tried.  It  must  be  owned  that  they 
have  written  good  poetry ;  that  they  have  wit, 
understanding,  dignity  of  mind,  and  feeling ;  and 
what  more  is  required  to  write  a  good  tragedy  ? 
Often  have  they,  even  in  this  way,  charmed  the 
public  at  much  less  expense." 

"  You  speak  of  women  in  a  very  flattering  man- 
ner; but  do  not  you  think  they  have,  in  general, 
treated  us  with  great  rigour,  and  that  there  never 
was  a  less  gallant  age  than  the  present  ?" 

"  This  is  a  sign  greatly  in  your  favour ;  for  it 
proves  there  is  a  real  competition  for  superiority 
between  men  and  women.  We  are  willing  enough 
to  praise  jou,  when  you  are  only  amiable ;  but  if 
once  you  discover  eminence  in  any  one  thing,  we 
have  a  right  to  find  fault ;  for  we  are  the  masters, 
and  surely  we  must  maintain  subordination.  For 
my  part,  when  I  think  on  the  education  of  women, 
I  cannot  conceive  how  we  can  help  admiring  them. 
Let  us  suppose  that  Corneille  and  Racine  had 
learned  nothing  from  infancy  to  youth,  that  is  till 
they  were  eighteen  or  twenty,  but  to  dance  and 
play  on  the  harpsichord ;  and  that  afterwards  they 


had  heard  speak  only  of  balls,  feasts,  and  visits. 
Behold  them,  at  that  period,  obliged  to  answer 
numberless  messages  every  morning,  and  do  no- 
thing but  write  billets,  and  read  the  Journal  de 
Paris.  Do  you  think  they  would  then  have  written 
Cinna  and  Athalia?" 

"You  are  in  the  right;  and  we  have  been  re- 
fused the  gifts  of  genius  a  little  too  inconsider- 
ately." 

GENTILESCHI,   ARTEMISIA, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Orazio  Gentileschi,  an  Ita- 
lian historical  and  landscape  painter,  who  was 
born  at  Pisa,  but  came  to  London,  where  he  died. 
Artemisia  resided  in  London  for  some  time  with 
her  father,  where  she  painted  the  portraits  of  se- 
veral of  the  royal  family,  and  many  of  the  English 
nobility.  She  died  in  Italy,  in  1642.  One  of  her 
paintings  represents  Judith  killing  Holofornes ;  it 
is  a  picture  of  deep  and  terrible  passion ;  the  other 
is  the  Temptation  of  Susanna,  a  work  of  much 
ease,  softness,  and  grace.  Her  talents  gained  her 
a  wide  reputation ;  and  her  private  life  was  ex- 
cellent. 


^t 


/T 


GEOFFRIN,    MARIE    THERESE    RO- 
DE T,    MADAME, 

Born  in  1099.  She  was  a  woman  alike  distin- 
guished by  her  qualities  of  mind  and  heart,  who, 
during  half  a  century,  was  the  ornament  of  the 
most  polite  and  cultivated  societies  in  Paris.  An 
orphan  from  the  cradle,  she  was  educated  by  her 
grandmother,  and  eai-ly  accustomed  to  think  and 
judge  justly.  She  afterwards  became  the  wife  of 
a  man,  of  whom  nothing  can  be  said,  excepting 
that  he  left  her  in  possession  of  a  considerable 
fortune,  which  she  employed  partly  in  assisting 
the  needy,  partly  in  assembling  around  her  a  select 
circle  of  distinguished  persons.  Her  benevolence 
was  exerted  in  a  touching  and  delicate  manner. 
An  attentive  study  of  mankind,  enlightened  by 
reason  and  justice,  had  taught  Madame  Geofi'rin 
that  men  are  more  weak  and  vain  than  wicked ; 
that  it  is  necessary  to  overlook  the  weakness,  and 
bear  with  the  vanity  of  others,  that  they,  in  turn, 
may  bear  with  ours.  Her  favourite  maxim,  there- 
fore, was,  "  Give  and  forgive." 

325 


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From  her  very  childhood  she  was  of  a  most 
charitable  disposition.  She  wished  to  perpe- 
tuate her  benevolence  through  the  hands  of  her 
friends. 

"  They  will  be  blesSed,"  said  she,  "  and  they  in 
their  turn  will  bless  my  memory."  Thus  she  as- 
signed to  one  of  her  friends,  who  was  poor,  an 
income  of  twelve  hundred  livres  for  his  lifetime. 
"  If  you  should  grow  richer,"  said  she,  "distri- 
bute the  money  out  of  love  to  me,  when  I  can  use 
it  no  longer." 

In  her  house  the  best  society  in  Paris  was  as- 
sembled. Cultivated  minds  of  every  description 
found  access  to  her ;  none  could  therefore  claim  a 
preference :  the  mistress  of  the  house  herself  was 
far  from  desiring  any  precedence  ;  she  was  only 
amiable  and  animating.  The  abbe  de  St.  Pierre, 
when  she  dismissed  him,  after  a  long  conversa- 
tion, with  the  words,  "  Votes  avez  ete  charmant 
aujourd' hui"  addressed  to  her  the  well-known 
and  deserved  compliment,  "  Je  ne  suis  qu'im  in- 
strument, Madaine,  dont  vous  avez  bienjouc." 

"  The  question  is  often  asked,"  says  La  Harpe, 
"whether  this  woman,  who  converses  so  much 
with  wits,  is  herself  a  wit :  she  is  not  so,  but  she 
possesses  a  sound  judgment,  and  a  wise  moderation 
is  the  foundation  of  her  character.  She  exhibits 
that  pleasing  politeness  which  is  gained  only  by 
intercourse  with  society ;  and  no  one  has  a  more 
delicate  feeling  of  propriety."  Among  the  great 
number  of  strangers  who  visited  her  house  in 
Paris,  the  most  distinguished  was  count  Ponia- 
towsky,  afterwards  king  of  Poland.  He  apprised 
her  of  his  accession  to  the  throne  in  these  words : 
"  3Ianian,  votre  fils  est  roi ;"  inviting  her,  at  the 
same  time,  to  Warsaw.  On  her  journey  thither 
(1768)  she  was  received  at  Vienna  in  the  most 
flattering  manner,  by  the  emperor  and  empress. 
The  latter,  having  met  Madame  GeoflFrin,  while 
taking  a  ride  with  her  children,  immediately 
stopped,  and  presented  them  to  her.  Upon  her 
arrival  at  Warsaw,  she  found  a  room  there,  per- 
fectly like  the  one  she  had  occupied  in  Paris.  She 
returned  to  Paris,  after  having  received  the  most 
flattering  marks  of  respect,  and  died  in  1777. 
Three  of  her  fi-iends,  Thomas,  Morellet,  and 
d'Alembert,  dedicated  particular  writings  to  her 
memory,  which,  with  her  treatise,  Sur  la  Conver- 
sation, have  been  lately  republished. 

We  see  in  the  example  of  this  interesting  lady, 
that  neither  personal  attractions,  nor  wit,  nor 
genius,  are  required  to  make  woman  lovely  and 
beloved.  Madame  Geoffrin  was  not  distinguished 
for  these  showy  gifts  and  graces ;  but  she  possessed 
what  was  better  —  sound  judgment,  good  taste, 
and  warm  kindness  of  heart.  Her  disinterested  be- 
nevolence was  wonderful.  All  her  sayings  breathe 
this  universal  charity.  We  have  remarked  that 
her  favourite  maxim  was  —  "Give  and  forgive." 
Another  of  her  sayings  was,  "  We  should  not  let  the 
grass  grow  on  the  path  of  friendship."  "  Among 
those  advantages  which  attract  for  us  the  most 
consideration,"  said  Madame  Geoffrin,  "are  good 
manners,  an  erect  bearing,  a  dignified  demeanour, 
and  to  be  able  to  enter  a  room  gracefully ;  we  dare 
not  speak  ill  of  a  person  who  has  all  these  advan- 


tages, for  they  presuppose  thoughtfulness,  order, 
and  judgment." 

She  was  exquisitely  neat  in  her  j^erson,  and 
dressed  with  great  taste ;  and  this  was  one  secret 
of  her  power.  A  slatternly  woman  can  never  be 
loved  or  respected,  however  much  she  may  be  ad- 
mired for  her  talents.  Madame  Geoffrin  died  at 
Paris  in  1777,  aged  seventy-eight. 

GETHIN,    LADY   GRACE, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Norton,  of 
Abbots-Leith,  in  Somersetshire,  England,  and 
born  in  1676.  She  was  liberally  educated,  and 
married  Sir  Richard  Gethin,  of  Gethin-grott,  in 
Ireland.  Lovely  and  beloved,  and  possessed  of 
many  and  great  accomplishments,  both  natural 
and  acquired,  she  did  not  live  long  enough  to  dis- 
play them  to  the  world  ;  for  she  died  in  her  twenty- 
first  year.  She  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
where  a  beautiful  monument  is  erected  over  her ; 
and,  moreover,  for  perpetuating  her  memory,  pro- 
vision was  made  for  a  sermon  to  be  preached  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  yearly,  on  Ash-Wednesdaj', 
forever.  She  wrote,  and  left  behind  her  in  loose 
papers,  a  work  which,  soon  after  her  death,  was  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  "Reliquise  Gethineanae; 
or  some  remains  of  the  most  ingenious  and  excel- 
lent lady,  Grace  Lady  Gethin,  lately  deceased; 
being  a  collection  of  choice  Discourses,  pleasant 
Apothegms,  and  witty  Sentences,  written  by  her, 
for  the  most  part,  by  way  of  Essay,  and  at  spare 
hours,  1700."  This  work  consists  of  discourses 
upon  friendship,  love,  gratitude,  death,  speech, 
lying,  idleness,  the  world,  secresy,  prosperity,  ad- 
versity, children,  cowards,  bad  poets,  indifferency, 
censoriousness,  revenge,  boldness,  youth,  age,  cus- 
tom, charity,  reading,  beauty,  flattery,  riches,  ho- 
nour, pleasure,  suspicion,  excuses,  &c.  It  is  at 
present  very  scarce. 

GHIRADELLI,    LAURA   FELICE, 

This  elegant  authoress  has  left  but  one  sonnet. 
But,  as  with  respect  to  Sappho,  we  may  say — 

O  siiavis  anima!  qualem  te  dicam  bonam, 
Ante  hac  fiiisse,  talcs  cum  sint  teliquiEe! 

She  was  a  native  of  Bologna,  and  flourished  in 
1675. 

GINASSI,    CATERINA, 

Was  born  of  a  noble  family  at  Rome,  in  1590. 
She  was  the  niece  of  cardinal  Domenico  Ginassi. 
She  studied  painting  under  Giovanni  Lanfranco, 
from  whose  designs  she  executed  several  pictures 
in  the  convent  of  St.  Lucia.     She  died  in  1660. 

GLAUBER,    DIANA,     " 

Was  sister  of  John  and  Gottleib  Glauber,  and 
was  born  at  Utrecht  in  1650.  John  Glauber  in- 
structed his  sister  in  the  principles  and  practice 
of  his  art;  and  she  devoted  herself  chiefly  to 
painting  portraits.  Her  style  became  quite  dis- 
tinguished ;  and  she  also  designed  historical  sub- 
jects, until  she  was  accidentally  deprived  of  her 
sight.     She  died  at  Hamburg  about  1720. 

326 


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GO 


GLENORCHY,  WILHELMINA  MAX- 
WELL, LADY, 

Distinguished  for  her  piety  and  benevolence, 
was  born  at  Preston,  in  North  Britain,  in  1742. 
Lovely,  agreeable,  wealthy,  and  allied  to  a  noble 
house,  her  premature  widowhood,  and  a  severe 
illness,  induced  her  in  her  twenty-third  year  to 
retire  from  the  gayeties  of  the  world,  and  devote 
her  time  wholly  to  her  religious  duties.  She  exerted 
herself  principally  for  the  education  of  youth,  and 
trained  up  hundreds  of  children  to  fill  useful  sta- 
tions in  society.  She  endowed  a  free-school  at 
Edinburgh,  built  four  chapels,  and  founded  and 
endowed  schools  in  different  places,  besides  edu- 
cating several  young  men  for  the  ministry,  and 
bestowing  large  sums  in  private  acts  of  benevo- 
lence. To  enable  her  to  carry  out  these  schemes, 
she  denied  herself  luxuries,  and  in  every  way  prac- 
tised the  greatest  economy.  She  died  in  1780, 
leaving  the  greater  part  of  her  property  to  chari- 
table purposes. 

Lady  Glenorchy  had  drawn  much  information 
concerning  the  most  useful  subjects,  from  reading, 
from  conversation,  and  correspondence  with  a  nu- 
merous circle  of  worthy  friends,  and  from  acute 
observation  of  what  passed  within  and  around  her. 
She  entered  into  conversation  with  much  affabilitj', 
and  communicated  ideas  with  uncommon  perspi- 
cuity and  readiness.  The  vivacity  of  her  temper, 
the  justness  and  sweetness  of  her  remarks,  could 
not  fail  to  render  her  company  acceptable  to  any 
society.  But  important  obligations  of  a  spiritual 
kind  aiForded  her  little  leisure  or  inclination  for 
mixed  company.  Her  courage  in  avowing  and 
endeavouring  to  j)romote  on  every  occasion  an 
attachment  to  the  gospel,  was  truly  admirable. 
None  had  more  boldness,  nor  more  ability'  in  in- 
troducing religious  discourse,  and  directing  the 
attention  of  those  with  whom  she  conversed  to 
subjects  that  were  spiritual  and  edifying.  None 
could  sit,  for  any  time,  at  her  table  or  in  her  com- 
pany, without  hearing  some  truths,  which  ought 
to  be  profitable  to  their  souls.  In  her  religion  she 
wore  no  morose  or  forbidding  appearance.  Her 
temper  was  cheerful,  her  conversation  and  man- 
ners, though  remote  from  the  dissipation  of  the 
age,  exhibited  piety  in  a  pleasing  form,  and  con- 
veyed the  idea  that,  "  wisdom's  ways  are  ways  of 
pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  are  paths  of  peace." 

GLEIM,    BETTY, 

Known  as  a  writer  on  German  literature  and 
female  education,  was  born  in  1781.  Her  grand- 
father, J.  L.  W.  Gleim,  and  several  literary  friends, 
contributed  greatly  to  the  development  of  her  na- 
tural talents.  From  her  earliest  youth,  she  felt  a 
sti'ong  bias  towards  the  calling  of  a  teacher.  She 
considered  herself  in  duty  bound  to  devote  her  life 
to  the  amelioration  of  the  mental  condition  of  her 
sex.  She  established  a  female  school,  which  con- 
tinued to  flourish  for  a  long  time  as  a  model  insti- 
tute for  the  region  of  the  country  in  which  she 
lived.  Her  work  on  Cookery  obtained  for  her 
quite  a  celebrity  as  a  housekeeper,  and  went 
through  seven  or  eight  editions.     She  next  pub- 


lished "  The  German  Reader."  Then  followed 
"  The  Education  of  Females  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century."  Soon  afterwards  appeared  "  The  Edu- 
cation of  Women  and  the  assertion  of  their  dignity 
in  the  various  Conditions  of  Life."  She  also  pre- 
pared several  primary  grammars,  and  a  number 
of  other  school-books,  upon  various  topics.  Her 
works  have  proved  of  much  utility,  and  her  life 
was  a  lesson  to  all  who  wish  to  do  good  to  their 
race.  She  died,  March  27th,  1807,  at  the  Insti- 
tution founded  by  herself,  a  fitting  monument  of 
her  earnest  philanthropy. 

GODEWYCK,   MARGARETTA, 

Was  born  at  Dort  in  1627,  and  was  instructed 
in  design  and  drawing  by  Nicholas  Maas,  by  whose 
instructions  she  acquired  a  fine  taste  in  painting 
landscapes,  which  she  ingeniously  diversified  with 
views  of  rivers,  cascades,  villages,  groves,  and 
distant  hills,  that  rendered  her  compositions  very 
pleasing.  This  ladj'  was  not  more  admired  for  her 
paintings  in  oil,  than  for  her  needle-work,  execut- 
ing the  same  kind  of  subjects  which  she  expressed 
with  her  pencil,  and  with  an  equal  appearance  of 
nature  and  truth,  in  embroidery.  She  died  in 
1677. 

GODWIN,  MARY  WOLLSTONECRAFT, 
Thk  first  wife  of  William  Godwin,  better  known 
however  by  her  maiden  name  of  Wollstonecraft, 
was  born  on  the  27th  of  April,  1759.  At  the  time 
of  her  birth  her  father  owned  a  small  farm  in  Es- 
sex, from  which  he  afterwards,  in  1768,  removed 
to  another  farm,  near  Beverley,  in  Yorkshire. 
Mary  Wollstonecraft's  early  years  were  thus  spent 
in  the  country,  and  she  had  no  better  opportuni- 
ties of  education  than  were  furnished  by  the  day- 
schools  of  Bevei'ley,  where  she  resided  from  her 
tenth  to  her  sixteenth  year.  When  she  had  at- 
tained this  age,  her  father,  having  entered  into  a 
commercial  speculation,  removed  from  Beverley 
to  Hoxton,  near  London.  While  she  resided  at 
Hoxton,  Godwin  was  a  student  in  the  Dissenters' 
College  of  that  place,  but  they  did  not  then  meet. 
Mary  Wollstonecraft's  early  years  were  not 
passed  happily.  Her  father  appears  to  have  been 
a  man  of  no  judgment  in  the  management  of  a 
family,  and  of  a  most  ungovernable  temper.  "  The 
despotism  of  her  education,"  says  Mr.  Godwin,  in 
his  unaflfected  and  interesting  memoir  of  his  wife, 
"  cost  her  many  a  heart-ache.  She  was  not  formed 
to  be  the  contented  and  unresisting  subject  of  a 
despot ;  but  I  have  heard  her  remark  more  than 
once,  that  when  she  felt  she  had  done  wrong,  the 
reproof  or  chastisement  of  her  mother,  instead  of 
being  a  terror  to  her,  she  found  to  be  the  only 
thing  capable  of  reconciling  her  to  herself.  The 
blows  of  her  father,  on  the  contrary,  which  were 
the  mere  ebullitions  of  a  passionate  temper,  in- 
stead of  humbling  her,  roused  her  indignation." 
A  woman  of  exquisite  sensibility,  as  well  as  of 
great  energy  of  character,  she  was  thus  led  early 
to  think  of  quitting  her  parents  and  providing  for 
herself.  She  went  first  to  live  as  companion  to  a 
lady  at  Bath,  and  afterwards,  in  1783,  in  concert 
with  two  sisters  and  also  a  friend  for  whom  she 

327 


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GO 


had  conceived  an  ardent  attachment,  she  opened 
a  day-school  at  Islington,  which  was  very  shortly 
removed  to  Newington  Green.  Mr.  Godwin,  who 
is  well  qualified  to  give  an  opinion,  speaks  in  high 
terms  of  her  pre-eminent  fitness  for  the  teaching 
of  children  ;  but  the  call  of  friendship  having  car- 
ried her  for  a  time  to  Lisbon,  and  the  school  hav- 
ing been  mismanaged  in  her  absence,  she  found  it 
necessary  on  her  return  to  give  up  this  plan  of 
subsistence.  She  almost  immediately  obtained 
the  situation  of  governess  in  the  family  of  Lord 
Kingsborough. 

Mary  WoUstonecraft  had  by  this  time  made  an 
attempt  in  authorship.  She  had,  in  1786,  written 
and  published,  in  order  to  devote  the  profits  to  a 
work  of  charity,  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  Thoughts 
on  the  Education  of  Daughters."'  On  leaving  Lord 
Kingsborough's  family,  in  1787,  she  went  to  Lon- 
don, and  entered  into  negotiations  with  Mr.  John- 
son, the  publisher,  with  a  view  of  supporting  her- 
self by  authorship.  The  next  three  years  of  her 
life  were  accordingly  spent  in  writing  ;  and  during 
that  period  she  produced  some  small  works  of  fic- 
tion, and  translations  and  abridgments  of  several 
valuable  works,  for  instance,  Salzman's  Elements 
of  Morality,  and  Lavater's  Physiognomy,  and 
several  articles  in  the  Analytical  Review.  The 
profits  of  her  pen,  which  were  more  than  sTie 
needed  for  her  own  subsistence,  supplied  aid  to 
many  members  of  her  family.  She  helped  to  edu- 
cate two  younger  sisters,  put  two  of  her  brothers 
out  in  the  world,  and  even  greatly  assisted  her 
father,  whose  speculative  habits  had  by  this  time 
brought  him  into  embai-rassments.  Thus  for  three 
years  did  she  proceed  in  a  course  of  usefulness, 
but  unattended  by  fame.  Her  answer,  however, 
to  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution, 
which  was  the  first  of  the  many  answers  that  ap- 
peared, and  her  "  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of 
Women,"  which  was  published  in  1791,  rapidly 
brought  her  into  notice  and  notoriety. 

In  1792,  Mary  WoUstonecraft  went  to  Paris, 
and  did  not  return  to  London  till  after  an  interval 
of  three  years.  While  in  France  she  wrote  her 
"  Moral  and  Historical  View  of  the  French  Revo- 
•  tion ;"  and  a  visit  to  Norway  on  business,  in  1795, 
gave  I'ise  to  her  "  Letters  from  Norway."  Dis- 
tress of  mind,  caused  by  a  bitter  disappointment 
to  which  an  attachment  formed  in  Paris  had  sub- 
jected her,  led  her  at  this  period  of  her  life  to 
make  two  attempts  at  suicide.  But  it  is  a  striking 
proof  of  her  vigour  of  intellect  that  the  "  Letters 
from  Norway"  were  written  at  the  time  when  her 
mental  distress  was  at  its  height,  and  in  the  inter- 
val between  her  two  attempts  at  self-destruction. 
In  1796,  Mary  WoUstonecraft  became  acquainted 
with  William  Godwin,  the  celebrated  philosopher 
and  political  writer.  A  mutual  attachment  was 
the  result ;  and  as  they,  unfortunately,  held  simi- 
lar opinions  respecting  the  ceremony  of  marriage, 
they  lived  together,  unwedded,  for  six  months ; 
when  finding  the  necessity  of  legitimatizing  the 
child  which  would  otherwise  be  an  outcast  from 
her  birth,  they  were  married.  Mrs.  Godwin  died 
in  child-bed  a  few  months  afterwards,  leaving  her 
infant  daughter,  who   subsequently  became   the 


wife  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  and  has  given  ample 
proof  that  she  inherits  the  talents  of  both  her 
parents. 

Mr.  Godwin  mourned  the  death  of  his  wife 
deeply.  In  1798  he  edited  her  posthumous  works, 
and  also  published  a  small  memoir  of  her,  which 
is  eminently  marked  by  genuine  feeling,  simpli- 
city, and  truth.  The  style  of  this  Memoir  is  dif- 
ferent from  the  other  productions  of  Godwin, 
which  he  ascribed  to  the  influence  the  genius  of 
his  wife  had  exercised  over  his  own  mind ;  he 
concludes  thus  :  "  This  light  was  lent  to  me  for  a 
very  short  period,  and  is  now  extinguished  for- 
ever." 

Mary  WoUstonecraft  Godwin  was  endowed  with 
great  mental  powers,  and  an  unusual  degree  'of 
feeling ;  but  these  gifts  were  of  little  avail  to  her- 
self, or  to  the  promotion  of  that  improvement  of 
her  own  sex,  which  she  most  ardently  desired. 
Yet  the  errors  of  her  life  and  writings  were  more 
the  result  of  her  unfortunate  early  training,  than 
any  want  of  principle.  The  brutal  cruelty  of  her 
father  made  her  believe  in  the  necessity  of  wo- 
man's becoming  able  to  defend  herself.  She  did 
not  see  that  the  true  way  to  remedy  the  evils  of 
society  was  to  increase  the  moral  power  of  the 
world ;  that  woman  is  the  depositary  of  this 
power ;  and  that  she  must  cultivate,  in  Christian 
meekness,  her  heavenly  gifts ;  and  thus,  by  the 
exhibition  of  moral  graces,  and  by  her  influence 
in  training  her  sons,  finally  win  man  to  use  his 
physical  strength  and  mental  power  for  her  pro- 
tection and  enlightenment.  In  short,  that  to  bi-ing 
about  the  true  Christian  civilization,  which  only 
can  improve  the  condition  of  our  sex,  the  men 
must  become  more  like  women,  and  the  women 
more  like  angels. 

GOMEZ,    MAGDALENE   ANGELINA 
PAISSON   DE, 

A  French  author,  was  the  daughter  of  Paul 
Paisson,  a  player,  and  born  at  Paris,  in  1684. 
She  married  M.  de  Gomez,  a  Spanish  gentleman 
of  small  fortune,  in  whose  circumstances  she  was 
deceived.  She,  however,  procured  sufficient,  by 
her  writings,  to  live  at  St.  Germaine-en-Laye ; 
she  died  there,  in  1770.  Her  works  were  nume- 
rous, chiefly  romances,  which  were  well  written, 
and  have  been  much  esteemed.  Those  most  cele- 
brated were  "  Les  Journ^es  Amusantes,"  8  vols. ; 
"  Crementine,"  2  vols. ;  "Anecdotes  Persans,"  2 
vols.;  "Les  Cent  Nouvelles,"  8  vols.  She  also 
wrote  several  tragedies,  which  were  unsuccessful. 

GONZAGA-COLONNA,    JULIA, 

Duchess  of  Traietto,  and  countess  of  Fondi,  was 
married,  when  very  young,  to  duke  Vespasian 
Colonna,  a  man  older  than  her  father  ;  but  it  seems 
he  gained  her  heart.  She  was,  in  a  few  years 
after  her  marriage,  left  a  widow,  rich,  exceedingly 
beautiful,  and  "  the  great  attractions  of  her  person 
were  surpassed,  if  possible,  by  the  qualifications 
of  her  mind."  The  first  noblemen  in  Italy  made 
proposals  for  her  hand  ;  but  notwithstanding  the 
duke  her  husband  had  been  old  and  infirm,  she 
paid  the  highest  respect  to  his  memory,  and  deter- 

328 


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GO 


mined  never  to  marry  a  second  time.  The  fame 
of  her  charms  extended  bej'ond  her  own  country, 
and  at  length  reached  the  Ottoman  Porte.  The 
sultan,  Soliman  II.,  determined  to  obtain  her  by 
force,  as  he  could  not  gain  her  by  other  means. 
The  commander  of  his  navy,  Ariadne  Barbarossa, 
undertook  to  seize  and  carry  her  oif ;  arriving  at 
Fondi,  in  the  night,  witli  two  thousand  soldiers, 
he  found  little  difficulty  in  scaling  the  walls.  The 
inhabitants  of  Fondi,  alarmed  by  the  appearance 
of  the  invaders,  and  ignorant  of  the  purpose  for 
which  they  had  come,  rushed  out  of  their  houses, 


uttering  the  most  doleful  shrieks.  The  beautiful 
duchess,  awakened  by  these  cries  of  terror,  es- 
caped from  her  chamber-window,  and  fled  to  the 
mountains,  where  she  was  assailed  by  fresh  ter- 
rors, for  a  desperate  banditti  made  these  moun- 
tains their  haunt.  She  fell  into  their  hands ;  but, 
moved  by  her  appeals,  or  restrained  by  divine 
providence,  these  outcasts  treated  her  with  re- 
spect, and  restored  her  to  freedom. 

The  duchess  devoted  her  time  chiefly  to  litera- 
ture, and  her  genius,  beauty,  and  virtues,  gained 
her  many  flattering  tributes  from  the  distinguished 
philosophers  and  poets  of  that  age.  Bernardo 
Tasso,  father  of  Torquato,  complimented  her  by 
name  in  his  Amadis  ;  and  after  her  decease,  which 
occurred  April  19th,  1566,  Ariosto  thus  comme- 
morates her : 

"  Giulia  Gonzaga  clie  dovunque  il  pied« 
Volge  e  doviiiuiiie  i  sereni  occhi  gira 
Noil  pur  ogn'  altra  di  belta  la  cede, 
Ma  come  Dea  dal  ceil  scesa  raiiiniira." 

Julia  was  suspected  of  Lutheranism ;  and  though 
she  never  acknowledged  this,  yet  as  slie  died  with- 
out the  usual  Catholic  cei-emonies,  the  presump- 
tion is,  that  she  was  Protestant  in  her  heart. 

GONZAGA,    LUCRETIA, 

An  illustrioug  Italian  lady  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, was  as  remarkable  for  her  wit  and  learning, 
as  for  high  birth.  She  wi'ote  such  beautiful  letters, 
that  the  utmost  care  was  taken  to  preserve  them ; 
and  a  collection  of  them  was  printed  at  Venice  in 
1552.     There  is  no  learning  in  her  letters,  yet  we 


perceive  by  them  that  she  was  learned ;  for,  in  a 
letter  to  Robertellus,  she  says,  that  his  Comment- 
aries had  shown  her  the  true  meaning  of  several 
obscure  passages  in  Aristotle  and  ^schylus.  All 
the  wits  of  her  time  commended  her  highly ;  and 
Hortensio  Lando,  besides  singing  her  praises,  de- 
dicated to  her  a  piece  written  in  Italian,  "  Upon 
moderating  the  passions  of  the  soul."  They  cor- 
responded, and  more  than  thirty  of  her  letters  to 
him  have  been  printed.  In  one  of  these  she  blames 
him  for  grieving  at  his  poverty :  "I  wonder,"  she 
writes,  "that  you,  who  are  a  learned  man,  and  so 
well  acquainted  with  the  aifairs  of  this  world, 
should  yet  be  so  strangely  vexed  at  being  poor : 
as  though  you  did  not  know  that  a  poor  man's  life 
is  like  sailing  near  the  coast,  whereas  that  of  a 
rich  man  resembles  the  condition  of  those  who 
are  in  the  main  sea.  The  former  can  easily  throw 
a  cable  on  the  shore,  and  bring  their  ship  safe  into 
an  harbour ;  whereas  the  latter  cannot  do  it  with- 
out much  danger  and  difficulty." 

We  leai'n  from  these  letters  that  her  marriage 
with  John  Paul  Manfrone  was  unhappy.  She  was 
not  fourteen  when  she  was  married  to  him  against 
her  own  consent ;  yet  she  treated  him  with  due 
respect  and  obedience,  though  his  conduct  gave 
her  great  uneasiness.  He  engaged  in  a  conspiracy 
against  the  duke  of  Ferrara ;  was  detected  and 
imprisoned  by  him ;  but,  though  condemned,  not 
put  to  death.  She  did  all  in  her  power  to  obtain 
his  release ;  applied  to  every  man  of  importance 
in  Christendom  to  intercede  for  him  ;  and  even  so- 
licited the  Grand  Seignior  to  make  himself  master 
of  the  castle  where  her  husband  was  kept.  But 
her  endeavours  were  vain,  for  he  died  in  prison, 
after  having  shown  such  impatience  under  his  suf- 
ferings as  made  many  persons  imagine  that  he  had 
lost  his  senses.  She  lived  afterwards  in  honour- 
able widowhood,  though  several  men  of  rank  were 
her  suitors.  On  being  solicited  to  contract  a  se- 
cond marriage,  she  answered,  with  indignation, 
"  Scarcely  have  I  dried  the  tears,  and  suppressed 
the  sighs,  which  the  destiny  of  my  unfortunate 
husband  extorted  from  me,  when  you  press  me  to 
form  new  engagements.  Know  you  not,  that  se- 
cond marriages  have  been  deemed  unchaste  ?  Vir- 
gil makes  his  Dido  call  them  criminal.  No,  I  will 
have  no  other  husband  than  Jesus  Christ,  to  whom 
I  am  resolved  to  dedicate  my  future  life."  On 
another  occasion,  she  frankly  declared,  that  she 
had  suffered  too  much  in  a  conjugal  state  again  to 
subject  herself  to  the  yoke,  from  which  God  had 
freed  her,  even  though  a  husband,  richer  than 
Croesus,  wiser  than  Lelius,  or  handsomer  than 
Nireus,  should  off"er  himself.  Of  four  daughters 
which  Lucretia  bore  to  her  husband,  two  only 
survived,  whom  she  dedicated  to  a  conventual 
life.  Her  writings  were  held  in  so  much  esteem, 
for  the  graces  of  her  style,  that  even  the  notes 
she  wrote  to  her  domestics  were  carefully  collect- 
ed, and  many  of  them  preserved  in  the  edition  of 
her  letters.  She  was  a  kind  mistress,  careful  even 
to  the  settlement  of  her  domestics  in  life,  as  a  re- 
ward of  their  services.  She  wrote  many  letters 
to  her  friends  and  acquaintances  on  various  sub- 
jects, in  a  strain  of  admirable  morality ;  and  in 

329 


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GO 


all  liei-  conduct  was  an  example  to  lier  sex,  and  a 
blessing  to  society. 

GONZAGA,  COLONNA  IPPOLITA. 
Don  Ferrante  Gonzaga,  one  of  the  most  renown- 
ed captains  of  the  emperor  Charles  V.,  had  very- 
singular  ideas  on  the  subject  of  education;  ideas 
that  met  with  little  approval  among  his  own  sex 
at  that  day,  and  would  find  as  little  at  present. 
He  said  that  all  exercises  of  the  head  and  intellect 
tended  to  render  men  good  for  nothing ;  that  mili- 
tary discipline,  the  use  of  arms,  skill  in  horse- 
manship, were  to  be  taught  young  noblemen ;  their 
moral  training  was  to  be  patience,  iiersevei-ance, 
long-suffering,  bi-avery.  As  to  women,  it  was  quite 
anotlier  thing;  their  domain  was  in-doors ;  and  as 
it  was  good  for  the  world  that  science  and  litera- 
ture should  advance  and  embellish  life,  and  add  to 
its  comforts,  somebody  must  attend  to  these ;  no- 
thing more  clear,  then,  argued  don  Ferrante,  than 
that  this  is  "  woman's  mission." 


He  had  an  opportunity  of  acting  upon  this  theory, 
for  he  was  the  father  of  ten  sons,  all  younger  than 
his  daughter  Ippolita,  who  was  born  in  1535.  She 
had,  from  her  infancy,  masters  of  the  first  intelli- 
gence for  every  science ;  and  nature  having  en- 
dowed her  with  uncommon  ability,  her  progress 
in  every  department  of  literature  soon  rendered 
her  famous.  Her  father,  becoming  governor  of 
Milan,  brought  her  into  a  brilliant  and  courtly 
circle,  where  her  personal  charms,  and  the  wealth 
and  importance  of  her  family,  attracted  many 
suitors,  undeterred  by  her  extraordinary  learning. 
She  formed  a  marriage  of  love  with  Fabrizio  Co- 
lonna,  a  Roman  nobleman,  who  had  distinguished 
himself  in  a  military  capacity.  This  union  seems 
to  have  been  one  of  great  happiness;  but  it  was 
of  short  duration.  Fabrizio  died  in  the  flower  of 
youth.  His  widow,  after  the  manifestation  of 
violent  gi'ief,  sought  solace  in  literature.  Her 
house  soon  became  the  resort  of  all  the  eminent 
writers  of  the  age ;  the  most  extravagant  tributes 
of  admiration  were  offered  to  her  by  the  poets ; 
nor  were  scientific  or  grave  writers  behind-hand 
in  pouring  out  liomage  to  a  woman  whose  beauty, 


high  rank,  and  talents,  seemed  to  warrant  this 
sort  of  adulation.  In  the  meantime,  her  brothers 
grew  up  in  the  greatest  ignorance ;  her  uncle,  the 
cardinal  Ercule,  bishop  of  Mantua,  interceded  in 
favour  of  the  heir  of  the  family,  don  Cesare ;  he 
urged  his  brother  to  allow  his  eldest  son  some  few 
of  the  advantages  he  had  lavished  on  his  daugh- 
ter !  In  vain  !  Don  Ferrante,  firm  to  his  theory, 
refused  that  the  smallest  part  of  the  "ample  page 
of  knowledge"  should  be  "unrolled"  to  the  mo- 
dern Ctesar. 

Ippolita  formed  a  second  union  with  the  count 
Caraffa,  but  it  was  productive  of  nothing  but  mi- 
sery. The  count  Caraffa  took  umbrage  at  the 
crowd  of  literati  and  artists  who  surrounded  his 
wife.  She  was  not  willing  to  abandon  her  habits 
and  tastes ;  discord  was  fomented  by  the  count's 
mother,  a  narrow-minded  woman,  who  detested 
her  daughter-in-law :  these  disputes  resulted  in  a 
legal  separation;  upon  which  occasion  Ippolita 
received  a  letter  from  her  father  breathing  the 
tenderest  consolation,  and  recalling  his  darling  to 
the  bosom  of  her  family.  She  was  received  with 
tenderness,  but  her  spirits  were  broken.  She 
gradually  declined  in  health,  and  died  at  the  age 
of  twenty-eight. 

She  left  a  volume  of  poems,  among  which  is 
celebrated,  a  sonnet  written  on  the  death  of  Irene 
of  Spilimberg. 

GOTTSCHED,  LOUISA  ADELGUNDE 
VICTORIA, 
Was  born  at  Dantzic,  in  1713.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Kalmus.  When  only  sixteen  years  of 
age,  she  married  professor  Gottsched,  of  the  Leip- 
sic  university.  She  aided  her  husband  in  all  his 
literary  labours ;  and  appeared,  in  a  short  time 
after  her  mai'riage,  as  an  authoress  under  her 
own  name.  Her  style  is  pronounced  by  critics  as 
superior  to  that  of  her  husband ;  though  he  en- 
joyed a  great  reputation  as  an  author.  She  wrote 
a  number  of  melo-dramas,  and  a  very  fine  tragedy, 
"Panthea."     Her  death  occurred  in  1762. 

GOUGES,  MARIE  OLYMPE  DE, 
A  NATIVE  of  Montauban.  During  the  revolu- 
tion she  espoused  the  cause  of  the  people,  and 
made  Mirabeau  the  hero  of  her  writings.  But 
the  enormities  of  the  Jacobins  disgusted  her ;  and 
when  Louis  XVI.  was  dragged  before  the  tribunal 
she  had  the  courage  to  demand  the  privilege  of 
defending  him.  This  heroic  conduct,  and  her  at- 
tacks on  Marat  and  Robespierre,  marked  her  out 
for  death.  She  was  guillotined  November  3d,  1792, 
aged  thirty-eight.  Slie  wrote  several  dramas.  Her 
chai'acter  as  a  woman  was  by  no  means  irreproach- 
able. 

GOURNAY,  MARY  DE  JARS,  LADY  OF, 

A  Feench  woman  of  wit  and  learning,  was  re- 
lated to  several  noble  families  in  Paris,  but  born 
in  Gascony,  in  1565.  She  had  a  strong  turn  for 
literature,  and  was  so  delighted  with  Montaigne's 
Essays,  that,  on  her  father's  death,  she  adopted 
Montaigne  in  his  stead,  even  before  she  had  seen 
him.     When  he  was  at  Paris  in  1588,  she  visited 

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liim,  and  pi'evailed  on  him  to  pass  two  or  tliree 
months  with  her  and  her  mother,  the  hidy  Gournay. 
Mademoiselle  de  Jars  became  so  wedded  to  books 
in  general,  and  Montaigne's  Essays  in  particular, 
that  she  resolved  never  to  have  any  other  asso- 
ciate. Nor  was  Montaigne  ungrateful  for  her  ad- 
miration. He  foretold,  in  his  second  book  of 
Essays,  that  she  would  be  capable  of  first-rate 
productions.  The  connection  was  carried  through 
the  family-.  Montaigne's  daughter,  the  viscountess 
de  Jamaches,  always  claimed  Mademoiselle  de 
Jars  as  a  sister.  In  1634,  after  Montaigne's  death, 
she  revised  and  reprinted  an  edition  of  his  Essays, 
with  a  preface,  full  of  the  strongest  expressions  of 
devotion  to  his  memory. 

She  published  a  volume  of  prose  and  verse  in 
1636,  called  "  Les  Avis  et  les  Presens  de  la  De- 
moiselle de  Gournai."  She  was  never  married, 
but  received  a  small  pension  from  the  court.  She 
died  in  1645,  at  Paris. 

GRACE,  MRS. 
The  maiden  name  of  this  ingenious  woman  is 
not  known.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  shoemaker, 
and  without  any  regular  instruction,  succeeded  so 
well  in  painting  portraits  as  not  only  to  support 
her  family,  but  also  to  realize  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  She  frequently  exhibited  with  the  Society 
of  Artists  in  London;  and  in  1767  produced  an 
historical  picture.  Slie  left  London  for  Homerton, 
where  she  died  about  1786. 

GRAFFIGNY,  FRANgOISE  D'HAPPONCOURT, 
Was  the  daughter  of  a  great-niece  of  the  cele- 
brated engraver  Callot.  Her  disposition  gentle 
and  serious,  her  judgment  excellent,  she  was  be- 
nevolent and  affectionate,  and  much  esteemed  by 
her  numerous  friends.  Her  "  Lettres  Peruviennes" 
obtained  great  celebrity.  Their  variety  of  descrip- 
tion, richness  of  imagery,  and  impassioned  inter- 
est, have  been  justly  admired.  She  also  composed 
a  comedy  of  the  genre  larmoyante,  which  con- 
tains many  ingenious  thoughts,  but  is  negligently 
finished. 

Madame  de  Graffigny  sometimes  told  with  mor- 
tification, that  her  mother,  having  inherited  a  vast 
number  of  the  copperplates  of  the  great  Callot, 
sent  one  day  for  a  brazier  and  had  them  all  melted 
down,  and  made  into  kitchen  utensils. 

In  her  married  life  she  suflFered  much  unkind- 
ness  from  an  unworthy  husband.  Becoming  a 
widow,  in  1740  she  went  to  Paris  in  the  suite  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Guise,  little  foreseeing  the  ho- 
nours that  awaited  her  in  the  literary  world.  Her 
reputation  was  formed  in  the  capital  while  she 
was  unconscious  of  it.  Several  men  of  letters 
engaged  her  assistance  in  a  periodical  production 
that  had  a  vogue  at  that  time.  She  wrote  for 
them  a  tale  entitled  "Bad  examples  produce  as 
many  virtues  as  vices."  This  story  is  filled  with 
maxims,  of  which  the  very  title  is  one.  Madame 
de  Graffigny  began  the  career  of  an  author  at  rather 
a  late  period  of  life  ;  but  no  want  of  spirit  or  ani- 
mation is  to  be  objected  to  her  writings.  Besides 
many  other  dramatic  and  imaginative  works,  she 
composed  three  or  four  little  plays  for  the  young, 


which  were  represented  in  Vienna  by  the  children 
of  the  emperor,  who  gave  her  a  pension.  These 
were  of  a  moral  tendency,  and  written  with  a  cha- 
racteristic simplicity.     She  died  in  1758. 

GRAHAM,    ISABELLA, 

Was  born  in  the  county  of  Lanark,  Scotland,  in 
1742.  Her  parents,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Marshall, 
educated  her  carefully  and  religiously.  In  1765, 
she  became  acquainted  with  Dr.  John  Graham,  a 
physician  of  Paisley,  whom  she  afterwards  mar- 
ried, and  by  whom  she  had  four  children.  Soon 
after  their  marriage,  her  husband  was  ordered  to 
his  regiment,  then  in  Canada.  Four  of  the  hap- 
piest years  of  her  life  were  spent  in  that  country, 
when  Dr.  Graham  was  ordered  to  Antigua,  where 
he  died,  in  1774.  Mrs.  Graham  then  returned  to 
her  father  in  Scotland,  where,  by  taking  charge 
of  the  education  of  some  young  ladies,  she  sup- 
ported her  aged  father,  herself,  and  her  chil- 
dren. 

In  1789,  Mrs.  Graham  returned  to  America,  and 
opened  a  seminary  for  young  ladies  in  New  York, 
in  which  she  was  very  successful.  She  was  also 
eminent  as  a  public  benefactor,  being  the  projec- 
tor, the  founder,  and  one  of  the  most  efficient 
members,  of  the  "  AVidow's  Society,"  the  "Or- 
phans' Asylum,"  and  a  "  Society  for  the  Promo- 
tion of  Industrj'."  She  devoted  her  time,  talents, 
influence  and  earnings,  to  the  building  vip  of  these 
useful  charities ;  even  performing  the  office  of 
teacher  for  some  time  in  the  Orphans'  School,  be- 
fore the  funds  were  sufficient  to  pay  an  instructor. 
Few  women  have  accomplished  such  efficient  ser- 
vices for  public  good  as  did  this  truly  noble  woman ; 
she  not  only  worked  herself  in  the  cause  of  her 
heavenly  Master,  but  she  had  that  peculiar  faculty, 
the  gift  of  persuasion,  which  moved  the  hearts  of 
many  to  work  with  her,  who,  without  such  an  ex- 
emplar and  monitor,  would  never  have  entered  on 
these  plans  of  doing  good.  Mrs.  Graham  was  also 
gifted  with  genius  ;  her  talents,  hallowed  by  piety, 
and  devoted  to  duty,  were  of  the  high  order  which 
would  have  gained  her  a  wide  reputation  for  lite- 
rature, had  she  lent  herself  to  its  pursuits.  Her 
familiar  letters  are  models  of  the  best  style ;  and 
the  fragments  of  her  poetry,  found  among  her 
papers,  entitled  "Provision  for  my  last  Journey 
through  the  Wilderness,"  &c.,  show  the  poetic  feel- 
ing which  slumbered  in  her  heart,  or  rather  was 
absorbed  by  her  love  of  God  and  her  ceaseless 
service  in  His  cause.  She  had,  in  this  life,  the 
reward  of  seeing  her  exertions  crowned  with  won- 
derful success ;  and  the  blessing  of  a  peaceful  and 
happy  death  seemed  the  fitting  close  of  an  earthly 
career  which  was  to  open  for  her  an  eternity  of 
glory  and  blessedness.  She  died,  July  27th,  1814. 
But  her  spirit  has  not  passed  away ;  it  animates 
her  descendants ;  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Bethune, 
and  the  only  son  of  this  daughter,  Rev.  George  W. 
Bethune,  who  carry  on  and  out  the  holy  princi- 
ples of  benevolence  of  Isabella  Graham.  Her 
"  Life  and  Writings"  are  widely  known,  many  edi- 
tions having  been  published  in  Scotland  and  Eng- 
land ;  and  probably  more  than  fifty  thousand  copies 
have  been  printed  in  America.     We  give  only  one 

331 


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extract,  a  poem.     Its  pious  resignation  will  com- 
fort those  who  mourn  as  she  mourned. 

WIDOWHOOD. 

IVritten  in  the  Island  of  Antigua  shortly  after  Dr.  Graham's 
death. 
Hail !  thou  state  of  widowhood, 
State  of  those  that  mourn  to  God; 
Who  from  earthly  comforts  torn, 
Only  live  to  pray  and  mourn. 

Meanest  of  the  number,  I 

For  my  dear  companion  sigh; 

Patiently  my  loss  deplore, 

Mourn  for  one  that  mourns  no  more. 

Me  my  consort  hath  outrun, 
Out  of  sight  he  quite  has  gone; 
He  his  course  has  finish'd  here. 
First  come  to  the  sepulchre. 

Following  on  with  earnest  haste. 
Till  my  mourning  days  are  past, 
I  my  partner's  steps  pursue, 
I  shall  soon  be  happy  too ; 

Find  the  ease  for  which  I  pant, 
Gain  the  only  good  I  want; 
Uuietly  lay  down  my  head. 
Sink  into  my  earthy  bed. 

There  my  flesh  shall  rest  in  hope. 
Till  the  quicken'd  dust  mount  up; 
When  to  glorious  life  I'll  rise. 
To  meet  my  husband  in  the  skies. 


GRANT,   ANNE, 

AVhose  maiden  name  was  Mac  Vicar,  was  born 
at  Glasgow,  Scotland,  in  February,  1755.  AVhen 
a  child,  she  came  with  her  father,  who  was  an  offi- 
cer in  the  British  army,  to  America,  and  spent 
some  time  in  the  interior  of  New  York.  While 
residing  near  Albany,  Miss  Mac  Vicar  was  intro- 
duced to  the  notice  of  Madame  Schuyler,  wife,  or 
widow  rather,  of  Colonel  Philip  Schuyler ;  and  to 
this  "American  lady,"  the  English  maiden,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Grant,  acknowledges  she  owed  "  what- 
ever of  culture  her  mind  received."  Respecting 
the  effect  which  a  residence  in  the  then  American 
colonies  had,  Mrs.  Grant,  many  years  afterwards, 
says :  "I  was  fond  of  it  to  enthusiasm,  and  spent 
the  most  delightful  and  fanciful  period  of  my  life 
in  it,  for  mine  was  a  very  premature  childhood. 
The  plaoe  where  I  resided  was  the  most  desirable 
in  the  whole  continent ;  there  my  first  perceptions 
of  pleasure,  and  there  my  earliest  habits  of  think- 
ing, were  formed ;  and  from  tlience  I  drew  that 
high  relish  for  the  sublime  simplicity  of  nature 
which  has  ever  accompanied  me.  This  has  been 
the  means  of  preserving  a  certain  humble  dignity 
in  all  the  difficulties  I  have  had  to  struggle 
through." 

She  returned  to  Scotland  in  17G8,  and  in  1779 
married  the  Rev.  Mr.  Grant,  of  Laggan,  by  whom 
she  had  several  children.  On  the  death  of  her 
husband,  in  1801,  being  obliged  to  resort  to  her 
pen  for  subsistence,  she  wrote  "  The  Higlilanders, 
and  other  Poems,"  "  Memoirs  of  an  American 
Lady,"  "Letters  from  the  Mountains,"  "Essays 
on  the  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland," 
&c.  She  died  on  the  7th  of  November,  1838,  at 
Edinburgh,  where  she  resided  during  the  latter 
part  of  her  life,  and  where  she  was  the  centre  of 


a  circle  of  accomplished  and  literary  people.  From 
1825  till  her  death  she  enjoyed  a  royal  pension  of 
one  hundred  pounds  yearly,  which,  with  the  emo- 
luments derived  from  her  writings,  and  some 
liberal  bequests,  rendered  her  quite  independent. 

Among  the  productions  of  Mrs.  Grant,  her 
"  Memoirs  of  an  American  Lady"  ranks  the  first 
in  interest  and  power ;  but  all  she  wrote  was 
good.  Sir  AValter  Scott  has  thus  given  testimony 
to  her  worth  and  genius : 

"  The  character  and  talents  of  Mrs.  Grant  have 
long  rendered  her,  not  only  a  useful  and  estimable 
member  of  society,  but  one  eminent  for  the  ser- 
vices which  she  has  rendered  to  the  cause  of  reli- 
gion, morality,  knowledge,  and  taste.  Her  lite- 
rary works,  although  composed  amidst  misfortune 
and  privation,  are  written  at  once  with  simplicity 
and  force ;  and  uniformly  bear  the  stamp  of  a  vir- 
tuous and  courageous  mind,  recommending  to  the 
reader  that  patience  and  fortitude,  which  the 
writer  herself  practised  in  such  an  eminent  degree. 
Her  writings,  deservedly  popular  in  her  own  coun- 
try, derive  their  success  from  the  manner  in  which, 
addressing  themselves  to  the  national  pride  of  the 
Scottish  people,  they  breathe  a  spirit  at  once  of 
patriotism,  and  of  that  candour  which  renders 
patriotism  unselfish  and  liberal.  We  have  no  hesi- 
tation in  attesting  our  belief  that  Mrs.  Grant's 
writings  have  produced  a  strong  and  salutary  ef- 
fect upon  her  countrymen,  who  not  only  found 
recorded  in  them  much  of  national  history  and 
antiquities,  which  would  otherwise  have  been  for- 
gotten, but  found  them  combined  with  the  sound- 
est and  best  lessons  of  virtue  and  morality." 

We  subjoin  a  poem  of  Mrs.  Grant's,  which  is 
characteristic  of  her  turn  of  thought  and  her  che- 
rished feelings. 

ON    A    SPKIG    OF    HEATH. 

Flower  of  the  waste!  the  heath-fowl  shuns 

For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood- 
To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs. 

Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food  ; 
Her  young  forsake  her  downy  plumes. 
To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flower  of  the  desert  though  thou  art ! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountain  free. 
The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart. 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee  ; 
The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets, 
And  drains  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets. 

Gem  of  the  heath  !  whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o'er  the  lonely  moor; 

Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume, 
Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure. 

Both  valour's  crest  and  beauty's  bower 

Oft  hast  thou  deoked,  a  favourite  flower. 

Flower  of  the  wild!  whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain's  side, 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris'  bow, 
Nor  garden's  artful  varied  pride, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets,  could  cheer. 

Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart;  thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seem  to  breathe; 

To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  wild, 
And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath, 

Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires. 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  desires. 

332 


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Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land  ! 

Alas,  when  distant  far  more  dear! 
When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand, 

Looks  homeward  through  the  blending  tear, 
How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore. 
The  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more ! 

GREVILLE,  MRS., 
Wife  of  Fulke  Greville,  was  a  celebrated  wit 
unci  beauty  in  English  society  during  the  last  cen- 
tury. She  Avrote,  about  1753,  a  "  Prayer  for  In- 
diiference,"  which  was  long  very  popular.  The 
beautiful  Mrs.  Crewe  was  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Greville.  Her  maiden  name  was  Fanny  M'Cart- 
ney.  Mrs.  Greville  was  the  author  of  "Maxims 
and  Characters,"  published  in  1756,  and  some 
other  works ;  but  none  are  now  of  much  account 
except  the 

PRAYER    FOR    INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain. 
And  prayed  till  I've  been  weary; 

For  once  I'll  try  my  wish  to  gain 
Of  Oberon  the  Fairy. 

Sweet  airy  being,  wanton  sprite. 

That  lurk'st  in  woods  unseen. 
And  oft  by  Cynthia's  silver  light 

Tripp'st  gaily  o'er  the  green; 

If  e'er  thy  pitying  heart  was  moved, 

As  ancient  stories  tell, 
And  for  th'  Athenian  maid  who  loved 

Thou  found'st  a  wondrous  spell ; 

Oh  deign  once  more  t'  exert  thy  pow'r ! 

Haply  some  herb  or  tree, 
Sov'reign  as  juice  of  western  flower. 

Conceals  a  balm  for  me. 

I  ask  no  kind  return  of  love. 

No  tempting  charm  to  please; 
Far  from  the  heart  those  gifts  remove 

That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease: 

No  peace  nor  ease  the  heart  can  know. 

Which,  like  the  needle  true. 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

'Tis  pain  in  each  degiee  ; 
'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound. 

Beyond,  is  agony. 

Take  then  this  treacherous  sense  of  mine, 

Which  dooms  me  still  to  smart ; 
Which  pleasure  can  to  pain  refine. 

To  pain  new  pangs  impart. 

Oh  haste  to  shed  the  sacred  balm! 

My  shattered  nerves  new  string; 
And  for  my  guest,  serenely  calm. 

The  nymph  Indifference  bring. 

*  *  *  * 

And  what  of  life  remains  for  me 

I'll  pass  in  sober  ease; 
Half  pleased,  contented  will  I  be. 

Content  but  half  to  please. 

GREY,  LADY  JANE, 
AVas  an  illustrious  personage  of  the  blood-royal 
of  England  by  both  parents ;  her  grandmother  on 
her  father's  side,  Henry  Grey,  marquis  of  Dorset, 
being  queen-consort  to  Edward  IV. ;  and  her  grand- 
mother on  jaer  mother's,  lady  Frances  Brandon, 
being  daughter  to  Henry  VII.,  and  queen-dowager 
of  France.  Lady  Jane  was  born  in  1537,  at  Brad- 
gate,  her  father's  soat  in  Leicestershire,  and  very 


early  gave  astonishing  proofs  of  her  talents.  She 
was  considered  superior  to  Edward  VI.,  who  was 
about  the  same  age,  and  was  thought  a  prodigy. 
She  embroidered  and  wrote  beautifully,  played 
admirably  on  various  instruments,  and  accompa- 
nied them  with  a  voice  exquisitely  sweet  and  well 
cultivated.  These,  however,  were  only  inferior 
ornaments  in  her  character  ;  and,  far  from  priding 
herself  upon  them,  from  her  parents'  severity  in 
exacting  them,  they  became  a  source  of  grief  ra- 
ther than  pleasure. 


Her  father  had  himself  an  inclination  to  letters, 
and  was  a  great  patron  of  the  learned.  He  had 
two  chaplains,  Harding  and  Aylmer,  both  men  of 
distinguished  learning,  whom  he  employed  as 
tutors  to  his  daughter ;  and  under  whose  instruc- 
tions she  made  such  proficiency  as  amazed  them 
both.  Her  own  language  she  spoke  and  wrote 
with  the  utmost  accuracy ;  and  she  not  only  un- 
derstood the  French,  Italian,  Latin,  and  Greek, 
but  spoke  and  wrote  them  with  the  greatest  free- 
dom. She  was  also  versed  in  Hebrew,  Chaldee, 
and  Arabic  ;  and  all  this  while  a  mere  child.  She 
had  a  sedateness  of  temper,  a  quickness  of  ajjpre- 
hension,  and  a  solidity  of  judgment,  that  enabled 
her  to  understand  the  sciences ;  so  that  she  thought, 
spoke,  and  reasoned,  upon  subjects  of  the  greatest 
importance,  in  a  manner  that  surprised  all.  To 
these  endowments  were  added  the  loveliest  graces 
of  woman,  mildness,  humility,  and  modesty.  Her 
natural  fondness  for  literature  was  much  increased 
by  the  severity  of  her  parents  in  the  feminine  part 
of  her  education;  for,  by  the  gentleness  of  her 
tutor,  Aylmer,  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  duties,  he 
won  her  to  love  what  he  taught.  Her  alliance  to 
the  crown,  and  the  great  esteem  in  which  the  mar- 
quis of  Dorset,  her  father,  was  held  both  by  Henry 
VIII.  and  Edward  VI.,  unavoidably  brought  her 
sometimes  to  court ;  and  she  received  many  marks 
of  Edward's  favour.  Yet  she  generally  continued 
in  the  country  at  Bradgate. 

It  was  there  that  the  famous  Roger  Ascham  was 
on  a  visit  in  August,  1550 ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  being  out  hunting,  he  went  to  the  apartment 
of  the  lady  Jane,  and  found  her  reading  Plato's 


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Phifidon  in  the  original  Greek.  Astonished  at  this, 
he  asked  her,  why  she  lost  svich  pastime  as  there 
must  needs  be  in  the  park  ;  at  which  she  answered, 
smiling,  "  I  wist  all  their  sport  in  the  pai-k  is  but  a 
shadow  to  that  pleasure  that  I  find  in  Plato.  Alas, 
good  folk,  they  never  felt  what  true  pleasure 
meant." 

This  naturally  leading  him  to  inquire  how  a  lady 
of  her  age  had  attained  to  such  a  depth  of  plea- 
sure, both  in  the  Platonic  language  and  philosophy, 
she  made  the  following  remarkable  answer : 

' '  I  will  tell  you,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  truth  which 
perchance  you  will  marvel  at.  One  of  the  greatest 
benefits  which  ever  God  gave  me  is,  that  he  sent 
me  so  sharp  and  severe  parents,  and  so  gentle  a 
schoolmaster.  For  when  I  am  in  presence  either 
of  father  or  mother,  whether  I  speak,  keep  silence, 
sit,  stand,  or  go,  eat,  drink,  be  merry  or  sad,  be 
sewing,  playing,  dancing,  or  doing  anything  else, 
I  am  so  sharply  taunted,  so  cruelly  threatened, 
yea  presently  sometimes  with  pinches,  nips,  and 
bobs,  and  other  ways  (which  I  will  not  name  for 
the  honour  I  bear  them)  so  without  measure  mis- 
ordered,  that  I  think  myself  in  hell,  till  time  come 
that  I  must  go  to  Mr.  Aylmer,  who  teacheth  me 
so  gently,  so  pleasantly,  with  such  fair  allurements 
to  learning,  that  I  think  all  the  time  nothing  while 
I  am  with  him ;  and,  when  I  am  called  from  him, 
I  fall  on  weeping ;  because,  whatever  I  do  else  but 
learning,  is  full  of  grief,  trouble,  fear,  and  wholly 
misliking  unto  me.  And  thus  my  book  hath  been 
so  much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  daily  to  me 
more  pleasure  and  more,  and  that  in  respect  of  it 
all  other  pleasures  in  very  deed  be  but  trifles  and 
tr'oubles  unto  me."  Ascham  was  deeply  affected 
by  this  speech  and  interview. 

In  1553,  she  was  married  to  lord  Guilford  Dud- 
ley ;  and,  shortly  afterwards,  reluctantly  accepted 
the  diadem,  which  the  intrigues  of  her  father  and 
her  father-in-law  had  induced.  But  ascending  the 
throne  was  only  a  step  oji  her  way  to  the  scaffold. 
Nine  days  only  did  she  wear  the  crown  ;  the  nation 
acknowledged  the  right  of  iMarj',  eldest  daughter 
of  Henry  VIII. ;  and  the  lady  Jane  and  her  hus- 
band were  sent  to  the  Tower.  They  had  committed 
a  crime  against  the  state,  in  accepting  the  sove- 
reignty which  by  birth  belonged  to  Mary ;  but  as 
she  had  suffered  no  loss,  and  the  offenders  were 
so  young,  and  had  been  persuaded  by  others,  it 
was  hoped  their  lives  would  be  spared.  But  the 
boon  of  mercy  was  not  for  them ;  and  in  Febru- 
ary, 1554,  they  were  brought  to  the  block. 

Although  the  queen,  seeming  to  desire  the 
salvation  of  her  victims,  sent  the  most  learned 
and  subtle  priests  to  exhort  the  lady  Jane  to  a 
change  of  faith,  she  defended  her  opinions  with 
ability  and  resolution ;  and  her  part  in  this  con- 
ference is  highly  commended  by  bishop  Burnet, 
and  other  ecclesiastical  historians.  She  wrote 
several  letters  in  her  confinement,  one  to  her 
sister,  in  Greek,  exhorting  her  to  maintain,  in 
every  trial,  that  fortitude  and  perseverance  of 
which  she  trusted  to  give  her  the  example.  An- 
other one  was  addressed  to  her  father's  chaplain. 
Dr.  Harding,  who  had  apostatized  from  his  reli- 
gion, imploring  him  to  prefer  his  conscience  to  his 


safety.  She  also  wi'ote  four  epistles  in  Latin,  two 
of  them  the  night  before  her  execution,  on  the 
blank  leaves  of  her  Greek  Testament. 

She  refused  to  consent  to  her  husband's  entrea- 
ties for  a  last  interview,  i),lleging  that  the  ten- 
derness of  their  parting  would  overcome  their 
fortitude,  and  that  they  should  soon  meet  where 
no  disappointment,  misfortune,  or  death  could 
disturb  them. 

As  she  beheld  from  her  window  her  husband 
led  to  execution,  having  given  him  a  token  of  her 
remembrance,  she  calmly  awaited  her  own  fate. 
On  her  way  to  the  scaffold,  she  was  met  by  the 
cart  that  bore  the  lifeless  body  of  lord  Guilford ; 
this  forced  from  her  some  tears,  that  were  quickly 
dried  by  the  report  of  his  courage  and  constancy. 

Sir  John  Gage,  constable  of  the  Tower,  entreated 
her  to  give  him  some  token  of  remembrance,  and 
she  presented  him  with  her  tablets,  in  which  she 
had  just  wi'itten  three  sentences  in  Greek,  Latin, 
and  English,  suggested  by  seeing  the  dead  body 
of  her  husband ;  importing  that  he,  whom  human 
laws  had  condemned,  would  be  saved  by  Divine 
mercy  ;  and  that  if  her  own  fault  deserved  punish- 
ment, it  would,  she  trusted,  be  extenuated  by  her 
youth  and  inexperience.  At  the  scaffold,  without 
breathing  a  complaint  against  the  severity  of  her 
punishment,  she  attested  her  innocence  of  inten- 
tional wrong;  her  crime,  she  said,  had  not  been 
ambition,  but  a  want  of  firmness  in  resisting  the 
instances  of  those  whom  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  revere  and  obey.  She  concluded  her  remarks 
with  a  solemn  profession  of  her  faith,  and  de- 
voutly repeated  a  psalm  in  English. 

The  executioner  knelt  to  implore  her  forgive- 
ness, which  she  granted  readily,  adding,  "  I  pray 
you,  despatch  me  quickly."  Then  kneeling,  and 
saying,  "Lord,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my 
spirit,"  she  meekly  submitted  to  her  fate.  She 
was  hardly  seventeen  at  the  time  of  her  death. 

We  are  glad  to  record,  for  the  credit  of  that  age, 
and  of  humanity,  that  the  cruel  fate  of  this  lovely 
lady  was  universally  pitied ;  and  the  memory  of 
her  virtues  has  ever  excited  the  highest  admira- 
tion. 

On  the  wall  of  the  room  in  which  the  lady  Jane 
was  imprisoned  in  the  Tower,  she  wrote  with  a 
l)in  the  following  lines  : 

"  Non  aliena  putes  homini  qu»  obtingere  possunt ; 
Sors  hodierna  milii,  eras  erit  ilia  tibi." 

"  Think  not,  O  mortal,  vainly  gay, 
That  thou  from  human  woes  art  free  ; 
The  bitter  cup  I  drink  to-day. 
To-morrow  may  be  drunk  by  thee." 

"  Deo  juvante,  nil  nocet  livor  malus, 
Et  non  juvante,  nil  juvat  labor  gravis, 
Post  tenebras  spero  lucem." 

"  Flarmless  all  malice  if  our  God  is  nigh; 

Fruitless  all  pains,  if  he  his  help  deny. 
•  Patient  I  pass  these  gloomy  hours  away. 

And  wait  the  morning  of  eternal  day." 

GRIERSON,    CONSTANTIA, 

Was  born  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny,  in  Ireland. 
She  was  considered  an  excellent  scholar,  not  only 
in  Greek  and  Roman  literature,  but  in  histoi-y, 

334 


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divinity,  pliilosoi^hy,  and  mathematics.  She  gave 
a  proof  of  her  knowledge  of  Latin  by  her  dedica- 
tion of  the  Diil)lin  edition  of  Tacitus  to  Lord  Car- 
teret, and  that  of  Terence  to  his  son,  to  whom  she 
also  wrote  a  Greek  epigram.  She  also  composed 
several  fine  poems,  in  English ;  and  was  a  woman 
of  exemplary  piety  and  virtue.  What  made  these 
extraordinary  talents  yet  more  surprising,  was,  that 
her  parents  were  poor,  illiterate,  country  people, 
and  she  had  no  instruction  but  the  little  the  mi- 
nister of  the  parish  gave  her,  when  she  found  time 
from  her  needle-work,  to  which  she  was  closely 
kept  by  her  mother. 

When  Lord  Carteret  was  lord-lieutenant  of  Ire- 
land, he  obtained  a  patent  for  Mr.  Grierson,  her 
husband,  to  be  the  king's  printer ;  and,  to  distin- 
guish and  reward  her  uncommon  merit,  had  her 
life  inserted  in  it.  Whether  owing  to  her  own 
desire  or  the  envy  of  those  aroiind  her,  very  few 
of  her  various  and  beautiful  writings  were  ever 
published.  She  died  in  1733,  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-seven. 

GRIFFITH,   ELIZABETH, 

A  NOVELIST  and  dramatic  writer  of  some  emi- 
nence, first  distinguished  herself  by  "  The  Letters 
cf  Henry  and  Frances,"  which  contained  the  genu- 
ine correspondence  between  her  and  her  husband 
before  their  marriage.  She  also  wrote  "  Memoirs 
of  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,"  the  "  Morality  of  Shak- 
speare's  Dramas  Illustrated,"  three  novels,  four 
comedies,  and  "Essays  addressed  to  Young  Mar- 
ried Women."     She  died  in  Ireland,  in  1793. 

GRIGNAN,  FRANCES,  COUNTESS  DE, 
Dattghter  of  the  celebrated  Madame  Sevign^, 
was  born  in  1646.  In  1669,  she  mari-ied  Count 
Griguan,  an  officer  of  high  rank  at  the  court  of 
Louis  XIV.  Her  residence  in  Provence  with  her 
husband,  and  at  a  distance  from  her  mother,  was 
the  cause  of  the  writing  of  those  excellent  letters 
which  passed  between  the  mother  and  daughter. 
She  had  two  daughters  and  one  son.  Her  life 
owes  all  its  celebrity  to  the  interest  excited  by  the 
letters  of  her  mother.  The  death  of  the  Countess 
de  Grignan  occurred  iu  1705. 

GROTIUS,    MARY, 

Daughter  of  Baron  Reigesberg,  of  Zealand, 
was  married  to  the  renowned  Hugh  Grotius,  July, 
IGOS.  She  proved  herself  worthy  of  her  illustrious 
husband ;  was  his  confidant  and  counsellor  iu  all 
his  pursuits,  and  by  her  fortitude  and  persevering 
aflection  sustained  him  in  every  reverse  of  fortune. 
When,  in  1619,  he  was  sentenced,  for  his  political 
writings,  to  imprisonment  for  life  in  the  fortress 
of  Louvestein,  she  petitioned  to  accompany  him. 
This  was  granted,  on  condition  that  if  she  went 
into  the  prison  she  should  never  come  out.  She 
agreed  to  this,  but  finally  was  allowed  to  go  out 
twice  a  week.  In  prison,  Grotius  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  his  literary  pursuits,  while  his  true 
wife  was  studying  how  to  effect  his  liberation. 
She  accomplished  this  in  the  following  manner. 

She  had  been  permitted  to  borrow  books  of  his 
friends  for  him,  and  when  he  had  used  the  books, 


they  were  carried  back  in  a  chest  in  which  bis 
linen  was  carried  to  and  from  his  laundress.  The 
first  year  his  guards  were  very  exact  in  examining 
the  chest;  but  being  used  to  find  nothing  in  it 
besides  books  and  linen,  they  grew  remiss,  and 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  open  it.  Madame  Gro- 
tius observed  this,  and  proposed  her  plan.  She 
represented  to  her  husband  that  it  was  in  his 
power  to  get  out  of  prison,  if  he  would  put  him- 
self into  this  chest.  But  to  prevent  any  danger 
to  his  health,  she  caused  holes  to  be  bored  oppo- 
site to  where  his  face  was  to  be,  so  that  he  might 
breathe  freely ;  and  persuaded  him  to  try  if  he 
could  remain  shut  up  in  that  confined  posture  (the 
chest  was  only  three  and  a  half  feet  in  length)  as 
long  as  it  would  require  to  go  from  Louvestein  to 
Gorcum.  Finding  it  might  be  done,  she  then 
watched  for  a  favourable  opportunity  to  make  the 
attempt.  The  commandant  being  called  away, 
this  faithful  wife  contrived  to  get  her  husband 
carried  out  in  the  chest,  as  though  it  were  filled 
with  books,  while  she  remained  in  prison,  pre- 
tending that  he  was  very  ill.  Thus  Grotius  es- 
caped, and  went  to  Paris,  where  he  had  many 
friends.  She  was,  for  a  time,  confined  and  treated 
with  great  rigour ;  but  finally  released,  and  al- 
lowed to  join  her  husband. 

Subsequently,  when  he  wished  to  return  to  Hol- 
land, she  went  first  to  prepare  the  way.  And 
then,  when  she  made  a  journey  into  Zealand,  to 
pick  up  the  remains  of  their  fortune,  his  biogra- 
pher observes:  "  Time  passed  horribly  with  Gro- 
tius till  the  return  of  his  wife.  She  had  always 
been  his  consolation  in  adversity.  In  truth,  the 
most  important  works  of  this  wonderful  man  owe 
their  pei'fection,  if  not  their  origin,  to  her.  She 
encouraged  his  plans,  assisted  him  in  preparing 
his  writings  for  the  press,  and  was  his  guardian 
and  guiding  angel  through  all  the  perils  and  per- 
plexities of  his  life." 

GROUCHY,    SOPHIA, 

Sister  of  Marshal  Grouchy,  and  widow  of  the 
celebrated  French  philosopher,  Condorcet,  was  a 
successful  writer  and  translator.  She  translated 
two  woi'ks  of  Adam  Smith  into  French ;  and  she 
added  "Letters  on  Sympathy,"  in  which  Madame 
Condorcet  supplies  some  omissions  of  the  author, 
whom  she  examines,  modifies,  and  often  combats. 
Her  translation  is  remarkable  for  the  elegance 
and  purity  of  its  style,  the  ideas  and  severity  of 
philosophical  language.  This  lady  composed  a 
treatise  for  the  education  of  her  daughter,  which 
remains  vmpublished.  She  died  in  1822  univer- 
sally regretted. 

GUILLAUME,  JACQUETTE, 
A  French  lady  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
wi'ote  a  work  entitled  "  Les  Dames  illustres :  oil, 
par  bonnes  et  fortes  Raisons,  il  se  prouve  que  le 
sexe  feminin  surpasse  en  toute  sorte  de  Genre  le 
sexe  masculin."  In  this  performance,  published 
in  1665,  the  writer  attempts  to  prove  the  superi- 
ority of  the  female  over  the  male  sex,  through  the 
whole  human  and  animal  creation.  The  style  is 
elegant  and  unaffected,  and  the  examples  and  ob- 


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servations  show  knowledge  and  research.  She 
did  not,  however,  dwell  sufficiently  on  the  kind 
of  superiority  she  claimed  for  woman  over  man  — 
that  it  was  moral,  not  mental  or  physical  power 
which  the  female  sex  was  ordained  to  wield.  Nor 
did  she  distinguish  sufficiently  between  the  mani- 
festations of  the  distinctive  characters  of  man  and 
woman :  that  the  power  of  the  first  was  centred 
in  the  reason  and  the  will ;  of  the  last,  in  the 
conscience  and  the  aflFections.  She  had  never 
studied  the  Bible,  which  is  the  grand  charter  of 
woman's  rights,  and  the  only  true  expositor  of  her 
duties. 


GUIZOT,  CHARLOTTE  PAULINE, 
Was  born  in  Paris,  in  1773.  Her  father,  M.  de 
Meulan,  lost  all  his  fortune  by  the  Revolution, 
and  dying  in  1790,  left  a  widow  and  five  children 
almost  totally  destitute.  Pauline  de  Meulan,  the 
eldest,  commenced  writing  in  order  to  contribute 
to  the  support  of  her  family.  Her  first  attempt 
was  a  novel,  which  was  successful,  and  then  she 
became  one  of  the  most  popular  contributors  to  a 
journal  established  at  Paris,  called  "  The  Publi- 
ciste."  In  1807,  while  suifering  under  an  illness 
brought  on  by  over-exertion,  which  compelled  her 
to  give  up  writing,  the  only  I'esource  of  her  mother 
and  herself,  she  received  an  article  written  in 
happy  imitation  of  her  style,  accompanied  by  an 
anonymous  letter,  in  which  she  was  informed  that 
till  her  health  should  be  restored,  a  similar  article 
should  be  sent  to  her  for  each  number  of  the  Pub- 
liciste.  These  articles  came  with  the  utmost  re- 
gularity ;  and  on  her  recovei-y,  she  discovered  the 
writer  of  them  to  be  M.  Guizot.  He  had  heard 
of  her,  read  and  admired  her  writings,  and  they 
soon  became  friends.  In  1812,  Mademoiselle  de 
Meulan  married  her  benefactor ;  and  though  slie 
was  fourteen  years  older  than  her  husband,  their 
union  was  a  very  happy  one.  The  purity  and 
severity  of  her  moral  nature  exercised  great  influ- 
ence over  her  husband ;  and  she  also  assisted  him 
in  his  literary  labours.  The  perfect  accord  of 
their  sentiments  rendered  this  easy  for  her,  and 
lie  thus  gained  for  himself  increased  honour  and 
f;ime.     She  died  in  1827.     Her  first  works  were 


novels,  called  "  The  Contradictions,"  and  the 
"Chapel  of  Ayton."  She  afterwards  published 
"Essays  on  Literature  and  Morals."  In  1821, 
she  gave  to  the  public  a  work  for  youth,  called 
"  Raoul  the  Scholar,"  which  has  been  translated 
into  English,  and  enjoyed  extensive  circulation. 
This  was  followed  by  "  Letters  on  Domestic  Edu- 
cation," the  best  monument  Madame  Guizot  has 
left  of  her  talents  and  fame.  Among  all  the 
French  female  authors,  no  one  has  more  consist- 
ently and  constantly  advocated  the  cause  of  truth 
and  good  morals  than  this  excellent  lady. 

GUIZOT,  ELISE  MARGARETTA, 
Was  born  in  Paris,  in  1804.  Her  father,  James 
Dillon,  sprang  from  a  branch  of  the  Irish  family 
of  that  name,  which  followed  James  II.  of  England 
in  his  banishment  to  France.  He  married  Hen- 
rietta de  Meulan,  sister  of  Pauline,  the  first  wife 
of  M.  Guizot.  Madame  Dillon  was  left  a  widow 
at  an  early  age,  with  small  means,  and  the  charge 
of  two  children,  Elise  and  Pauline.  She,  how- 
ever, proved  herself  equal  to  this  difficult  situa- 
tion. Frugal,  simple  in  her  tastes,  gifted  with  an 
hereditary  quickness  of  intellect,  she  brought  up  ' 
her  daughters  in  a  most  admirable  manner.  Elise, 
from  the  dawn  of  her  undei'standing,  manifested 
unusual  aptness  for  acquirement,  and  extraordi- 
nary love  for  study.  Upon  the  death  of  her  mo- 
ther, which  occurred  while  she  was  a  very  young 
girl,  she  assumed  the  responsibility  of  managing 
the  family  and  bringing  up  her  sister  Pauline. 
These  duties  she  discharged  with  zeal  and  dis- 
cernment, until  the  illness  of  her  aunt,  Madame 
Guizot,  of  the  preceding  sketch,  for  whom  she  en- 
tertained a  peculiar  affection,  required  her  society 
and  skill  as  a  nurse,  during  an  excursion  to  the 
baths  of  Plombieres.  Madame  Guizot  was  much 
older  than  her  husband,  whom  she  loved  with 
that  affection  peculiar  to  woman,  which  regards 
the  advantage  of  its  object.  Setting  aside  per- 
sonal considei-ations,  she  felt  that  her  husband's 
happiness  would  be  secured,  if  at  a  proper  time 
after  her  death  he  could  obtain  the  hand  of  a 
young  lady  whose  mind  and  character  she  had 
herself  formed,  and  whose  tastes  and  habits  were, 
as  she  knew,  perfectly  congenial  with  his.  She 
therefore  recommended  to  him  this  marriage, 
which  actually  took  place  after  the  lapse  of  over  a 
year  of  mourning  was  expired.  This  union  seems 
to  have  been  fraught  with  happiness  to  both  par- 
ties. Madame  Elise  Guizot  preserved  her  simpli- 
city as  wife  of  the  minister,  and  used  her  influence, 
and  added  fortune  only  to  promote  plans  of  utility 
and  beneficence.  M.  Guizot's  political  and  literary 
life  is  too  well  known  to  demand  any  detail ;  but 
that  he  has  maintained  through  every  temptation 
and  trial  his  consistency  of  principle,  and  his  un- 
tarnished honour,  is  doubtless  to  be  ascribed,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  the  purity  of  heart  and  uncom- 
mon culture  of  mind  which  distinguished  his  two 
successive  wives.  Even  after  their  decease,  the 
memory  of  their  pious  examples  was  to  him  as 
guardian  angels  amid  the  perils  of  power  and  the 
seductions  of  flattery.  Madame  Elise  Guizot  died 
in  1833,  universally  regi-ettcd,  leaving  three  young 

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children  to  her  husband's  care.  She  was  be- 
loved by  all  her  connexions ;  the  warmth  of  her 
heart  being  as  remarkable  as  the  brilliancy  of  her 
intellect.  She  wrote  some  works  of  an  ethical 
character ;  several  novels,  somewhat  in  the  style 
of  those  of  Miss  Martineau ;  and  she  was  a  con- 
stant contributor  to  the  "Revue  Fran^aise,"  in 
valuable  Essays  upon  English,  German,  and  Ita- 
lian Literature. 

GUYARD,  ADELAIDE  SABILLE, 

Was  born  at  Pai-is  in  1749,  and  acquired  a  me- 
rited reputation  by  her  portraits  in  miniature, 
crayons,  and  oil.  She  married  M.  Vincent,  a  dis- 
tinguished artist.  She  died  in  1803,  partly  of 
grief  at  the  destruction  of  a  favourite  picture 
which  had  cost  her  several  years'  labour,  by  the 
revolutionary  fanatics. 

GUYON,  JEANNE   MARIE   BOUVIER 
DE   LA   MOTTE, 

The  friend  of  the  celebrated  Fenelon,  archbishop 
of  Cambray,  and  memorable  for  her  sufferings  in 
defence  of  her  religious  opinions,  was  the  descend- 
ant of  a  noble  family,  and  born  at  Montargis  in 
France,  April  13th,  1648.  At  seven  years  of  age 
she  was  sent  to  the  convent  of  the  Ursulines ;  here 
the  sensibility  of  her  constitution  and  temper, 
aided  by  the  impressions  received  in  a  monastic 
life,  gave  her  an  early  propensity  to  enthusiasm. 
The  confessor  of  Henrietta  INIarie,  widow  of  Charles 
I.,  struck  by  the  character  and  ardour  of  the  young 
devotee,  presented  her,  when  scarcely  eight  years 
old,  to  the  queen,  who,  but  for  the  opposition  of 
her  parents,  would  have  retained  her  in  her  family. 

Jeanne  was  desirous  of  taking  the  veil,  but  was 
overruled  by  her  father,  who  obliged  her  to  marry 
M.  Guyon,  a  wealthy  gentleman.  This  union  was 
not  a  very  happy  one ;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight  Madame  Guyon  was  left  a  widow,  with  two 
sons  and  a  daughter,  of  whom  she  was  appointed 
sole  guardian.  The  first  years  of  her  widowhood 
she  devoted  to  the  regulation  of  her  domestic 
affairs,  the  education  of  her  children,  and  the 
management  of  their  fortune ;  in  which  employ- 
ments she  discovered  great  energy  and  capacity. 
By  these  occupations,  however,  she  was  not  pre- 
vented from  conforming  to  the  ceremonials, of  the 
Catholic  church,  which  she  continued  to  observe 
with  a  rigorous  austerity. 

In  the  midst  of  these  duties,  she  was  suddenly 
seized  with  a  spiritual  impulse ;  and,  under  the 
delusions  of  a  heated  imagination,  she  abandoned 
the  common  affairs  of  life,  to  deliver  herself  up  to 
sublime  chimeras.  She  went  to  Paris,  where  she 
became  acquainted  with  M.  d'Aranthon,  bishop  of 
Geneva,  who  prevailed  on  her  to  go  to  his  diocese, 
to  perfect  an  establishment  founded  by  him  at 
Gex,  for  the  reception  of  newly  converted  Catho- 
lics. She  went  to  Gex  in  1681,  accompanied  by 
her  little  daughter.  Some  time  after,  her  rela- 
tions demanded  of  her  a  resignation  of  her  office 
of  guardian  to  her  children,  together  with  their 
fortunes,  which  amounted  to  forty  thousand  livres. 
She  readily  consented  to  this ;  and,  reserving  only 
a  moderate  income  for  herself,  consigned  over  to 
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her  family  the  bulk  of  her  property.  The  com- 
munity of  Gex,  observing  her  liberality,  asked  the 
bishop  to  propose  to  Madame  Guyon  that  she 
should  bestow  a  pension  on  their  house,  and  there- 
by constitute  herself  its  superior.  Her  rejection 
of  this  proposal,  on  the  plea  of  disapprobation  of 
the  regulations  of  the  community,  gave  offence  to 
the  sisterhood  and  their  patron,  by  whom  she  was 
desired  to  leave  the  house. 

She  then  went  to  the  Ursulines  at  Thonon,  whence 
she  proceeded  to  Turin,  and  thence  to  Grenoble : 
at  length,  by  the  invitation  of  the  bishop,  who 
venerated  her  piety,  she  retired  to  Verceil.  After 
an  absence  of  five  years,  which  she  had  spent  in 
teaching  her  doctrines,  she  returned,  in  1686,  to 
Paris,  with  a  view  of  procuring  medical  aid.  Dur- 
ing her  wanderings  she  had  composed  two  tracts, 
entitled  "A  Short  and  Easy  Method  of  Prayer," 
and  "  The  Song  of  Songs,  interpreted  according 
to  its  Mystical  Sense."  Her  irreproachable  con- 
duct, added  to  the  novelty  of  her  doctrines,  which 
recommended  prayer,  contemplation,  and  divine 
love,  as  the  sum  and  substance  of  religion,  pro- 
cured her  many  converts.  The  principles  of  Ma- 
dame Guyon,  which  savoured  of  Platonic  philoso- 
phy, diffused  themselves  daily  throughout  Paris, 
under  the  name  of  Quietism.  Letters,  from  the 
provinces  in  which  she  had  lived,  complaining  of 
the  spread  of  her  doctrines,  completed  their  tri- 
umph by  stimulating  the  curiosity  of  the  multitude. 
The  church,  alarmed  at  a  heresy  which  disparaged 
ceremonial  devotion,  prepared  to  resist  the  attack. 
Father  la  Combe,  a  Barnabite,  and  confessor  to 
Madame  Guyon,  was  the  first  who  suffered.  He 
was  imprisoned.  jNIadame  Guyon  herself  was  next 
confined,  .lanuary,  1688,  in  the  convent  dcs  Filles 
de  la  Vidtacion,  where  she  was  strictly  interro- 
gated, and  detained  for  eight  months.  Her  deli- 
verance was  at  length  effected  by  Madame  Mira- 
nion,  the  superior  of  the  convent,  who  represented 
her  case  to  Madame  de  Maintenon.  This  lady 
pleaded  her  cause  with  Louis  XIV.,  who  libei'ated 
her,  and  she  was  introduced  at  St.  Cyr,  a  convent 
erected  by  Madame  de  ]\Iaintenon. 

Soon  after  her  liberation,  Madame  Guyon  was 
introduced  to  Fenelon,  who  became  her  disciple 
and  friend.  She  was  also  distinguished  bj'  the 
notice  of  the  dukes  de  Chevreuse  and  Beauvilliers, 
men  of  merit  and  talents,  and  by  ladies  of  the  first 
distinction,  who  were  attracted  as  much  by  the 
graces  of  her  person  and  manners  as  by  her  doc- 
trines. 

The  cry  of  heresy  was  again  raised  by  the 
church,  which,  by  its  anathemas,  gave  importance 
to  the  sect  it  sought  to  crush.  Madame  Guyon 
was  persuaded  by  her  friends  to  submit  her  cause 
and  her  writings  to  the  bishop  of  jNIeaux ;  who, 
after  a  conference  with  her,  and  perusing  her  pa- 
pers, declared  his  satisfaction.  The  fury  of  the 
church  was  not,  however,  allayed ;  and  an  order 
was  procured  for  the  re-examination  of  the  doc- 
trines of  Madame  Guyon ;  who,  in  the  mean  time, 
retired  to  the  convent  of  Meaux.  Bossuet  was  at  the 
head  of  the  committee  of  examination,  and  Tran- 
son,  Fenelon,  and  the  bishop  of  Chalons,  were  asso- 
ciated.   At  the  end  of  six  months,  thirty-four  arti- 

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cles  were  drawn  up  hy  the  commissioners,  to  whicli 
Fenelon  added  four,  to  prove  the  harmlessness  of 
Quietism.  The  thirty-four  articles  were  signed  by 
all  the  examiners,  March  10th,  1695.  Madame 
Guyon  also  put  her  signature  to  them,  and  signed 
a  submission  to  censure  passed  by  the  bishop  of 
Meaux  the  preceding  April,  against  her  tracts ; 
by  which  she  declared,  that  she  had  never  meant 
to  advocate  anything  contrary  to  the  Catholic, 
apostolic,  and  Roman  church.  To  this  the  bishop 
added  an  attestation,  purporting  that  he  was  satis- 
fied with  the  conduct  of  Madame  Guyon,  and  had 
continued  her  in  the  participation  of  the  holy  sa- 
crament. Thus  acquitted,  she  returned  to  Paris, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  safety  and  repose. 

But  the  rage  of  bigotry  was  not  yet  exhausted  ; 
Madame  Guyon  became  involved  in  the  persecu- 
tions of  Fenelon,  and  in  less  than  a  year  was  im- 
prisoned, first  in  the  castle  of  Vincennes,  then  in 
the  convent  Thomas  a  Gerard,  and  at  last  in  the 
Bastile.  At  a  meeting  of  the  general  assembly 
of  the  clergy  of  France,  in  1700,  no  evidence  ap- 
pearing against  her,  she  was  once  more  set  at 
liberty. 

She  then  went  to  visit  her  children,  and  settled 
near  them  at  Blois.  The  remainder  of  her  life 
she  passed  in  retirement.  The  walls  of  her  cham- 
ber, the  tables  and  furniture,  were  covered  with 
her  numerous  verses,  which  were  printed  after  her 
death  in  five  volumes,  entitled  "  Cantiques  Spiri- 
tuels,  ou  d'Emblemes  sur  I'Amour  divin."  She 
also  left  twenty  volumes  of  "  Commentaries  on  the 
Bible;"  and  "Reflections  and  Explanations  con- 
cerning the  Inner  Life;"  and  "Christian  Dis- 
courses ;"  "  Letters  to  several  persons ;"  her  own 
"  Autobiogr'aphy ;"  a  volume  of  "Visitations;" 
and  two  volumes  of  "  Opuscules."  She  died,  June 
9th,  1717. 


GWYNNE,  ELEANOR, 
Better  known  as  Nell  Gwynn,  (her  real  name 
was  Margaret  Synicott,)  rose  from  an  orange-girl 
of  the  meanest  description,  to  be  the  mistress  of 
Charles  IL  of  England.  She  first  gained  her  bread 
by  singing  from  tavern  to  tavern,  and  gradually 


rose  to  be  a  popular  actress  at  the  Theatre-Royal. 
She  is  said  to  have  been  exceedingly  pretty,  but 
below  the  ordinary  height.  In  her  elevation  she 
showed  great  gratitude  to  Dryden,  who  had  be- 
friended her  in  her  poverty.  She  was  also  faithful 
to  her  roj'al  lover,  and  after  his  death  retired  from 
the  world  and  passed  the  remainder  of  her  life  in 
seclusion.  She  died  in  1691,  and  was  pompously 
interred  in  the  parish  church  of  St.  Martin's  in 
the  Fields ;  Dr.  Tennison,  then  vicar,  afterwards 
bishop  of  Canterbury,  preacliing  her  funeral  ser- 
mon. This  sermon,  it  was  reported,  was  shortly 
afterwards  brought  forward  by  lord  Jersey  to  im- 
pede the  Rev.  doctor's  preferment ;  but  queen 
Mary,  having  heard  the  objection,  answered  grave- 
ly, "  Wliat  then  ?  I  have  heard  as  much  ;  this  is  a 
sign  that  that  poor  unfortunate  woman  died  peni- 
tent ;  for,  if  I  can  read  a  man's  heart  through  his 
looks,  had  she  not  made  a  pious  and  Christian 
end,  the  doctor  could  never  have  been  induced  to 
speak  well  of  her."  This  repentance  is  not  re- 
corded of  any  other  mistress  of  the  profligate 
king.  "Poor  Nelly"  was  the  victim  of  circum- 
stances, not  the  votary  of  vice  ;  and  of  the  inmates 
of  that  wicked  and  corrupt  court,  she  only  has 
won  pity  and  forgiveness  from  posterity.  She 
deserves  this ;  for  she  was  pitiful  to  others.  In 
the  time  of  her  prosperity  she  never  forgot  to  re- 
lieve distress ;  and  at  her  death  she  left  a  fund 
for  annual  distribution  at  Christmas  among  the 
poor  debtors,  which  is  to  this  day  distributed  in 
the  prisons  of  London.  From  Nell  Gwynne  de- 
scended the  dukes  of  St.  Albans. 


H. 

HABERT,  SUSAN  DE, 
Wife  of  Charles  Jardin,  an  ofiicer  of  the  house- 
hold of  Henry  III.  of  France,  who  became  a  widow 
in  1585,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  when  she  de- 
voted herself  to  literature,  especially  philosophy, 
divinity,  and  the  languages.  She  was  a  pious  as 
well  as  leai'ned  woman.     She  died  in  1633. 

HALKET,    LADY   ANNE, 

Whose  extensive  leai-ning  and  voluminous  theo- 
logical writings  place  her  in  the  first  rank  of  fe- 
male authors,  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Robert 
Murray,  of  the  family  of  Tullibardine,  and  was 
born  at  London,  January  4,  1622.  Her  father 
was  preceptor  to  Charles  I.,  and  her  mother  sub- 
governess  to  the  duke  of  Gloucester  and  the  prin- 
cess Elizabeth.  Lady  Anne  was  carefully  educated 
by  her  jjarents  in  every  polite  and  liberal  science  ; 
but  theology  and  physic  were  her  favourite  stu- 
dies ;  and  she  became  such  a  proficient  in  the  lat- 
ter science,  and  also  in  surgery,  that  the  most 
eminent  professional  men,  as  well  as  invalids  of 
every  rank,  both  in  Britain  and  on  the  continent, 
sought  her  advice. 

Being  a  staunch  royalist,  her  family  and  her- 
self suffered  with  the  misfortunes  of  Charles.  She 
married,  in  March,  1656,  Sir  James  Halket,  to 
whom  she  bore  four  children,  all  of  whom  died 


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young  excepting  her  eldest  son  Robert.  It  was 
to  him  slie  addressed  her  admirable  tract,  "  The 
Mother's  AVill  to  the  Unborn  Child,"  under  the 
impression  that  she  should  not  survive  its  birth. 
She  died  in  1699.  During  her  lifetime  there  were 
published  of  her  writings  no  less  than  twenty-one 
volumes,  chiefly  on  religious  subjects.  She  was  a 
woman  of  the  most  singular  and  unafl"ected  piety, 
and  of  the  sweetest  simplicity  of  manner ;  this, 
together  with  her  great  talents  and  learning,  pro- 
cured her  the  universal  esteem  of  her  contempo- 
raries. She  also  left  thirty-six  books  in  manu- 
script, containing  "  Meditations." 

HAMILTON,    ELIZABETH, 

Was  born  in  Belfast,  in  the  year  1758.  Her 
father  was  a  merchant,  of  a  Scottish  family,  and 
died  early,  leaving  a  widow  and  three  children. 
The  latter  were  educated  and  brought  up  by  rela- 
tives in  better  circumstances  ;  —  Elizabeth,  the 
youngest,  being  sent  to  Mr.  Marshall,  a  farmer  in 
Stirlingshire,  married  to  her  father's  sister.  Her 
brother  obtained  a  cadetship  in  the  East  India 
Company's  service,  and  an  elder  sister  was  re- 
tained in  Ireland.  A  feeling  of  strong  aifection 
seems  to  have  existed  among  these  scattered  mem- 
bers of  the  unfortunate  family.  Elizabeth  found 
in  Ml*,  and  Mrs.  Marshall  all  that  could  have  been 
desired.  She  was  adopted  and  educated  with  a 
care  and  tenderness  that  has  seldom  been  equalled. 
"No  child,"  she  says,  "ever  spent  so  happy  a 
life,  nor  have  I  ever  met  with  anything  at  all  re- 
sembling our  way  of  living,  except  the  description 
given  by  Rousseau  of  Wolmar's  farm  and  vintage." 
A  taste  for  literature  soon  appeared  in  Elizabeth 
Hamilton.  Wallace  was  the  first  hero  of  her  stu- 
dies ;  but  meeting  with  Ogilvie's  translation  of  the 
Iliad,  she  idolized  Achilles,  and  dreamed  of  Hec- 
tor. She  had  opportunities  of  visiting  Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow,  after  which  she  carried  on  a  learned 
correspondence  with  Doctor  Moyse,  a  philosophical 
lecturer.  She  wrote  also  many  copies  of  verses — 
that  ordinary  outlet  for  the  warm  feelings  and  ro- 
mantic sensibilities  of  youth.  Her  first  appear- 
ance in  print  was  accidental.  Having  accompa- 
nied a  pleasure  party  to  the  Highlands,  she  kept 
a  journal  for  the  gratification  of  her  aunt,  and  the 
good  woman  showing  it  to  one  of  her  neighbours, 
it  was  sent  to  a  provincial  magazine.  Her  retire- 
ment in  Stirlingshire  was,  in  1773,  gladdened  by 
a  visit  from  her  brother,  then  about  to  sail  for  In- 
dia. Mr.  Hamilton  seems  to  have  been  an  excel- 
lent and  able  young  man,  and  his  subsequent  let- 
ters and  conversations  on  Indian  affairs  stored  the 
mind  of  his  sister  with  the  materials  for  her  Hin- 
doo Rajah,  a  work  equally  remarkable  for  good 
sense  and  sprightliness.  In  1778,  Miss  Hamilton 
lost  her  aunt,  whose  death  was  a  heavy  blow  to 
the  happy  family.  For  the  ensuing  six  years  she 
devoted  herself  to  the  cares  and  duties  of  the 
household,  her  only  literary  employments  being 
her  correspondence  with  her  brother,  and  the 
composition  of  two  short  papers  which  she  sent  to 
the  Lounger.  Mr.  Hamilton  returned  from  India 
in  1786,  in  order  that  he  might  better  fulfil  an 
important  duty  intrusted  to  him,  the  translation 


of  the  Mussulman  Code  of  Laws.  It  would  not 
be  easy  to  paint  the  joy  and  affection  with  which 
he  was  received  by  his  sister.  They  spent  the 
winter  together  in  Stirlingshire,  and  in  1789,  wlien 
her  kind  friend  and  protector,  Mr.  Marshall,  died, 
she  quitted  Scotland,  and  rejoined  her  brother  in 
London.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  cut  off  by  a  prema- 
ture death,  in  1792.  Shortly  after  this  period 
commenced  the  literary  life  of  Elizabeth  Hamilton, 
and  her  first  work  was  "  The  Letters  of  a  Hindoo 
Rajah,"  published  in  1796.  The  success  of  this 
work  decided  her  to  pursue  the  career  of  author- 
ship. She  wrote,  successively,  "The  Modern  Phi- 
losophers;" "Letters  on  Education,"  an  excellent 
book;  "  Memoirs  of  Agrippina,"  a  work  of  great 
reseai"ch;  and  "Letters  to  the  Daughters  of  a 
Nobleman."  This  was  published  in  the  year  1806 ; 
and  soon  afterwards  Miss  Hamilton  became  an 
active  promoter  of  the  House  of  Industry,  at  Edin- 
burgh, an  establishment  for  the,  education  of  fe- 
males of  the  lowest  class.  For  the  benefit  of  these 
young  persons  she  composed  a  little  book,  "Ex- 
ercises in  Religious  Knowledge,"  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1809,  receiving  the  sanction  of  Bishop 
Sandford  and  Mr.  Alison.  The  previous  year, 
1808,  she  published  her  most  original,  popular, 
and  useful  work,  "  The  Cottagers  of  Glenburnie.' 
Of  this  novel,  or  moral  tale,  a  learned  reviewer 
remarks:  "It  has  probably  been  as  eff'ective  in 
promoting  domestic  improvement  among  the  rural 
population  of  Scotland  as  Johnson's  Journey  to 
the  Hebrides  was  in  encouraging  the  planting  of 
trees  by  the  landed  proprietors.  In  both  cases 
there  was  some  exaggeration  of  colouring,  but  the 
pictures  were  too  provokingly  true  and  sarcastic 
to  be  laughed  away  or  denied.  They  constituted 
a  national  reproach,  and  the  only  way  to  wipe  it 
off  was  by  timely  reformation.  There  is  still  much 
to  accomplish,  but  a  marked  improvement  in  the 
dwellings  and  internal  economy  of  Scottish  farm- 
houses and  villages  may  be  dated  from  the  publi- 
cation of  the  '  Cottagers  of  Glenburnie.'  " 

She  wrote  two  works  after  this,  "  Essays  on  the 
Human  Mind,"  and  "Hints  to  the  Directors  of 
Public  Schools;"  the  subject  of  education  being 
her  favourite  theme.  Her  health  was  delicate  for 
several  years  before  her  decease,  but  neither  dis- 
ease or  time  had  power  to  disturb  her  cheei-ful 
serenity  of  soul.  As  a  maiden  lady,  she  preserved 
her  dignity  and  showed  her  good  sense  by  never 
attempting  to  play  the  juvenile.  In  her  own  plea- 
sant manner  she  thus  describes  herself; 

With  expectation  beating  higli, 
Myself  I  now  desire  to  spy ; 
And  straight  I  in  a  glass  surveyed 
An  antique  lady,  much  decayed. 
Whose  languid  eye  and  pallid  cheek 
The  conquering  power  of  time  bespeak. 
But  though  deprived  of  youthful  bloom. 
Free  was  my  face  from  peevish  gloom. 
A  cap,  tho'  not  of  modern  grace, 
Hid  my  grey  hairs,  and  decked  my  face ; 
No  more  I  fashion's  livery  wear, 
But  cleanly  neatness  all  my  care  ; 
Whoe'er  had  seen  me  must  have  said, 
There  goes  one  cheerful,  pleased  old  maid." 

Mrs.  Hamilton,  as  she  was  styled  after  she  had 
put  on  her  cap,  has  shown,  in  all  her  works,  great 

339 


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power  of  analysis ;  slie  had  studied  well  the  hu- 
man mind,  and  the  best  writers  on  metaphysics 
and  morals  may  gain  hints  from  her  application 
of  the  truths  of  philosophy  how  to  make  their 
Icnowledge  of  practical  use,  particularly  in  the  art 
of  education.  She  has  shown  how  the  doctrine 
of  the  association  of  ideas  may  be  applied  in  early 
education  to  the  formation  of  habits  of  the  temper, 
and  of  the  princijiles  of  taste  and  morals.  And 
also,  she  has  shown  how  all  that  metaphysicians 
linow  of  sensation  and  abstraction,  can  be  applied 
in  the  cultivation  of  the  attention,  the  judgment, 
and  the  imagination  of  children. 

But  more  important  still  is  the  influence  her 
writings  have  had  in  awakening  the  attention  of 
mothers,  and  directing  their  inquiries  rightly  — 
much  by  exciting  them  to.  reflect  upon  their  own 
minds,  and  to  observe  what  passes  in  the  minds 
of  their  children :  she  has  opened  a  new  field  of 
investigation  to  women  —  a  field  fitted  to  their  do- 
mestic habits  —  to  their  duties  as  mothers,  and  to 
their  business  as  preceptors  of  youth,  to  whom  it 
belongs  to  give  the  minds  of  children  those  first 
impressions  and  ideas  which  remain  the  longest, 
and  which  influence  them  often,  the  most  power- 
fully, through  the  whole  course  of  life. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  died,  after  a  protracted  illness, 
which  she  bore  with  sweet  patience,  and  devout 
submission  to  the  will  of  God,  on  the  23d  of  July, 
1816,  aged  fifty-eight. 

A  few  extracts  from  her  "Private  Letters"  are 
of  interest  in  rightly  understanding  her  character. 

THE    BENEFITS    OF    SOCIETY. 

To  persons  who  have  the  power  of  selection,  a 
capital  aifords  opportunities  of  mental  improve- 
ment that  are  of  incalculable  advantage ;  for  with 
regard  to  the  effects  of  society  upon  the  mind, 
your  observation  is  too  just.  Like  the  evil  spirits 
in  Pandemonium,  we  shrink  into  the  dimensions 
of  the  place  we  are  appointed  to  occupy,  or  that 
we  seem  in  the  opinion  of  others  to  occupy — never 
expanding  to  improper  stature,  but  as  we  are  ex- 
cited by  sympathy  with  our  compeers.  If  the 
mind  be  thus  cramped  in  eai-ly  life,  (as  is  gener- 
ally the  fate  of  my  sex,)  it  is  a  thousand  to  one 
that  it  remains  stationary  for  ever,  never  making 
an  attempt  to  rise  above  the  level  of  its  immediate 
associates;  and  even  where  it  has  been  enabled  to 
expand,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  sink  to  the  level 
of  others,  than  to  raise  the  minds  of  others  to  a 
level  with  our  own,  that  few  in  such  circumstances 
do  not  sink.  It  is  only  by  the  love  of  reading  that 
the  evil  resulting  from  the  association  with  little 
minds  can  be  counteracted.  A  lively  imagination 
creates  a  sympathy  with  favourite  authors,  which 
gives  to  their  sentiments  the  same  power  over  the 
mind  as  that  possessed  by  an  intimate  and  ever 
present  friend ;  and  hence  a  taste  for  reading  be- 
comes to  females  of  still  greater  importance  than 
it  is  of  to  men. 

Of  all  the  privileges  enjoyed  by  the  lords  of  the 
creation,  there  is  none  so  estimable  as  having  it 
ui  their  power  to  form  a  .society  of  their  own 
liking.  Any  young  man  in  the  station  of  a  gentle- 
man may,  with  agreeable  manners,  make  his  ac- 


quaintance with  characters  of  a  superior  stamp : 
he  may  gradually  introduce  himself  to  the  notice, 
at  least  to  the  company,  of  those  from  whose  con- 
versation he  can  reap  instruction,  and  is  under  no 
necessity  of  being  confined  to  the  society  of  un- 
congenial minds ;  whereas  poor  women  cannot 
escape  out  of  the  rubbish  in  which  they  may  hap- 
pen to  be  buried,  but  at  the  expense  of  many  rubs 
and  scratches. 

ON    IMAGINATION. 

I  perfectly  agree  with  you  in  considering  castles 
in  the  air  as  more  useful  edifices  than  they  are 
generally  allowed  to  be.  It  is  only  plodding  mat- 
ter-of-fact dulness  that  cannot  comprehen(^  their 
use.  I  do  not  scruple  to  confess  to  you,  as  I  find 
you  are  a  sister  adejjt  in  this  art  of  freemasonry, 
that  I  owe  to  it  three-fourths  of  my  sense,  and 
half  of  my  virtue.  It  is  by  giving  scope  to  the 
imagination,  that  one  becomes  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  the  real  dispositions  of  one's  own 
heart;  it  is  by  comparing  the  ardent  efforts  of 
exalted  virtue,  formed  by  the  fancy,  with  what* 
conscience  tells  us  we  have  performed,  that  we  are 
instigated  to  improvement,  and  by  tracing  the 
combinations  of  which  our  castles  have  been  com- 
posed, we  acquire  such  a  knowledge  of  our  own 
minds,  as  at  once  enlightens  the  understanding, 
and  betters  the  heart.  I  seriously  believe  that  the 
great  disadvantage  of  perpetually  living  in  a  crowd 
is  the  check  it  puts  upon  the  free  excursions  of 
imagination. 

Was  ever  Bath  belle  as  much  improved  by  walk- 
ing in  the  crowded  Crescent,  as  you  and  I  have 
been  by  a  solitary  ramble,  when,  at  the  magic 
touch  of  fancy,  a  new  creation  has  arisen  around 
us  ?  By  most  of  the  pious  people  and  pious  writers 
I  have  met  with,  the  imagination  is  treated  as  a 
sort  of  evil  spirit,  that  must  be  exorcised  and  laid 
at  rest ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  very  impious,  and 
surely  very  ungrateful,  thus  to  treat  the  first  of 
blessings,  without  which  judgment  will  be  but  a 
sour  old  maid,  producing  nothing.  Let  us  marry 
them,  and  we  shall  do  better,  for  it  is  evident  nei- 
ther of  them  was  meant  for  the  single  state. 

From  "  Tlie  Cottagers  of  Glenburiiie." 

A    PEEP    AT    SCOTTISH    RURAL    LIFE    FORTY    YEARS 

AGO. 

Our  party  then  drove  off,  and  at  every  turning 
of  the  road  expressed  fresh  admiration  at  the  in- 
creasing beauty  of  the  scene.  Towards  the  top 
of  the  glen  the  hills  seemed  to  meet,  the  rocks  be- 
came more  frequent  and  more  prominent,  some- 
times standing  naked  and  exposed,  and  sometimes 
peeping  over  the  tops  of  the  rowan-tree  and  weep- 
ing birch,  which  grew  in  great  abundance  on  all 
the  steepy  banks.  At  length  the  village  appeared 
in  view.  It  consisted  of  about  twenty  or  thirty 
thatched  cottages,  which,  but  for  their  chimneys, 
and  the  smoke  that  issued  from  them,  might  have 
passed  for  so  many  stables  or  hogsties,  so  little 
had  they  to  distinguish  them  as  the  abodes  of 
man.  That  one  horse,  at  least,  was  the  inhabitant 
of  every  dwelling,  there  was  no  room  to  doubt,  as 
every  door  could  not  only  boast  its  dunghill,  but 

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had  a  small  cart  stuck  up  on  end  directly  before 
it ;  which  cart,  though  often  broken,  and  always 
dirty,  seemed  ostentatiously  displayed  as  a  proof 
of  wealth. 

In  the  middle  of  the  village  stood  the  kirk,  a 
humble  edifice,  which  meekly  raised  its  head  but 
a  few  degrees  above  the  neighbouring  houses.  It 
was,  however,  graced  by  an  ornament  of  peculiar 
beauty.  Two  fine  old  ash-trees,  which  grew  at  the 
east  end,  spread  their  protecting  arms  over  its 
lowly  roof,  and  served  all  the  uses  of  a  steeple 
and  a  belfi-y ;  for  on  one  of  the  loftiest  of  these 
branches  was  the  bell  suspended  which,  on  each 
returning  Sabbath, 

"  Rang  the  blest  summons  to  the  house  of  God." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  churchyard  stood  the 
manse,  distinguished  from  the  other  houses  in  the 
village  by  a  sash  window  on  each  side  of  the  door, 
and  garret  windows  above  ;  which  showed  that  two 
floors  were,  or  might  be,  inhabited ;  for  in  truth 
4he  house  had  such  a  sombre  air  that  Mrs.  Mason, 
in  passing,  concluded  it  to  be  deserted. 

As  the  houses  stood  separate  from  each  other  at 
the  distance  of  many  yards,  she  had  time  to  con- 
template the  scene,  and  was  particularly  struck 
with  the  number  of  children  which,  as  the  car  ad- 
vanced, poured  forth  from  every  little  cot  to  look 
at  the  strangers  and  their  uncommon  vehicle.  On 
asking  for  John  Macclarty's,  three  or  four  of  them 
started  forward  to  oflFer  themselves  as  guides ;  and 
running  before  the  car,  turned  down  a  lane  to- 
wards the  river,  on  a  road  so  deep  with  ruts,  that, 
though  they  had  not  twenty  yards  to  go,  it  was 
attended  with  some  danger.  Mrs.  Mason,  who  was 
shaken  to  pieces  by  the  jolting,  was  very  glad  to 
alight ;  but  her  limbs  were  in  such  a  tremor,  that 
Mr.  Stewart's  arm  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  sup- 
port her  to  the  door. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  aspect  of  the 
dwelling  where  she  was  to  fix  her  residence  was 
by  no  means  inviting.  The  walls  were  substantial, 
built,  like  the  houses  in  the  village,  of  stone  and 
lime ;  but  they  were  blackened  by  the  mud  which 
the  cart-wheels  had  spattered  from  the  ruts  in 
winter ;  and  on  one  side  of  the  door  completely 
covered  from  view  by  the  contents  of  a  great  dung- 
hill. On  the  other,  and  directly  under  the  window, 
was  a  squashy  pool,  formed  by  the  dirty  water 
thrown  from  the  house,  and  in  it  about  twenty 
young  ducks  were  at  this  time  dabbling. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  door,  room  had  been  left 
for  a  paving-stone,  but  it  had  never  been  laid ; 
and  consequently  the  place  became  hollow,  to  the 
great  advantage  of  the  younger  ducklings,  who 
always  found  in  it  a  plentiful  supply  of  water,  in 
which  they  could  swim  without  danger.  Happily 
Mr.  Stewart  was  provided  with  boots,  so  that  he 
could  take  a  firm  step  in  it,  while  he  lifted  Jlrs. 
Mason,  and  set  her  down  in  safety  within  the 
threshold.  But  there  an  unforeseen  danger  await- 
ed her,  for  there  the  great  whey  pot  had  stood 
since  morning,  when  the  cheese  had  been  made, 
and  was  at  the  present  moment  filled  with  chickens, 
which  were  busily  picking  at  the  bits  of  curd  which 


had  hardened  on  the  sides,  and  cruelly  mocked 
their  wishes.  Over  this  Mr.  Stewart  and  Mrs. 
ISIason  unfortunately  tumbled.  The  pot  was  over- 
turned, and  the  chickens,  cackling  with  hideous 
din,  flew  about  in  all  directions,  some  over  their 
heads,  and  others  making  their  way  by  the  hallan 
(or  inner  door)  into  the  house. 

Tlie  accident  wns  attended  with  no  further  bad 
consequences  than  ;i  little  hurt  upon  tlie  shins: 
and  all  our  party  were  now  assembled  in  the 
kitchen ;  but,  though  they  found  the  doors  of  the 
house  open,  they  saw  no  appearance  of  any  inha- 
bitants. At  length  Mrs.  Macclarty  came  in,  all 
out  of  breath,  followed  by  her  daughters,  two  big 
girls  of  eleven  and  thirteen  years  of  age.  She 
welcomed  Mrs.  Mason  and  her  friends  with  great 
kindness,  and  made  many  apologies  for  being  in 
no  better  order  to  receive  them  ;  but  said  that  both 
her  gudeman  and  herself  thought  that  her  cousin 
would  have  stayed  at  Gowan-brae  till  after  the 
fair,  as  they  were  too  far  off  at  Glenburnie  to 
think  of  going  to  it ;  though  it  would,  to  be  sure, 
be  only  natural  for  jMrs.  Mason  to  like  to  see  all 
the  grand  sights  that  were  to  be  seen  there ;  for, 
to  be  sure,  she  would  gang  mony  places  before  she 
saw  the  like.  Mrs.  Mason  smiled,  and  assured 
her  she  would  have  more  pleasure  in  looking  at 
the  fine  view  from  her  door  than  in  all  the  sights 
at  the  fair. 

"Ay,  it's  a  bonny  piece  of  corn,  to  be  sure," 
returned  Mrs.  Macclarty  with  great  simplicity ; 
"but  then,  what  with  the  trees,  and  rocks,  and 
wimplings  o'  the  burn,  we  have  nae  room  to  make 
parks  o'  ony  size." 

"  But  were  your  trees,  and  rocks,  and  wimplings 
of  the  burn  all  removed,"  said  Mr.  Stewart,  "  then 
your  prospect  would  be  worth  the  looking  at,  Mrs. 
Macclarty ;  would  it  not  ?" 

Though  Mr.  Stewart's  ironj'  was  lost  upon  the 
good  woman,  it  produced  a  laugh  among  the  young 
folks,  which  she,  however,  did  not  resent,  but  im- 
mediately fell  to  busying  herself  in  sweeping  the 
hearth,  and  adding  turf  to  the  fire,  in  order  to 
make  the  kettle  boil  for  tea. 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Mary,  "you  might  make 
your  daughters  save  you  that  trouble,"  looking  at 
the  two  girls,  who  stood  all  this  time  leaning 
against  the  wall. 

"  0,  poor  things,"  said  their  mother,  "  they  have 
not  been  used  to  it ;  they  have  eneugh  of  time  for 
wark  yet." 

"Depend  upon  it,"  said  Mrs.  Mason,  "young 
people  can  never  begin  too  soon;  your  eldest 
daughter  there  will  soon  be  as  tall  as  your- 
self." 

"Indeed  she's  of  a  stately  growth,"  said  Mrs. 
Macclarty,  pleased  with  the  observation;  "and 
Jenny  there  is  little  ahint  her ;  but  what  are  they 
but  bairns  yet  for  a'  that !  In  time,  I  warrant, 
they  '11  do  weel  eneugh.  Meg  can  milk  a  cow  as 
weel  as  I  can  do,  when  she  likes." 

"  And  does  she  not  always  like  to  do  all  she 
can  ?"  said  Mrs.  Mason. 

"  0,  we  mauna  complain,"'  returned  the  mother; 
"  she  does  well  eneugh." 

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HAMILTON,  LADY, 
Before  her  marriage,  Emma  Lyon,  or  Harte, 
Avas  the  daughter  of  a  poor  sei'vant  woman,  from 
Wales.  Emma  was  placed  at  service,  when  about 
thirteen ;  and  at  sixteen  she  went  to  London,  where 
she  first  assisted  in  a  shop,  and  afterwards  became 
chambermaid  to  a  lady  of  rank.  She  soon  lost 
this  situation  in  consequence  of  her  devotion  to 
reading  plays  and  romances,  and  became  a  maid- 
servant in  a  tavern.  She  afterwards  lived  with  a 
captain  in  the  navy,  as  his  mistress,  and  when 
abandoned  by  him,  was  reduced  to  the  lowest  pitch 
of  degradation.  While  being  exhibited  by  a  quack 
doctor  as  the  goddess  Hygeia,  she  ensnared  Charles 
Greville,  by  whom  she  had  three  children.  He 
was  on  the  point  of  marrying  her,  when  the  loss 
of  his  offices  prevented  him ;  and  he  sent  her  to 
Naples,  where  his  uncle,  i>ir  William  Hamilton, 
was  ambassador.  She  was  first  the  mistress  of 
Sir  AVilliam,  but  he  married  her  in  1791.  She 
had  naturally  good  talents,  and  having  studied 
diligently  to  supply  all  the  deficiencies  of  her  edu- 
cation, she  became  eminent  for  her  social  attrac- 
tions. Being  a  great  favourite  of  the  queen  of 
Naples,  she  had  no  lack  of  followers.  Soon  after 
Lady  Hamilton's  marriage,  her  acquaintance  with 
Nelson  commenced,  who  became  madly  in  love 
with  her.  It  is  asserted,  and  has  never  been  dis- 
proved, that  those  violent  measures  which  Nelson 
used  on  his  return  to  Naples,  in  1799,  contrary  to 
the  articles  of  capitulation,  were  urged  on  by  Lady 
Hamilton,  as  acts  of  vengeance  on  her  personal 
enemies.  AVhen  Sir  William  Hamilton  was  recalled 
to  England,  Nelson  resigned  his  command,  and 
accompanied  them  to  London.  Here  she  had  a 
davighter,  whom  she  called  Horatia  Nelson.  After 
Sir  William's  death,  his  widow  retired  to  Mei'ton 
Place,  a  counti"y-seat  which  Lord  Nelson  had 
bought  for  her.  Here  she  resided  till  the  death 
of  Lord  Nelson,  in  1805.  Again  abandoning  her- 
self to  her  inclinations,  and  being  reduced  to  a 
small  pension,  she  left  England  for  France,  and 
died  near  Calais,  in  1815.  Lady  Hamilton  was 
beautiful  and  artful ;  the  ascendency  she  gained 
over  men  was  used  for  evil  purposes ;  but  that 
she  did  thus  rule  the  brave,  and  lead  the  honour- 
able man  down  into  the  depths  of  infamy,  shows 
the  wonderful  power  of  female  influence. 

HARCOURT,    HARRIET   EUSEBIA, 

Was  born,  in  1705,  at  Richmond,  Yorkshire, 
England.  She  travelled  over  Europe  with  her 
father,  and  at  his  death,  in  Constantinople,  in 
1733,  she  returned  to  England ;  and  as  she  inhe- 
rited a  large  property,  she  began  to  establish  a 
convent  on  her  Yorkshire  estate,  and  another  in 
the  western  isles  of  Scotland.  These  institutions 
were  composed  chiefly  of  foreign  ladies.  A  sys- 
tem of  perfect  equality  jirevailed  in  these  con- 
vents, over  which  each  presided  in  turn.  The 
members  could  withdraw  from  the  society  when 
they  chose,  on  the  forfeiture  of  the  sum  of  one 
hundred  pounds.  They  only  devoted  a  portion 
of  their  time  to  religious  exercises,  and  the  rest 


was  spent  in  amusements,  the  study  of  the  fine 
arts  and  sciences,  and  embroidery. 

Miss  Harcourt  was  beautiful  and  graceful  in 
her  person,  and  had  a  taste  for  music,  painting, 
and  drawing,  which  had  been  highly  cultivated. 
She  died  at  her  seat  in  Richmond,  December  1st, 
1745,  in  the  thirty-ninth  year  of  her  age,  be- 
queathing the  greater  part  of  her  fortune  to  her 
institution,  on  condition  that  the  society  should 
be  supported  and  continued  according  to  its  origi- 
nal design,  and  to  the  directions  she  left  in  wri- 
ting. But  she  had  been  the  soul  of  the  society ; 
after  her  decease,  it  was  soon  dissolved. 

HASER,  CHARLOTTE  HENRIETTA, 
A  CELEBRATED  siugcr,  born  at  Leipsic,  in  1789, 
was  the  daiighter  of  the  director  of  music  in  the 
university  there.  In  1804  she  was  engaged  at  the 
Italian  opera  at  Dresden.  Her  superior  voice, 
her  fine  execution,  and  her  attempt  to  combine  the 
advantages  of  the  German  and  Italian  methods, 
gave  her  a  brilliant  success.  Distinguished  for 
the  correctness  of  her  morals  and  her  great  mo- 
desty, she  was  received  with  applause  at  all  the 
most  celebrated  theatres  in  Italy  and  Germany. 
She  married  Vera,  a  lawyer  at  Rome,  and  retired 
from  the  stage. 

HASTINGS,    ELIZABETH, 

Daughter  of  Theophilus  earl  of  Huntington, 
deserves  a  place  in  this  collection,  from  the  niim- 
ber  of  her  public  and  private  charities,  which 
were  perhaps  never  equalled  by  any  of  her  sex. 
Congreve  speaks  of  her,  in  the  forty-second  num- 
ber of  the  Tattler,  as  the  "Divine  Aspasia  ;"  and 
in  the  forty-ninth  number  of  the  same  work  gives 
a  farther  account  of  her:  "  Her  cares,"  says  her 
biographer,  "extended  even  to  the  animal  crea- 
tion ;  while  over  her  domestics  she  presided  with 
the  disposition  of  a  parent,  providing  for  the  im- 
provement of  their  minds,  the  decency  of  their 
behaviour,  and  the  propriety  of  their  manners. 
She  would  have  the  skill  and  contrivance  of  every 
artificer  used  in  her  house,  employed  for  the  ease 
of  her  servants,  and  that  they  might  suffer  no  in- 
convenience or  hardship.  Besides  providing  for 
the  order,  harmony,  and  peace  of  her  family,  she 
kept  great  elegance  in  and  about  her  house,  that 
her  poor  neighbours  might  not  fall  into  idleness 
and  poverty  for  want  of  employment ;  and  while 
she  thus  tenderly  regarded  the  poor,  she  would 
visit  those  in  the  higher  ranks,  lest  they  should 
accuse  her  of  pride  or  supei'ciliousness."  At  her 
table  her  countenance  was  open  and  serene,  her 
voice  soft  and  melodious,  her  language  polite  and 
animated.  It  might  truly  be  said  of  this  lady, 
that  "her  mind  was  virtue,  by  the  graces  drest." 
The  sympathy,  tenderness,  and  delicacy,  which 
accompanied  her  liberalities  doubled  their  value : 
she  was  the  friend  and  patroness,  through  life,  of 
Mrs.  IMary  Astell ;  to  whom,  her  circumstances 
being  narrow,  she  frequently  presented  consider- 
able sums.  Her  benefactions  were  not  confined 
to  the  neighbourhood  in  which  she  lived  ;  to  many 
families,  in  various  parts  of  the  kingdom,  she  gave 
large  annual  allowances.     She  also  maintained  a 

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charity-school,  gave  exhibitions  to  scholars  in  the 
universities,  and  contributed  to  the  support  of 
several  seminaries  of  education.  To  this  may  be 
added  her  munificence  to  her  relations  and  friends, 
her  remission  of  sums  due  to  her,  in  cases  of  dis- 
tress or  straitened  circumstances,  and  the  noble 
hospitality  of  her  establishment.  To  one  relation 
she  allowed  five  hundred  pounds  annually,  to 
another  she  presented  a  gift  of  three  thousand 
pounds,  and  to  a  third  three  hundred  guineas. 
She  acted  also  with  great  liberality  towards  a 
young  lady,  whose  fortune  had  been  injured  in  the 
South-sea  scheme :  yet  the  whole  of  her  estates 
fell  short  of  three  thousand  pounds  a  year.  It 
was  by  economy  and  strict  self-denial  that  this 
noble  lady  was  enabled  thus  to  extend  her  boun- 
ties. Her  favourite  maxim  was,  first  to  attend  to 
justice ;  secondly,  to  charity ;  and  thirdly,  to 
generosity. 

She  died  in  1770,  aged  thirty-nine.  Previous 
to  her  decease,  she  destroyed  the  greater  part  of 
her  writings ;  so  that  her  talents  must  be  estimated 
from  her  works  of  benevolence,  not  from  the  pro- 
ductions of  her  pen,  although  she  had  a  very  su- 
perior mind.  She  would  never  mai-ry,  preferring, 
in  a  single  and  independent  life,  to  be  mistress  of 
her  own  actions,  and  the  dispenser  of  her  own 
income. 

HASTINGS,    LADY   FLORA, 

Was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Francis,  Marquis 
of  Hastings,  who  made  himself  notorious  as  Lord 
Rawdon  for  the  severity  with  which  he  treated  the 
Americans  who  fell  into  his  power  during  the  re- 
volutionary war.  Lady  Flora  was  born  in  1806  ; 
and  from  her  childhood  manifested  a  fondness  for 
studj'  and  literary  pursuits.  Beautiful  and  accom- 
plished, distinguished  also  for  genius  and  piety, 
she  was  selected  by  that  eminent  pattern  of  the 
virtues  in  courtly  life,  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  to  be 
one  of  her  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber.  While  in 
this  station  Lady  Flora  was  attacked  with  a  dis- 
ease which  caused  an  enlargement  of  her  liver, 
and  gave  rise  to  suspicions  injurious  to  her  repu- 
tation. These  cruel  surmises,  although  proved 
utterly  unfounded,  no  doubt  aggravated  her  ill- 
ness, and  hastened  her  death,  which  took  place  at 
Buckingham  Palace,  July  5th,  1839.  Her  fame 
was  now  unspotted,  and  her  premature  death  was 
deeply  mourned  by  the  court  and  nation.  She  had 
collected  her  poems,  which  were  published  after 
her  decease,  by  her  sister.  These  effusions  evince 
the  purity  of  her  sentiments ;  and  the  gentle  me- 
lancholy they  breathe  make  a  deeper  impression 
on  the  heart  of  the  reader,  because  it  seems  to 
shadow  forth  her  sad  fate.  The  following,  among 
her  poems,  have  been  much  admired  :  — 


Oh !  name  it  not,  there  is  a  spoil 
Around  its  memory  clinging, 
To  which  I  would  not  bid  farewell, 
For  all  the  future's  bringing. 

The  skies  of  radiant  Italy! 

Oh!  they  are  deeply  blue; 

And  nothing  save  their  kindred  wave 

Can  match  their  sapphire  hue. 


No  little  clouds  e'er  flit  across, 
To  dim  their  heavenly  light; 
Would  that  my  soul  were  pure  as  they 
As  spotless  and  as  bright! 

The  gales  of  balmy  Italy! 

Oh!  as  they  fleet  along. 

They  bear  upon  their  downy  wings 

The  treasured  wealth  of  song. 

They  linger  through  the  blooming  scenes 

Where  once  my  footsteps  roved  ; 

And  they  are  free,  though  I  am  not. 

To  kiss  the  flowers  I  loved. 

The  songs  of  tuneful  Italy  ! 

They  wake  within  the  heart 

Those  visions  of  the  olden  time. 

Which  will  not  thence  depart. 

And  freedom,  love,  and  honour  bright. 

Rise  from  the  dust  again. 

Would  that  my  feeble  lyre  could  wake 

The  spirit-stirring  strain  ! 

The  flowers  of  sunny  Italy  I 

Oh!  blissful  is  their  doom; 

A  brief,  bright  space  to  bloom,  then  sink 

Untrodden  to  the  tomb. 

Still  breathing  fragrance  as  they  droop 

Beneath  the  golden  ray  ; 

Oh  thus  were  't  mine  to  sigh  my  soul 

In  ecstacy  away  ! 

The  tombs  of  holy  Italy  ! 

The  earth  where  heroes  trod  ; 

Where  sainted  martyrs  glorified 

In  death  th'  Incarnate  God  ! 

Where  all  is  bright,  and  pure,  and  calm. 

On  earth,  in  air,  and  sea. 

O  Italy!  amongst  thy  tombs, 

Hast  thou  not  one  for  me  ? 


THE    SW.\N    SONG. 

Grieve  not  that  I  die  young.— Is  it  not  well 
To  pass  away  ere  life  hath  lost  its  brightness? 
Bind  me  no  longer,  sisters,  with  the  spell 
Of  love  and  your  kind  words.     List  ye  to  me: 
Here  I  am  blessed  —  but  I  would  be  more  free  ; 
I  would  go  forth  in  all  my  spirit's  lightness. 
Let  me  depart ! 

Ah  !  who  would  linger  till  bright  eyes  grow  dim. 
Kind  voices  mute,  and  faithful  bosoms  cold? 
Till  carking  care,  and  coil,  and  anguish  grim, 
Cast  their  dark  shadows  o'er  this  faery  world; 
Till  fancy's  many-coloured  wings  are  furled, 
And  all,  save  the  proud  spirit,  wa.xelh  old  ? 

I  would  depart ! 

Thus  would  I  pass  away  —  yielding  my  soul 
A  joyous  thank-off"ering  to  Him  who  gave 
That  soul  to  be,  those  starry  orbs  to  roll.    - 
Thus  —  thus  exultingly  would  I  depart. 
Song  on  my  lips,  ecstacy  in  my  heart. 
Sisters  —  sweet  sisters,  bear  me  to  my  grave  — 
Let  me  depart ! 

HAUFFE,    FREDERICA, 

Commonly  called  the  Seeress  of  Prevorst,  was 
born  in  1801,  at  Prevorst,  a  little  village  among 
the  mountains  of  Wirtemberg,  not  far  from  Ltiw- 
enstein.  Her  father  was  game-keeper  or  district 
forester,  and  Frederica  was  brought  up  in  the  most 
quiet  simplicity.  She  early  showed  great  sensi- 
bility to  spiritual  influences,  which  her  family  en- 
deavoured to  discourage.  At  the  age  of  nineteen 
she  was  married  to  Mr.  Hauffe,  and  went  to  reside 
at  Kiirnbach.  There  she  was  attacked  by  a  sin- 
gular illness  which  lasted  for  seven  years,  during 
the  latter  part  of  which  she  was  attended  by  Dr. 
Kerner,  a  well-known  German  physician  and  poet, 

343 


HE 


HE 


who  has  since  published  an  account  of  her,  higlily 
coloured,  probably,  by  his  own  imagination.  The 
last  three  years  of  her  life  were  spent  at  Weins- 
berg.  She  saw,  or  imagined  she  saw,  and  held 
converse  with  spirits ;  and  the  system  of  philoso- 
phy she  revealed,  and  which  she  had,  apparently, 
acquired  from  her  close  communion  with  the  spi- 
rit-world, is  singular,  from  its  being  the  production 
of  a  woman  entirely  uneducated  in  such  matters. 
Frederica  HaufFe  died  at  Lowenstein  on  the  5th 
of  August,  1829. 

HEDWIG,  AMELIA  VON, 
One  of  the  most  celebrated  German  poetesses, 
was  born  at  Weimar,  August  16th,  1776.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Von  ImhofF.  When  only  eight, 
she  could  speak  English  and  French  as  readily  as 
her  own  tongue ;  and  her  talent  for  poetry  had 
already  begun  to  develop  itself.  When  she  was 
twelve  she  lost  her  father ;  and  the  lady  who  took 
charge  of  her  kept  her  so  constantly  occupied, 
that  she  had  no  time  for  writing.  She  was  about 
fourteen  when  she  went  to  live  at  Weimar,  where 
she  became  acquainted  with  several  of  the  most 
celebrated  poets  of  the  time.  Schiller,  happening 
to  see  a  poem  of  hers,  invited  her  to  his  house  at 
Jena,  where  she  became  acquainted  with  Goethe. 
She  was  afterwards  appointed  Lady  of  the  court 
at  Saxe  Weimar,  where  she  was  married  to  Lieu- 
tenant-General  Von  Hedwig.  Madame  Von  Iled- 
wig  was  a  poetess  of  the  higher  order,  one  whom 
Goethe  praised  for  her  true  Parnassian  inspira- 
tions. At  his  request  she  composed  the  "Legend 
of  the  Three  Wise  Men  of  the  East,"  a  romance 
in  twelve  cantos.  She  also  wrote  a  number  of 
legends,  all  displaying  great  poetic  genius  ;  while 
her  lyrics,  her  patriotic  songs,  and  her  idyls,  have 
added  many  a  leaf  to  her  wreath.  She  was  a  fer- 
tile prose  writer,  and  also  translated  several  works 
from  the  Swedish.  William  Ilowitt  says  of  this 
popular  author,  "  Her  well-known  Saga  of  the 
W^olfsbrunnen  near  Heidelberg,  was  taken  bodily 
possession  of  by  Grattan,  author  of  "Highways 
and  Byways,"  who  lived  for  some  time  near  the 
scene  of  the  Saga.  His  "Legend  of  the  Wolfs- 
brunnen"  is  literally  that  of  Madame  Von  Hedwig, 
except  that  he  has  inverted  her  story,  putting  her 
first  part' second,  and  the  second  first."  Nor  is 
Mr.  Grattan  the  first  man  who  has  stolen  from  the 
literature  of  female  writers  the  plots,  ideas,  and 
even  productions,  that  have  made  his  best  title  to 
fame.    Madame  Von  Hedwig  is  probably  deceased. 

HELVETIUS,    MADAME, 

Was  daughter  of  Compte  Lignville,  and  married, 
in  1751,  Claude  Adrien  Ilelvetius,  who  afterwards 
became  celebrated  for  his  talents.  Madame  Hel- 
v^tius  was  very  beautiful  and  accomplished.  Be- 
ing the  niece  of  Madame  GraflBgny,  by  whom  she 
was  brought  up,  she  had  been  educated  with  great 
care.  Helv^tius  was  passionately  fond  of  his  wife, 
and  after  their  marriage  they  lived  chiefly  in  re- 
tirement at  Vore,  enjoying  the  pure  pleasures  of 
domestic  life.  After  his  decease,  which  occurred 
in  1771,  Madame  Helv^tius  removed  to  Auteuil, 
■where  her  house  became  the  resort  of  the  most 


distinguished  literati  and  artists  of  the  time. 
Among  other  great  men,  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin 
was  a  frequent  visitor  and  a  warm  friend  of  Ma- 
dame Helvetius.  She  was  then  far  advanced  in 
years ;  but  her  good  sense,  cheerful  kindness,  and 
highly  cultivated  mind,  rendered  her  the  favourite 
companion  of  intelligent  men.  She  is  an  example 
of  the  superiority  of  cultivated  intellect  over  per- 
sonal beauty ;  her  youthful  charms  were  soon 
gone  ;  her  mental  graces  improved  to  the  last,  and 
made  her  society  sought  and  her  friendship  valued 
as  long  as  she  lived. 


HE  MANS,    FELICIA   DOROTHEA, 

Was  the  second  daughter  and  fourth  child  of  a 
family  of  three  sons  and  three  daughters.  She 
was  born  in  Duke  street,  Liverpool,  on  the  25th  of 
September,  1794.  Her  father,  Mr.  Browne,  was 
a  native  of  Ireland,  and  her  mother,  a  Miss  Wag- 
ner, was  of  Venetian  origin.  As  a  child,  Felicia 
was  remarkably  beautiful,  and  she  early  gave  in- 
dications of  her  poetic  genius,  which  was  encou- 
raged by  her  accomplished  mother.  When  Miss 
Browne  was  about  five  j-ears  old,  domestic  embar- 
rassments led  her  father  to  remove  to  Gwrych,  in 
North  AVales. 

That  land  of  wild  moimtain  scenery,  and  ancient 
minstrelsy,  was  the  fitting  place  to  impart  sub- 
limity to  her  youthful  fancies,  and  elevate  her 
feelings  with  the  glow  of  patriotism  and  devotion. 
She  began  to  write  when  very  young;  her  first 
printed  j^oems,  entitled  "Early  Blossoms,"  were 
issued  in  1808,  whetf  she  was  fourteen. 

In  1809,  her  family  removed  from  Gwrych  to 
Bronwylfa,  near  St.  Asaph's,  in  Flintshire,  where 
she  resided  for  sixteen  years,  and  wrote  many  of 
her  works.  It  was  during  this  year,  1809,  that 
the  great  event  of  her  life  took  place  —  her  intro- 
duction to  Captain  Hemans.  The  young  poetess 
was  then  only  fifteen,  in  the  full  glow  of  that 
radiant  beauty  which  was  destined  to  fade  so  early. 
The  mantling  bloom  of  her  cheeks  was  shaded  bj- 
a  profusion  of  natural  ringlets,  of  a  i*ich  golden 
brown ;  and  the  ever-varying  expression  of  her 
brilliant  eyes  gave  a  changeful  play  to  her  coun- 
tenance, which  would  have  made  it  impossible  for 

344 


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HE 


any  painter  to  do  justice  to  it.  No  wonder  that 
so  fair  a  creature  should  excite  the  admiration  of 
a  gallant  captain.  And  the  love  on  both  sides 
was  ardent  and  sincere ;  for  Captain  Hemans,  soon 
after  their  introduction,  was  called  upon  to  embark 
with  his  regiment  for  Spain.  On  his  return,  in 
1812,  they  were  married. 

Mrs.  Hemans'  eagerness  for  knowledge  con- 
tinued to  be  intense,  and  of  her  industry,  volumes, 
still  existing,  of  extracts  and  transcriptions,  are 
evidence.  The  mode  of  her  studies  was  very  de- 
sultory to  outward  appearance,  as  she  loved  to  be 
surrounded  by  books  of  all  sorts  and  languages, 
and  on  every  variety  of  topic,  turning  from  one  to 
another.  And  this  course,  it  is  said,  "  she  pursued 
at  all  times — in  season  and  out  of  season — by  night 
and  day — on  her  chair,  her  sofa,  and  bed — at  home 
and  abroad — invalid,  convalescent,  and  in  perfect 
health — in  rambles,  jomneys,  and  visits — in  com- 
pany with  her  husband,  and  when  her  children 
were  around  her  — at  hours  usually  devoted  to 
domestic  claims,  as  well  as  in  the  solitude  of  the 
study  and  bower." 

In  the  year  1818,  Captain  Hemans'  health  re- 
quiring the  benefit  of  a  warmer  climate,  he  deter^ 
mined  upon  repairing  to  the  Continent,  and  event- 
ually fixed  his  residence  at  Rome.  At  this  time  a 
permanent  separation  was  not  contemplated  by 
either  party,  and  it  was  only  a  tacit  and  conven- 
tional arrangement,  with  a  frequent  interchange 
of  correspondence  relative  to  the  education  and 
the  disposal  of  their  children.  But  years  rolled 
on,  and  from  that  time  till  the  hour  of  her  death, 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Hemans  never  met  again.  She 
continued  to  reside  with  her  mother  at  Bronwylfa, 
and  had  the  five  boys  left  under  her  care ;  a  sutfi- 
cient  proof  that  nothing  more  than  incompatibility 
of  pui'suits  and  uncongeniality  of  temper  were  the 
moving  causes  of  the  separation. 

Notwithstanding  the  peculiai'ity  of  her  situation, 
in  consequence  of  this  separation,  her  talents,  her 
amiable  qualities,  and  tlie  increasing  popularity  of 
her  writings,  continued  to  secure  to  Mrs.  Hemans 
the  warm  attachment  of  several  distinguished 
friends,  among  whom  were  Bishop  Lnxmoore  and 
Bishop  Heber ;  with  the  latter  she  became  ac- 
quainted in  1820,  and  he  was  the  first  literary 
character  with  whom  she  ever  familiarly  asso- 
ciated. To  him  she  submitted  the  commencement 
of  a  poem,  entitled  "  Superstition  and  Revela- 
tion," which  was,  however,  never  completed  by 
her,  and  at  his  suggestion,  she  was  first  led  to 
offer  her  "Vespers  of  Palfcno"  to  the  stage. 
This  play,  completed  in  June,  1821,  was,  after 
many  theatrical  delays,  acted  at  Covent  Garden, 
in  Decembei-,  1823,  but  proved  a  failure.  It,  how- 
ever, led  to  a  coi-respondence  with  the  poet  Mil- 
man,  who  kindly  interested  himself  in  its  behalf; 
and  it  was  subsequently  acted  in  Edinburgh  with 
considerable  success,  —  with  an  epilogue  written 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  death  of  her  beloved  mother,  which  occurred 
in  1827,  was  an  irreparable  loss  to  Mrs.  Hemans; 
she  had  now  no  one  to  whom  she  could  cling  for 
protection ;  and  her  sensitive,  dependent  nature, 
made  the  maternal  shelter  and  security  necessary 


to  her  happiness  —  almost  to  her  own  existence. 
As  the  care  and  education  of  her  five  sons  now 
devolved  entirely  on  herself,  she  was  induced  to 
leave  Wales,  where  her  heart  still  clung,  and  settle 
at  Wavertree,  a  small  village  near  Liverpool,  where 
she  hoped  to  find  superior  advantages  of  education 
for  her  boys. 

During  the  many  years  that  Mrs.  Hemans  re- 
sided with  her  mother,  the  anxieties  and  respon- 
sibilities of  house-keeping  had  never  fallen  to  her 
lot,  and  her  time  and  thoughts  might  be  and  were 
almost  exclusively  devoted  to  poetry  and  literatui-e. 
But  now  domestic  cares  forced  themselves  upon 
her  attention,  and  butchers'  and  grocers'  bills  in- 
truded, as  she  observes,  "in  frightful  array."  In 
these  household  duties  she  felt  but  little  interest, 
being,  as  she  playfully  desci'ibes  herself,  "little 
better  than  a  grown-up  Rosamond,  (Miss  Edge- 
worth's  naughty  girl,)  who  constantly  lie  in  bed 
till  it  is  too  late  to  get  up  early — break  my  needles 
(when  I  use  any)— leave  my  keys  among  my  neck- 
laces—  answer  all  my  amusing  letters  first,  and 
leave  the  others  to  their  fate."  Elsewhere  she 
says,  "I  am  now  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
holding  the  reins  of  government,  independently 
managing  a  household  myself,  and  I  never  liked 
any  thing  less  than  ce  triste  empire  de  moi-meme.'" 

In  the  summer  of  1829  she  visited  Scotland, 
where  she  was  cordially  received  by  many  distin- 
guished persons,  among  others,  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  with  whom  she  spent  two  or  three  weeks 
very  delightfully.  AVhen  bidding  her  farewell,  he 
said :  "  There  are  some  whom  we  meet,  and  should 
like  ever  after  to  claim  as  kith  and  kin,  and  you 
are  one  of  these."  On  one  occasion  he  obsei'ved: 
"One  would  say  you  had  too  many  accomplish- 
ments, Mrs.  Hemans,  were  they  not  all  made  to 
give  pleasure  to  those  around  you."  In  1830, 
Mrs.  Hemans  visited  the  Lakes,  where  she  formed 
a  personal  acquaintance  with  Wordsworth,  whose 
writings  she  had  always  admired.  Mrs.  Hemans 
was  delighted  with  the  scenery  at  Rydal  Mount, 
and  concluded  to  hire  a  residence  called  Dove's 
Nest,  beautifully  situated  in  a  very  romantic  spot 
on  the  banks  of  Windermere ;  she  thus  describes 
it  in  one  of  her  letters : 

"  The  house  was  originally  meant  for  a  small 
villa,  though  it  has  long  passed  into  the"  hands  of 
farmers,  and  there  is,  in  consequence,  an  air  of 
neglect  about  the  little  demesne,  which  does  not 
at  all  approach  desolation,  and  yet  gives  it  some- 
thing of  touching  interest.  You  see  everywhere 
traces  of  love  and  care  beginning  to  be  effaced — 
rose-trees  spreading  into  wildness — laurels  dark- 
ening the  windows  with  their  luxuriant  branches 
— and  I  cannot  help  saying  to  myself,  '  Perhaps 
some  heart  like  my  own  in  its  feelings  and  suffer- 
ings has  here  sought  refuge  and  found  repose.' 
The  ground  is  laid  out  in  rather  an  antiquated 
style,  which,  now  that  nature  is  beginning  to  re- 
claim it  from  art,  I  df>  not  at  all  dislike.  There 
is  a  little  gi-assy  terrace  immediately  under  the 
window,  descending  to  a  small  court  with  a  circu- 
lar grass-plot,  in  which  grows  one  tall  white  rose- 
tree.  You  cannot  imagine  how  I  delight  in  that 
fair,  solitary,  neglected-looking  tree.     I  am  wri- 

845 


HE 


HE 


ting  to  you  from  an  old-fashioned  alcove  in  the 
little  garden,  round  which  the  sweetbriar  and  the 
moss-rose  tree  had  completely  run  wild ;  and  I 
look  down  from  it  upon  lovely  Windermere,  which 
seems  at  this  moment  even  like  another  sky,  so 
truly  is  every  summer  cloud  and  tint  of  azure  pic- 
tured in  its  transparent  mirror." 

In  1831  she  left  England  with  her  children,  to 
take  up  her  residence  permanently  in  Dviblin. 
The  next  four  years  were  passed  busily  and  rather 
pleasantly  by  Mrs.  Hemaiis,  who  continued  to 
write  unceasingly,  though  a  gradvial  decline  in  her 
health  was  perceptible  to  her  friends.  At  the 
close  of  the  year  1834  her  health  became  very 
precai'ious,  and  the  following  spring  brought  symp- 
toms of  her  approaching  dissolution.  The  closing 
scene  has  been  impressively  described  by  one  of 
her  friends : 

"  Mrs.  Hemans  was  now  too  ill  to  leave  her 
room,  and  was  only  laid  upon  a  couch  during  the 
daytime,  occasionally  suffering  severel3^  But  all 
was  borne  with  resignation  and  patience,  and 
when  not  able  to  bear  even  the  fatigue  of  reading, 
she  had  recourse  to  her  mental  resources,  and  as 
she  lay  on  her  sofa,  she  would  repeat  to  herself 
whole  chapters  of  the  Bible,  and  page  after  page 
of  Milton  and  Wordsworth.  Her  thoughts  reverted 
frequently  to  the  days  of  her  childhood  —  to  the 
old  house  by  the  sea-shore — the  mountain  rambles 
— the  haunts  and  the  books  which  had  formed  the 
delight  of  her  childhood.  She  was  wont  to  say  to 
those  who  expressed  pity  for  her  situation,  that 
"  she  lived  in  a  fair  and  happy  world  of  her  own, 
among  gentle  thoughts  and  pleasant  images ;"  and 
in  her  intervals  of  pain  she  would  observe,  that 
"no  poetry  could  express,  nor  imagination  con- 
ceive, the  visions  of  blessedness  that  flitted  across 
her  fancy,  and  made  her  waking  hours  more  de- 
lightful than  those  even  that  were  given  to  tempo- 
rary repose."  Indeed  her  sister  observes,  "At 
times  her  spirit  would  appear  to  be  already  half- 
ethercalized,  her  mind  would  seem  to  be  fraught 
with  deep  and  holy  and  incommunicable  thoughts, 
and  she  would  entreat  to  be  left  perfectly  alone, 
in  stillness  and  darkness,  '  to  commune  with  her 
own  heart,'  and  reflect  on  the  mercies  of  her  Sa- 
viour." 

On  the  15th  of  March,  after  receiving  the  holy 
sacrament,  she  became  extremely  ill,  but  a  tem- 
porary improvement  took  place,  and  on  the  26th 
of  April,  she  dictated  to  her  brother,  (for  she  had 
for  some  time  been  constrained  to  cxiiploy  an  ama- 
nuensis,) her  "Sabbath  Sonnet,"  the  last  strain 
of  the  sweet  singer  of  the  hearth,  the  home,  and 
the  affections. 

On  Saturday,  the  26th  of  IMay,  she  sank  into  a 
peaceful  slumber,  which  continued  all  day,  and  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  her  gentle  spirit  passed 
away  without  pain  or  struggle. 

Her  remains  were  deposited  in  a  vault  beneath 
St.  Anne's  Church,  Dublin,  almost  close  to  the 
house  where  she  died.  A  small  tablet  has  been 
placed  above  the  spot  where  she  is  laid,  inscribed 
with  her  name,  her  age,  and  the  date  of  her  death, 
and  with  the  following  lines  from  a  dirge  of  her 
own ; 


"Calm  on  the  bosom  of  tliy  God, 

Fair  Spirit !  rest  thee  iinvv  ! 
Ev'n  while  with  us  thy  footsteps  trod, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 
Dust  to  the  narrow  home  beneath ! 

Soul  to  its  place  on  high  ; 
They,  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die." 

In  perusing  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  we  are 
struck  with  her  wonderful  perception  of  the  heau- 
tiful!  This  seems  to  be  her  peculiar  gift.  AVhat- 
ever  be  the  scene  described,  the  character  or  object 
introduced,  she  always  gathers  around  her  images 
and  allusions  of  exceeding  beauty ;  and  these  se- 
lected with  a  moral  taste  so  pure  and  refined,  that 
it  seems  to  have  shed  the  lustre  of  heaven  upon 
the  things  of  earth. 

And  yet,  over  these  bright  visions,  incomparable 
in  loveliness  as  they  are,  is  the  blending  of  human 
cares  and  sorrows,  and  the  shadow  of  Nature's 
decay.  Nothing  is  satisfying,  nothing  is  abiding. 
She  saw  the  perfectness  of  the  Creator's  works  in 
their  most  attractive  forms ;  but  she  saw  that 
Death  was  in  the  world,  and  that  all  which  was 
made  was  subject  to  the  Destroyer. 

Hence  the  sadness  which  pervades  neai'ly  all 
her  poems,  with  the  exception  of  those  she  wrote 
towards  the  close  of  her  career.  It  was  not  her 
own  blighted  hopes  that  gave  to  her  harp  its  note 
of  wo.  Hers  is  the  lament  for  the  lot  of  humanity, 
dwelling  amid  so  much  beauty  which  must  fade 
and  perish  like  the  crushed  flower ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  joy  and  harmony  which  for  her  per- 
vaded all  Nature,  she  yet  could  not  avoid  discern- 
ing, with  the  spirit  of  the  mystic  prophetess, 

"The  low  footsteps  of  each  coming  ill." 

And  so  wonderfully  was  her  genius  endowed 
with  the  power  of  expressing  "thoughts  which 
create  thoughts"  in  the  minds  of  others,  that  there 
is  scarcely  a  human  heart  but  is  moved  by  these 
strains  of  feeling  or  imagination.  The  truth  of 
the  description  is  acknowledged  at  once.  For, 
though  many  of  the  moving  scenes  in  the  poems 
of  Mrs.  Hemans  were  undoubtedly  fictitious,  yet 
the  feelings,  the  struggles,  the  sorrows  bear  the 
seal  of  reality.  She  saw  with  her  mind's  eye  and 
felt  in  her  own  soul  all  that  she  has  pourtrayed. 
And  thus  she  compels  the  sympathy  of  her  readers 
to  follow  her  bidding,  and  by  the  dream  of  the 
poet  to  intei'pret  their  own  feelings,  and  struggles, 
and  sorrows. 

Still  there  is  none  of  the  gloom  of  misanthropy 
in  the  strains  of  Mrs.  Hemans.  She  had  naturally 
a  cheerful,  even  mirthful  disposition,  as  her  pri- 
vate letters  show ;  and  she  had  the  loving,  hoping 
heart  of  a  true  woman.  She  was  the  poet  of 
home.  Around  the  hearth  she  gathered  the  sweet- 
est and  saddest  images  of  her  fancy.  There  was 
her  throne  of  power,  to  the  muse  of  man  unap- 
proachable. In  these  domestic  attachments,  and 
in  her  sympathy  with  her  own  sex,  may  be  found 
the  main  causes  of  her  unparalleled  success  in  the 
choice  of  subjects.  This  purity  and  justness  of 
moral  taste,  which  always  selects  the  theme  best 
suited  to  the  position  of  the  writer,  is  a  beautiful 
element  in  the  character  of  a  literary  woman. 

346 


HE 


HE 


We  consider  her  example  of  refined  moral  taste 
in  directing  the  efforts  of  female  genius  as  of  in- 
estimable benefit  to  the  young  imaginative  reader ; 
and  so  purely  beautiful  did  her  poems  appear, 
that  we  scarcely  knew  when  to  pause  in  our  selec- 
tion. Mrs.  Hemans  does,  in  truth,  merit  the  gra- 
titude as  well  as  admiration  of  her  sex,  for  she 
has  exalted  the  genius  of  woman,  and  shown  an 
example  of  excellence  in  private  life, — thus  prov- 
ing that  the  cultivation  of  the  highest  gifts  of 
intellect  are  not  incompatible  with  the  perform- 
ance of  our  humblest  duties. 

The  crowning  grace  other  genius  however  washer 
love  of  the  good.  In  her  earlier  studies  she  search- 
ed for  this  in  objects  of  sense  or  creations  of  fancy. 
But  the  shadow  of  change  and  decay  marred  the 
loveliness  of  Nature,  and  the  spirit  of  the  poet 
grew  restless  and  sad.  In  her  last  years,  looking 
upward  as  well  as  inward,  she  found,  in  contem- 
plation of  the  "Eternal  God,"  the  perfection  she 
adored.     And  how  ardently  her  soul 

"  Sought  the  light, 
Studious  of  that  pure  intercourse  begun, 
When  first  her  infant  brows  their  lustre  won; 

So,  like  the  mountain,  did  she  grow  more  bright. 
From  unimpeded  commerce  with  the  sun. 

At  the  approach  of  all-involving  night." 

In  respect  to  the  religious  dignity  which  she 
attached  to  her  profession,  there  is  a  passage  in 
one  of  her  letters  which  fully  itnfolds  her  feelings 
and  her  hopes ;  thus  she  writes,  about  a  year  pre- 
vious to  her  death : — "  I  have  now  passed  through 
the  feverish  aitd  somewhat  visionart/  state  of  mind 
often  connected  with  the  passionate  study  of  art 
in  early  life ;  deep  affections  and  deep  sorrows 
seem  to  have  solemnized  my  whole  being,  and  I 
now  feel  as  if  bound  to  higher  and  holier  tasks, 
which,  though  I  may  occasionally  lay  aside,  I 
could  not  long  wander  from  without  some  sense 
of  dereliction.  I  hope  it  is  no  self-delusion,  but  I 
cannot  help  sometimes  feeling  as  if  it  were  my 
true  task  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of  sacred  poetry, 
and  extend  its  influence.  When  you  receive  my 
volume  of  '  Scenes  and  Hymns,'  you  will  see  what 
I  mean  by  enlarging  its  sphere,  though  my  plan 
as  yet  is  very  imperfectly  developed." 

She  speaks  here  of  the  passionate  study  of  art 
in  early  life.  And  this  is  not  the  least  of  her  me- 
rits,— that  she  did  study,  early  and  late,  her  whole 
life  long,  making  poetry,  as  it  deserves,  no  less  a 
subject  of  science  than  a  gift  of  genius.  She  was 
above  the  miserable  disparagement  of  labour,  and 
learning,  and  the  advice  of  the  world.  She  pro- 
fited continually  by  them  all ;  and  the  critics  have 
in  no  respect  rendered  her  fuller  justice,  than  in 
noticing  the  astonishing  progress  indicated  by  her 
successive  productions. 

Thus,  then,  is  her  poetry  distinguished.  Others 
have  possessed  her  imagination,  her  taste,  her  am- 
bition, her  art,  her  glowing  feeling,  her  Christian 
principle ;  but  they  did  not  all  undertake,  and 
they  were  not  all  competent  if  they  had,  to  devote 
the  exercise  of  every  energy,  effectually,  to  the 
one  object  of  her  labours,  — tlie  composition  of  a 
model  which  might  perfectly  represent  what  fe- 
male poetry  is  and  should  be.    This  Mrs.  Hemans 


has  done.  She  had  a  genius  worthy  to  be  the  re- 
presentative of  that  of  her  sex, — and  she  sounded 
the  depths  of  its  capacities  of  exertion  and  suffer- 
ing, and  trained  them,  with  every  faculty,  to  do 
justice  to  herself,  her  sex,  her  race,  her  Creator, 
in  the  discharge  of  the  true  oflSce  of  the  profession 
she  chose,  —  the  illuminating  or  figuring  forth  of 
truth,  (as  Sydney  describes  it,)  and  especially  of 
the  truth  most  worthy  of  the  work, — which  it  most 
concerns  men,  as  such,  to  feel  the  force  of,  —  and 
which,  also,  she  was  herself  best  qualified  so  to 
set  forth — "  bi/  the  speaking  picture  of  poetry."  She 
wrote  not  only  as  none  but  a  woman  could  write, 
but  so  wrote  as  that,  in  her  department,  neither 
her  predecessors,  or  successors,  of  her  own  sex, 
have  been,  or  will  be,  able  to  surpass  her. 

Mrs.  Hemans  was  a  Briton  by  birth,  but,  as  we 
think,  her  delicate  purity  of  nature  was  truly 
American.  One  of  her  biographers  says  that  Mrs. 
Hemans  "always  cut  out  of  her  books  whatever 
was  coarse;"  a  proceeding  which  resembles  very 
nearly  the  instinctive  delicacy  of  character  so  fre- 
quently ridiculed  by  English  travellers  and  writers 
as  peculiar  to  the  women  of  v^^merica.  No  doubt 
this  unison  of  feeling  has  contributed  to  give  the 
poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans  such  wide  and  wonderful 
popularity  in  our  republic.  An  English  critic, 
noticing  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  remarks — 
"The  peculiar  beauties  of  her  poetry  were  first 
pointed  out  to  us  by  our  transatlantic  brethren." 
Yes,  the  true  feminine  loveliness — there  is  no  other 
term  so  appropriate  —  of  her  muse,  has  won  the 
heart  of  the  American  people.  We  understand, 
we  appreciate  the  sweet  purity  of  her  productions  ; 
nor  can  her  own  countrymen  hold  her  works  in 
higher  estimation  or  cherish  her  memory  with 
more  true  regard  than  do  her  millions  of  friends 
and  readers  in  this  our  "  green  forest  land." 

Her  principal  works  were,  "  The  Domestic  Af- 
fections," 1812;  "Restoration  of  the  Works  of 
Art  to  Italy;"  "Welsh  Melodies,"  1822;  "Siege 
of  Valencia,  and  the  Last  Constantine,"  1823; 
"  Vespers  of  Palermo,"  1823  ;  "  The  Forest  Sanc- 
tuary," 1826;  "Records  of  Women,"  1828; 
"Songs  of  the  Affections,"  1830;  "National  Ly- 
rics," 1834;  "Hymns  for  Childhood,"  1834; 
"Scenes  and  Hymns  of  Life,"  1834.  The  selec- 
tions we  give  are  chiefly  descriptive  of  or  inciden- 
tal to  ivoman — the  theme  of  power  with  Mrs.  He- 
mans. 

THE    SWITZER's    WIFE. 

Werner  Stauffacher,  one  of  tlie  three  confederates  of  the 
field  of  Grutii,  had  been  alarmed  by  the  envy  with  which  the 
Austrian  Bailiff,  Landenberg,  had  noticed  the  appearance 
of  wealth  and  comfort  which  distinguished  his  dwelling.  It 
was  not,  however,  until  roused  by  the  entreaties  of  his  wife, 
a  woman  who  seems  to  have  been  of  an  heroic  spirit,  that 
he  was  induced  to  deliberate  with  his  friends  upon  the  mea- 
sures by  which  Switzerland  was  finally  delivered. 

N'or  look  nor  tone  revealeth  au^ht 
Save  woman's  quietness  of  thought ; 
.\nd  yet  around  her  is  a  hght 
Of  inward  majesty  and  might.    M.  J.  J 
***** 
Wer  solch  ein  herz  an  seinen  Busen  druckt, 
Der  kann  fur  herd  und  hof  mit  freiulen  fechten. 
WiHholm  Tell. 

347 


HE 


HE 


It  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 
Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 

And  when  thn  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet 
In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 

And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by, 

Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

And  lovely  smiled  full  many  an  Alpine  home, 
Touch'd  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  hour, 

Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam. 
And  pierced  its  lattice  through  the  vine-hung  bower: 

But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose. 

Then  first  looked  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden-tree. 
That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door, 

Ev'n  as  man  sits  whose  heart  alone  would  be 
With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  find  no  more 

Th'  accustomed  joy  in  all  which  evening  brings, 

Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 

His  wife  stood  hush'd  before  him,— sad,  yet  mild 
In  her  beseeching  mien;— he  mark'd  it  not. 

The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-hair'd  child 
Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  shelter'd  spot, 

But  seem'd  unheard;  until  at  last  the  boy 

Raised  from  his  heap'd-up  flowers  a  glance  of  joy. 

And  met  his  father's  face  :  but  then  a  change 
Pass'd  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 

And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 
Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 

So  often  climb'd,  and  lift  his  loving  eyes 

That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  proud  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook  ; 

But  tenderly  his  babe's  fair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look. 

Thro'  tears  half  quivering,  o'er  him  bent,  and  said, 
'What  grief,  dear  friend,  hath  made  thy  heart  its  prey. 
That  thou  shouldst  turn  thee  from  our  love  away  ? 

'  It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  my  friend  ! 

Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 
Missing  the  smile  from  thine?    Oh!  clieer  thee  !  bend 

To  his  soft  arms,  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en  now  ! 
Thou  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 
Of  tried  afil-ction  in  thy  secret  care." 

He  look'd  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face. 
But  sternly,  mournfully:  not  yet  the  band 

Was  loosen'd  from  his  soul;  its  inmost  place 

Not  yet  unveil'd  by  love's  o'ermastering  hand. 
'Speak  low!"  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on  high 

The  white  Alps  glitter'd  through  the  solemn  sky  : 

'  We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 

And  iheir  free  torrents  ;  for  the  days  are  come 
When  tyranny  lies  crouch'd  by  forest-rills. 

And  meets  the  shepherd  in  his  mountain-home. 
Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear, 
Keep  silence  by  the  hearth !  its  foes  are  near. 

'  The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.     I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene. 

Yet  with  the  faces  besl-beloved  in  sight : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chain'd,  and  thee— 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see  ?" 

The  bright  blood  left  that  youthful  mother's  cheek; 

Back  on  the  linden-stem  she  lean'd  her  form. 
And  her  lip  trembled,  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a  frail  harp-string,  shaken  by  the  storm. 
'Twas  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintness  pass'd, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  last. 

And  she,  that  ever  through  her  home  had  moved 
With  the  meek  thoughtfulness  and  quiet  smile 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  beloved. 
And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while. 

Stood  brightly  forth,  and  steadfastly,  that  hour. 

Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power. 


Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light. 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast. 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gather'd  might 
As  it  found  language  : — ••  Are  we  thus  opprets'd  ? 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod. 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  God! 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldst  do,— and  be  it  done  ! 

Tliy  soul  is  darken'd  with  its  cares  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband  !— this,  thy  son. 

The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be  free ! 
And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength— if  aught  be  strong  on  earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 
Of  my  desponding  tears;  now  lift  once  more. 
My  hunter  of  the  hills!  thy  stately  head. 

And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore  ! 
I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued, — 
Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"  Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 

The  chamois-paths,  and  through  the  forests  go; 

And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 
To  the  brave  hearts  that  'midst  the  hamlets  glow. 

God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  ! — Away  ! 

Bless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me, — I  can  pray!" 

He  sprang  up  like  a  warrior-youth  awaking 
To  clarion-sounds  upon  the  ringing  air  : 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears  breaking 
From  his  dark  eyes,  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair, — 

And  "  Worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 
"That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 

Now  shall  thy  name  be  armour  to  my  heart ; 
And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled. 

Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part ! 
I  go — thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell. 
Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps— Farewell !" 

And  thus  they  parted,  by  the  quiet  lake, 
In  the  clear  starlight :  he.  the  strength  to  rouse 

Of  the  free  hills ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
*ro  rork  her  child  beneath  the  whispering  boughs. 

Singing  its  blue,  half-curtain'd  eyes  to  sleep, 

With  a  low  hymn  amidst  the  stillness  deep. 


GERTRUDE,    OR    FIDELITY    TILL    DEATH. 

The  Baron  Von  der  Wart,  accused,  though  it  is  believed 
unjustly,  as  an  accomplice  in  the  assassination  of  the  em- 
peror Albert,  was  bound  alive  on  the  wheel,  and  attended 
by  his  wife  Gertrude,  throughout  his  last  agonizing  hours, 
with  the  most  heroic  devotedness.  Her  own  sufTerings,  with 
those  of  her  unfortunate  husband,  are  most  afTectingly  de- 
scribed in  a  letter  which  she  afterwards  addressed  to  a  fsmale 
friend,  and  which  was  published  some  years  ago,  at  Haar- 
lem, in  a  book  entitled  Gertrude  Von  der  Wart,  or  Fidelity 
unto  Death. 

Dark  lowers  our  fate, 
And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  oer  us ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  aRony 
Wliich  severs  tliee  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fix'd  and  sacred  hold.     In  thy  dark  prison-hou.'^e, 
In  the  terrific  fare  of  armed  law. 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  dark  eyes  raised. 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed — 

All  that  she  loved  was  there. 
The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold, 

The  holy  heaven  above. 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love 

"And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried, 
"  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  ! 
This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side. 
Peace,  peace !  I  cannot  go. 

348 


^E 


Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear. 
When  death  is  on  thy  brow  ? 

The  world  !  what  means  it — mine  is  here — 
I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

"  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this! 
And  thou,  mine  honour'd  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on! 
We  have  the  blessed  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe. 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But  oh!  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  love  !  of  mortal  agony. 

Thou,  only  titou  shouldst  speak! 

The  wind  rose  high,— but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear: 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  happy  bosoms  near; 
While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form. 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brow, 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft. 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low, 

Had  still'd  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 

She  bathed  liis  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheeks  such  kisses  pross'd 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh !  lovely  are  ye.  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  deatli — 

And  his  worn  spirit  pass'd. 
While  ev'n  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot. 
And,  weeping,  bless'd  the  God  who  gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not ! 


THE    GRAVE    OF    A    POETESS.* 

"  Ne  me  plaignez  pas— si  vous  saviez 

Combien  de  peines  oe  tombeau  m'a  epargnees !" 

I  stood  beside  the  lowly  grave ; — 

Spring-odours  breathed  around, 
And  music,  in  the  river-wave, 

Pass'd  with  a  lulling  sound. 

All  happy  things  that  love  the  sun 

In  the  bright  air  glanced  by. 
And  a  glad  murnmr  seem'd  to  run 

Tiirough  the  soft  azure  sky. 

Fresh  leaves  were  on  the  ivy-bough 

That  fringed  the  ruins  near; 
Voung  voices  were  abroad — but  thou 

Their  sweetness  couldst  not  hear. 

And  mournful  grew  my  lieart  for  thee, 

Thou  in  whose  woman's  mind, 
The  ray  that  brightens  earth  and  sea. 

The  light  of  song  was  shrined. 

*  Extrinsic  interest  has  lately  attached  to  the  fine  scenery 
of  Woodstock,  near  Kilkenny,  on  account  of  its  having  been 
the  last  residence  of  the  author  of  Psyche.  Her  grave  is  one 
of  many  in  the  church-yard  of  the  village.  The  river  runs 
smoothly  by.  The  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey  that  has  been 
partially  converted  into  a  church,  reverently  throw  their 
mantle  of  tender  shadow  over  it.— Tales  by  the  O'Hura  Fa- 
milij. 


HE 

Mournful  that  Ihou  wert  slumbering  low, 

With  a  dread  curtain  drawn 
Betweeii  thee  and  the  golden  glow 

Of  this  world's  vernal  dawn. 

Parted  from  all  the  song  and  bloom 
Thou  wouldst  have  loved  so  well. 

To  thee  the  sunshine  round  thy  tomb 
Was  but  a  broken  spell. 

The  bird,  the  insect  on  the  wing, 

In  tlieir  bright  reckless  play, 
Might  feel  the  flush  and  life  of  spring, — 

And  thou  wert  pass'd  away  ! 

But  then,  even  then,  a  nobler  thought 

O'er  my  vain  sadness  came; 
Th'  immortal  spirit  woke,  and  wrought 

Within  my  thrilling  frame. 

Surely  on  lovelier  things,  1  said. 
Thou  must  have  look'd  ere  now. 

Than  all  that  round  our  pathway  shed 
Odours  and  hues  below. 

The  shadows  of  the  tomb  are  here. 

Yet  beautiful  is  earth  ! 
What  seest  thou  then  where  no  dim  fear. 

No  haunting  dream,  hath  birth? 

Here  a  vain  love  to  passing  flowers 
Thou  gav'st — but  where  thou  art, 

The  sway  is  not  with  changeful  hours 
There  love  and  death  must  part. 

Thou  hast  left  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

A  voice  not  loud,  but  deep  ! 
Tlie  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among. 

How  often  didst  thou  weep  ! 

Where  couldst  thou  fi.v  on  mortal  ground 
Thy  tender  thoughts  and  high  ?— 

Now  peace  the  woman's  heart  hath  found. 
And  joy  the  poet's  eye. 

THE    mother's    love. 

There  is  none, 

In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 

Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 

A  mother's  heart. — It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 

To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn. 

Watching  his  growth.     Ay,  on  the  boy  he  looks, 

The  bright  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path. 

But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name  —  the  young 

And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  ere  long 

Shall  bear  his  troi)hies  well.    And  this  is  love! 

This  is  man's  love  !  —  What  marvel  ?  —  You  ne'er  made 

Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy. 

While  to  tlie  fulness  of  your  heart's  glad  heavings 

His  fair  cheek  rose  and  fell,  and  his  bright  hair 

Waved  softly  to  your  breath?  —  You  ne'er  kept  watch 

Beside  him  till  the  last  pale  star  had  set. 

And  morn,  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph  broke 

On  your  dim  weary  eye:  not  yours  the  face 

Which,  early  faded  through  fond  care  for  him. 

Hong  o'er  his  sleep,  and,  duly  as  heaven's  light 

Was  there  to  greet  his  wakening.     You  ne'er  smoothed 

His  couch,  ne'er  sung  him  to  his  rosy  rest. 

Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 

Had  learned  soft  utterance  ;  pressed  your  lips  to  his 

When  fever  parched  it;  hushed  his  wayward  cries. 

With  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love  ! 

No!  these  are  Woman's  tasks!  —  In  these  her  youth. 

And  bloom  of  cheifW,  and  buoyancy  of  iieart. 

Steal  from  her  all  unmarked! 

WOMAN    AND    FAME. 

Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame, — 

A  draught  that  mantles  high. 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality. 
Away!  to  me  —  a  woman  —  bring 
Sweet  waters  from  aff"ection's  spring. 

349 


HE 


HE 


Thou  hast  green  laurel-leaves  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath  — 
For  that  resplendent  gift  of  thine, 

Heroes  have  smiled  in  death. 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower. 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour. 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 

Can  bid  each  life-pulse  beat, 
As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown. 

Calling  the  brave  to  meet. 
But  mine,  let  mine  —  a  woman's  breast  — 
By  words  of  home-born  love  be  blessed. 

A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thy  eye. 
To  the  sick  heart  that  doth  but  lojig 

For  aid,  for  sympathy. 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on. 
For  tender  accents  that  are  gone. 

Fame,  Fame !  thou  canst  not  be  the  stay 

Unto  the  drooping  reed. 
The  cool  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  soul's  feverish  need  : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  flee  ?  — 
Not  unto  thee,  oh  I  not  to  thee! 


SONG. 

"  Oh,  cast  thou  not 
Affection  from  thee !  in  this  bitter  world 
Hold  to  thy  heart  that  only  treasure  fast. 
Watch  —  guard  it  —  suffer  not  a  breath  to  dim 
The  bright  gem's  purity  !" 

If  thou  hast  crush'd  a  flower. 

The  root  may  not  be  blichted  : 
If  thou  hast  quench'd  a  lamp. 

Once  more  it  may  be  lighted: 
But  on  thy  harp  or  on  thy  lute, 

The  string  which  thou  hast  broken 
Shall  never  in  sweet  sound  again 

Give  to  thy  touch  a  token  ! 

If  thou  hast  loosed  a  bird, 

Whose  voice  of  song  could  cheer  thee, 
Still,  still  he  may  bo  won 

From  the  skies  to  warble  near  thee 
But  if  upon  the  troubled  sea 

Thou  hast  thrown  a  gem  unheeded, 
Hope  not  that  wind  or  wave  shall  bring 

The  treasure  back  when  needed. 

If  thou  hast  bruised  a  vine. 

The  summer's  breath  is  healing. 
And  its  cluster  yet  may  glow 

Through  the  leaves  their  bloom  revealing; 
But  if  thou  hast  a  cup  o'erlhrown. 

With  a  bright  draught  fill'd  — oh  !  never 
Shall  earth  give  back  that  lavish'd  wealth. 

To  cool  thy  parch'd  lip's  fever! 

The  heart  is  like  that  cup. 

If  thou  waste  the  love  it  bore  thee. 
And  like  that  jewel  gone, 

Wliich  the  deep  will  not  restore  thee; 
And  like  that  string  of  harp  or  lute 

Whence  the  sweet  sound  is  scatter'd  ;  — 
—  Gently,  oh!  gently  touch  the  chords. 

So  soon  for  ever  shatter'd ! 


MAN    AND    ■WOMAN. 

** Women  act  their  parts 

When  they  do  make  their  onler'd  houses  know  them. 
Men  must  be  busy  out  of  dnors.  must  stir 
The  city;  yea,  make  the  great  wtirld  aware 
That  they  are  in  it ;  fur  the  mastery 
Of  which  they  race  and  wrestle." 

Knowles. 

Warrior!  whose  image  on  thy  tomb. 

With  shield  and  crested  head. 
Sleeps  proudly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  stain'd  window  shed; 


The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Have  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet  through  a  cloud  of  years  I  trace 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done. 

A  banner  from  its  flashing  spear 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  fight; 
A  war-cry  ringing  far  and  clear. 

And  strong  to  turn  the  flight; 
An  arm  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  haughty  heart  and  kingly  glance  — 

Chief!  were  not  these  things  thine  ? 

A  lofty  place  where  leaders  sate 

Around  the  council  board; 
In  festive  halls  a  chair  of  state. 

When  the  hlood-red  wine  w  as  pour'd  ; 
A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 

From  herald,  harp,  and  bard ; 
—  Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own, 

So  hadst  thou  thy  reward ! 

Woman  !  whose  sculptur'd  form  at  rest 

By  the  arm'd  knight  is  laid. 
With  meek  hanils  folded  o'er  thy  breast 

In  matron  robes  array'd; 
What  was  thy  tale  ?  —  Oh,  gentle  mate 

Of  him  the  bold  and  free, 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate. 

What  bard  hath  sung  of  tliee? 

He  woo'il  a  bright  and  burning  star; 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloom. 
The  straining  eye  that  follow'd  far 

His  oft-receding  plume; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  breeze; 
The  pang—  but  when  did  fame  take  heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these  ? 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours. 

Through  many  a  lonely  day 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broiiier'd  flowers. 

With  spirit  far  aw  ay  ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  liim 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains; 
Thy  watchings  till  the  torch  grew  dim,— 

These  fill  no  minstrel  strains. 

A  still  sad  life  was  thine  !  —  long  years. 

With  tasks  unguerdon'd  fraught. 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  tears, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought; 
Prayers  at  the  cross  in  fervour  pour'd, 

Alms  to  the  pilgrims  given  ; 
O  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord. 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  ! 


THE    SPELLS    OF    HOME. 

There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief, 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visit  when  most  brief. 

Bernard  Barton. 

V.y  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  glade, 
On  the  banks  of  moss  where  thy  childhood  play'd. 
By  the  household  tree  through  which  thine  eye 
First  look'd  in  love  to  the  summer  sky,       ^ 
By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 
Of  the  primrose  tufts  in  the  grass  beneath. 
Upon  thy  heart  there  is  laid  a  spell, 
Holy  and  precious  —  oh!  guard  it  well! 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream. 
Which  hath  luH'd  thee  into  many  a  dream. 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy  leaves 
To  the  wind  of  morn  at  thy  casement  eaves. 
By  the  bee's  deep  murmur  in  the  limes. 
By  the  music  of  the  Sabbath  chimes, 
By  eveiy  sound  of  thy  native  shade. 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made. 


HE 


HE 


By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth 

VVIien  twilight  call'd  unto  household  mirth, 

By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 

In  that  ring  of  happy  faces  told, 

By  the  (luiet  liour  when  liearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer  and  tlie  kind  "  Good-niglil  I 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  life  has  the  spell  been  thrown. 

And  bless  that  gift!  —  it  hath  gentle  might, 
A  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light. 
It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 
In  the  mountain  battles  of  his  land; 
It  hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas, 
To  die  on  the  hills  of  )iis  own  fresh  breeze 
And  back  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall 
It  hath  led  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Ves!  when  thy  heart,  in  its  pride,  would  stray 
From  the  pure  first  loves  of  its  youth  away  — 
When  the  sullying  breatli  of  the  world  would  come 
O'er  the  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood's  home - 
Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade. 
And  the  sound  by  the  rustling  ivy  made, 
Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  father's  door. 
And  :he  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more  ! 


■WOM.\N    ON    THE    FIELD    OF    BATTLE. 

Where  hath  not  woman  stood. 
Strong  in  affection's  might?  a  reed  upborne 
By  an  o'ermastering  current ! 

Gentle  and  lovely  form 

What  didst  thou  here, 
When  the  fierce  battle-storm 

Bore  down  the  spear  ? 

Banner  and  shiver'd  crest. 

Beside  thee  strown. 
Tell,  that  amidst  the  best. 

Thy  work  was  done ! 

Yet  strangely,  sadly  fair. 

O'er  the  wild  scene. 
Gleams,  through  its  golden  hair, 

That  brow  serene. 

Low  lies  the  stately  head, — 

Earth-bound  the  free; 
How  gave  those  haughty  dead 

A  place  to  thee  ? 

Slumberer!  thine  early  bier 
Friends  should  have  crown'd, 

Many  a  flower  and  tear 
Shedding  around. 

Soft  voices,  clear  and  young. 

Mingling  their  swell. 
Should  o'er  thy  dust  have  sung 

Earth's  last  farewell. 

Sisters,  above  the  grave 

Of  thy  repose. 
Should  have  bid  violets  wave 

With  the  white  rose. 

Now  must  the  trumpet's  note, 

Savage  and  shrill. 
For  requiem  o'er  thee  float. 

Thou  fair  and  still ! 

And  the  swift  charger  sweep 

In  full  career, 
Trampling  thy  place  of  sleep, — 

Wliy  camest  thou  here? 

Why?— ask  the  true  heart  why 

Woman  hath  been 
Ever,  where  brave  men  die. 

Unshrinking  seen  ? 

Unto  this  harvest  ground 

Proud  reapers  came, — 
Some,  for  that  stirring  sound, 

A  warrior's  name; 


Some,  for  the  stormy  play 

And  joy  of  strife; 
And  some,  to  fling  away 

A  weary  life;  — 

But  thou,  pale  sleeper,  thou, 

With  the  slight  frame. 
And  the  rich  locks,  whose  glow 

Death  cannot  tame; 

Only  one  thought,  one  power, 

Thee  could  have  led. 
So,  through  the  tempest's  hour. 

To  lift  thy  head  ! 

Only  the  true,  the  strong, 

The  love,  whose  trust 
Woman's  deep  soul  too  long 

Pours  on  the  dust! 

LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark. 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  e.xiles  moored  their  haik 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes. 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  : 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang. 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 

This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair. 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band; — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  hiL'h, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war?— 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 
The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found- 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 

SABBATH    SONNET. 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending 

Through  England's  primrose  meadow-paths  their  way 

Toward  spire  and  tower,  'midst  shadowy  elms  ascending. 

Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallowed  day  ! 

The  halls,  from  old  heroic  ages  grey. 

Pour  their  fair  children  forth  ;  and  hamlets  low. 

With  whose  thick  orchard-blooms  the  soft  winds  play, 

Send  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow. 

Like  a  free  vernal  stream.— I  may  not  tread 

With  thein  those  pathways,— to  the  fi'verish  bed 

Of  sickness  bound  ; — yet  oh,  my  God!   I  bless 

Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  filled 

My  chastened  heart,  and  all  its  thmbbings  stilled 

To  one  deep  cahn  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 

851 


HE 


HE 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  PSALMS. 


Nobly  thy  song,  O  minstrel!  rushed  to  meet 
Th'  Eternal  on  the  pathway  of  the  blast, 
With  darkness  round  him  as  a  mantle  cast, 

And  cherubim  to  waft  his  flying  seat. 

Amidst  the  hills  that  smoked  beneath  his  feet, 
With  trumpet  voice  thy  spirit  called  aloud. 

And  bade  the  trembling  rocks  his  name  repeat. 
And  the  bent  cedars,  and  the  bursting  cloud  ; 

But  far  more  gloriously  to  earth  made  known. 

By  that  high  strain,  than  by  the  thunder's  tone. 
Than  flashing  torrents,  or  the  ocean's  roll  ; 

Jehovah  spoke  through  the  inbreathing  fire. 

Nature's  vast  realms  forever  to  inspire. 
With  the  deep  worship  of  a  living  soul. 


HENRIETTA   OF   ENGLAND, 

Daughter  of  the  unfortunate  Charles  I.  of  Eng- 
land, and  grand-daughter  of  Henry  IV.  of  France, 
married,  in  1661,  Philip  of  France,  duke  of  Or- 
leans, and  brother  of  Louis  XIV. ;  but  this  mar- 
riage ■was  not  a  happy  one.  However,  she  was  a 
great  favourite  with  the  king,  who  often  joined  in 
the  brilliant  assembly  of  rank  and  genius  which 
she  collected  around  her.  She  also  had  much  in- 
fluence over  her  brother,  Charles  II.  of  England ; 
and  negotiated  an  important  treaty  with  England 
against  Holland,  which  the  most  skilful  diploma- 
tists had  long  solicited  in  vain. 

This  princess  died  at  St.  Cloud,  in  1670,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-six.  There  were  some  suspicions 
that  she  was  poisoned.  She  was  universally  re- 
gretted ;  her  sweetness  of  manners,  and  her  grace 
and  beauty,  rendering  her  a  great  favourite.  Bos- 
suet  pronounced  her  funeral  oration. 

HENDEL-SCHUTZ,    HENRIETTA. 

This  celebrated  woman,  in  whom  her  native 
country  recognises  one  of  its  first  tragic  actresses, 
and  her  age  the  greatest  pantomimic  artist,  was 
the  daughter  of  the  eminent  tragedian,  Schiiler. 
From  her  fourth  year,  she  received  instruction  in 
declamation  and  dancing.  In  the  latter  art  she 
was  so  accomplished,  even  when  a  child,  that  she 
was  engaged  for  the  ballet  of  the  Berlin  Royal 
Theatre,  of  which  her  father  was  a  member.  The 
celebrated  Engel,  at  that  time  director  of  the  Ber- 
lin Theatre,  seems  to  have  duly  appreciated  her 
rare  talents,  for  he  took  her  to  his  house,  and  in- 
structed her  in  history,  mythology,  versification 
in  languages,  and  declamation.  In  her  sixteenth 
year,  she  united  herself  to  the  excellent  tenor- 
singer,  Eunike  (in  Bei'lin),  and  both  were  engaged, 
first  at  the  Prince's  Theatre,  at  INIaintz,  then  at 
Bonn.  There  she  was  undoubtedly  prima  donna. 
In  the  year  1792,  they  were  invited  to  Amsterdam, 
where  the  new  German  theatre  opened  for  the 
first  time  (November  11th,  1793),  with  Kotzebue's 
drama,  "  The  Indians  in  England."  She  performed 
the  part  of  Gurli,  and  the  audience  was  enrap- 
tured.     The   French    Revolutionary   war,    which 

*This  and  the  preceding,  are  the  two  last  strains,  the 
dying  strains  of  this  sweet  poetess.  Truly  her  mind  seemed 
breathing  inspired  notes,  while  her  pure  spirit  was  stealing 
gently  away  to  join  the  angelic  choir  in  that  "  better  land," 
where  "sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter." 


seemed  to  threaten  Holland,  soon  put  an  end  to 
the  German  theatre.  Mrs.  Eunike,  therefore,  left 
Amsterdam,  and  went  to  Frankfurt  on  the  Maine, 
in  October,  1794.  There  her  talent  for  pantomime 
was  awakened  by  the  celebrated  painter,  Pfarr. 
He  showed  her,  among  others,  Rehberg's  plates  of 
the  attitudes  of  Lady  Hamilton ;  also  some  draw- 
ings of  AVilliam  Fischbein  (a  German),  in  Naples. 
After  these  models  she  studied  the  art  of  panto- 
mime ;  but  she  spent  twelve  years  in  practising, 
before  she  ventured  on  a  public  exhibition.  It  is 
generally  acknowledged,  that  the  Hendel-Schiitz 
has  much  enlarged  and  elevated  this  art;  her  pan- 
tomime representations  were  a  series  of  fine  atti- 
tudes, not  only  in  the  antique,  but  also  in  the 
modern  styles,  and  in  the  former  as  well  in  the 
Egyptian  and  Greek,  as  in  the  latter  in  the  Italian 
and  Germanic  characters.  They  were,  however, 
not  mere  imitations  of  statues  and  paintings ;  she 
endeavoured,  by  an  instructive  succession  of  inte- 
resting images  of  antique  and  modern  mythology 
and  history,  to  represent  to  the  eye  the  most  im- 
portant changes  of  antique  and  modern  plastic 
art;  so  that  a  critic  says,  "In  representing,  in  a 
chronological  order,  the  diff'erent  styles  of  plastic 
art,  the  principal  traits  of  the  history  of  art  pass 
in  moving  pictures  before  the  eye  of  the  spectator, 
which  are  as  instructive  to  the  mind  as  they  are 
pleasing  to  the  eye."  Besides,  she  possessed  the 
still  greater  gift  of  inventing  practical  poetical 
attitudes,  and  representing  them  in  a  suitable 
style,  so  that  the  German  artist  seems  vastly  to 
have  surpassed  her  English  predecessor  (Lady 
Hamilton).  In  the  mean  time,  she  and  her  hus- 
band accepted  an  invitation  to  go  to  Berlin,  where 
she  remained  for  ten  j-ears.  Here  she  separated 
herself  from  her  first  husband,  and  married  Dr. 
Mayer,  whom  she  accompanied  to  Stettin ;  this 
second  union  was  likewise  dissolved;  and  then 
(1806)  she  became  the  wife  of  Dr.  Hendel.  Seven 
months  after,  death  deprived  her  of  her  third  hus- 
band, who,  as  chief  physician  of  the  French  hos- 
pitals, died  a  victim  of  the  typhus  fever.  Circum- 
stances induced  her  to  appear  again  on  the  stage. 
In  October,  1807,  she  undertook  a  long  artistic 
journey ;  and  when  in  Halle,  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  son  of  the  celebrated  philologer, 
Schiitz ;  he  (the  son)  was  at  that  time  engaged  at 
the  University  of  Halle,  as  Professor  of  the  Fine 
Arts.  With  this  gentleman  she  entered  again  into 
the  bonds  of  matrimony,  when  Napoleon  arrested 
the  Universitj',  for  which  reason  Professor  Schiitz 
exchanged  the  academical  course  for  the  theatrical 
profession,  and  acquired,  both  in  tragedy  and 
comedy,  an  honourable  place  among  the  German 
dramatic  artists.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schiitz  did  not 
limit  themselves  to  the  principal  cities  of  Germany, 
but  visited  also  Russia,  Sweden,  and  Denmark, 
and  their  fame  spread  far  and  wide.  In  the  sum- 
mer of  1819,  they  went  to  Paris,  where  the  panto- 
mimic talent  of  Mrs.  S.  was  acknowledged  in  the 
most  select  circles  by  competent  judges.  They 
settled  afterwards  in  Halle,  where  Mr.  S.  was 
again  engaged  as  professor.  The  general  conclu- 
sion is,  that  Mrs.  Hendel-Schiitz,  as  a  pantomimic 
artist,  stands  unrivalled  in  Germany. 

352 


HE 


HE 


HERBERT,    MARY,    COUNTESS    OF 
PEMBROKE, 

Maehied  Henry,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  1576, 
and  lived  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  I. 
She  was  the  sister  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney ;  whose 
"Arcadia,"  from  being  dedicated  to  her,  was  al- 
ways called  by  the  author  himself,  "  The  Countess 
of  Pembroke's  Arcadia."  A  great  encourager  of 
letters,  and  a  careful  cultivator  of  them  herself, 
she  translated  a  tragedy  from  the  French,  called 
"  Annius,"  in  1595  ;  and  is  also  supposed  to  have 
made  an  exact  translation  of  the  Psalms  of  David 
into  English  metre  ;  and  also  wrote  "  A  Pastoral 
Dialogue  in  Praise  of  Astraea."  She  died  at 
her  house  in  Aldersgate-Street,  London,  Septem- 
ber 25th,  1601.  Osborn,  in  his  memoirs  of  the 
reign  of  king  James,  says,  "She  was  that  sister 
of  Sir  Philip  Sydney  to  whom  he  addressed  his 
Arcadia,"  and  of  whom  he  had  no  other  advan- 
tage than  what  he  received  from  the  partial  bene- 
volence of  fortune  in  making  him  a  man,  (which 
yet  she  did,  in  some  judgments,  recompense  in 
beauty,)  her  pen  being  nothing  short  of  his.  But, 
lest  I  should  seem  to  trespass  upon  truth,  I  shall 
leave  the  world  her  epitaph,  in  which  the  author 
doth  manifest  himself  a  poet  in  all  things  but  un  ■ 
truth : 

"  Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse; 
Sydney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother, 
i'eath!  ere  thou  hast  killed  another. 
Fair,  and  good,  and  wise,  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee." 

These  lines  were  written  by  Ben  Jonson. 

HERITIER,  MARIE  JEANNE  L',  DE 
VILLANDON, 
Was  bom  at  Paris  in  1664,  daughter  of  Nicho- 
las I'Heritier,  a  French  poet,  from  whom  she  in- 
herited a  talent  for  poetry.  She  was  also  esteemed 
for  the  sweetness  of  her  manners,  and  the  dignity 
of  her  sentiments.  The  academy  of  the  "  Jeux 
Floraux"  received  her  as  a  member  in  1696,  and 
that  of  the  Ricovrati  in  Padua  in  1697.  She  wrote 
a  translation  in  verse  of  sixteen  of  Ovid's  Epistles ; 
an  English  tale,  called  "  La  Tour  Tenebreuse ;" 
"Les  Caprices  de  Destin;"  another  novel;  and  a 
novel  in  verse,  called  "  L'Avare  Puni ;"  with  a  few 
other  poems.  She  lived  a  single  life,  and  died  at 
Paris  in  1734,  aged  seventy.  We  give  one  speci- 
men of  her  style. 

KONDEAU. 

A  nne  Jeune  Demoiselle. 

C'est  grand  hazard,  si  Ton  voit  deux  esprits 
Avoir  chez  eux  memes  desirs  nourris. 
Vous  n'airaez  rien  qu'amour  et  badinage; 
Mais  moy  qui  hais  leur  importun  bagage, 
Mon  cabinet  me  tient  lieu  dc  r6duits.* 

La  du  savoir  j'examine  le  prix, 
Et  puis  m'occupe  a  frivoles  6crits  ; 
Car  si  par  fois  je  fais  passable  ouvrage, 
C'est  grand  hazard. 

*  Boudoir. 


Aussi  mon  cceur  de  renom  n'est  6pris, 
Et  d'ApoUon  je  n'ai  I'art  entrepris 
Que  pour  baiinir  I'oisivet^  peu  sage  : 
Quand  trop  on  est  de  loisir  au  bel  age. 
Sans  coqueter  avec  maints  favoris, 
C'est  grand  hazard. 

HERON,    CECILIA, 

The  third  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  was 
born  in  1510,  and,  with  her  sisters,  received  a 
learned  education.  She  possessed  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  Latin,  and  corresponded  with  Era.s- 
mus  in  that  language.  She  was  married  very 
early  in  life  to  Giles  Heron,  Esq.  Nothing  of  her 
private  history  is  recorded. 


HERSCHEL,  CAROLINE  LUCRETIA, 

Sister,  and,  for  a  long  time  assistant,  of  the 
celebrated  astronomer,  was  born  at  Hanover  on 
the  16th  of  March,  1750.  She  is  herself  distin- 
guished for  her  astronomical  researches,  and  par- 
ticularly for  the  construction  of  a  selenographical 
globe,  in  relief,  of  the  surface  of  the  moon.  But 
it  was  for  her  brother.  Sir  William  Herschel,  that 
the  activity  of  her  mind  was  awakened.  From 
the  first  commencement  of  his  astronomical  pui'- 
suits,  her  attendance  on  both  his  daily  labours  and 
nightly  watches  was  put  in  requisition ;  and  was 
found  so  useful,  that  on  his  removal  to  Datchet, 
and  subsequently  to  Slough  —  he  being  then  occu- 
pied with  his  reviews  of  the  heavens  and  other 
researches  —  she  performed  the  whole  of  the  ar- 
duous and  important  duties  of  his  astronomical 
assistant,  not  only  reading  the  clocks  and  noting 
down  all  the  observations  from  dictation  as  an 
amanuensis,  but  subsequently  executing  the  whole 
of  the  extensive  and  laborious  numerical  calcula- 
tions necessary  to  render  them  available  to  science, 
as  well  as  a  multitude  of  others  relative  to  the 
various  objects  of  theoretical  and  experimental 
inquiry,  in  which,  during  his  long  and  active 
career,  he  at  any  time  engaged.  For  the  perform- 
ance of  these  duties,  his  majesty  king  George  III. 
was  pleased  to  place  her  in  the  receipt  of  a  salary 
sufficient  for  her  singularly  moderate  wants  and 
retired  habits. 

353 


HE 


HE 


Arduous,  however,  as  these  occupations  must 
appear,  especially  when  it  is  considered  that  her 
brother's  observations  were  always  carried  on  (cir- 
cumstances permitting)  till  daybreak,  without  re- 
gard to  season,  and  indeed  chiefly  in  the  winter, 
they  proved  insufficient  to  exhaust  her  activity. 
In  their  intervals  she  found  time  both  for  actual 
astronomical  observations  of  her  own  and  for  the 
execution  of  more  than  one  work  of  great  extent 
and  utility. 

The  observations  here  alluded  to  were  made 
with  a  small  Newtonian  sweeper  constructed  for 
her  by  her  brother ;  with  which,  whenever  his  oc- 
casional absences  or  any  interruption  to  the  regular 
course  of  his  observations  permitted,  she  searched 
the  heavens  for  comets,  and  that  so  effectively  as 
on  no  less  than  eight  several  occasions  to  be  re- 
warded by  their  discovery,  viz.  on  August  1,  1786  ; 
December  21,  1788;  January  9,  1790;  April  17, 
1790;  December  15,  1791;  October  7,  1793;  No- 
vember 7,  1795;  and  August  6,  1797.  On  five  of 
these  occasions  (recorded  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Phi- 
losophical Transactions"  of  London)  her  claim  to 
the  first  discovery  is  admitted.  These  sweeps, 
moreover,  proved  productive  of  the  detection  of 
several  remarkable  nebulae  and  clusters  of  stars 
previously  unobserved,  among  which  may  be  spe- 
cially mentioned  the  superb  Nebula,  No.  1,  Class 
v.,  of  Sir  William  Herschel's  catalogues  —  an  ob- 
ject bearing  much  resemblance  to  the  celebrated 
nebula  in  Andromeda,  discovered  by  Simon  Ina- 
i-ius — as  also  the  Nebula  V.,  No.  18;  the  12th  and 
27th  clusters  of  Class  VII. ;  and  the  45th,  65th, 
72d,  77th,  and  78th,  of  Class  VIII.  of  those  cata- 
logues. 

The  astronomical  woi-ks  which  she  found  leisure 
to  complete  were — 1st.  "  A  Catalogue  of  561  Stars 
observed  by  Flamsteed,"  but  which,  having  escaped 
the  notice  of  those  who  framed  the  "  British  Cata- 
logue" from  that  astronomer's  observations,  are 
not  therein  inserted.  2.  "  A  General  Index  of 
Reference  to  every  Observation  of  every  Star  in- 
serted in  the  British  Catalogue."  These  works 
were  published  together  in  one  volume  by  the 
Royal  Society  ;  and  to  their  utility  in  subsequent 
researches  Mr.  Baily,  in  his  "  Life  of  Flamsteed," 
pp.  388,  390,  bears  ample  testimony.  She  further 
completed  the  reduction  and  arrangement  as  a 
"  Zone  Catalogue"  of  all  the  nebulte  and  clusters 
of  stars  observed  by  her  brother  in  his  sweeps ;  a 
work  for  which  she  was  honoured  with  the  Gold 
Medal  of  the  Astronomical  Society  of  London,  in 
1828 ;  which  Society  also  conferred  on  her  the 
unusual  distinction  of  electing  her  an  honorary 
member. 

On  her  brother's  death,  in  1822,  .she  returned  to 
Hanover,  which  she  never  again  quitted,  passing 
the  last  twenty-six  years  of  her  life  in  repose  — 
enjoying  the  society  and  cherished  by  the  regard 
of  her  remaining  relatives  and  friends  —  gratified 
by  the  occasional  visits  of  eminent  astronomers — 
and  honoured  with  many  marks  of  favour  and 
distinction  on  the  part  of  the  king  of  Hanover, 
the  crown  prince,  and  his  amiable  and  illustrious 
consort. 


To  within  a  very  short  period  of  her  death  her 
health  continued  uninterrupted,  her  faculties  per- 
fect, and  her  memory  (especially  of  the  scenes 
and  circumstances  of  former  days)  remarkably 
clear  and  distinct.  Her  end  was  tranquil  and  free 
from  suifering  —  a  simple  cessation  of  life. 

The  writer  of  this  very  interesting  memoir  has, 
however,  omitted  to  stats,  that  besides  being  an 
Honorary  Member  of  the  Royal  Astronomical  So- 
ciety, Miss  Herschel  was  also  similarly  honoured 
by  the  Royal  Irish  Academy. 

The  accompanying  portrait  is  copied,  by  per- 
mission, from  a  picture  in  the  possession  of  Sir 
John  Herschel,  believed  to  be  the  only  portrait  of 
any  authenticity.  It  very  strongly  recalls  Miss 
Herschel's  air  and  appearance  in  1829,  when  the 
picture  was  painted ;  i.  e. ,  when  the  lady  was  in 
her  80th  year. 

We  add  the  following  just  and  eloquent  tribute 
to  the  merits  of  Miss  Herschel,  from  Dr.  Nichol's 
"  Views  of  the  Architecture  of  the  Heavens :"  — 

"The  astronomer,  (Sir  William  Herschel,)  dur- 
ing these  engrossing  nights,  was  constantly  assisted 
in  his  labours  by  a  devoted  maiden  sister,  who 
braved  with  him  the  inclemency  of  the  weather — 
who  heroically  shared  his  privations  that  she  might 
participate  in  his  delights  —  whose  pen,  we  are 
told,  committed  to  paper  his  notes  of  observations 
as  they  issued  from  his  lips.  '  She  it  was,'  says 
the  best  of  authorities,  '  who,  having  passed  the 
nights  near  the  telescope,  took  the  rough  manu- 
scripts to  her  cottage  at  the  dawn  of  day,  and 
produced  a  fair  copy  of  the  night's  work  on  the 
ensuing  morning ;  she  it  was  who  planned  the 
labour  of  each  succeeding  night,  who  reduced 
every  observation,  made  every  calculation,  and 
kept  everything  in  systematic  order  ;'  she  it  was — 
Miss  Caroline  Herschel — who  helped  our  astrono- 
mer to  gather  an  imperishable  name.  This  vene- 
rable lady  has  in  one  respect  been  more  fortunate 
than  her  brother ;  she  has  lived  to  reap  the  full 
harvest  of  their  joint  glory.  Some  years  ago,  the 
gold  medal  of  our  Astronomical  Society  was  trans- 
mitted to  her  to  her  native  Hanover,  whither  she 
removed  after  Sir  William's  death ;  and  the  same 
learned  Society,'  has  recently  inscribed  her  name 
upon  its  roll :  but  she  has  been  rewai-ded  by  yet 
more,  by  what  she  will  value  beyond  all  earthly 
pleasures ;  she  has  lived  to  see  her  favourite  ne- 
phew, him  who  grew  up  under  her  eye  unto  an 
astronomer,  gather  around  him  the  highest  hopes 
of  scientific  Europe,  and  prove  himself  fully  equal 
to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father." 

In  1847,  she  celebi'ated  the  ninety-seventh  an- 
niversary of  her  birth,  when  the  king  of  Hanover 
sent  to  compliment  her ;  the  Prince  and  Princess 
Royal  visited  her;  and  the  latter  presented  her 
with  a  magnificent  arm-chair  embroidered  by  her- 
self; and  the  king  of  Prussia  sent  her  the  gold 
medal  awarded  for  the  Extension  of  the  Sciences. 

Miss  Herschel  died  at  the  opening  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  January  9th,  1848,  crowned  with  the 
glory  which  woman's  genius  may  gain,  working  in 
the  way  Divine  Providence  appointed  her,  — as  the 
helper  of  man. 

354 


HE 


HO 


HEYWOOD,    ELIZA, 

A  MOST  voluminous  female  writer,  was  the 
daughter  of  a  tradesman  in  London,  in  1693. 
Nothing  is  known  of  her  early  education,  but  only 
of  her  works.  She  wrote  "  The  Court  of  Arme- 
nia," "  The  New  Utopia,"  and  other  similar  ro- 
mances. The  looseness  of  these  works  was  the 
ostensible  reason  of  Pope  for  putting  her  into  his 
Dunciad ;  but  it  is  more  probable  that  some  pri- 
vate provocation  was  the  real  motive.  She  seemed 
to  perceive  her  error ;  and,  in  the  numerous  vo- 
lumes she  published  afterwards,  she  preserved 
more  purity  and  delicacy  of  sentiment.  Her  later 
writings  are,  "  The  Female  Spectator,"  in  four 
volumes,  "Epistles  for  the  Ladies,"  "Fortunate 
Foundling,"  "  Adventures  of  Nature,"  "  History 
of  Betsey  Thoughtless,"  "Jenny  and  Jemmy  Jes- 
samy,"  "Invisible  Spy,"  "Husband  and  AVife," 
and  a  pamphlet,  entitled,  "A  Present  for  a  Ser- 
vant Maid."  She  also  wrote  dramatic  pieces,  but 
none  that  succeeded.  She  died  in  1750,  aged 
sixty-three. 

HOFLAND,  BARBARA, 
Was  born  at  Sheffield,  in  1770.  Her  father, 
Mr.  Robert  AVreaks,  was  an  extensive  manufac- 
turer, in  Sheffield.  In  1796,  Miss  AVreaks  mar- 
ried Mr.  T.  Bradshaw  Iloole,  a  young  man  con- 
nected with  a  large  mercantile  house  in  Sheffield ; 
but  he  died  in  two  years  after  their  marriage, 
leaving  her  with  an  infant  son  only  four  months 
old ;  and  soon  after,  she  lost  the  greater  part  of 
her  property.  Mrs.  Hoole,  in  1805,  published  a 
volume  of  poems,  with  the  proceeds  of  which  she 
established  herself  in  a  small  school,  at  Harrogate, 
where  she  continued  to  write,  but  principally  in 
prose.  In  1808,  Mrs.  Hoole  married  Mr.  Thomas 
C.  Hofland,  a  landscape-painter,  and  went  with 
him  to  London.  She  still  pursued  her  writing 
with  great  zeal,  and  in  1812  published  five  works. 
In  1833  she  lost  her  son  by  Mr.  Hoole;  and  her 
husband  died  in  1843.  She  had  continued  to  write 
till  this  time,  but  her  health  now  failed,  and  she 
expired  the  following  year,  1844,  aged  seventy- 
four.  Her  principal  works  are,  "  The  Clei-gy- 
man's  Widow,"  "The  Daughter-in-Law,"  "Emi- 
ly," "  The  Son  of  a  Genius,"  "  Beatrice,"  "  Says 
she  to  her  Neighbour,  What?"  "Captives  in  In- 
dia," "  The  Unloved  One,"  "  Daniel  Dennison," 
&c.  &c.  All  her  productions  are  moral  and  in- 
structive ;  she  was  earnest  in  her  purpose  of  doing 
good.  And  she  has  done  much  service  to  the  cause 
of  improvement,  though  her  works  are  not  of  that 
high  order  of  genius  which  keeps  its  place  in  the 
heart  of  humanity,  because  its  productions  mirror 
life  and  not  manners. 

HOHENHAUSER,    PHILIPPINE 
AMALIE   ELISE   VON, 

BoBN  1790,  daughter  of  the  Westphalian  Gene- 
ral von  Ochs,  was  married,  in  1810,  to  Leopold, 
Baron  von  Hohenhauser.  In  1816,  slie  wrote  her 
first  work,  "Spring  Flowers;"  in  1819,  she  pub- 
lished "  Minden  and  its  Vicinity  ;"  in  1820,  "  Na- 
ture, Art,  and  Life,"  and  "  Recollections  of  Tra- 


vels ;"  and  afterwards  several  other  novels  and 
tales,  and  a  translation  of  Byron's  Corsair.  In 
1833,  she  lost  a  promising  son,  who  was  then  a 
student  at  the  university  of  Bonn.  A  peculiar 
monomania  induced  him  to  commit  suicide.  This 
unhappy  event  caused  his  parents  to  write  a  work 

entitled    "  Charles  von  H ,"   in  which  much 

wise  counsel  is  given  to  parents,  guardians,  and 
instructors. 

HOHENHEIM,  FRANCISCA,  COUNTESS  VON, 
Born  in  1748,  at  Adelmansfelden,  daughter  of 
the  lord  of  Bernardin.  She  married,  when  quite 
a  child,  the  old  and  disagreeable  lord  of  Laubrum. 
She  became  afterwards  acquainted  with  Charles 
Eugene,  duke  of  Wurtemberg,  who  fell  violently  in 
love  with  her,  and  persuaded  her  to  elope  with 
him.  She  was  afterwards  divorced  from  her  first 
husband,  and  married  to  the  duke  in  Morganatic 
mai'riage.  She  became  a  blessing  to  the  duchy 
of  Wurtemberg,  by  the  happy  influence  she  exer- 
cised over  her  otherwise  harsh  and  cruel  husband. 
She  was  the  foundress  of  numerous  charitable  in- 
stitutions. When  her  husband  died,  she  withdrew 
to  Kirchheim,  where  she  died,  in  1811. 


HOOPER,    LUCY, 

Was  born  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  in 
1816.  When  she  was  about  fifteen,  the  death  of 
her  father  caused  the  removal  of  the  family  to 
Brooklyn,  Long  Island.  Soon  after  her  an-ival  in 
that  city  she  began  to  write  and  publish  poems, 
under  the  initials  of  L.  H.  In  1840,  she  published 
an  "  Essay  on  Domestic  Happiness,"  and  a  work 
entitled  "Scenes  from  Real  Life."  She  was  en- 
gaged in  preparing  a  work  entitled  "  The  Poetry 
of  Flowers,"  during  the  time  of  her  last  sickness  : 
the  book  was  published  after  her  decease,  which 
occurred  in  August,  1841.  The  following  year 
one  of  her  friends  collected  and  ai-ranged  the 
"  Literary  Remains  of  Miss  Hooper,"  which  were 
published,  with  an  affectionate  tribute  to  her  ge- 
nius and  the  excellence  of  her  private  life.  An- 
other biographer  remarks:  "There  have  been 
in  our  literary  history  few  more  interesting  cha- 
racters than  Lucy  Hooper.  She  died  at  an  early 
age,  but  not  until  her  acquaintances  had  seen  de- 
veloped in  her  a  nature  that  was  all  truth  and 
gentleness,  nor  until  the  world  had  recognised  in 
her  writings  the  signs  of  a  rare  and  delicate  ge- 
nius, that  wrought  in  modesty,  but  in  repose,  in 
the  garden  of  the  affections  and  in  the  light  of 
religion." 

The  following  will  serve  as  specimens  of  her 
style  of  thought  and  poesy : 


THE    OLD    DAYS    WE    REMEMBER. 

The  old  days  vvc  romeiiiber, 
How  softly  did  they  glide, 
While  all  imtouclied  by  worldly  care 
We  wandered  side  by  side  ! 
In  those  pleasant  days,  when  the  suns  last  rays 

Just  lingered  on  the  hill, 
Or  the  moon's  pale  light  with  the  coming  night 
Shone  o'er  our  pathway  still. 

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The  old  days  we  remember — 

Oh!  there's  nothing  like  them  now, 
The  glow  lias  faded  from  our  hearts, 
The  blossom  from  the  bough ; 
In  the  chill  of  care,  'midst  worldly  air, 

Perchance  we  are  colder  grown. 
For  stormy  weather,  since  we  roamed  together. 
The  hearts  of  both  have  known. 

The  old  days  we  remember — 
Oh!  clearer  shone  the  sun. 
And  every  star  looked  brighter  far 
Than  they  ever  since  have  done  ! 
On  the  very  streams  there  lingered  gleams 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before. 
And  the  running  brook  a  music  took 
Our  souls  can  hear  no  more. 

The  old  days  we  remember — 
Oh!  could  we  but  go  back 
To  their  quiet  hours,  and  tread  once  more 
Their  bright,  familiar  track — 
Could  we  picture  again  what  we  pictured  then 

Of  the  sunny  world  that  lay 
From  the  green  hillside,  and  the  waters  wide, 
And  our  glad  hearts  far  away  ! 

The  old  days  we  remember, 

When  we  never  dreamed  of  guile. 
Nor  knew  that  the  heart  could  be  cold  below. 
While  the  lip  still  wore  its  smile  ! 
Oh,  we  may  not  forget,  for  those  hours  come  yet ; 

They  visit  us  in  sleep. 
While  far  and  wide,  o'er  life's  changing  tide, 
Our  barks  asunder  keep. 

Still,  still  we  must  remember 

Life's  first  and  brightest  days, 
And  a  passing  tribute  render 
As  we  tread  the  busy  maze; 
A  bitter  sigh  for  the  hours  gone  by. 

The  dreams  that  might  not  last. 
The  friends  deemed  true  when  our  hopes  were  new. 
And  the  glorious  visions  past ! 

"TIME,    FAITH,    ENERGY."* 

High  words  and  hopeful ! — fold  them  to  thy  heart. 
Time,  Faith,  and  Energy,  are  gifts  sublime  ; 
If  thy  lone  bark  the  threatening  waves  surround. 
Make  them  of  all  thy  silent  thoughts  a  part. 
When  thou  wouldst  cast  thy  pilgrim  stalT  away. 
Breathe  to  thy  soul  their  high,  mysterious  sound, 
And  faint  not  in  the  noontide  of  thy  day: 
Wait  thou  for  Time  ! 

Wait  thou  for  Time:  the  slow-unfolding  flower 
Chides  man's  impatient  haste  with  long  delay  : 
The  harvest  ripening  in  the  autumnal  sun  ; 
The  golden  fruit  of  Suffering's  weighty  power 
Within  the  soul — like  soft  bells'  silvery  chime 
Repeat  the  tones,  if  fame  may  not  be  won, 
Or  if  the  heart  where  thou  shouldst  find  a  shrine. 
Breathe  forth  no  blessing  on  thy  lonely  way  — 

Wait  thou  for  Time  :  it  hath  a  sorcerer's  power 
To  dim  life's  mockeries  that  gayly  shine. 
To  lift  the  veil  of  seeming  from  the  real. 
Bring  to  thy  soul  a  rich  or  fearful  dower. 
Write  golden  tracery  on  the  sands  of  life. 
And  raise  the  drooping  heart  from  scenes  ideal 
To  a  high  purpose  in  the  world  of  strife  : 
Wait  thou  for  Time ! 

Yea,  wait  for  Time,  but  to  thy  heart  take  Faith, 
Soft  beacon-light  upon  a  stormy  sea  ; 
A  mantle  for  the  pure  in  heart,  to  pass 
Through  a  dim  world,  untouched  by  living  death, 
A  cheerful  watcher  through  the  spirit's  night. 
Soothing  the  grief  from  which  she  may  not  flee — 
A  herald  of  glad  news— a  seraph  bright. 

Pointing  to  sheltering  heavens  yet  to  be. 


*  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  Bulwer's  Night  and  Morning 


Yea,  Faith  and  Time— and  thou  that  through  the  hour 
Of  the  lone  night  hast  nerved  the  feeble  iiand, 
Kindled  the  weary  heart  with  sudden  fire. 
Gifted  the  drooping  soul  with  living  power. 
Immortal  Energy  I  shalt  thou  not  be 
While  the  old  tales  our  wayward  thoughts  inspire, 
Linked  with  each  vision  of  high  destiny, 
Till  on  the  fadeless  borders  of  that  land 

Where  all  is  known  we  find  our  certain  way, 
And  lose  ye,  'mid  its  pure,  effulgent  light? 
Kind  ministers,  who  cheered  us  in  our  gloom. 
Seraphs  who  lightened  griefs  with  guiding  ray. 
Whispering  through  tears  of  cloudless  glory  dawning — 
Say,  in  the  gardens  of  eternal  bloom 
Will  not  our  hearts,  when  breaks  the  cloudless  morning, 
Joy  that  ye  led  us  through  the  drooping  night? 

HOPTON,  SUSANNA, 
A  LADY  of  St.aflFordshire,  England,  who  became 
a  Roman  Catholic,  but  afterwards  returned  to 
the  Protestant  faith,  and  died  at  Hereford,  in 
1709,  aged  eighty-two.  She  married  Richard 
Hopton,  one  of  the  Welsh  judges.  She  wrote 
"Daily  Devotions,"  "  Hexameron,  or  Meditations 
on  the  Six  Days  of  the  Creation,"  and  also  cor- 
rected the  devotions  in  the  ancient  way  of  offices, 
published  by  her  friend  Dr.  Hickes.  She  was  a 
very  charitable  woman,  and  was  noted  for  her  ex- 
cessive severity  in  performing  her  religious  duties. 

HORTENSE  DE  BEAUHARNOIS  BONAPARTE, 
EX-QUEEN  OF  HOLLAND, 

Was  born  in  1783,  daughter  of  the  vicomte 
Alexandre  de  Beauharnois  and  Josephine,  subse- 
quently empress  of  France.  The  vicomte  married 
at  an  early  age ;  his  dissipated  habits  and  unjusti- 
fiable conduct  obliged  his  wife  to  separate  herself 
from  him  for  a  time ;  during  this  period,  the  edu- 
cation and  charge  of  her  children  devolved  solely 
upon  her.  A  reconciliation  took  place,  and  the 
married  pair  seem  to  have  afterwards  lived  in  the 
utmost  domestic  peace  and  happiness. 

Upon  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution,  the 
vicomte  rendered  himself  obnoxious  to  the  existing 
powers,  and  after  undergoing  a  sad  imprisonment, 
was  executed  by  the  guillotine,  July  24th,  1794. 
The  childish  days  of  Horteuse  were  thus  clouded 
by  severe  afflictions.  It  would  be  superfluous  to 
detail  the  well-known  circumstances  of  Josephine's 
marriage  with  General  Bonaparte,  who,  in  his 
rapid  elevation  to  the  imperial  throne,  bore  with 
him  to  the  highest  worldly  splendours  the  family 
de  Beauharnois.  Hortense  received  a  brilliant 
education ;  and,  both  from  her  charms  and  posi- 
tion in  life,  was  one  of  the  most  admired  women 
in  Paris.  Her  marriage  was  not  one  of  her  choice ; 
Napoleon  obliged  her  to  give  her  hand  to  his  bro- 
ther Louis.  This  match  took  place  on  the  4th  of 
January,  1802;  and  never  was  a  wedding  more 
gloomy !  Louis  was  an  honourable,  an  amiable, 
a  cultivated  man ;  Hortense,  one  of  the  most  fas- 
cinating women ;  yet  both  were  averse  to  the 
union.  Neither  could  estimate  the  merits  of  the 
other. 

In  1806,  Louis  Bonaparte  was  made  king  of 
Holland  by  Napoleon ;  but  Louis  cared  little  for 
the  show  and  state  of  royalty,  and  after  a  few 
years  of  discontent,  having  abdicated  his  nominal 

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sovereignty  in  favour  of  his  son,  he  appointed  his 
wife  Hortense  regent.  She  had  left  him,  and  gone 
to  Paris  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  court  circle. 
Their  son,  Napoleon  Charles,  was  particularly 
loved  by  Napoleon,  who  created  him  grand-duke 
of  Berg,  and  had  even  spoken  of  adopting  him  as 
heir  of  the  empire.  The  death  of  this  promising 
boy,  was  a  great  blow  to  Hortense.  After  Holland 
was  incorporated  with  France,  Hortense  was  ob- 
liged to  relinquish  the  title  of  queen,  and  was 
usually  styled  countess  of  St.  Leu ;  yet  she  was 
recognised  as  the  ex-queen  of  Holland  by  many 
of  the  French  writers  of  that  time.  Hortense  bore 
her  reverses  better  than  her  exaltation ;  she  was 
an  affectionate  mother,  and  a  devoted  daughter; 
for  many  of  the  errors  she  committed,  her  position, 
and  the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
placed,  are  a  palliation,  if  not  an  excuse. 

Without  poetic  genius  to  rank  among  authors, 
Hortense  had  a  very  pretty  talent  for  making  oc- 
casional poems  for  society.  Her  romances,  for 
which  she  also  composed  the  music,  have  been 
published  in  a  collected  form;  some  of  these  ob- 
tained great  popularity.     She  died  in  1847. 

HOUDETOT,  SOPHIE  DE  LA  BRICHE, 

COUNTESS  D', 

Was  born  at  Paris,  in  1730.  Her  father  was 
an  oiScer  of  the  government;  and  she  married  the 
count  d'Houdetot  in  1748.  This  lady  was  the 
friend  of  St.  Lambert,  and  was  highly  esteemed 
by  Rousseau  and  Marmontel. 

The  power  by  which  Madame  d'Houdetot  capti- 
vated the  gay,  handsome,  dissipated  St.  Lambert, 
or  kindled  the  imagination  of  Rousseau,  was  not 
that  of  beauty.  Her  face  was  plain,  and  slightly 
marked  with  the  small-pox ;  her  eyes  were  not 
good ;  she  was  extremely  short-sighted,  which 
made  her  often  appear  ungraceful ;  she  was  small 
in  person,  and,  but  for  her  warm  kindness  of 
heart  and  cheerful  svmshine  of  spirit,  would  have 
been  quite  overlooked  in  the  world.  To  her  sin- 
gular power  of  charming,  Madame  d'Houdetot 
added  talents  of  no  common  order,  though  never 
much  cultivated.  She  was  a  musician,  a  poet,  a 
wit;  but  every  thing  "par  la  grhce  de  Dieii." 
However,  all  these  gifts,  and  her  benevolence  of 
her  natm-e,  will  not  make  amends  for  her  bad 
morals.  Like  Dr.  Donne's  servant,  who  was  per- 
fect, except  for  one  thing  —  he  was  a  thief.  She 
died  in  1813,  aged  eighty-three.  Her  poems  were 
only  published  as  fugitive  pieces ;  the  following  is 
characteristic  of  her  mode  of  writing : — 

IMITATION    DE    MAROT. 

Jeune,  j'nimai ;  ce  temps  lie  mon  bel  age, 
Ce  temps  si  court,  I'amour  seul  le  remplit. 
Q.uand  j'atteignis  la  saison  d'etre  sage, 
Encor  j'aimai,  la  raison  me  le  dit. 
Me  voici  vieille,  et  le  plaisir  s'envole; 
Mais  le  bonheur  ne  me  quitte  aujoiird'hui. 
Car  j'ainie  encore,  et  I'amour  me  console  : 
Rien  n'auroit  pu  me  consoler  de  lui. 

HOWARD,  ANNE,  VISCOUNTESS  IRWIN, 
Was  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Carlisle,  and  mar- 
ried first  the  viscount  Irwin,  and  afterwards  Colo- 
nel Douglas.     She  was  a  poetess,  and  wrote  in  a 


very  spirited  style.  She  died  in  1760.  The  best 
known  of  her  poems  is  the  one  in  reply  to  Pope's 
sarcastic  reflections  on  the  sex,  in  his  "  Charac- 
ters of  Women."  Duncomb,  in  his  "  Feminead," 
praises  this  poem.  We  will  give  an  extract  from 
her  witty  "  Reply,"  &c. : 

— View  a  fair  nymph,  blessed  with  superior  charms, 

Whose  tempting  form  the  coldest  bosom  warms; 

No  eastern  monarch  more  despotic  reigns 

Than  this  fair  tyrant  of  the  Cyprian  plains. 

Whether  a  crown  or  bauble  we  desire, 

Whether  to  learning  or  to  dress  aspire, 

Whether  we  wait  with  joy  the  trumpet's  call. 

Or  wish  to  shine  the  fairest  at  a  ball ; 

In  either  se.Y  the  appetite  's  the  same. 

For  love  of  power  is  still  the  love  of  fame. 

— Women  must  in  a  narrow  orbit  move, 

But  power  alike  both  males  and  females  love. 

What  makes  the  difference  then,  you  may  inquire. 

Between  the  hero  and  the  rural  squire? 

Between  the  maid  bred  up  with  courtly  care. 

Or  she  who  earns  by  toil  her  daily  fare  ? 

Their  power  is  stinted,  but  not  so  their  will, 

Ambitious  thoughts  the  humblest  cottage  fill ; 

Far  as  they  can  they  push  their  little  fame, 

And  try  to  leave  behind  a  deathless  name. 

In  education  all  the  difference  lies: 

Woman,  if  taught,  would  be  as  learned  and  wise 

As  haughty  man,  inspired  by  arts  and  rules ; 

Where  God  makes  one,  nature  makes  many  fools; 

And  though  nugatixes  are  daily  found, 

Flattering  nugators  equally  abound. 

Such  heads  are  toyshops  filled  with  trifling  ware, 

And  can  each  folly  with  each  female  share. 

A  female  mind  like  a  rude  fallow  lies. 

No  seeds  are  sown,  but  weeds  spontaneous  rise. 

As  well  might  we  expect  in  winter  spring. 

As  land  unfilled  a  fruitful  crop  should  bring. 

As  well  we  might  expect  Peruvian  ore 

We  should  possess,  yet  dig  not  for  the  store. 

Culture  improves  all  fruits,  all  sorts  we  find, 

Wit,  judgment,  sense,  fruits  of  the  human  mind. 

HOWARD,  CATHARINE, 
Fifth  wife  of  Henry  VIII.  of  England,  was 
daughter  of  Lord  Edmund  Howard  and  Joyce,  his 
wife.  This  marriage  proved  prejudicial  to  the 
Reformation,  as  Catharine  was  no  friend  to  the 
Protestants.  She  gained  such  an  ascendency  over 
the  king,  that  he  gave  public  thanks  to  God  for 
the  happiness  he  enjoyed  with  her.  But  the  next 
day,  archbishop  Cranmer  came  to  him  with  infor- 
mation that  the  queen  was  unfaithful  to  him. 
Henry  would  not  at  first  believe  this ;  and  on 
Catharine's  guilt  being  clearly  proved,  he  wept. 
She  was  tried,  found  guilty,  and  executed  on 
Tower-hill,  in  1542,  about  seventeen  months  after 
her  marriage.  Catharine  acknowledged  that  she 
was  not  innocent  at  the  time  of  her  marriage, 
having  been  seduced  by  a  retainer  of  her  aunt's, 
the  duchess  of  Northumberland,  who  had  taken 
charge  of  her  at  her  parents'  death,  when  she 
was  only  fourteen ;  but  persisted  in  asserting  her 
fidelity  to  the  king  since  their  marriage.  She  was 
young  and  beautiful  at  the  time  of  her  death. 

HUBER,    MARY, 

A  voluminous  author,  was  born  at  Geneva,  in 
1710.  The  manner  of  her  education  is  not  parti- 
cularly known.  Her  principal  works  are,  "  Le 
monde  fou,  prefer^  au  monde  sage ;"  "  Le  Systeme 
des  Theologians  Anciens  et  Modernes,  sur  I'etat 
des  ames  stjpar^es  des  corps ;"  "  Suite  du  memo 

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ouTrage,  servant  de  r^ponse  a  M.  Ruchat;"  "Ee- 
duction  du  Spectateur  Anglais."  This  was  an 
abridgment  of  the  Spectator,  but  did  not  succeed. 
"  Lettres  sur  la  Religions  essentielle  a  I'homme." 
Mary  Huber  was  a  Protestant,  and  this  latter 
work  in  particular  was  attacked  by  the  divines  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  communion.  She  had  wit 
and  knowledge,  but  was  sometimes  coarse  in  her 
expressions.  She  died  at  Lyons,  in  France,  in 
1753. 

HUBER,  THERESA, 

Daughter  of  the  celebrated  philologist  Heyne, 
was  married  to  Louis  Ferdinand  Huber,  son  of 
Michael  Huber,  professor  at  Leipsic.  She  was 
born  in  1764,  at  Giittingen,  and  was  a  popular 
German  novelist.  During  her  husband's  life,  she 
published  several  novels  under  his  name.  She 
also  edited  for  some  time  the  ilorgenblatt.  She 
died  a  few  years  since. 

HUNTER,  ANNE, 
Wife  of  John  Hunter,  the  celebrated  surgeon, 
was  a  sister  of  Sir  Everard  Home.  She  was  born 
in  1742,  and  was  remarkable  for  her  literary 
attainments.  Intimately  connected  with  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Carter,  Mrs.  Delany,  &c.,  Mrs.  Hunter 
was  a  member  of  the  learned  coterie  of  ladies  who 
composed  that  celebrated  society.  She  excelled 
in  lyric  poetry.  Several  of  her  songs  were  set  to 
music  by  Haydn,  and  greatly  admired.  Her  pro- 
ductions were  collected  and  published  in  one  vo- 
lume, previous  to  her  decease.  She  died  in  1821, 
much  lamented,  for  her  virtues  as  well  as  her 
talents  had  greatly  endeared  her  to  her  friends. 
We  add  specimens  of  her  poetry. 

SONG. 

O  tuneful  voice!  I  still  deplore 

Those  accents  which,  though  heard  no  more, 

Still  vibrate  on  my  heart ; 
In  echo's  cave  I  long  to  dwell. 
And  still  would  hear  the  sad  farewell, 

When  we  were  doomed  to  part. 

Bright  eyes,  O  that  the  task  were  mine 
To  guard  the  liquid  fires  that  shine. 

And  round  your  orbits  play; 
To  watch  them  with  a  vestal's  care. 
And  feed  with  smiles  a  light  so  fair, 

That  it  may  ne'er  decay  ! 

INDIAN    DEATH    SONG. 

The  s'ln  sets  in  nijht,  and  the  stars  shun  th  ■  day. 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away. 
Begin,  you  toruieutors!  your  threats  are  in  vain. 
For  the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow. 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  liis  hatchet  laid  low. 
Why  so  slow  ?     Do  you  wait  till  1  shrink  from  tli,"  pain  ? 
No;  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  compbiin. 

Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay, 
And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your  nation  away. 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast ;  you  e.xult  in  my  paiii ; 
But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone. 
His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son  ; 
Death  comes,  like  a  ft-iend,  to  relieve  me  from  pain  ; 
And  thy  son,  O  Alknomook !  has  scorned  to  comidaiii. 


.  THE    LOT    OF    THOUSANDS. 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart, 

By  secret  sorrow  close  concealed, 
We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 

What  must  not  be  revealed. 

"T  is  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep ; 

To  speak  when  one  would  silent  ha  ; 
To  wake  when  one  would  wish  to  sleep, 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Ve  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care. 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast 
To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  Nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet. 
Where  disappointment  cannot  come  : 

And  time  guides  with  unerring  feet 
The  weary  wanderers  Iiome. 

HUNTINGDON,  SELINA,  COUNTESS  OF, 

Was  born  in  1707.  She  was  one  of  three  daugh- 
ters and  co-heirs  of  Washington  Shirley,  earl  Fer- 
rers ;  the  other  two  being  Lady  Kilmorey  and 
Lady  Elizabeth  Nightingale.  Selina,  the  second 
daughter,  married,  in  1728,  Theophilus  Hastings, 
earl  of  Huntingdon,  with  whom  she  lived  very 
happily  till  his  sudden  death,  in  October,  1746. 
She  had  several  children,  four  of  whom  died  young. 

Probably  these  heavy  ahiictions  disposed  this 
lady  to  take  such  deep  interest  in  religion.  It 
was  at  the  time  when  the  founders  of  Method- 
ism, AVesley  and  Whitfield,  were  exciting  in  Eng- 
land a  spirit  of  more  intense  devotion  than  was 
generally  prevalent,  and  the  Countess  of  Hunting- 
don embraced  their  doctrines  with  her  whole  heart. 

She  rather  inclined  to  Whitfield's  pectiliar  doc- 
trines than  to  Wesley's ;  but  she  chose  to  be  her- 
self the  founder  of  a  sect,  which  were  called  "  The 
Countess  of  Huntingdon's  Connexion."  She  had 
the  control  of  a  large  income  during  her  forty-five 
years  of  widowhood,  and  as  her  own  personal  ex- 
penses were  small,  and  she  was  assisted  by  other 
opulent  persons,  she  supported  a  college  at  Tre- 
vecca,  in  Wales,  for  the  education  of  ministers, 
and  built  sixty-four  chapels,  the  ministers  of 
which  she  assisted  to  support.  Her  largest  chapel 
was  at  Bath,  which  she  frequently  attended.  She 
created  a  trust  for  the  support  of  her  college  and 
chapels  after  her  death.  And  not  only  did  she 
thus  merit  the  title  of  public  benefactor,  but  she 
also  expended,  annually,  large  sums  in  private 
charities.  She  lived  for  others,  and  at  her  death, 
which  took  place  .lune  17th,  1791,  was  deeply 
mourned  by  all  who  knew  her ;  even  those  who 
regarded  her  conduct  as  the  result  of  mistaken 
enthusiasm,  respected  her  for  the  noble  virtues  of 
her  character  and  her  Christian  conduct. 

HUTCHINSON,  ANNE, 
A  WOMAN  who  caused  much  difficulty  in  New 
England  soon  after  its  settlement,  came  from  Lin- 
colnshire to  Boston  in  1635,  and  was  the  wife  of 
one  of  the  representatives  of  Boston.  The  mem- 
bers of  Mr.  Cotton's  church  used  to  meet  every 
week  to  repeat  his  sermons  and  discourse  on  doc- 
trines. She  established  similar  meetings  for  wo- 
men, and  soon  had  a  numerous  audience.     She 

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advocated  sentiments  of  her  own,  and  warped  the 
discourses  of  her  clergyman  to  coincide  with  them. 
She  soon  threw  the  whole  colony  into  a  flame.  The 
progress  of  her  sentiments  occasioned,  in  1637, 
the  first  synod  in  America.  This  convention  of 
ministers  condemned  eighty-two  erroneous  opinions 
then  propagated  in  the  country.  Mrs.  Hutchinson 
was  called  before  the  court  in  November,  1637 ; 
and,  being  convicted  of  traducing  the  ministers 
and  advancing  errors,  was  banished  from  Massa- 
chusetts. She  went  with  her  husband  to  Rhode 
Island;  and  in  1742,  after  her  husband's  death, 
removed  into  the  Dutch  colony  beyond  New  Ha- 
ven, where  she,  with  most  of  her  family,  consist- 
ing of  sixteen  persons,  were  captured,  and  all, 
except  one  daughter,  killed  by  the  Indians.  This 
occurred  in  1643. 

HUTCHINSON,  LUCY, 
Daughter  of  Sir  Allan  Aspley,  was  born  in 
1624.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  was  married  to 
Colonel  John  Hutchinson,  who  distinguished  him- 
self as  one  of  the  most  efficient  among  the  Puritan 
leaders  in  the  war  between  Charles  I.  and  the  Par- 
liament. Their  courtship  was  a  very  romantic  one, 
as  it  is  given  by  the  lady  in  her  "  Memoir"  of  her 
husband.  She  says  —  "  Never  was  there  a  passion 
more  ardent  and  less  idolatrous ;  he  loved  her 
better  than  his  life ;  with  inexpressible  tenderness 
and  kindness ;  had  a  most  high,  obliging  esteem 
of  her ;  yet  still  considered  honour,  religion  and 
duty,  above  her ;  nor  ever  suff'ered  the  intrusion 
of  such  a  dotage  as  should  blind  him  from  mark- 
ing her  imperfections."  That  it  was  "not  her 
face  he  loved,"  but  "her  honour  and  her  virtue 
were  his  mistresses,"  he  abundantly  proved ;  for, 
"on  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage,  when  the 
friends  of  both  parties  were  assembled,  and  all 
were  waiting  the  appearance  of  the  bride,  she 
was  suddenly  seized  with  an  illness,  at  that  time 
often  the  most  fatal  to  life  and  beauty.  She  was 
taken  ill  of  small-pox ;  was  for  some  time  in  im- 
minent danger ;  and,  at  last,  when  her  recovery 
was  assured,  the  return  of  her  personal  attrac- 
tions was  considered  more  than  doubtful.  She 
says,  indeed,  herself,  that  her  illness  made  her, 
for  a  long  time  after  she  had  regained  her  health, 
"the  most  deformed  person  that  could  be  seen." 
But  Mr.  Hutchinson's  affection  was  as  strong  as 
his  honour.  He  neither  doubted  nor  delayed  to 
prosecute  his  suit ;  but,  thankful  to  God  for  her 
preservation,  he  claimed  her  hand  as  soon  as  she 
was  able  to  quit  her  chamber ;  and  when  the  cler- 
gyman who  performed  the  service,  and  the  friends 
who  witnessed  it,  were  afraid  to  look  at  the  wreck 
of  her  beauty.  He  was  rewarded ;  for  her  features 
were  restored,  unblemished  as  before ;  and  her 
form,  when  he  presented  her  as  his  wife,  justified 
his  taste  as  much  as  her  more  intrinsic  qualities 
did  his  judgment.  They  were  united  to  each  other 
on  the  3d  of  July,  1638. 

Their  union  was  an  example  of  the  happiness 
which  marriage  confers  on  those  who  fulfil  its  du- 
ties in  holy  truth  and  faithful  love.  In  the  perils 
of  war  Mrs.  Hutchinson  was  an  attendant  on  her 
beloved  husband;  and  when,  after  the  restoration 


of  Charles  II.,  Colonel  Hutchinson  was  imprisoned 
in  the  Tower,  she  followed  him,  and  never  ceased 
her  exertions  and  importunities  till  she  was  per- 
mitted to  visit  him.  When  her  husband  was  re- 
moved to  Sandown  Castle  in  Kent,  she,  with  some 
of  her  children,  went  also,  and  used  every  en- 
treaty to  be  permitted  to  reside  in  the  castle  with 
him.  This  was  refused  ;  but  she  took  lodgings  in 
Deal,  and  walked  every  day  to  Sandown  to  see  and 
cheer  the  prisoner.  All  that  could  be  done  to 
obtain  his  pardon  or  liberation,  she  did ;  but  as 
Colonel  Hutchinson  was  a  Puritan  and  a  republican 
on  principle,  and  would  not  disclaim  his  opinions, 
though  he  would  promise  to  live  in  quiet,  his  ene- 
mies listened  to  no  pleadings  for  mercy.  What 
was  to  have  been  his  ultimate  punishment  will 
never  be  known ;  the  damp  and  miserable  apart- 
ment in  which  he  was  confined  brought  on  an  ill- 
ness which  ended  his  life,  September  11th,  1664, 
leaving  his  wife  with  eight  children  and  an  embar- 
rassed estate  to  mourn  his  irreparable  loss.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson  was  not  with  him  at  his  death ;  she 
had  gone  to  their  home  to  obtain  supplies  and 
bring  away  the  children  left  there.  His  death- 
scene  shows  the  estimation  in  which  he  held  her. 
So  long  as  he  was  able  to  sit  up,  he  read  much  in 
the  Bible ;  and  on  looking  over  some  notes  on  the 
Epistle  to  the  Romans,  he  said,  "  When  my  wife 
returns,  I  will  no  more  observe  their  cross  hu- 
mours ;  but  when  her  children  are  all  near,  I  will 
have  her  in  the  chamber  with  me,  and  they  shall 
not  pluck  her  out  of  my  arms.  During  the  winter 
evenings  she  shall  collect  together  the  observa- 
tions I  have  made  on  this  Epistle  since  I  have 
been  in  prison." 

As  he  grew  worse,  the  doctor  feared  delirium, 
and  advised  his  brother  and  daughter  not  to  defer 
anything  they  wished  to  say  to  him.  Being  in- 
formed of  his  condition,  he  replied  with  much 
composure,  "  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done ;  I  am 
ready."  He  then  gave  directions  concerning  the 
disposal  of  his  fortune,  and  left  strict  injunctions 
that  his  children  should  be  guided  in  all  things  by 
their  mother;  "And  tell  her,"  said  he,  "that  as 
she  is  above  other  women,  so  must  she  on  this 
occasion  show  herself  a  good  Christian,  and  above 
the  pitch  of  ordinary  minds." 

Faithfully  she  fulfilled  these  injunctions ;  evinc- 
ing her  sorrow  and  her  love,  not  by  useless  re- 
pinings,  but  by  training  up  her  children  to  be  like 
their  father,  and  employing  her  talents  in  con- 
structing a  monument  to  his  fame.  For  this  pur- 
pose she  undertook  her  great  work,  "  The  Life  of 
Colonel  Hutchinson,  by  his  widow  Lucy."  This 
has  been  republished  lately,  and  the  Edinburgh 
Review  thus  closes  a  notice  of  the  work : 

"  Education  is  certainly  far  more  generally  dif- 
fused in  our  daj's,  and  accomplishments  infinitely 
more  common  ;  but  the  perusal  of  this  volume  has 
taught  us  to  doubt  whether  the  better  sort  of  wo- 
men were  not  fashioned  of  old,  by  a  purer  and 
more  exalted  standard ;  and  whether  the  most 
eminent  female  of  the  present  day  would  not  ap- 
pear to  disadvantage  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Hutchin- 
son'. There  is  something  in  the  domestic  virtue 
and  calm  commanding  mind  of  this  English  m-d- 

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tron,  that  makes  the  Corinnes  and  Heloises  appear 
very  insignificant.  We  may  safely  venture  to  as- 
sert that  a  nation  which  produces  many  such  wives 
and  mothers  as  Mrs.  Lucy  Hutchinson,  must  be 
both  great  and  happy." 

AVe  shoukl  do  injustice  to  the  worth  of  female 
genius  if  we  omitted  to  give  a  few  extracts  from 
this  work  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson.  An  "Address  to 
her  Children"  forms  the  introduction  to  the  Me- 
moir.    Thus  she  writes : — 

"I,  who  am  under  a  command  not  to  grieve  at 
the  common  rate  of  desolate  women,  while  I  am 
studj'ing  which  way  to  moderate  my  wo,  and,  if  it 
were  possible,  to  augment  my  love,  can  find  out 
none  more  just  to  your  dear  father,  or  more  con- 
soling to  myself,  than  the  preservation  of  his  me- 
mory ;  which  I  need  not  gild  with  such  flattering 
commendations  as  the  hired  preachers  equally 
give  to  the  truly  and  the  nominally  honourable ; 
an  undrest  narrative,  speaking  the  simple  truth 
of  him,  will  deck  him  with  more  substantial  glory 
than  all  the  panegyrics  the  best  pens  could  ever 
consecrate  to  the  virtues  of  the  best  men.  To 
number  his  virtues  is  to  give  the  epitome  of  his 
life,  which  was  nothing  else  but  a  progress  from 
one  degree  of  virtue  to  another.  His  example  was 
more  instructive  than  the  best  rules  of  the  moral- 
ists ;  for  his  practice  was  of  a  more  divine  extrac- 
tion, drawn  from  the  Word  of  God,  and  wrought 
up  by  the  assistance  of  his  spirit.  He  had  a  noble 
method  of  government,  whether  in  civil,  military, 
or  domestic  administrations ;  which  forced  love 
and  reverence  even  from  unwilling  subjects,  and 
greatly  endeared  him  to  the  souls  of  those  who 
rejoiced  to  be  governed  by  him.  He  had  a  na- 
tive majesty  that  struck  awe  into  the  hearts  of 
men,  and  a  sweet  greatness  that  commanded 
love." 

***** 
His  aifection  foi  his  wife  was  such,  that  who- 
ever would  form  rules  of  kindness,  honour,  and 
religion,  to  be  practised  in  that  state,  need  no 
more,  but  exactly  draw  out  his  example.  Man 
never  had  a  greater  passion  or  a  more  honourable 
esteem  for  woman  ;  yet  he  was  not  uxorious,  and 
never  remitted  that  just  rule  which  it  was  her 
honour  to  obey ;  but  he  managed  the  reins  of  go- 
vernment with  such  prudence  and  affection,  that 
she  who  would  not  delight  in  such  honourable 
and  advantageous  subjection,  must  have  wanted 
a  reasonable  soul.  He  governed  by  persuasion, 
which  he  never  employed  but  in  things  profitable 
to  herself.  He  loved  her  soul  better  than  her 
countenance ;  yet  even  for  her  person  he  had  a 
constant  affection,  excelling  the  common  tempo- 
rary passion  of  fond  fools.  If  he  esteemed  her  at 
a  higher  rate  than  she  deserved,  he  was  himself 
the  author  of  the  virtue  he  doated  on ;  for  she 
was  but  a  faithful  mirror,  reflecting  truly,  but 
dimly,  his  own  glories  upon  him.  AVhen  she  ceased 
to  be  young  and  lovely,  he  showed  her  the  most 
tenderness.  He  loved  her  at  such  a  kind  and 
generous  rate  as  words  cannot  express ;  yet  even 
this,  which  was  the  highest  love  any  man  could 
have,  was  bounded  by  a  superior  feeling;  he, re- 
garded her,  not  as  his  idol,  but  as  his  fellow-crea- 


ture in  the  Lord,  and  proved  that  such  a  feeling 
exceeds  all  the  ii-regularities  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Hutchinson  brought  up  her  children  and 
lived  to  see  some  of  them  married.  The  time  of 
her  decease  is  not  known. 

HYDE,  ANNE,  DUCHESS  OF  YOKE, 
The  eldest  daughter  of  Lord  Clarendon,  and 
mother  of  two  of  the  queens  of  Great  Britain,  was 
born  in  1638.  During  the  exile  of  the  royal  fa- 
mily she  attended  her  father  abroad,  and  was  ap- 
pointed maid  of  honour  to  the  princess  of  Orange, 
the  eldest  sister  of  Charles  II.  Her  intercourse 
with  James,  duke  of  York,  then  a  young  and  gal- 
lant soldier,  commenced  when  Miss  Hyde  was  in 
her  twenty-first  year.  She  had  accompanied  the 
princess  of  Orange  to  Paris,  on  a  visit  to  her  mo- 
ther, queen  Henrietta,  when  James  saw,  and  fell 
in  love  with  her.  They  were  betrothed  at  Breda, 
November  24th,  1659;  but  there  were  so  many 
difficulties  in  obtaining  the  consent  of  the  royal 
family  to  this  alliance,  that  they  were  not  married 
till  September  3d,  1660.  The  ceremony  was  per- 
formed at  Worcester-House,  London.  The  duchess 
of  York  was  a  handsome  and  sensible  woman,  and 
lived  in  harmony  with  her  husband,  notwithstand- 
ing his  open  infidelities.  Before  her  death  she 
became  a  Roman  Catholic.  She  died  at  St.  James' 
palace,  March  31st,  1671,  in  her  thirty-fourth 
year. 


INCHBALD,  ELIZABETH, 
A  DRAMATIST  and  novelist,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Simpson,  was  born  in  1756,  at  Stanningfield, 
near  Bury,  in  Suflblk.  The  beauty  of  Elizabeth 
Simpson  was  much  celebrated  in  the  circle  of  her 
acquaintance,  and  she  appears  to  have  been  no- 
ticed by  those  of  a  higher  rank  than  her  own  cir- 
cle ;  but  an  imperfection  in  her  organs  of  utter- 
ance rendered  her  averse  to  society,  and  she  would, 
in  early  youth,  fly  to  solitude,  and  seek,  in  books, 
for  the  amusement  she  could  not  enjoy  in  conver- 
sation.    The  kind  of  education  she  received  may 

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be  gathered  from  an  observation  of  her  own :  "It 
is  astonishing  how  much  all  girls  are  inclined  to 
literature,  to  what  boys  are.  My  brother  went  to 
school  seven  years,  and  could  not  spell ;  I,  and 
my  two  sisters,  though  we  were  never  taught, 
could  spell  from  our  infancy." 

To  cure  the  impediment  in  her  speech  she  ex- 
erted the  most  persevering  efforts,  and  by  repeated 
trials' discovered  the  way  of  palliating  her  defects. 
She  says  that  she  wrote  out  all  the  words  with 
which  she  had  any  difficulty,  carried  them  con- 
stantly about  with  her,  and  at  last  perceived,  or 
fancied  she  perceived,  that  stage  declamation  was 
favourable  to  this  defect,  rather  than  the  reverse. 

When  sixteen  she  secretly  left  her  family, 
prompted  by  an  irrepressible  desire  to  visit  Lon- 
don. After  escaping  many  dangers  in  this  rash 
adventure,  she  married  Mr.  Inchbald,  of  Drury 
Lane  theatre,  and  was  for  several  years  on  the 
stage.  Mr.  Inchbald  died  suddenly,  in  1779,  and 
left  his  widow,  at  twenty-five  years  of  age,  entirely 
dependent  on  herself  for  support.  She  continued 
on  the  stage  for  a  time,  but  left  it  in  1789,  and 
from  that  time  devoted  herself  solely  to  her  lite- 
rary labours.  She  wrote  nineteen  dramas,  some 
of  which  were  very  successful,  and  two  novels, 
"  The  Simple  Story,"  and  "  Nature  and  Art," 
which  rank  among  the  standard  works  in  that 
class  of  literature;  and  she  edited  "The  British 
Theatre,"  "  The  Modern  Theatre,"  and  a  collec- 
tion of  farces.  Mrs.  Inchbald  died  August  1st, 
1821,  aged  sixty-seven. 

The  following  is  the  opinion  of  Miss  Edgeworth 
respecting  the  "  Simple  Story,"  the  most  popular 
of  Mrs.  Inchbald's  works :  "  I  have  just  been 
reading,  for  the  third,  I  believe  for  the  fourth 
time,  the  '  Simple  Story.*  Its  elfect  upon  my  feel- 
ings was  as  powerful  as  at  the  first  reading ;  I 
never  read  any  novel — I  except  none — I  never  read 
any  novel  that  aflFected  me  so  strongly,  or  that  so 
completely  possessed  me  with  the  belief  in  the 
real  existence  of  all  the  persons  it  represents.  I 
never  once  recollected  the  author  whilst  I  was 
reading  it ;  never  said  or  thought,  that 's  a  fine 
sentiment — or,  that  is  well  expressed — or,  that  is  well 
invented ;  I  believed  all  to  be  real,  and  was  afi"ected 
as  I  should  be  by  the  real  scenes,  if  they  had 
passed  before  my  eyes ;  it  is  tnily  and  deeply  pa- 
thetic." 

Of  her  second  novel,  "  Nature  and  Art,"  Mr. 
Chambers,  in  his  "  Cyclopa3dia  of  English  Litera- 
ture," remarks:  "Its  object  may  be  gathered 
from  the  concluding  maxim  — '  Let  the  poor  no 
more  be  their  own  persecutors  —  no  longer  pay 
homage  to  wealth — instantaneously  the  whole  ido- 
latrous worship  will  cease — the  idol  will  be  broken.' 
Mrs.  Inchbald  illustrated  this  by  her  own  practice  ; 
yet  few  of  her  readers  can  feel  aught  but  mortifi- 
cation and  disappointment  at  the  denouement  of  the 
tale,  wherein  the  pure  and  noble-minded  Henry, 
after  the  rich  promise  of  his  youth  and  his  intel- 
lectual culture,  finally  settles  down  with  his  father 
to  '  cheerful  labour  in  fishing,  or  the  tending  of  a 
garden,  the  jsroduce  of  which  they  carry  to  the 
next  market-town  V  The  following  brief  allusion 
to  the  miseries  of  low  London  service  reminds  us 


of  the  vividness  and  stern  pathos  of  Dickens : — 
'  In  romances,  and  in  some  plays,  there  are  scenes 
of  dark  and  unwholesome  mines,  wherein  the  la- 
bourer works  during  the  brightest  day  by  the  aid 
of  artificial  light.  There  are,  in  London,  kitchens 
equally  dismal,  though  not  quite  so  much  exposed 
to  damp  and  noxious  vapours.  In  one  of  these 
under  ground,  hidden  from  the  cheerful  light  of 
the  sun,  poor  Agnes  was  doomed  to  toil  from 
morning  till  night,  subjected  to  the  command  of  a 
dissatisfied  mistress,  who,  not  estimating  as  she 
ought  the  misery  incurred  by  serving  her,  con- 
stantly threatened  her  servants  with  a  dismission, 
at  which  the  unthinking  wretches  would  tremble 
merely  from  the  sound  of  the  words ;  for  to  have 
reflected — to  have  considered  what  their  purport 
was — to  be  released  from  a  dungeon,  relieved  from 
continual  upbraiding  and  vile  drudgery,  must  have 
been  a  subject  of  rejoicing ;  and  yet,  because  these 
good  tidings  were  delivered  as  a  menace,  custom 
had  made  the  hearer  fearful  of  the  consequence. 
So,  death  being  described  to  children  as  a  disaster, 
even  poverty  and  shame  will  start  from  it  with 
aifright;  whereas,  had  it  been  pictured  with  its 
benign  aspect,  it  would  have  been  feared  but  by 
few,  and  many,  many  would  welcome  it  with  glad- 
ness.' " 

But  better  than  any  sentiment  contained  in  her 
works  of  fiction  are  the  noble  generosity  and  true 
Christian  self-denial  she  practised  towards  her 
poor,  unfortunate  sister,  whom  she  supported  for 
many  years.  The  brief  notices  of  her  charitable 
deeds,  gathered  from  letters  and  the  records  of 
her  friends,  are  her  best  monument.  One  writer 
says:  "Mrs.  Inchbald  frequently  suflFered  from 
the  want  of  fire  herself,  when  it  is  known  that  she 
had  enabled  others  to  avail  themselves  of  that 
necessary  of  life,  and  her  donations  to  her  sisters 
and  other  friends  in  distress  were  generous  and 
munificent.  To  her  sister,  Mrs.  Hunt,  she  event- 
ually allowed  nearly  a  hundred  i^er  annum.  At 
the  time  when  Mrs.  Inchbald  was  her  own  servant, 
she  writes,  '  I  have  raised  her  allowance  to  eighty, 
but  in  the  rapid  strides  of  her  wants,  and  my  ob- 
ligation as  a  Christian  to  make  no  selfish  refusal 
to  the  poor,  a  few  months  hence,  I  foresee,  must 
make  the  sum  a  hundred.'  Again,  in  1810,  she 
says,  '  I  say  no  to  all  the  vanities  of  the  world, 
and  perhaps  soon  shall  have  to  say,  that  I  shall 
allow  my  poor  infirm  sister  a  hundred  a  year.' 

To  the  last,  Mrs.  Hunt  depended  on  Mrs.  Inch- 
bald almost  exclusively  for  support.  The  follow- 
ing expresses  the  sentiments  of  her  feeling  and 
affectionate  heart,  on  the  receipt  of  the  intelli- 
gence that  she  had  no  longer  a  brother  or  sister 
in  the  world.  '  To  return  to  my  melancholy. 
Many  a  time  this  winter,  when  I  cried  with  cold, 
I  said  to  myself — but,  thank  God,  my  sister  has 
not  to  stir  from  her  room :  she  has  her  fire  lighted 
every  morning ;  all  her  provisions  bought,  and 
brought  to  her  ready  cooked :  she  would  be  less 
able  to  bear  what  I  bear ;  and  how  much  more 
should  I  have  to  suff"er,  but  from  this  reflection ! 
It  almost  made  me  warm,  when  I  reflected  that 
SHE  suff^ered  no  cold;  and  yet,  perhaps,  this  se- 
vere weather  alfected  her  also,  for  after  only  two 

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days  of  dangerous  illness  she  died      I  have  now 
buried  my  whole  family.'  " 

Probably  our  readers  would  like  to  have  a  de- 
scription of  this  excellent  as  well  as  eminent  wo- 
man, who  has  shown  an  example  of  noble  virtues 
under  very  adverse  circumstances,  and  therefore 
is  entitled  to  high  estimation.  Mrs.  Inchbald  was 
a  strict  Roman  Catholic.  One  who  knew  her  well 
thus  describes  her  personal  appearance  :  "  '  The 
fair  muse,'  as  she  was  often  termed,  was,  when 
between  thirty  and  forty,  above  the  middle  size, 
rather  tall,  of  a  striking  figure,  but  a  little  too 
erect  and  stiff.  She  was  naturally  fair,  slightly 
freckled,  and  her  hair  was  of  a  sandy  auburn  hue. 
Her  face  and  features  were  beautiful,  and  her 
countenance  was  full  of  spirit  and  sweetness." 
This  description  is  from  a  decided  admirer  of 
hers,  who  winds  it  up  with  observing,  that  "her 
dress  was  always  becoming,  and  very  seldom  worth 
so  much  as  eight  pence." 

INGLIS,  ESTHER, 
Is  celebrated  for  her  skill  in  calligraphy,  or  fine 
writing.  In  the  beauty,  exactness,  and  variety  of 
her  characters,  she  excelled  all  who  preceded  her. 
In  the  library  of  Christ-church  in  Oxford  are  the 
Psalms  of  David,  written  in  French  by  Mrs.  Inglis, 
who  presented  them  in  person  to  queen  Elizabeth, 
by  whom  they  were  given  to  the  library.  Two 
manuscripts,  written  by  Mrs.  Inglis,  were  also  pre- 
served with  care  in  the  Bodleian  library :  one  of 
them  is  entitled  "  Le  six  vingt  et  six  Quatrains  de 
Guy  de  Tour,  sieur  de  Pybrac,  escrits  par  Esther 
Inglis,  pour  son  dernier  adieu,  ce  21  ejour  de  Juin, 
1617."  The  following  address  is,  in  the  second 
leaf,  written  in  capital  letters :  "To  the  right  wor- 
shipful my  very  singular  friende,  Joseph  Hall, 
doctor  of  divinity,  and  dean  of  Winchester,  Esther 
Inglis  wisheth  all  increase  of  true  happiness. 
Junii  xxi.  1617."  In  the  third  leaf  is  pasted  the 
head  of  the  writer,  painted  upon  a  card.  The 
other  manuscript  is  entitlej^  "  Les  Proverbes  de 
Salomon ;  escrites  en  diverses  sortes  de  letti'es, 
par  Esther  Anglois,  en  Frangoise.  A  Lislebourge 
en  Escosse,"  1599.  In  the  royal  library,  D.  xvi. 
are  "Esther  Inglis's  fifty  Emblems,"  finely  drawn 
and  wi'itten:  A  Lislebourg  en  Escosse,  I'anne 
1624. 

Esther  Inglis  married,  when  she  was  about  forty, 
a  Scotchman,  Bartholomew  Kello,  and  had  one  son, 
who  was  a  learned  and  honourable  man.  The  time 
of  her  death  is  not  known. 

IRETON,    BRIDGET, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  was  bap- 
tized at  St.  John's  church,  Huntingdon,  on  the  4th 
of  August,  1624.  She  was  a  gloomy  enthusiast, 
and  such  a  bigoted  republican,  that  she  grudged 
her  father  his  title  of  Protector.  Nevertheless, 
she  is  spoken  of  as  a  person  of  great  wisdom, 
"humbled  and  not  exalted  by  her  accession  of 
greatness."  January  15th,  1647,  she  was  married 
at  Norton  to  the  saintly  Henry  Ireton,  Lord  Deputy 
of  Ireland  ;  and  after  his  death  to  Fleetwood,  who 
was  appointed  to  the  same  high  post.  She  seems 
to  have  cherished  as  much  admiration  for  her  first 


husband  as  she  entertained  contempt  for  her  se- 
cond. To  Fleetwood,  however,  her  strong  sense, 
and  advice,  were  of  the  greatest  assistance.  She 
died  at  Stoke  Newington,  whei-e  she  was  buried, 
September  5th,  1081. 

ISABELLA,    QUEEN    OF    HUNGARY, 

Sister  of  Sigismund  Augustus,  king  of  Poland, 
married,  in  1539,  John  Zapolita,  king  of  Hungary. 
In  1540,  she  brought  him  a  son,  while  her  husband 
was  besieging  the  castle  of  Fogarras ;  and  he  was 
so  transported  at  the  news  that  he  gave  a  splendid 
feast  to  his  soldiers,  and  died  of  intemperance  on 
the  occasion.  Isabella,  unable  to  retain  the  crown 
for  her  son,  implored  aid  from  the  Ottoman  Porte, 
the  armies  of  which,  entering  Hungary,  vanquish- 
ed the  troops  of  Ferdinand  of  Austria,  employed 
in  the  siege  of  Buda.  Solyman,  who  headed  his 
troops  in  pei'son,  sent  magnificent  presents  to  the 
young  king,  whom  he  entreated  he  might  be  al- 
lowed to  see.  He  excused  himself,  at  the  same 
time,  from  visiting  the  queen,  lest  their  interview 
might  prove  injurious  to  her  fame.  Isabella,  while 
she  acknowledged  the  kindness  and  delicacy  of  the 
sultan,  hesitated  whether  to  trust  her  son  in  the 
Ottoman  camp.  But,  at  length,  impressed  by  the 
services  which  Solyman  had  rendered  to  her,  and 
overcome  by  the  remonstrances  of  her  counsellors, 
she  determined  on  a  compliance  with  the  request. 
The  prince,  in  a  superb  cradle,  on  a  carriage  of 
state,  accompanied  by  his  nurse,  with  some  noble 
matrons  and  lords  of  the  court,  was  conveyed  to 
the  camp.  He  was  received  by  Solyman,  who 
tenderly  caressed  him,  and  presented  him  to  his 
sons  Bajazet  and  Selini,  with  every  royal  honour, 
as  a  vassal  of  the  Ottoman  Porte,  and  the  son  of 
John  Zapolita,  whom  he  had  highly  esteemed. 

But  these  specious  appearances  proved  but  a 
cover  to  the  insidious  purposes  of  the  sultan,  who, 
throwing  ofi"  the  mask,  seized  upon  Buda,  Septem- 
ber 5th,  1541,  and  obliged  Isabella  to  retire  to 
Lippa,  with  the  poor  consolation  of  a  promise, 
that  when  her  son  became  of  age,  Hungary  should 
be  restored  to  him.  In  this  reverse  of  fortune, 
Isabella  displayed  great  constancy,  and  endea- 
voured to  content  herself  with  the  title  of  regent 
of  Transylvania,  which  the  rapacity  of  Solyman 
had  left  to  her.  But,  having  appointed  as  her 
coadjutor  in  the  administration  of  the  government, 
George  Martinusias,  a  monk,  she  experienced  from 
him  a  thousand  mortifications,  and  found  the  title 
of  regent  but  an  empty  honour.  A  rupture  with 
Martinusias  was  the  consequence ;  when,  enraged 
at  the  loss  of  his  authority,  he  called  in  the  assist- 
ance of  Ferdinand  of  Austria,  who  sent  an  army 
into  Hungary,  and  compelled  Isabella,  in  1551,  to 
resign  Transylvania  into  his  hands,  and  to  retire 
to  Cassovia.  While  on  her  journey  to  Cassovia, 
the  ruggedness  of  the  roads  obliged  her  to  descend 
from  her  carriage ;  when,  looking  back  to  Tran- 
sylvania while  the  driver  was  extricating  his 
wheels,  and  recollecting  her  former  situation,  she 
carved  on  a  tree  her  name,  with  this  sentence : — 
"Sic  Fata  voLrNT" — "So  Fate  decrees." 

Her  disposition  was  too  restless  and  active  to 
allow  her  to  remain  long  at  Cassovia.     She  went 

362 


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to  Silesia,  and  thence  to  Poland,  where  her  mo- 
ther, Bonna  Sforza,  resided.  In  the  hope  of  re- 
gaining her  power,  she  continued  to  correspond 
with  the  grandees  of  Transylvania ;  and  she  also 
applied  again  to  Solyman.  In  1556,  she  was,  by 
the  efforts  of  the  sultan,  restored  to  Transylvania. 
She  maintained  licr  authority  during  the  rest  of 
her  life,  without  imparting  any  share  of  it  to  her 
son,  John  Sigismund.  She  died  September  5th, 
1558. 

Isabella  was  a  warm  Roman  Catholic,  and  some 
of  her  regulations  were  directed  with  much  seve- 
rity against  the  heretics.  She  was  a  woman  of 
great  talents  and  learning.  Her  son,  after  her 
death,  declared  in  favour  of  the  Protestants. 


J. 

JARDINS,  MARIE  CATHARINE  DES, 
Was  born  about  1640,  at  Alen9on,  in  Normandy, 
where  her  father  was  provost.  She  went  when 
young  to  Paris,  where  she  supported  herself  for 
some  time  by  writing  novels  and  dramas.  She 
was  three  times  married ;  first,  to  M.  Villedieu,  a 
young  captain  of  the  infantry,  who  was  only  se- 
parated, not  divorced,  from  a  former  wife ;  after 
his  death,  to  the  marquis  de  la  Chasse,  who  was 
also  only  parted  from  his  wife ;  and,  for  the  third 
time,  to  one  of  her  cousins,  who  allowed  her  to 
resume  the  name  of  Villedieu.  She  soon  after 
retired  to  a  little  village,  called  Clinchemare,  in 
the  province  of  Maine,  where  she  died  in  1G83. 

Her  works  were  printed  in  1702,  and  form  ten 
duodecimo  volumes.  Her  compositions  consisted 
of  dramas,  miscellaneous  poems,  fables,  and  ro- 
mances ;  among  which  latter  class  are  "Les  Dis- 
ordres  de  1' Amour;"  "  Porti-aits  des  Faiblesses 
Humains ;"  "Les  Exiles  de  la  Cour  d'Augviste;" 
"  Cleonice ;"  "  Carmeute ;"  "  Les  Galanteries  Gre- 
nadines;" "Les  Amours  des  Grands  Hommes ;" 
"  Les  Memoirs  du  Serail;"  &c. 

Her  style  is  rapid  and  animated ;  but  she  is 
often  incorrect,  and  her  incidents  improbable. 
Her  short  stories  certainly  extinguished  the  taste 
for  tedious  romances,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
novel ;  but  were  by  no  means  of  such  excellence 
as  those  that  have  since  been  written.  Her  verse 
is  inferior  to  her  prose.  Her  society  was  much 
sought  by  men  of  learning,  wit,  and  fashion ;  and 
her  conduct  during  her  widowhood  was  by  no 
means  irreproachable.  But  good  morals  were  not 
then  the  fashion  in  French  society. 

JEWSBURY,  MARIA  JANE. 
We  choose  to  retain  the  name  by  which  this 
gifted  woman  was  known  as  an  authoress,  although 
she  had  changed  it  before  her  decease  ;  but  we  can 
never  think  of  her  as  Mrs.  Fletcher.  Miss  Jewsbury 
was  born  about  1800,  in  Warwickshire,  England. 
In  early  youth  she  lost  her  mother,  and  was  thence- 
forth called  to  take  her  place  at  the  head  of  a  large 
family.  Her  father,  soon  after  her  mother's  death, 
removed  to  Manchester;  and  here,  in  the  midst  of 
a  busy  population,  oppressed  with  ill  health,  and 


the  grave  cares  of  life,  the  promptings  of  genius 
still  triumphed,  and  the  young  lady  found  time  to 
dream  dreams  of  literary  distinction,  which  the 
energy  of  her  mind,  in  a  few  years,  converted  into 
realities. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  she  addressed  a  letter 
to  Wordsworth,  full  of  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ardent 
imagination :  this  led  to  a  correspondence  with  the 
bard  of  the  Excursion,  which  soon  ripened  into 
permanent  friendship.  She  was  also  materially 
assisted  in  the  development  of  her  talents,  and  the 
circulation  of  her  first  literary  efforts,  by  the  ad- 
vice and  active  kindness  of  Mr.  Alaric  Watts,  at 
that  time  a  resident  in  Manchester :  these  obliga- 
tions she  always  gratefully  acknowledged. 

Her  first  work  was  entitled  "Phantasmago- 
ria; or.  Essays  of  Life  and  Literature," — which 
was  well  received  by  the  public.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  "Letters  to  the  Young,"  written  soon 
after  a  severe  illness:  then  appeared  "Lays  for 
Leisure  Hours."  Her  last  work  was  her  "  Three 
Histories,"*  which  she  allows  displays  much  of 
her  own  character  and  feelings.  But  her  best 
writings  are  to  be  found  in  the  periodicals  and 
annuals,  to  which  she  was  a  large  and  most  popu- 
lar contributor. 

In  1833,  she  married  Mr.  Fletcher,  a  gentleman 
who  held  an  office  under  the  London  East  India 
Company  —  and  soon  after  her  mai-riage  left  Eng- 
land with  her  husband  for  Bombay.  She  antici- 
pated with  eager  pleasure  the  riches  of  nature 
and  antiquity,  which  the  gorgeous  Ea^t  would 
open  before  her  —  but  the  buoyant  and  active 
spirit  was  soon  to  be  called  to  another  and  higher 
existence.  She  died  a  short  time  after  reaching 
India,  and  sleeps  in  that  "  clime  of  the  sun,"  a  fit 
resting-place  for  her  warm  and  ardent  heart. 

As  the  best  illustration  of  her  character  and 
genius  which  we  can  give,  we  subjoin  some  ex- 
tracts from  a  private  letter,  which  she  wrote  to  a 
friendj-  a  short  time  before  she  left  England : — 

"  The  passion  for  literary  distinction  consumed 
me  from  nine  years  old.  I  had  no  advantages  — 
great  obstacles  —  and  now,  when  from  disgust  I 
cannot  write  a  line  to  please  myself,  I  look  back 
with  regret  to  the  days  when  facility  and  audacity 
went  hand  in  hand ;  I  wish  in  vain  for  the  simpli- 
city which  neither  dreaded  criticism  nor  knew 
fear.  Intense  labour  has,  in  some  measure,  sup- 
plied the  deficiency  of  early  idleness  and  common- 
place instruction  ;  intercourse  with  those  who  were 
once  distant  and  bright  as  the  stars,  has  become  a 
thing  of  course  ;  I  have  not  been  unsuccessful  in 
my  own  career.  But  the  period  of  timidity  and 
sadness  is  now  come,  and  with  my  foot  upon  the 
threshold  of  a  new  life,  and  a  new  world  — 

'  I  would  lay  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  this  life  of  wo.' 

"  Unfortunately,  I  was  twenty-one  before  I  be- 
came a  reader,  and  I  became  a  wi'iter  almost  as 
soon :  it  is  the  ruin  of  all  the  young  talent  of  the 

*  This  interesting  volume  was  republished  in  America, 
and  was  very  popular.  Her  other  works  have  not  been  re- 
printed here. 

t  Mrs.  Homans. 

363 


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day,  that  reading  and  writing  are  simultaneous. 
We  do  not  educate  ourselves  for  literary  enter- 
prise. I.  would  gladly  burn  almost  everything  I 
ever  wrote,  if  so  be  I  might  start  now  with  a  mind 
that  has  seen,  read,  thought,  and  suffered  some- 
what, at  least,  approaching  to  a  preparation. 
Alas,  alas !  we  all  sacrifice  the  palm-tree  to  obtain 
the  temporary  draught  of  wine  !  We  slay  the 
camel  that  would  bear  us  through  the  desert,  be- 
cause we  will  not  endure  a  momentary  thirst. 

"  /  have  done  Clothing  to  live.  The  powers  which 
I  feel,  and  of  which  I  have  given  promise,  may 
mature  —  may  stamp  themselves  in  act;  but  the 
spirit  of  despondency  is  strong  upon  the  future 
exile,  and  I  fear  they  never  will.  In  the  language 
of  Keats, 

"  I  feel  the  long  grass  growing  o'er  my  heart. 

"In  the  best  of  everything  I  have  done,  you 
will  find  one  leading  idea  —  Death.  All  thoughts, 
all  images,  all  contrast  of  thoughts  and  images, 
are  derived  from  living  much  in  the  valley  of  that 
shadow.  My  poetry,  except  some  half-  dozen 
pieces,  may  be  consigned  to  oblivion ;  but  in  all 
you  would  find  the  sober  hue,  which,  to  my  mind's 
eye,  blends  equally  with  the  golden  glow  of  sun- 
set, and  the  bright  green  of  spring ;  and  is  seen 
equally  in  the  'temple  of  delight,'  as  is  in  the 
tomb  of  decay  and  separation.  I  am  melancholy 
by  nature,  but  cheerful  on  principle." 

Such  was  the  mind  and  heart  of  this  noble  wo- 
man. In  conversation  she  was  brilliant  and  elo- 
quent ;  in  the  domestic  circle  she  was  a  treasure 
that  Solomon  would  have  placed  above  "rubies." 
Active,  judicious,  and  kind,  she  showed  the  strength 
of  her  understanding,  as  well  as  the  correctness  of 
her  principles,  by  discharging  her  household  du- 
ties with  the  same  promptness  and  cheerfulness 
with  which  she  pursued  her  literary  career. 

Her  friendships  are  sufficient  testimony  of  her 
genius  and  her  goodness.  Mr.  AVordsworth,  who 
was  her  wai-m  friend,  thus  speaks  of  her  with 
beautiful  simplicity : — 

"  Her  enthusiasm  was  aixlent,  her  piety  stead- 
fast, and  her  great  talents  would  have  enabled  her 
to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  path  to  which  she 
had  been  called.  The  opinion  she  entertained  of 
her  own  performances,  given  to  the  world  under 
her  maiden  name,  was  modest  and  humble,  indeed 
far  below  her  merits,  as  is  often  the  case  with  those 
who  are  making  trial  of  their  powers  to  discover 
what  they  are  fit  for.  In  one  quality — quickness 
in  the  motions  of  her  mind  —  she  was,  in  the  au- 
thor's estimation,  unrivalled." 

In  the  "  Three  Histories,"  Miss  Jewsbury  has 
commemorated  the  friend  of  her  heart's  idolatry, 
Mrs.  Hemans.  The  picture  of  "  Egeria"  was, 
avowedly,  taken  from  this  original ;  its  exquisite 
beauty  renders  it  a  fitting  selection  to  show  the 
power  of  Miss  Jewsbury' s  genius  when  brightened 
by  a  subject  which  warmed  her  heart  as  well  as 
her  imagination. 

PICTURE    OF    MRS.    HEMANS. 

"  Egeria  was  totally  different  from  any  other 
woman  I  had  ever  seen,  either  in  Italy  or  England. 


She  did  not  dazzle,  she  subdued  me ;  other  women 
might  be  more  commanding,  more  versatile,  more 
acute,   but   I   never  saw  any  one  so  exquisitely 

feminine Her  birth,  her  education,  but, 

above  all,  the  genius  with  which  she  was  gifted, 
combined  to  inspire  a  passion  for  the  ethereal,  the 
tender,  the  imaginative,  the  heroic  —  in  one  word, 
the  beautiful.  It  was  in  her  a  faculty  divine,  and 
yet  of  daily  life  —  it  touched  all  things,  but,  like 
a  sunbeam,  touched  them  with  '  a  golden  finger.' 
Anything  abstract  or  scientific  was  unintelligible 
and  distasteful  to  her ;  her  knowledge  was  exten- 
sive and  various,  but,  true  to  the  first  principle  of 
her  nature,  it  was  poetry  that  she  sought  in  his- 
tory, scenery,  character,  and  religious  belief — 
poetry  that  guided  all  her  studies,  governed  all 
her  thoughts,  coloured  all  her  imaginative  conver- 
sation. Her  nature  was  at  once  simple  and  pro- 
found ;  there  was  no  room  in  her  mind  for  philo- 
sophy, nor  in  her  heart  for  ambition ;  —  the  one 
was  filled  by  imagination,  the  other  engrossed  by 
tenderness.  She  had  a  passive  temper,  but  de- 
cided tastes ;  any  one  might  influence,  but  very 
few  impressed  her.  Her  strength  and  her  weak- 
ness alike  lay  in  her  affections  ;  these  would  some- 
times make  her  weep,  at  others  imbue  her  with 
courage ;  so  that  she  was  alternately  '  a  falcon- 
hearted  dove,'  and  a  'reed  broken  with  the  wind.' 
Her  voice  was  a  sad,  sweet  melody,  and  her  spirits 
reminded  me  of  an  old  poefs  description  of  the 
orange-tree,  with  its 

'  Golden  lamps  hid  in  a  night  of  green ;' 

or  of  those  Spanish  gardens  where  the  pomegra- 
nate grows  beside  the  cypress.  Her  gladness  was 
like  a  burst  of  sunlight ;  and  if,  in  her  depression, 
she  resembled  night,  it  was  night  bearing  her  stars. 
I  might  describe  and  describe  for  ever,  but  I  should 
never  succeed  in  pourtraying  Egeria ;  she  was  a 
muse,  a  grace,  a  variable  child,  a  dependent  wo- 
man, the  Italy  of  human  beings." 


THE    WEEPER    AT    THE    SEPULCHRE. 

A  sound  in  yonder  glade. 

But  not  of  fount  or  breeze, 
A  sound  —  but  of  the  whispering  made 

By  the  palm  and  the  olive  trees; 
It  is  not  the  minstrel's  lute. 

Nor  the  swell  of  the  night-bird's  song. 
Nor  the  city's  hum,  when  all  else  is  mute, 

By  echo  borne  along. 

'T  is  a  voice  —  the  Saviour's  own  — 

"Woman,  why  weepest  thou?" 
She  turns  —  and  her  grief  is  for  ever  flown, 

And  the  shade  that  dimmed  h3r  brow  ; 
He  is  there,  her  risen  Lord, 

No  more  to  know  decline; 
He  is  there,  with  peace  in  his  e\ery  word. 

The  wept  one  —  still  divine. 

"My  father's  throne  to  share, 

As  King,  as  God,  1  go. 
But  a  brother's  heart  will  be  with  me  there, 

For  my  brethren  left  below  !" 
The  Weeper  is  laid  in  dust, 

Her  Lord  is  throned  on  high, 
But  our's  may  be  still  that  Weeper's  trust, 

And  our's  that  Lord's  reply. 

364 


JE 


JO 


Mourner —'mid  nature's  bloom, 

Dimming  its  light  with  tears,— 
And  captive  —  to  whom  the  lone  dark  room 

Grows  darker  yet  with  fears, — 
And  spirit  —  that  like  a  bird 

Rests  not  on  sea  or  shore, — 
The  voice  in  the  olive-glade  once  heard. 

Hear  ye  — and  weep  no  morel 

BIRTH-DAY    BALLAD. 

Thou  art  plucking  spring-roses.  Genie, 

And  a  little  red-rose  art  thou; 
Thou  hast  unfolded  to-day.  Genie, 

Another  bright  leaf.  I  trow; 
But  the  roses  will  live  and  die,  Genie, 

Many  and  many  a  time. 
Ere  thou  hast  unfolded  quite.  Genie  — 

Grown  into  maiden  prime. 

Thou  art  looking  now  at  the  birds.  Genie, 

But  oh,  do  not  wish  their  wing. 
That  would  only  tempt  the  fowler.  Genie, 

Stay  thou  on  earth  and  sing; 
Stay  in  the  nursing-nest.  Genie, 

Be  not  soon  thence  beguiled. 
Thou  wilt  ne'er  find  a  second.  Genie  ; 

Never  be  twice  a  child. 

Thou  art  building  towers  of  pebbles.  Genie - 

Pile  them  up  brave  and  high; 
And  leave  them  to  follow  a  bee.  Genie, 

As  he  wandereth  singing  by; 
But  if  thy  towers  fall  down.  Genie, 

And  if  the  brown  bee  is  lost. 
Never  weep  —  for  thou  must  learn.  Genie, 

That  soon  life's  schemes  are  crossed. 

Thy  hand  is  in  a  bright  boy's,  Genie, 

He  calls  thee  his  sweet  wee  wife; 
But  let  not  thy  little  heart  think.  Genie, 

Childhood  the  prophet  of  life: 
It  may  be  life's  minstrel.  Genie, 

And  sing  sweet  songs  and  clear; 
But  minstrel  and  prophet  now,  Genie^ 

Are  not  united  here. 

What  will  thy  future  fate  be.  Genie? 

Alas!  shall  I  live  to  see  I 
For  thou  art  scarce  a  sapling.  Genie, 

And  I  am  a  moss-grown  tree ! 
I  am  shedding  life's  leaves  fast.  Genie, 

Thou  art  in  blossom  sweet; 
But  think  betimes  of  the  grave.  Genie, 

Where  young  and  old  oft  meet. 

SONG. 

She's  on  my  heart,  she  's  in  my  thoughts. 
At  midnight,  morn  and  noon; 

December's  snow  beholds  her  there. 
And  there  the  rose  of  June. 

I  never  breathe  her  lovely  name 
When  wine  and  mirth  go  round; 

But  oh,  the  gentle  moonlight  air 
Knows  well  the  silver  sound. 

I  care  not  if  a  thousand  hear 
When  other  maids  I  praise  ; 

I  would  not  have  my  brother  by. 
When  I  upon  her  gaze. 

The  dews  were  from  the  lily  gone. 

The  gold  has  lost  its  shine. 
If  any  but  my  love  herself 

Could  hear  me  call  her  mine. 

PASSING    AWAY. 

1  asked  the  stars,  in  the  pomp  of  night. 
Gilding  its  blackness  with  crowns  of  light. 
Bright  with  beauty,  and  girt  with  power, 
Whether  eternity  were  not  their  dower; 
And  dirge-like  music  stole  from  their  spheres. 
Bearing  this  message  to  mortal  ears:  — 


"  We  have  no  light  that  hath  not  been  given  ; 
We  have  no  strength  but  shall  soon  be  riven ; 
We  have  no  power  wherein  man  may  trust ; 
Like  him  are  we  things  of  time  and  dust ; 
And  the  legend  we  blazon  with  beam  and  ray, 
And  the  song  of  our  silence,  is — '  Passing  away.' 

"  We  shall  fade  in  our  beauty,  the  fair  and  bright. 
Like  lamps  that  have  served  for  a  festal  night ; 
We  shall  fall  from  our  spheres,  the  old  and  strong, 
Like  rose-leaves  swept  by  the  breeze  along; 
The  worshipped  as  gods  iti  the  olden  day. 
We  shall  be  like  a  vain  dream—'  Passing  away.' " 

From  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  the  flowers  of  earth. 
From  the  pageant  of  power,  and  the  voice  of  mirth. 
From  the  mists  of  morn  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
From  childhood's  song,  and  affection's  vow. — 
From  all,  save  that  o'er  which  soul  bears  sway. 
Breathes  but  one  record — "  Passing  away." 

"  Passing  away,"  sing  the  breeze  and  rill. 
As  they  sweep  in  their  course  by  vale  and  hill ; 
Through  the  varying  scenes  of  each  earthly  clime, 
'Tis  the  lesson  of  nature,  the  voice  of  time; 
And  man  at  last,  like  his  fathers  grey. 
Writes  in  his  own  dust — "  Passing  away." 

JOHNSON,   LADY   ARABELLA, 

Was  daughter  of  Thomas,  earl  of  Lincoln.  She 
married  Mr.  Isaac  Johnson,  who  left  his  native 
land  for  New  England,  from  religious  motives. 
Lady  Arabella  cheerfully  accompanied  him,  and 
they  arrived  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  in  April, 
1630.  Her  exalted  character  and  gentleness  gained 
her  universal  esteem ;  but  she  died  the  September 
after  her  arrival.  Mr.  Johnson  survived  her  little 
more  than  a  month.  He  is  regarded  as  the  founder 
of  Boston  ;  and  though  his  time  was  brief,  yet  the 
good  work  he  accomplished  will  never  be  forgotten 
by  the  people  of  New  England.  But  dearer  still 
is  the  memory  of  the  Lady  Arabella,  whose  exam- 
ple as  a  wife  and  a  Christian  is  an  ever-beaming 
light  to  her  sex. 

JOHNSON,    ESTHER, 

Celebrated  as  the  Stella  of  Dean  Swift,  was 
born  in  1684.  Her  father  was  the  steward  of  Sir 
William  Temple,  who,  at  his  death,  left  the  daugh- 
ter £1000,  in  consideration  of  her  father's  faithful 
services.  At  the  death  of  Sir  William,  she  was  in 
her  sixteenth  year ;  and  about  two  years  after- 
wards, at  Swift's  invitation,  she  left  England,  ac- 
companied by  Mrs.  Dingley,  a  lady  fifteen  years 
older,  and  whose  whole  fortune,  though  she  was 
related  to  Sir  William,  was  only  an  annuity  of 
£27.  Whether  Swift  desired  the  company  of  Miss 
Johnson  as  a  friend,  or  intended  to  make  her  his 
wife,  is  uncertain ;  but  they  took  every  precaution 
to  prevent  scandal.  When  Swift  was  absent,  Miss 
Johnson  and  her  friend  resided  at  the  parsonage, 
but  when  he  returned,  they  removed ;  nor  were 
they  ever  known  to  meet  but  in  the  presence  of  a 
third  person.  During  his  visits  to  London,  he 
wrote,  every  day,  an  account  of  what  had  occurred, 
to  Stella,  and  always  placed  the  greatest  confi- 
dence in  her. 

In  1713,  Swift,  it  is  believed,  was  married  to 
her,  by  Dr.  Ashe,  bishop  of  Clogher ;  but  they 
continued  to  live  in  separate  houses,  and  the  mar- 
riage was  never  publicly  acknowledged.  This 
state  of  affairs  is  supposed  to  have  preyed  upon 

3G5 


JO 


JO 


Stella's  health  so  as  to  cause  a  decline.  Dean 
Swift  offered,  when  she  was  on  her  death-bed,  to 
acknowledge  her  as  his  wife  ;  but  she  replied,  "  It 
is  too  late!"  She  died  in  1728,  aged  forty-three. 
She  was  a  beautiful  and  intellectual  woman.  The 
■whole  story  is  more  romantic  than  any  romance 
of  fiction ;  nor  have  the  mysteries  ever  been  satis- 
factorily explained. 

JORDAN,  DOROTHEA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Captain  Bland,  of  a  most 
respectable  family  in  Ireland.  Her  father  eloped 
with  her  mother,  and  they  both  went  on  the  stage. 
Dorothea  commenced  her  career  as  an  actress  in 
Dublin,  but  soon  quitted  that  for  Tate  Wilkinson's 
York  company.  She  then  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  London  managers,  and  was  for  a  long  time 
a  great  favoui>ite  on  the  English  stage.  Her  forte 
was  comedy.  She  was  at  one  time  the  mistress 
of  the  duke  of  Clarence,  afterwards  William  IV., 
by  whom  she  had  several  children.  She  died  at 
St.  Cloud,  in  France,  in  181G,  and  was  indebted 
to  the  kindness  of  a  casual  English  traveller  for  a 
decent  interment. 


JOSEPHINE    ROSE    TASGHER    DE 
LA   PAGERIE, 

Empress  of  the  French,  queen  of  Italy,  was 
born  in  Martinique,  June  24th,  1763.  At  a  very 
early  age  she  came  to  Paris,  and  was  married  to 
the  Viscount  Beauharnais.  By  this  marriage, 
which  is  represented  as  not  having  been  a  happy 
one,  the  marquis  being  attached  to  another  at  the 
time  of  his  union  with  his  wealthy  bride — she  be- 
came the  mother  of  two  children,  Eugene  and 
Hortense,  afterwards  so  well  known.  In  1787 
Madame  Beauharnais  returned  to  Martinique,  to 
nurse  her  aged  mother,  but  was  soon  driven  away 
by  the  disturbances  in  that  colony.  During  her 
absence  the  French  Revolution  had  broken  out, 
and  on  her  return  she  found  her  husband  actively 
engaged  in  public  affairs.  Although  one  of  the 
first  actors  in  the  movement  which  was  to  regene- 
rate France,  Beauharnais  fell  a  victim  to  the  blood- 
thirsty fanaticism  of  the  times.  Cited  before  the 
ban  of  the  Convention,  he  was  condemned  to  death. 


and  publicly  beheaded  on  the  23d  July,  1794. 
Josephine  was  imprisoned,  where  she  remained 
until  the  death  of  Robespierre  threw  open  the 
doors  of  the  prisons. 

Josephine  is  said  to  have  preserved  her  serenity 
during  her  imprisonment,  through  her  strong  faith 
in  a  prediction  which  had  been  made  her;  an  old 
negress  in  Martinique  having  foretold,  under  cir- 
cumstances of  a  peculiarly  imposing  character, 
that  she  would  one  day  become  queen  of  France. 
However  reasonably  we  may  doubt  the  influence 
of  such  a  circumstance  on  the  mind  of  a  woman 
condemned  to  death  in  such  relentless  times  as 
these,  there  is  no  question  of  its  being  a  subject 
often  dwelt  upon  by  Josephine  when  she  actually 
sat  upon  the  throne  of  France.  The  prophecies 
that  come  to  pass,  are  always  remembered ! 
Through  her  fellow-prisoner,  Madame  Tallien,  Jo- 
sephine became,  after  the  establishment  of  the 
Directory,  an  influential  member  of  the  circle  of 
Barras.  According  to  some  writers,  she  tliere 
made  the  acquaintance  of  General  Bonaparte. 
The  most  general  belief  is,  however,  that  the  ac- 
quaintance was  formed  through  her  son  Eugene, 
in  the  following  manner :_  "  The  day  after  the  13th 
of  Vendemiaire,  the  disarming  of  the  citizens  hav- 
ing been  decreed,  a  boy  of  fifteen  called  upon 
General  Bonaparte,  then  commandant  of  Paris, 
and  with  ingenuous  boldness  demanded  the  sword 
of  his  father.  The  general  was  struck  with  the 
boy's  deportment;  he  made  particular  inquiries 
about  him,  and  sought  an  acquaintance  with  his 
mother."  Bonaparte  soon  became  passionately 
attached  to  Madame  Beauharnais,  and  married 
her  on  the  17th  of  February,  1796  ;  and  his  affec- 
tion for  her  continued  through  life.  ■  She  possessed 
considerable  influence  over  him,  and  his  letters  to 
her  are  proofs  of  his  warm  attachment,  as  well  as 
of  her  amiability.  She  was  always  accessible  and 
benevolent  to  those  who  sought  for  mercy  or  pro- 
tection from  Napoleon.  She  followed  the  young 
hero  to  Italy,  and  was  with  him  during  that  bril- 
liant period  when  he  laid  the  foundation  of  his 
military  reputation.  When  Bonaparte  set  out  on 
his  expedition  to  Egypt,  Josephine  took  up  her 
residence  at  Malmaison.  Much  has  been  said  of 
her  conduct  during  this  period.  Whether  the 
censure  was  fully  merited  or  not,  has  never  been 
known ;  that  Napoleon,  on  his  return,  contem- 
plated a  separation,  is  well  ascertained.  A  recon- 
ciliation was  effected  by  her  children,  whom  he 
tenderly  loved,  and  Josephine  was  again  restored 
to  the  afi"ection  and  confidence  of  her  husband. 
When  Napoleon  was  elevated  to  the  consulate, 
Josephine  constantly  exercised  her  benevolence  in 
favour  of  the  unfortunate.  She  was  particularly 
kind  to  the  emigrants,  many  of  whom  she  restored 
to  their  country.  Napoleon,  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  her,  said,  "  If  I  gain  battles,  it  is  you  who  win 
hearts." 

Josephine  loved  pomp  and  show ;  her  extrava- 
gance and  wasteful  expenditure  frequently  calling 
down  the  severest  censure  from  her  more  just- 
minded  husband.  When  Napoleon  became  empe- 
ror a  divorce  was  proposed  to  him,  but  he  rejected 
it.     Josephine  was  consecrated  empress  of  France 

866 


JO 


JU 


by  pope  Pius  VII.,  December  2d,  1804,  and  the 
crown  which  his  genius  had  won  for  her  was  placed 
by  Napoleon  upon  her  brow.  Soon  after,  at  Jli- 
\an,  she  was  crowned  queen  of  Italy.  Josephine 
acquitted  herself  in  her  exalted  position  with  a 
grace  and  dignity  whicli  won  all  hearts ;  to  many, 
it  was  a  matter  of  surprise  how  she  had  acquired 
this  '*  royal  bearing."  Eugene  and  Hortense,  her 
children,  shared  her  elevation ;  Napoleon  never 
neglected  their  interest,  nor  that  of  any  members 
of  Josephine's  family.  As  Napoleon's  power  in- 
creased, and  his  family  became  to  all  appearances 
more  and  more  firmly  established  upon  the  throne 
of  France,  his  desire  for  ofl'spring  to  continue  his 
line  increased ;  and  after  much  deliberation,  and 
many  painful  scenes,  a  divorce  was  determined 
upon.  Josephine  bore  it  with  a  fortitude  which 
her  good  sense  alone  enabled  her  to  exert.  To 
have  opposed  the  will  of  Napoleon  would  have 
availed  her  nothing,  and  it  was  every  thing  to  her 
to  continue  to  possess  his  esteem.  The  world, 
too,  would  sympathize  with  a  wife  who,  under 
such  painful  circumstances,  yielded  with  dignity 
to  her  fall ;  her  impotent  resistance  would  only 
excite  its  contempt  or  sneers.  Josephine  retired 
to  Malmaison,  at  the  age  of  forty-six,  with  the 
title  of  empress-dowager,  and  two  "millions  of 
francs  a  year.  Napoleon  visited  her  occasionally, 
and  always  gave  proofs  of  his  esteem  and  regard 
for  her.  While  at  St.  Helena,  he  paid  the  highest 
tribute  to  her  virtues  and  amiability.  On  the 
birth  of  the  king  of  Rome,  in  1811,  Josephine  is 
said  to  have  exhibited  the  most  unfeigned  satis- 
faction. If  such  was  really  the  case,  her  magna- 
nimity was  of  the  highest  order ;  for  that  event, 
whicli  must  have  confirmed  Napoleon's  sense  of 
the  expediency  of  the  divorce,  also  rendered  his 
wife  more  dear  to  him,  and  Josephine's  situation 
more  glaringly  humiliating. 

In  1814,  Josephine  beheld  the  downfall  of  that 
throne  which  she  had  once  shared.  When  Napo- 
leon retired  to  Elba,  she  wrote  to  him,  signifying 
her  wish,  if  permitted,  to  follow  him  in  his  re- 
verses. When  the  allies  entered  Pai-is,  she  was 
treated  with  the  most  distinguished  consideration. 
The  king  of  Prussia  and  the  emperor  of  Russia 
visited  her  at  Malmaison,  and  showed  her  flatter- 
ing attentions.  On  the  19th  of  May,  the  emperor 
Alexander  and  the  king  of  Prussia  dined  with  her. 
She  was  extremely  indisposed,  and,  in  opposition 
to  her  physician's  wishes,  did  the  honours  to  her 
royal  guests.  The  next  day  she  became  much 
worse  ;  her  disease,  a  species  of  quinsy,  increasing 
rapidly.  On  the  29tli  of  May,  1814,  she  expired, 
in  the  full  possession  of  her  faculties.  Her  chil- 
dren were  with  her,  and,  by  their  affectionate 
attentions,  soothed  her  last  moments.  Her  body 
was  interred  in  the  church  of  Ruel,  where,  seven 
years  after,  her  children  were  permitted  to  erect 
a  monuent  to  her.  ■ 

Josephine  was  handsome ;  her  figure  was  ma- 
jestic and  elegant ;  but  her  greatest  charms  were 
her  grace  and  goodness  of  heart.  She  has  been 
called  Napoleon's  "  star."  His  fortunes,  it  is  said, 
arose  with  her,  and  waned  when  their  connexion 
ceased.    The  English,  when  they  paint  the  empress 


Josephine,  in  their  hatred  of  Napoleon  always 
depict  her  in  the  most  glowing  colours.  To  exalt 
Napoleon's  repudiated  wife,  is  to  censure  him. 
We,  who  are  less  liable  to  prejudice,  may  be  able 
to  estimate  her  character  more  impartially,  and 
may  fairly  inquire  how  much  of  the  devotion  for 
which  she  has  been  so  highly  praised,  belonged  to 
the  man,  how  much  to  his  station. 

Napoleon's  ardent  attachment  to  her  admits  of 
no  such  doubt ;  his  actions,  as  well  as  his  letters 
to  her,  prove  it ;  particularly  those  written  in  the 
early  part  of  their  married  life,  when  he  frequently 
complains  of  her  coldness.  The  prudence  of  her 
conduct  while  Napoleon  was  absent  in  Egypt,  may 
reasonably  be  doubted.  If  so,  we  may  ask,  how 
far  the  woman  who  was  chosen  by  such  a  man  as 
the  sharer  of  his  name  and  fortunes  was  worthy 
of  her  destiny  ?  Her  extravagance,  even  while 
seated  upon  a  throne,  we  have  seen,  was  consider- 
ed reprehensible  by  her  husband.  Napoleon  had 
not  an  exalted  opinion  of  women ;  how  much  this 
might  be  owing  to  the  example  of  the  woman 
whom  he  knew  best,  the  reader  must  decide.  If 
Josephine  had  been  as  eminent  for  high  womanly 
virtues,  as  he  was  for  exalted  genius ;  if  she  had 
been  in  truth  Napoleon's  "star,"  her  fate  might 
have  been  a  different  one. 


JUDSON,    ANNE    IIASSELTINE, 

Was  born  in  1789,  in  Bradford,  Massachusetts. 
She  was  carefully  educated,  and  became  early 
distinguished  for  her  deep  and  earnest  religious 
character.  In  February,  1812,  she  married  x\do- 
niram  Judson ;  and  in  the  same  month  sailed  for 
Calcutta,  her  husband  being  appointed  missionary 
to  India.  Soon  after  they  reached  Calcutta,  they 
were  ordered  by  the  East  India  Company,  who 
were  opposed  to  all  missionary  labour  among  the 
nati\-es,  to  quit  the  country.  AVhile  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  of  leaving,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Judson 
employed  their  time  in  investigating  the  subject 
of  baptism ;  and  being  convinced  that  their  pre- 
vious opinions  had  been  erroneous,  they  joined 
the  Baptist  Church  at  Calcutta.  In  July,  1813, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Judson  arrived  at  Rangoon,  in  Bur- 
mah,  where  for  many  years  they  laboured  snccess- 

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fully  and  diligently  in  the  cause  of  religion.  In 
1821,  in  consequence  of  protracted  ill  health,  Mrs. 
Judson  returned  alone  to  xlmerica,  where  she  re- 
mained till  1823,  when  she  rejoined  her  husband 
in  Rangoon.  Difficulties  arising  between  the  go- 
vernment of  Bengal  and  the  Burman  empire,  and 
the  taking  of  Rangoon  by  the  British  in  1824, 
caused  the  imprisonment  of  Mr.  Judson  and  se- 
veral other  foreigners,  who  were  at  Ava,  the 
capital  of  the  Burman  empire.  For  two  years, 
the  inexpressible  suflFerings  endured  by  these  pri- 
soners, were  alleviated  by  the  constant  care  and 
exertions  of  Mrs.  Judson ;  and  it  was  owing  in  a 
great  measure  to  her  efforts  that  they  were  at  last 
released. 

In  1826,  the  missionary  establishment  was  re- 
moved from  Rangoon  to  Amherst ;  and  in  October, 
of  that  year  Mrs.  Judson  died  of  a  fever  during  her 
husband's  absence.  The  physician  attributed  the 
fatal  termination  of  the  disease  to  the  injury  her 
constitution  had  received  from  her  long-protracted 
sufferings  and  severe  privations  at  Ava.  In  about 
six  months  after  her  death,  her  only  child,  an  in- 
fant daughter,  was  laid  by  her  side.  That  some 
correct  idea  may  be  formed  by  those  who  have  not 
read  the  memoir  of  Mrs.  Judson,  of  the  exertions 
and  sufferings  of  this  angelic  woman,  whose  mis- 
sion was  to  wear  out  her  precious  life  for  the  pre- 
servation of  others  and  the  advancement  of  her 
Saviour's  cause,  we  will  give  one  extract  from  her 
"  Narrative"  of  the  imprisonment  of  Mr.  Judson, 
written  in  form  of  a  letter  to  her  brother-in-law. 

MRS.  JUDSON    AT    OUNG-PEN-LA. 

"  The  next  morning  I  arose  and  endeavoured  to 
find  something  like  food.  But  there  was  no  market, 
and  nothing  to  be  procured.  One  of  Dr.  Price's 
friends,  however,  brought  some  cold  rice  and  vege- 
table curry,  from  Amarapora,  which,  together  with 
a  cup  of  tea  from  Mr.  Lansago,  answered  for  the 
breakfast  of  the  prisoners ;  and  for  dinner,  we 
made  a  curry  of  dried  salt  fish,  which  a  servant 
of  IMr.  Gouger  had  brought.  All  the  money  I 
could  command  in  the  world,  I  had  brought  with 
me,  secreted  about  my  person ;  so  you  may  judge 
what  our  prospects  were,  in  case  the  war  should 
continue  long.  But  our  Heavenly  Father  was 
better  to  us  than  our  fears ;  for  notwithstanding 
the  constant  extortions  of  the  jailers,  during  the 
whole  six  months  we  were  at  Oung-pen-la,  and 
the  frequent  straits  to  which  we  were  brought,  we 
never  really  suffered  for  the  want  of  money, 
though  frequently  for  want  of  provisions,  which 
were  not  procurable.  Here  at  this  place  my  per- 
sonal bodily  sufferings  commenced.  While  your 
brother  was  confined  in  the  city  prison,  I  had  been 
allowed  to  remain  in  our  house,  in  which  I  had 
many  conveniences  left,  and  my  health  had  con- 
tinued good  beyond  all  expectations.  But  now  I 
had  not  a  single  article  of  convenience  —  not  even 
a  chair  or  seat  of  any  kind,  excepting  a  bamboo 
floor.  The  very  morning  after  my  arrival,  Mary 
Hasseltine  was  taken  with  the  small-pox,  the  na- 
tural way.  She,  though  very  young,  was  the  only 
assistant  I  had  in  taking  care  of  little  Maria.  But 
she  now  required  all  the  time  I  could  spare  from 


Mr.  Judson,  whose  fever  still  continued  in  prison, 
and  whose  Teet  were  so  dreadfully  mangled,  that 
for  several  days  he  was  unable  to  move.  I  knew 
not  what  to  do,  for  I  could  procure  no  assistance 
from  the  neighbourhood,  or  medicine  for  the  suf- 
ferers, but  was  all  day  long  going  backwards  and 
forwards  from  the  house  to  the  prison  with  little 
Maria  in  my  arms.  Sometimes  I  was  greatly  re- 
lieved by  leaving  her,  for  an  hour,  when  asleep, 
by  the  side  of  her  father,  while  I  returned  to  the 
house  to  look  after  Mary,  whose  fever  ran  so  high 
as  to  produce  delirium.  She  was  so  completely 
covered  with  the  small -pox,  that  there  was  no 
distinction  in  the  pustules.  As  she  was  in  the  same 
little  room  with  myself,  I  knew  Maria  would  take 
it ;  I  therefore  inoculated  her  from  another  child, 
before  Mary's  had  arrived  at  such  a  state  as  to  be 
infectious.  At  the  same  time,  I  inoculated  Abby, 
and  the  jailer's  children,  who  all  had  it  so  lightly  as 
hardly  to  interrupt  their  play.  But  the  inoculation 
in  the  arm  of  my  poor  little  Maria  did  not  take — 
she  caught  it  of  Mary,  and  had  it  the  natural 
way.  She  was  then  only  three  months  and  a  half 
old,  and  had  been  a  most  healthy  child  ;  but  it  was 
above  three  months  before  she  perfectly  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  this  dreadful  disorder. 

"You  will  recollect  I  never  had  the  small-pox, 
but  was  vaccinated  previously  to  leaving  America. 
In  consequence  of  being  for  so  long  a  time  con- 
stantly exposed,  I  had  nearly  a  hundred  pustules 
formed,  though  no  previous  symptoms  of  fever, 
&c.  The  jailer's  children  having  had  the  small- 
pox so  lightly,  in  consequence  of  inoculation,  my 
fame  was  spread  all  over  the  village,  and  every 
child,  young  and  old,  who  had  not  previously  had 
it,  was  brought  for  inoculation.  And  although  I 
knew  nothing  about  the  disorder,  or  the  mode  of 
treating  it,  I  inoculated  them  all  with  a  needle, 
and  told  them  to  take  care  of  their  diet, — all  the 
instructions  I  could  give  them.  Mr.  Judson's 
health  was  gradually  restored,  and  he  found  him- 
self much  more  comfortably  situated,  than  when 
in  the  city  prison. 

"  The  prisoners  were  at  first  chained  two  and 
two  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  jailers  could  obtain  chains 
sufficient,  they  were  separated,  and  each  prisoner 
had  but  one  pair.  The  prison  was  repaired,  a  new 
fence  made,  and  a  large  airy  shed  erected  in  front 
of  the  prison,  where  the  prisoners  were  allowed  to 
remain  during  the  day,  though  locked  up  in  the 
little  close  prison  at  night.  All  the  children  reco- 
vered from  the  small-pox  ;  but  my  watchings  and 
fatigue,  together  with  my  miserable  food,  and  more 
miserable  lodgings,  brought  on  one  of  the  diseases 
of  the  country,  which  is  almost  always  fatal  to 
foreigners.  My  constitution  seemed  destroyed,  and 
in  a  few  days  I  became  so  weak  as  to  be  hardlj'  able 
to  walk  to  Mr.  Judson's  prison.  In  this  debilitated 
state,  I  set  off  in  a  cart  for  Ava,  to  procure  medi- 
cines, and  some  suitable  food,  leaving  the  cook  to 
supply  my  place.  I  reached  the  house  in  safety, 
and  for  two  or  three  days  the  disorder  seemed  at  a 
stand  ;  after  which  it  attacked  me  so  violently,  that 
I  had  no  hopes  of  recovery  left  —  and  my  only 
anxiety  now  was,  to  return  to  Oung-pen-la  to  die 
near  the  prison.    It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 

368 


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that  I  obtained  the  medicine-chest  from  the  Go- 
vernor, and  then  had  no  one  to  administer  medi- 
cine. I  however  got  at  the  laudanum,  and  by 
taking  two  drops  at  a  time  for  several  hours,  it  so 
far  checked  the  disorder,  as  to  enable  me  to  get 
on  board  a  boat,  though  so  weak  that  I  could  not 
stand,  and  again  set  off  for  Oung-pen-la." 

To  show  the  estimate  in  which  the  services  and 
talents  of  Mrs.  Judson  were  held  by  the  British 
residents  of  India,  we  will  give  the  statement  made 
by  one  of  the  English  prisoners  confined  at  Ava 
with  Mr.  Judson.  It  was  published  in  a  Calcutta 
paper. 

"  Mrs.  Judson  was  the  author  of  those  eloquent 
and  forcible  appeals  to  the  government,  which 
prepared  them  by  degrees  for  submission  to  terms 
of  peace,  never  expected  by  any,  who  knew  the 
hauteur  and  inflexible  pride  of  the  Burman  court. 

"And  while  on  this  subject,  the  overflowings 
of  grateful  feeings,  on  behalf  of  myself  and  fellow- 
prisoners,  compel  me  to  add  a  tribute  of  public 
thanks  to  that  amiable  and  humane  female,  who, 
though  living  at  a  distance  of  two  miles  from  our 
prison,  without  any  means  of  conveyance,  and 
very  feeble  in  health,  forgot  her  own  comfort  and 
infirmity,  and  almost  every  day  visited  us,  sought 
out  and  administered  to  our  wants,  and  contri- 
buted in  every  way  to  alleviate  our  misery. 

"  While  we  were  all  left  by  the  government 
destitute  of  food,  she,  with  unwearied  persever- 
ance, by  some  means  or  other,  obtained  for  us  a 
constant  supply. 

"  When  the  tattered  state  of  our  clothes  evinced 
the  extremity  of  our  distress,  she  was  ever  ready 
to  replenish  our  scanty  wardrobe. 

"  When  the  unfeeling  avarice  of  our  keepers 
confined  us  inside,  or  made  our  feet  fast  in  the 
stocks,  she,  like  a  ministering  angel,  never  ceased 
her  applications  to  the  government,  until  she  was 
authorized  to  communicate  to  us  the  grateful  news 
of  our  enlargement,  or  of  a  respite  from  our  gall- 
ing oppressions. 

"  Besides  all  this,  it  was  unquestionably  owing, 
in  a  chief  degree,  to  the  repeated  eloquence,  and 
forcible  appeals  of  Mrs.  Judson,  that  the  untu- 
tored Burman  was  finally  made  willing  to  secure 
the  welfare  and  happiness  of  his  country,  by  a 
sincere  peace." 

Mrs.  Ann  H.  Judson  was  the  first  American 
woman  who  resolved  to  leave  her  friends  and 
country  to  bear  the  Gospel  to  the  heathen  in  fo- 
reign climes.  Well  does  she  merit  the  reverence 
and  love  of  all  Christians ;  nor  can  the  nineteenth 
century  furnish  the  record  of  a  woman  who  so 
truly  deserves  the  title  —  a  missionary  heroine. 

JUDSON,    SARAH   B., 

Daughter  of  Ralph  and  Abia  Hull,  was  born 
in  Alstead,  New  Hampshire,  November  4th,  1803. 
She  was  first  married  to  the  Rev.  George  D.  Board- 
man,  in  1825,  and  soon  after  accompanied  her 
husband,  and  other  missionaries,  to  Calcutta. 
The  first  destination  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boardman 
was  Tavoy ;  and  there,  after  encountering  great 
dangers  and  sufi'erings,  and  overcoming  appalling 
difficulties  and  discouragements,  in  all  of  which 
Y 


Mrs.  Boardman  shared  with  her  beloved  hus1)and, 
Mr.  Boardman  died,  in  1831.  She  had  previously 
lost  two  children ;  one  only,  a  son,  was  left  her, 
and  they  were  alone,  in  a  strange  land.  But  she 
did  not  desert  her  missionary  duties.  Four  years 
she  remained  a  widow,  and  then  was  united  in 
marriage  with  the  Rev.  Dr.  Judson.  Their  union 
was  a  happy  one  ;  but  after  the  birth  of  her  fourth 
child  her  health  failed,  and  a  voyage  to  America 
was  recommended  as  the  only  hope  of  restoration. 
Dr.  Judson,  with  his  wife  and  children,  took  pas- 
sage for  their  own  country  ;  but  on  reaching  the 
Isle  of  France,  Mrs.  Judson's  health  was  so  greatly 
improved,  that  Dr.  Judson,  whose  duties  in  Burmah 
were  urgent,  determined  to  retui-n,  while  his  wife 
and  children  should  visit  America.  The  arrange- 
ments were  accordingly  made,  and  in  expectation 
of  the  parting,  Mrs.  Judson  wrote  this  sweet  and 
most  pathetic  poem,  addressed  to  her  husband: 

We  part  on  this  green  islet,  love,— 

Thou  for  the  eastern  main ; 
I  for  the  setting  sun,  love, 

Oh,  when  to  meet  again ! 

My  heart  is  sad  for  thee,  love, 

For  lone  thy  way  will  be; 
And  oft  thy  tears  will  fall,  love. 

For  thy  children  and  for  me. 

The  music  of  thy  daughter's  voice 

Thou 'It  miss  for  many  a  year. 
And  the  merry  shout  of  thine  elder  boys 

Thou  'It  list  in  vain  to  hear. 

When  we  knelt  to  see  our  Henry  die, 

And  heard  his  last,  faint  moan. 
Each  wiped  the  tear  from  the  other's  eye — 

Now  each  must  weep  alone. 

My  tears  fall  fast  for  thee,  love, 

How  can  I  say  farewell  ? 
But  go,  thy  God  be  with  thee,  love, 

Thy  heart's  deep  grief  to  quell. 

Yet  my  spirit  clings  to  thine,  love. 

Thy  soul  remains  with  me. 
And  oft  we'll  hold  communion  sweet, 

O'er  the  dark  and  distant  sea. 

.\nd  who  can  paint  our  mutual  joy. 

When,  all  our  wanderings  o'er. 
We  both  shall  clasp  our  infants  three, 

At  home  on  Burmah's  shore. 

But  higher  shall  our  raptures  glow, 

On  yon  celestial  plain, 
When  the  loved  and  parted  here  below 

Meet,  ne'er  to  part  again. 

Then  gird  thine  armour  on,  love, 

Nor  faint  thou  by  the  way- 
Till  the  Boodh  shall  fall,  and  Burmah's  sons 

Shall  own  Messiah's  sway. 

But  they  did  not  thus  part ;  on  putting  out  to 
sea,  Mrs.  Judson  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  died 
within  sight  of  the  rocky  island  of  St.  Helena, 
where  she  was  buried,  September  8d,  1845. 

If  this  second  Mrs.  Judson  was  less  distin^guished 
than  her  predecessor  for  strength  of  mind  and  the 
power  of  concentrating  her  energies,  so  as  to  dis- 
play, at  a  glance,  her  talents,  yet  she  was  not  in- 
ferior in  loveliness  of  character.  The  genius  and 
piety  of  Mrs.  Sarah  B.  Judson  will  ever  keep  her 
memory  sacred  as  a  pure  light  in  the  path  of  the 
female  missionary. 

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JULIANA, 

A  SINGULAR  character,  of  Norwich,  England, 
who,  in  her  zeal  for  mortification,  confined  herself 
for  several  j-ears  within  four  walls.  She  wrote 
"Sixteen  Revelations  of  Divine  Love  showed  to  a 
devout  Servant  of  our  Lord,  called  Mother  Juliana, 
an  Anchoret  of  Norwich,  who  lived  in  the  days  of 
King  Edward  IIL,"  published  in  1610. 

JULIANA, 

A  WOMAN  who  possessed  great  influence  at  the 
court  of  the  Mogul  emperors  of  Hindostan,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  last  century.  She  was  born  in 
Bengal,  in  1658,  and  was  the  daughter  of  a  Por- 
tuguese named  Augustin  Diaz  d'Acosta.  Being 
shipwrecked,  she  went  to  the  court  of  the  great 
Mogul,  Aurengzebe,  whose  favour  she  conciliated 
by  presenting  him  with  some  curiosities.  Being 
appointed  superintendent  of  the  harem  of  that 
prince,  and  govei-ness  of  his  son,  Behadur  Shah, 
she  rendered  important  services  to  the  latter,  who 
succeeded  to  the  crown  in  1707,  under  the  title  of 
Shah  Aulum.  He  was  obliged  to  defend  his  au- 
thority against  his  brothers  by  force  of  arms  ;  and 
in  the  battle,  Juliana,  mounted  on  an  elephant  by 
his  side,  encouraged  and  animated  both  him  and 
the  troops,  and  he  was  indebted  to  her  for  the 
complete  victory  he  obtained.  Her  services  were 
rewarded  with  the  title  of  princess,  the  rank  of 
the  wife  of  Seu  Omrah,  and  a  profusion  of  riches 
and  honours.  Shah  Aulum  often  said,  "  If  Ju- 
liana were  a  man,  she  should  be  my  vizier."  Je- 
hander  Shah,  who  became  emperor  of  Hindostan 
in  1712,  was  equally  sensible  of  her  merit;  and 
though  she  experienced  some  persecution  when 
that  prince  was  deposed,  in  1713,  by  his  nephew, 
she  speedily  recovered  her  influence,  and  retained 
it  till  her  death,  in  1733. 


JUNOT,  LAURA,  DUCHESS  D'ABRANTES, 

Was  born  in  Montpelier,  1785.  Constantine 
Comnena,  a  scion  of  the  imperial  stock,  emigrated 
from  the  Peloponnesus,  in  1676.  He  was  followed 
by  a  body  of  three  thousand  Greeks.  After  two 
years  of  wandering  they  settled  in  the  island  of 


Corsica,  then  a  savage  and  uncultivated  region, 
which  they  brought  to  some  degree  of  culture  and 
civilization,  although  the  fierce  and  restless  spirit 
of  the  native  inhabitants  kept  them  in  a  state  of 
perpetual,  sharp,  yet  petty  warfare.  When  Cor- 
sica was  sold  to  France,  under  Louis  XIII.,  an- 
other Constantine,  a  man  of  approved  valour  and 
worth,  was  at  the  head  of  the  Comnena  family. 
He  was  the  father  of  three  sons,  and  a  daughter, 
called  Panona,  who  married  a  Frenchman  by  the 
name  of  Pernon.  Upon  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Corsican  revolution,  he  was  driven  to  seek  shelter 
in  France.  From  this  union  sprang  the  Duchess 
d'Abrantes.  Destined  to  experience  the  most  ex- 
traordinary vicissitudes,  her  very  cradle  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  agitations  which  convulsed  France 
at  that  period.  In  an  autobiographical  sketch, 
she  speaks  of  her  childish  terrors,  when,  in  the 
absence  of  her  parents,  she  was  placed  at  a  board- 
ing-school among  strangers  ;  the  terrible  days  of 
September  (1792)  are  particularly  commemorated. 
Her  father,  for  whom  she  appears  to  have  enter- 
tained a  particularly  tender  aifection,  died  while 
she  was  still  a  child :  she  also  lost  the  sister  near- 
est her  own  age  —  to  these  afflictions  were  added 
most  straitened  pecuniary  circumstances.  The 
latter  difficulties,  after  a  time,  diminished,  and 
Madame  Pernon  established  herself  comfortably 
in  Paris,  where  her  house  soon  became  the  resort 
of  all  the  most  noted  men  of  that  day.  The  at- 
tractions, personal  and  mental,  of  her  daughter, 
were  not  undistinguished.  A  man  of  rank  and 
wealth  made  an  offer  of  his  hand :  he  was  old 
enough  to  be  her  grandfather,  but  this  seemed  no 
objection  in  the  eyes  of  the  mother,  who  with  dif- 
ficulty yielded  to  Laura's  repugnance,  and  gave 
up  a  match  which  held  out  so  many  mei'cenary 
advantages.  Another  matrimonial  proposal  soon 
was  presented,  which  came  to  a  more  fortunate 
conclusion.  Among  the  generals  who  distinguished 
themselves  in  the  wars  of  Napoleon,  was  Junot, 
born  of  respectable  parents  at  Bussy-le-Grand,  in 
1771.  Before  entering  the  career  of  arms,  he  had 
studied  jurisprudence,  with  his  friend  Marmont; 
but  the  cannons  of  the  revolution  roused  him  to 
visions  of  fame,  and  he  enrolled  himself  in  the 
very  first  battalion  that  was  formed  in  his  pro- 
vince. At  the  siege  of  Toulon  he  was  a  sergeant 
of  grenadiers :  an  accident  was  the  begmning  of 
his  advancement.  Napoleon  called  out,  on  some 
exigency,  for  somebody  to  step  forward  who  pos- 
sessed a  good  hand-writing.  Junot  came  from 
the  ranks,  and  began  a  letter,  under  the  great 
man's  dictation.  Scarcely  had  he  formed  the  last 
sentence,  when  a  bomb  cast  by  the  English,  burst- 
ing at  ten  paces  from  him,  covered  the  writer  and 
the  writing  with  earth.  "Capital!"  said  Junot, 
smiling,  "here  is  exactly  what  we  want,  sand  to 
dry  the  ink."  Such  intrepidity  was  not  lost  on 
Bonaparte  ;  he  kept  the  heroic  soldier  in  his  eye, 
and  soon  after  obtaining  his  generalship,  he  made 
Junot  his  adjutant.  This  man,  on  his  return  from 
the  expedition  to  Egypt,  was  introduced  to  the 
house  of  Madame  Pernon.  He  soon  manifested 
an  attachment  to  the  young  Laura ;  and  as  his 
military  grade,  and  favour  with  the  first  consul, 

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were  united  to  personal  beauty  and  pleasing  ad- 
dress, he  was  successful  in  the  suit :  they  were 
married  in  1800.  A  very  brilliant  coui-se  awaited 
this  couple,  to  be  terminated  with  respect  to  both 
in  a  manner  singularly  unfortunate.  Title,  riches, 
and  honours,  were  showered  upon  them ;  the 
duchess  d'Abrantes  was  attached  to  the  imperial 
household,  and  no  less  favoured  by  the  ladies  of 
the  Bonaparte  family  than  her  husband  was  by 
its  chief.  Junot,  in  the  very  height  of  his  for- 
tunes, became  suddenly  a  raging  lunatic.  His 
cure  being  despaired  of,  by  the  consent  of  the  best 
physicians,  he  was  placed  in  a  celebrated  asylum 
for  the  insane  :  here  his  sole  object  appeared  self- 
destruction.  Taking  advantage  of  a  momentary 
absence  of  his  keeper,  he  violently  wrenched  away 
the  window-bolt,  and  threw  himself  out :  he  was 
taken  up  in  the  street  below,  without  a  sign  of 
life.  The  death  of  the  duke  d'Abrantes  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  destruction  of  the  empire,  and  the 
unfortunate  widow  found  herself  in  a  position 
which  combined  want  of  friends  with  want  of 
means.  It  was  then  that  she  determined  to  have 
recourse  to  literature  to  aid  her  in  the  maintenance 
and  education  of  her  family.  Her  first  work  of 
importance  was  "  Historical  Recollections  of  Na- 
poleon, the  Revolution,  the  Consulship,  the  Em- 
pire." She  has  been  charged  with  a  blind  admi- 
ration of  the  hero  of  these  scenes,  perhaps  justly  ; 
but  it  was  difficult  for  those  who  rose  through 
that  meteor's  course,  and  partook  of  its  brilliancy, 
to  preserve  cool  and  unbiassed  the  judgment.  We 
may  safely  grant  the  author  good  faith  in  all  she 
advances.  This  production  was  followed  by  va- 
rious successful  works  of  history,  biography,  tra- 
vels, and  romances.  But  for  the  descendant  of 
the  Greek  emperors,  the  authoress  of  fifty  volumes, 
the  member  of  learned  societies,  what  a  sad  end 
was  reserved!  She  had  been  for  twenty  years 
troubled  by  a  painful  malady,  to  alleviate  which 
she  indulged  in  the  use  of  opium,  and  it  is  sup- 
posed this  pernicious  drug  accelerated  the  pro- 
gress of  her  disease.  Worse  than  physical  pains, 
a  hard-hearted  creditor,  seeing  the  increasing  ill- 
ness, and  fearing  death  might  step  in  to  withdraw 
his  victim,  actually  brought  an  execution  to  her 
death-bed,  and  for  the  miserable  sum  of  four  hun- 
dred francs,  sold  the  furniture  of  her  apartment 
under  her  very  eyes.  She  had  not  yet  sunk  deep 
enough  in  misery :  it  remained  for  her  to  be  taken 
to  the  hospital  to  die !  Removed  from  splendid 
apartments,  she  was  cast  into  a  bare,  unfurnished 
cell,  and  left  to  the  cares  of  a  hireling  nurse, 
whose  venal  attentions  were  distributed  among 
many  others.  But  earthly  difficulties  were  fast 
passing  away.  On  the  night  of  the  7th  June, 
1838,  she  received  the  sacrament  from  the  hands 
of  the  archbishop  of  Paris,  who  came  to  this  hum- 
ble couch  to  administer  comfort  to  one  who  was 
the  favourite  of  his  flock.  She  died  the  next 
morning  in  the  arms  of  her  children,  in  a  state  of 
perfect  resignation,  confiding  in  the  promises  of 
the  Saviour.  She  left  four  children,  two  daugh- 
ters and  two  sons,  all  estimable,  and  worthy  of 
the  attention  their  mother  had  ever  bestowed  on 
them. 


K. 

K  AM  AM  ALU, 

(The  name  signifies  The  Shade  of  the  Lonebj 
One,)  was  the  daughter  of  Kamehameha,  king  of 
the  Sandwich  Islands,  who,  from  his  conquests 
and  character,  has  been  styled  "the  Napoleon  of 
the  Pacific."  Kamamalu  was  his  favourite  daugh- 
ter, and  he  married  her  to  his  son  and  heir,  Liho- 
liho,  who  was  born  of  a  diflFerent  mother ;  inter- 
marriages of  brother  and  sister  being  then  prac- 
tised in  those  heathen  islands. 


After  the  death  of  Kamehameha,  his  son  Liho- 
liho  succeeded  to  be  king  of  Hawaii,  and  all  the 
islands  of  the  group ;  and  Kamamalu  was  queen, 
and  his  favourite  wife,  though  he  had  four  others. 
This  was  in  1819  ;  the  following  year  was  the  ad- 
vent of  the  Gospel  and  Christian  civilization  to 
these  miserable  heatlien.  As  has  ever  been  the 
case,  women  joyfully  welcomed  the  glad  tidings 
of  hope  and  peace  and  pui'ity.  Kamamalu  was 
among  the  first  converts,  and  eagerly  embraced 
the  opportunities  for  instruction.  In  1822,  she 
was  diligently  prosecuting  her  studies,  could  read 
and  write,  and  her  example  was  of  great  influence 
in  strengthening  the  wavering  disposition  of  her 
husband,  and  finally  inducing  him  to  abandon  hit* 
debaucheries,  and  become,  as  he  said,  "a  good 
man." 

As  proof  of  the  wonderful  progress  made  by 
this  people  in  the  manners  of  civilized  life,  and 
also  marking  the  thoughtful  benevolence  of  Kama- 
malu, we  give  an  extract  from  a  valuable  work  by 
Mr.  Jarves  on  the  Hawaiian  Islands. 

"  On  the  26th  of  March,  1823,  his  majesty  held 
his  annual  festival  in  celebration  of  the  death  of 
Kamehameha  I.  On  this  occasion  he  provided  a 
dinner  in  a  rural  bower,  for  two  hundred  indivi- 
duals. The  missionaries  and  all  respectable  fo- 
reigners were  present ;  and  the  dresses  were  an 
improvement  upon  the  costune  of  the  preceding 
year.  Black  was  the  court  colour,  and  every  in- 
dividual was  required  to  be  clothed  in  its  sombre 
hue.     Kamamalu  appeared  greatly  to  advantage. 

371 


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KA 


The  company  were  all  liberally  provided  for  by 
her  attentions ;  and  even  a  party  of  sailors,  to  the 
number  of  two  hundred,  who  were  looking  on 
with  wistful  eyes,  were  served  with  refreshments." 

In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  Liholiho  de- 
termined to  visit  England  first ;  and  then  the 
United  States.  Kamamalu,  his  favourite  wife, 
(polygamy  was  not  then  abolished,)  was  selected 
to  accompany  him ;  they  left  Honolulu,  November 
27th,  1823.  The  people  were  greatly  distressed 
at  the  departure  of  their  king  and  queen.  Kama- 
malu remained  on  shore  to  the  last,  mingling  her 
tears  with  those  of  her  attendants,  to  whom  her 
amiability  and  attention  to  domestic  concerns  had 
greatly  endeared  her.  Before  stepping  into  the 
boat,  she,  after  the  manner  of  her  forefathers, 
thus  chaunted  her  farewell :  "  0 !  heaven ;  0  ! 
earth ;  0  !  mountains  ;  0  !  sea ;  0  !  my  counsel- 
lors and  my  subjects,  farewell !  0  !  thou  land  for 
which  my  father  suifered,  the  object  of  toil  which 
my  father  sought.  We  now  leave  thy  soil ;  I  fol- 
low thy  command ;  I  will  never  disregard  thy 
voice ;  I  will  walk  by  the  command  which  thou 
hast  given  me."  Royal  salutes  were  fired,  and 
the  ship  soon  disappeared  before  a  favourable 
breeze. 

They  reached  London  safely  ;  and  the  first  ap- 
peai-ance  of  Kamamalu  was  rather  novel ;  she 
wore  loose  trowsers  and  a  long  bed-gown  of  co- 
loured velveteen.  However,  the  whole  party  were 
soon  fitted  with  clothes  of  the  newest  fashion. 
Kamamalu  for  the  first  time  encircled  her  ample 
waist  in  corsets ;  and  as  she  was  really  a  fine- 
looking  woman,  and  had  an  air  of  native  majesty, 
and  was  moreover  a  queen,  many  of  the  London 
ladies  sought  patterns  of  the  turban  that  graced 
her  brow. 

This  party  of  semi-barbarians  was  flattered  and 
feasted,  and  hurried  from  one  rout  to  another, 
in  a  manner  which  their  tropical  constitutions 
could  very  ill  bear.  The  king,  Liholiho,  took  the 
measles ;  and,  in  a  few  days  afterwards,  his  wife 
Kamamalu  was  seized  with  the  same  disease. 
Liholiho  appeared  to  be  recovering  rapidly,  when 
his  wife  was  found  to  be  dying.  The  mutual  grief 
of  the  royal  couple  was  affecting.  They  held  each 
other  in  a  warm  and  protracted  embrace,  while 
the  thought  of  dying  so  early  in  their  career,  so 
far  from  their  loved  islands  and  friends,  caused 
the  tears  to  gush  freely.  In  the  evening  she  died. 
This  sad  event  so  affected  the  depressed  spirits  of 
the  king,  that  although  hopes  of  his  recovery  had 
been  entertained,  he  sank  rapidly,  and  on  the 
14th,  after  much  severe  suffering,  breathed  his 
last.  Previously  to  his  death,  he  drew  up  a  rough 
memorandum,  in  which  he  expressed  his  wish  to 
have  his  body  and  that  of  his  consort  conveyed  to 
their  native  land ;  his  personal  effects  he  distri- 
buted among  his  retinue. 

The  will  of  the  dead  was  observed ;  the  bodies 
of  Liholiho  and  Kamamalu  were  taken  to  Hono- 
lulu ;  and,  with  a  mingling  of  barbaric  pomp  and 
Christian  observances,  interi-ed. 

Kamamalu  was  about  twenty-six  years  of  age 
at  the  time  of  her  decease.  Had  her  life  been 
prolonged,  with  her  uncommon  talents  and  the 


earnest  purpose  she  manifested  of  learning  the 
true  and  doing  works  of  goodness,  she  would 
doubtless  have  been  of  great  aid  in  the  improve- 
ment of  the  people  of  Hawaii. 

K  A  P  1 0  L  A  N I 

Was  wife  of  Naihe,  hereditary  counsellor  in  the 
court  of  king  Liholiho,  at  Honolulu.  As  wife  of 
one  of  the  highest  chiefs,  Kapiolani  had  great  in- 
fluence, which  she  used  in  favour  of  the  missiona- 
ries, and  in  aid  of  the  improvement  of  the  people 
of  Hawaii.  She  did  much  to  prevent  infanticide, 
debauchery,  and  drunkenness ;  but  the  heroic  deed 
which  distinguishes  her  name  was  the  overthrow 
of  the  idolatrous  worship  of  Pele.  The  immediate 
region  around  the  crater  of  Kilauea,  being  remote 
from  all  the  mission  stations,  remained  for  several 
years  under  the  influence  of  the  priesthood  of  this 
goddess,  the  most  fearful  of  all  the  deities  of  Ha- 
waii. Sacrifices  were  there  offered,  and  the  wicked 
rites  of  heathenism  practised.  The  priests  taught 
that  whoever  insulted  the  tabu  or  withheld  the 
offerings  required,  would  be  destroyed  by  Pele, 
who  would  spout  forth  liquid  fire,  and  devour  her 
enemies ;  and  their  poor  ignorant  followers  be- 
lieved them.  But  early  in  the  year  182.5,  their 
credulity  was  staggered  by  the  boldness  of  Kapio- 
lani, who,  with  a  daring  which,  when  her  previous 
associations  are  considered,  does  her  infinite  cre- 
dit, determined  to  convince  its  votaries  of  the 
falsity  of  their  oracles.  She  visited  the  wonderful 
phenomenon  ;  reproved  the  idolaty  of  its  worship- 
pers, and  neglected  every  rite  and  observance 
which  they  had  been  taught  to  consider  as  neces- 
sary for  their  welfare.  In  vain  the  priests  launched 
their  anathemas,  and  denounced  upon  her  the  ven- 
geance of  the  offended  deity.  She  replied,  she 
feared  not ;  and  would  abide  the  test  of  daring 
Pele  in  the  recesses  of  her  domains :  the  fires  of 
the  volcano  were  the  woi-k  of  the  God  she  wor- 
shipped. Venturing  to  the  brink  of  the  abyss, 
she  descended  sevei-al  hundred  feet  toward  the 
liquid  lava,  and  after  casting  the  sacred  berries 
into  the  flames,  an  act  than  which  none  more 
sacrilegious  according  to  their  ideas  could  have 
been  done,  she  composedly  praised  Jehovah  amid 
one  of  the  most  sublime  and  terrible  of  his  works. 
There  is  a  moral  grandeur  in  this  deed,  worthy  of 
a  Christian  philosopher.  The  sincerity  of  her  faith 
could  not  have  been  put  to  a  severer  test. 

KARSCH,  ANNA  LOUISA, 
A  German  poetess,  was  born  December  1st, 
1722,  in  a  small  hamlet  called  Nammer,  on  the 
borders  of  Lower  Silesia.  Her  father  kept  an 
alehouse ;  but,  dying  before  Louisa  was  eight 
years  old,  she  was  taken  by  a  great-uncle,  re- 
siding in  Poland,  who  taught  her  to  read  and 
write. 

Having  remained  three  years  with  this  relative, 
she  returned  to  her  mother,  who  employed  her  in 
household  labour  and  in  taking  care  of  the  cows. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  Louisa  began  to  display 
her  fondness  for  intellectual  occupations ;  but  her 
mother  checked  her  inclinations  as  much  as  possi- 
ble.   When  she  was  seventeen  she  was  married  to 

372 


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a  wool-comber ;  and,  being  obliged  to  share  his 
labour,  as  well  as  attend  to  her  household,  she 
had  but  little  leisure  to  cultivate  the  muses.  She, 
nevertheless,  composed  verses  while  she  worked, 
and  on  Sunday  committed  them  to  paper.  After 
living  with  this  husband  for  eleven  years,  she  ob- 
tained a  divorce. 

Her  poverty  induced  her  to  marry  Karsch,  a 
tailor,  whose  dissipated  habits  threw  all  the  sup- 
port of  the  family  on  Louisa,  and  rendered  her 
very  unhappy.  It  was  at  this  time  that  she  first 
began  to  sell  her  poems ;  and  she  also  wandered 
about  the  country  as  an  improvisatrice.  Her  writings 
having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  several  gentlemen, 
she  was  encouraged  by  them  to  persevere.  In 
1755,  she  removed  with  her  family  to  Great  Glo- 
gau,  where,  for  the  first  time,  she  gained  access 
to  a  bookseller's  shop. 

In  1760,  she  became  acquainted  with  Baron 
Cottwitz,  a  Silesian  nobleman,  who,  travelling 
through  Glogau,  was  struck  with  her  talents ;  and, 
commiserating  her  distress,  he  t-ook  her  with  him 
to  Berlin,  and  introduced  her  to  the  circle  of  lite- 
rati, and  to  the  king,  Frederic  William  II.  Here 
she  composed  most  of  the  poems  that  were  printed 
in  her  collection. 

Several  small  pensions  were  bestowed  upon  her ; 
but  as  she  had  two  children  and  a  brother  de- 
pendent on  her,  they  proved  insufficient  for  her 
support.  Frederic  William  II.  had  a  house  built 
for  her,  and  she  was  so  anxious  to  occupy  it,  that 
she  went  into  it  before  the  walls  were  dry.  This 
imprudence  cost  her  her  life.  She  died,  October, 
1791.  Her  daughter  published  her  memoirs  and 
some  of  her  poems,  in  1792. 


V  1 


KAUFFMAN,  MARIA  ANGELICA, 
Was  born  in  1742,  at  Coire,  the  capital  of  the 
Grisons.  She  was  instructed  in  the  elements  of 
painting  by  her  father,  whose  talents  were  mode- 
rate, and  whom  she  soon  excelled.  She  loved 
music,  and  her  admiration  of  the  beautiful  was 
early  developed.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  her  father 
took  her  to  Milan,  where  her  talents  and  personal 
accomplishments  rendered  her  an  object  of  general 
admiration.     In  1764  she  went  to  Venice,  and  the 


following  year  accompanied  Lady  Wentworth,  the 
wife  of  the  British  ambassador,  to  England.  Here 
she  painted  the  whole  royal  family,  which  increased 
her  reputation  and  improved  her  circumstances ; 
and  she  was  soon  elected  a  member  of  the  royal 
academy.  In  London  she  contracted  a  most  un- 
fortunate marriage,  the  details  of  which,  from, 
their  romantic  character,  we  are  apt  to  assume, 
are  only  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  fiction.  An, 
English  artist  who  had  addressed  her  and  been 
refused,  stung  by  his  disappointment,  determined 
to  be  revenged  upon  her.  He  selected  a  very 
handsome  young  man  from  the  lowest  ranks  — 
some  say  he  was  a  footman — and  passing  him  off 
for  a  German  count,  introduced  him  into  the  house 
of  Angelica,  where  he  soon  became  a  suitor.  An- 
gelica was  deceived,  and  married  him.  The  re- 
jected artist  now  disclosed  the  deceit,  and  Angelica 
obtained  a  divorce  ;  not,  however,  without  suffer- 
ing great  ill-usage  from  her  low-minded  husband, 
who  fled,  after  robbing  her  of  three  hundred 
pounds.  Seven  years  after,  her  husband  having 
meanwhile  died,  Angelica  married  a  Venetian 
painter,  Signor  Zucchi,  with  whom  she  lived  very 
happily.  She  continued  to  retain  her  maiden 
name,  and  never  had  any  children.  Signor  Zuc- 
chi also  died  long  before  her.  Angelica  resided 
seventeen  years  in  England ;  she  then  went  to 
Rome,  where  she  devoted  herself  to  painting  till 
her  death,  in  1807.  In  1808,  her  bust  was  placed 
in  the  Pantheon.  She  left  a  select  library,  some 
beautiful  original  paintings  of  old  masters,  and  a 
considerable  fortune,  which  she  divided  among 
several  individuals  and  charitable  institutions. 
She  painted  many  portraits  and  histoi'ical  pictures, 
the  latter  chiefly  after  the  antique ;  she  treated 
poetical  subjects  in  a  fascinating  manner  that  was 
peculiarly  her  own,  drew  well,  coloured  beauti- 
fully, and  etched  in  a  spirited  style.  Her  works 
are  remarkable  for  grace,  though  the  critic  may 
discover  in  them  incorrectness  of  style  and  same- 
ness of  plan. 

KELLEY,  FRANCES  MARIA, 
Was  bom  at  Brighton,  England,  December  15th, 
1790.  Her  father  was  an  officer  in  the  navy,  and 
brother  to  Michael  Kelley,  under  whom  Frances 
studied  music  and  singing.  She  made  her  first 
appeai-ance  at  Drury  Lane,  in  1800,  and  in  1808 
was  engaged  at  the  Haymarket,  and  afterwards 
at  the  English  Opera  House,  where  she  was  very 
successful.  As  an  actress.  Miss  Kelley's  talents 
were  very  versatile.  Her  character  was  always 
irreproachable. 

KERALIO,  MADAME  DE, 
Was  born  at  Paris,  in  1758.  She  is  known 
principally  as  a  translator  of  several  works  from 
the  English  and  Italian.  She  also  wrote  a  volu- 
minous "  History  of  Queen  Elizabeth,"  several 
novels,  and  edited  a  collection  of  the  best  French 
works  composed  by  women. 

KILLIGREW,    ANNE, 

"  A  Grace  for  beauty,  and  a  Muse  for  wit,"  as 
Wood  says,  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Henry  Killi- 


KI 


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grew,  one  of  the  prebendaries  of  Westminster,  and 
born  in  London,  a  little  before  the  restoration  of 
Charles  II.  She  showed  indications  of  genius 
very  early,  which  being  carefully  cultivated,  she 
became  eminent  in  the  arts  of  poetry  and  painting. 
She  painted  a  portrait  of  the  duke  of  York,  after- 
wards James  II.,  and  also  of  the  duchess,  to  whom 
she  was  maid  of  honour.  She  also  painted  some 
historical  pictures  and  some  pieces  of  still-life,  for 
her  own  amusement.  She  was  a  woman  of  exem- 
plary piety  and  virtue.  Dryden  speaks  of  her  in 
the  highest  terms,  and  wrote  a  long  ode  to  her 
memory.  She  died  of  the  small-pox,  June,  1685, 
in  lier  twenty-fifth  year.  She  was  buried  in  the 
Savoy  Chapel. 

KILLIGREW,    CATHARINE, 

Daughter  of  Sir  Anthony  Cooke,  was  born  at 
Giddy-hall,  in  Essex,  about  1530;  and  married 
Kenry  Killigrew,  Esq.,  a  Cornish  gentleman,  who 
was  knighted,  for  the  good  service  he  did  his 
country  when  an  ambassador.  This  lady,  having 
an  excellent  education,  and  much  natural  talent, 
became,  like  many  other  women  of  her  time,  very 
learned.  She  understood  Hebrew,  Greek,  and 
Latin,  and  was  famous  for  her  poetical  skill.  The 
following  lines  were  addressed  to  her  sister  Mil- 
dred, Lady  Burleigh ;  the  subject  of  this  poem 
has  never  been  fully  ascertained — whether  a  lover, 
a  husband,  or  a  friend,  was  the  happy  person  for 
whom  the  lady  pleaded.  Dr.  Fuller  thinks  the  lines 
refer  to  Sir  Henry  Killegrew,  when  about  to  be 
sent  ambassador  to  France,  which,  as  the  times 
were  troublesome,  was  not  a  desirable  mission. 

LINES    TO    MILDRED    CECIL. 

Si  miliiii)  qiiem  cupio  cures,  Mildreda,  reinitti, 

Tu  bona,  tu  melior,  tu  mihi  sola  soror: 

Sin  male  cessanilo  retines.  et  trans  mare  mittis, 

Tu  mala,  tu  pejnr,  tu  niilii  nulla  soror. 

Is  si  Cornubia,  tibi  pax  sit  et  omnia  laeta  ; 

Sin  mare,  Cicilia;  nuncio  bella.     Vale. 

Translation. 

If  Mildred,  to  my  wishes  kind, 

Thy  valued  charee  tliou  send. 
In  tliee  my  soul  shall  hold  combined 

The  sister  and  the  friend. 
If  from  my  eyes  by  thee  detained 

The  wanderer  cross  the  seas, 
No  more  thy  love  shall  soothe  as  friend. 

No  more  as  sister  please. 
His  stay  let  Cornwall's  shore  engage; 

And  peace  with  Mildred  dwell! 
Else  war  with  Cecil's  name  I  wage, 

Perpetual  war !— Farewell. 

KINGSTON,  ELIZABETH,  DUCHESS  OF, 
Daughter  of  Colonel  Chudleigh,  governor  of 
Chelsea  college,  England,  was  born  in  1720.  On 
her  father's  death,  as  she  was  left  without  ade- 
quate provision,  her  friends  obtained  for  her  the 
post  of  maid  of  honour  to  the  princess  of  Wales, 
mother  of  George  III.  Her  wit  and  beauty  made 
her  very  much  admired,  and  the  duke  of  Hamilton 
proposed  to  her.  But  while  he  was  on  the  conti- 
nent, and  Miss  Chudleigh  was  visiting  her  aunt, 
Mrs.  Hanmer,  she  was  induced,  August  4th,  1744, 
to  marry,  privately.  Captain  Hervey,  a  naval  offi- 
cer, afterwards  earl  of  Bristol.     She  soon  con- 


ceived a  violent  dislike  to  her  husband,  heightened 
by  the  discovery  that  she  had  been  deceived  about 
the  duke  of  Hamilton,  and  the  marriage  was  never 
acknowledged.  Wishing  to  destroy  all  record  of 
her  union  with  Captain  Hervey,  she  contrived  to 
tear  the  leaf  out  of  the  parish  register  in  which 
her  marriage  was  entered  ;  but  after  he  became 
earl  of  Bristol  she  had  it  replaced.  When  the 
duke  of  Kingston  made  her  a  proposal  of  marriage, 
she  endeavoured  to  obtain  Lord  Bristol's  consent 
to  a  divorce,  and  at  length  succeeded,  and  mar- 
ried, March  8th,  1769,  Evelyn  Pierrepont,  duke 
of  Kingston,  who  left  her,  at  his  death,  in  1773, 
his  immense  fortune.  The  heirs  of  the  duke  had 
her  arrested  for  bigamy,  as  having  been  divorced 
by  an  incompetent  tribunal.  She  was  tried  before 
the  house  of  lords,  and  found  guilty ;  but  on  her 
pleading  the  privilege  of  peerage,  she  was  dis- 
charged, on  paying  the  fees  of  the  office.  Her 
fortune  was  not  aff"ected  by  the  sentence.  She 
went  abroad,  and  died  near  Fontainebleau,  in 
France,  August  28th,  1788. 

KIRCH,    MARY   MARGARET, 

Of  Leipsic,  Germany,  was  the  daughter  of 
Matthias  Winkelman,  a  Lutheran  divine.  She 
married,  in  1692,  Godfrey  Kirch,  an  eminent  as- 
tronomer, of  Luben,  in  Lower  Lusatia,  who,  when 
appointed  royal  astronomer,  in  1700,  in  the  aca- 
demy of  sciences  at  Berlin,  found  in  his  wife  an 
intelligent  assistant,  and  an  able  calculator.  She 
discovered,  in  1702,  a  comet;  and,  in  1707,  she 
observed  that  remarkable  Aurora  Borealis  which 
the  astronomers  of  Europe  noticed  in  their  me- 
moirs. The  husband  died  in  1710,  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  his  wife  published  "A  Discourse  on 
the  approaching  Conjunction  of  Jupiter,  Saturn, 
&c."  She  was  equally  eminent  for  her  private 
virtues  as  for  her  talents,  and  died  at  Berlin,  in 
1720,  aged  fifty. 

KIRCHGESSNER,    MARIANNE, 

Was  born,  1770,  at  Bruchsal.  The  loss  of  her 
eye-sight,  in  her  fourth  year,  by  the  small-pox, 
seemed  rather  to  have  augmented  than  lessened 
her  talent  for  music.  In  the  sixth  year  of  her 
age,  she  astonished  her  auditors  by  her  execution 
on  the  piano.  Taught  by  Schmittbaur,  in  Carlsruhe, 
she  made  the  most  extraordinary  progress.  In 
company  with  Mr.  Bassler  (her  biographer)  she 
travelled,  in  her  tenth  year,  over  Germany,  where 
she  received  everywhere,  great  applause ;  and, 
1794,  she  went  to  London.  Her  abode  there,  of 
three  years,  besides  the  perfecting  of  her  art,  was 
useful  to  her  on  account  of  her  eye-sight  having 
become  partly  restored.  In  November,  1796,  she 
visited  Copenhagen,  and  went  from  thence  to  St. 
Petersburg ;  and  after  having  gained  just  appro- 
bation and  well-merited  reward  in  all  these  places, 
she  chose  the  beautiful  village  of  Gahles,  near 
Leipsic,  for  her  dwelling-place.  She  remained 
there  until  1807,  in  the  society  of  her  friend,  Mr. 
Bassler,  when  she  intended  to  go  back  to  her  na- 
tive country  ;  but  at  Schaffhausen  she  experienced 
a  violent  attack  of  fever,  of  which  she  died,  on  the 
9th  of  December,  in  her  thirty-eighth  year. 

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KLOPSTOCK,  MARGARET, 
or  MET  A, 
AViiosE  maiden  name  was  Moller,  was  born  in 
Hamburg,  March  19th,  1728.  In  1751,  the  famous 
Frederic  Gottleib  Klopstock  became  acquainted 
with  this  young  enthusiastic  German  maiden.  The 
story  of  their  courtship  and  marriage  has  been 
told  by  the  lady  herself;  any  abridgement  would 
mar  its  beautiful  simplicity ;  even  its  imperfect 
English  has  the  charm  of  truth ;  it  is  like  the 
Usping,  stammering  language  of  a  child,  who  is 
only  earnest  to  make  you  understand  its  feelings, 
and  caring  nothing  for  the  criticism  its  language 
may  cause.  These  letters  of  Mrs.  Klopstock  were 
addressed  to  Richardson  the  novelist,  author  of 
Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

Hamburg,  March  14th,  1758. 
-:f  *  *  -*  * 

You  will  know  all  that  concerns  me.  Love, 
dear  sir,  is  all  what  me  concerns !  and  love  shall 
be  all  what  I  will  tell  you  in  this  letter. 

In  one  happy  night  I  read  my  husband's  poem, 
the  Messiah.  I  was  extremely  touched  with  it. 
The  next  day  I  asked  one  of  his  friends,  who  was 
the  author  of  this  poem  ?  and  this  was  the  first 
time  I  heard  Klopstock's  name.  I  believe,  I  fell 
immediately  in  love  with  him.  At  the  least,  my 
thoughts  were  ever  with  him  filled,  especially  be- 
cause his  friend  told  me  very  much  of  his  charac- 
ter. But  I  had  no  hopes  ever  to  see  him,  when 
quite  unexpectedly  I  heard  that  he  should  pass 
through  Hamburg.  I  wrote  immediately  to  the 
same  friend,  for  procuring  by  his  means  that  I 
might  see  the  author  of  the  Messiah,  when  in 
Hamburg.  He  told  him  that  a  certain  girl  at 
Hamburg  wished  to  see  him,  and,  for  all  recom- 
mendation, showed  him  some  letters,  in  which  I 
made  bold  to  criticise  Klopstock's  verses.  Klop- 
stock came,  and  came  to  me.  I  must  confess,  that, 
though  greatly  prepossessed  of  his  qualities,  I 
never  thought  him  the  amiable  youth  whom  I 
found  him.     This  made  its  eiFect. 

After  having  seen  him  two  hours,  I  was  obliged 
to  pass  the  evening  in  a  company,  which  had  never 
been  so  wearisome  to  me.  I  could  not  speak,  I 
could  not  play  ;  I  thought  I  saw  nothing  but  Klop- 
stock. I  saw  him  the  next  day,  and  the  following, 
and  we  were  very  seriously  friends.  But  the  fourth 
day  he  departed.  It  was  an  strong  hour  the  hour 
of  his  departure !  He  wrote  soon  after,  and  from 
that  time  our  correspondence  began  to  be  a  very 
diligent  one.  I  sincerely  believed  my  love  to  be 
friendship.  I  spoke  with  my  friends  of  nothing 
but  Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters.  They 
I'allied  at  me  and  said  I  was  in  love.  I  rallied 
them  again,  and  said  that  they  must  have  a  very 
friendshipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  of  friend- 
ship to  a  man  as  well  as  to  a  woman.  Thus  it 
continued  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in 
me.  I  perceived  it  likewise,  but  I  would  not  be- 
lieve it.  At  the  last  Klopstock  said  plainly  that 
he  loved,  and  I  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I 
answered,  that  it  was  no  love,  but  fiiendsliip,  as 


it  was  what  I  felt  for  him ;  we  had  not  seen  one 
another  enough  to  love.  (As  if  love  must  have 
more  time  than  friendship:)  This  was  sincerely 
my  meaning,  and  I  had  this  meaning  till  Klopstock 
came  again  to  Hamburg.  This  he  did  a  year  after 
we  had  seen  one  another  the  first  time.  AVe  saw, 
we  were  friends,  we  loved ;  and  we  believed  that 
we  loved ;  and  a  short  time  after  I  could  even  tell 
Klopstock  that  I  loved.  But  we  were  obliged  to 
part  again  and  wait  two  years  for  our  wedding. 
My  mother  would  not  let  marry  me  a  stranger.  I 
could  marry  then  without  her  consentment,  as  by 
the  death  of  my  father  my  fortune  depended  not 
on  her  ;  but  this  was  an  horrible  idea  for  me  ;  and 
thank  heaven  that  I  have  prevailed  by  prayers. 
At  this  time,  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as 
her  lifely  son,  and  thanks  God  that  she  has  not 
persisted.  We  married,  and  I  am  the  happiest 
wife  in  the  world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be 
four  years  that  I  am  so  happy,  and  still  I  dote 
upon  Klopstock  as  if  he  was  my  bridegroom. 
***** 
He  is  good,  really  good,  in  all  his  actions,  in  all 
the  foldings  of  his  heart.  I  know  him  ;  and  some- 
times I  think  if  we  knew  others  in  the  same  man- 
ner, the  better  we  should  find  them.  For  it  may 
be  that  an  action  displeases  us  which  would  please 
us,  if  we  knew  its  true  aim  and  whole  extent.  No 
one  of  my  friends  is  so  happy  as  I  am ;  but  no 
one  has  had  courage  to  marry  as  I  did :  They 
have  man-ied  —  as  people  marry ;  and  they  are 
happy  —  as  people  are  happy. 

Hamburg,  August  26,  1758. 

Why  think  you.  Sir,  that  I  answer  so  late  ?  I 
will  tell  you  my  reasons.  Have  not  you  guessed 
that  I,  summing  up  all  my  happinesses,  and  not 
speaking  of  children,  had  none  ?  Yes,  Sir,  this 
has  been  my  only  wish  ungratified  for  these  four 
years.  But  thanks,  thanks  to  God !  I  am  in  full 
hope  to  be  a  mother  in  the  month  of  November. 
The  little  preparations  for  my  child  (and  they  are 
so  dear  to  me)  have  taken  so  much  time,  that  I 
could  not  answer  your  letter,  nor  give  you  the 
promised  scenes  of  the  Messiah.  This  is  likewise 
the  reason  wherefore  I  am  still  here ;  for  properly 
we  dwell  in  Copenhagen.  Our  staying  here  is  only 
on  a  visit  (but  a  long  one)  which  we  pay  m}'  famil3\ 
My  husband  has  been  obliged  to  make  a  little  visit 
alone  to  Copenhagen,  I  not  being  able  to  travel 
yet.  He  is  yet  absent  —  a  cloud  over  my  happi- 
ness !  He  will  soon  return  —  But  what  does  tbo-t 
help  ?  he  is  yet  equally  absent !  We  write  to  each 
other  every  post  —  but  what  are  letters  to  pre- 
sence ?  But  I  will  speak  no  more  of  this  little 
cloud  ;  I  will  only  tell  my  happiness !  But  I  can- 
not tell  how  I  rejoice !  A  son  of  my  dear  Klop- 
stock !  Oh,  when  shall  I  have  him !  It  is  long 
since  I  made  the  remark  that  the  children  of 
geniuses  are  not  geniuses.  No  children  at  all,  bad 
sons,  or,  at  the  most,  lovely  daughters,  like  you 
and  Milton.  But  a  daughter  or  a  son,  only  with  a 
good  heart,  without  genius,  I  will  nevertheless 
love  dearly. 

This  is  no  letter,  but  only  a  newspaper  of  your 
Ilamburir  daughter.     When  I  have  iHy  husband 

876 


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and  my  child,  I  will  write  you  more,  (if  God  gives 
me  health  and  life.)  You  will  think  that  I  shall 
be  not  a  mother  only,  but  a  nurse  also  ;  though  the 
latter  (thank  God  !  that  the  former  is  not  so  too) 
is  quite  against  fashion  and  good  manners,  and 
though  nobody  can  think  it  possible  to  be  always 
with  the  child  at  home.  M.  Klopstock. 

But  these  hopes  were  never,  in  this  life,  to  be 
realized ;  the  mother  and  babe  both  died  ;  —  and 
the  poor  bereaved  husband  and  father  was  left 
desolate !  In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  Klopstock  de- 
scribes the  manner  of  her  death  and  their  last 
parting.  After  having  prayed  with  her  for  a  long 
time,  he  said,  as  he  bent  over  her,  "  Be  my  guar- 
dian angel,  if  God  permits."  "You  have  ever 
been  mine,"  she  replied.  And  when  with  stifled 
voice  he  again  repeated,  "  If  God  permits,  be  my 
guardian  angel !"  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  full 
of  love,  and  said,  "Ah,  who  would  not  be  your 
guardian  angel !" 

Just  before  she  died,  she  said,  with  the  serene 
smile  of  an  angel,  "My  love,  you  will  follow 
me !" 

Some  time  after  her  decease,  Klopstock  pub- 
lished her  writings,  which  are,  "Letters  from  the 
Dead  to  the  Living;"  "The  Death  of  Abel,"  a 
tragedy ;  and  several  small  poems.  Her  husband 
says  that  these  were  written  entirely  for  her  own 
amusement,  and  that  she  always  blushed  and  was 
very  much  embarrassed  whenever  he  found  her 
writing,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  what  she  had 
done.  He  says,  too,  "  that  her  taste  was  correct, 
and  highly  cultivated,  and  that  her  criticisms  upon 
his  poetry  were  always  extremely  apt  and  judi- 
cious ;  he  knew  instantly  by  her  countenance, 
whether  his  thoughts  pleased  her ;  and  so  perfect 
was  their  sympathy,  that  their  souls  could  hold 
delightful  communion  almost  without  the  aid  of 
language." 

KOERTEN,   JOANNA, 

A  CELBBEATED  Dutch  artist,  was  born  at  Am- 
sterdam, iu  1650.  She  man-ied  Adrian  Block, 
and  arrived  at  great  excellence  in  drawing,  paint- 
ing, and  embroidery.  She  also  modelled  in  wax, 
made  artificial  ornaments,  and  flowers;  but  her 
principal  excellence  was  in  cutting  figures  out  of 
paper  with  the  scissors ;  and  her  portraits  and 
landscapes  in  this  way  were  so  celebrated,  that 
foreigners  visited  Amsterdam  to  see  them,  amongst 
whom  was  Peter  the  Great,  of  Russia.  Sea-pieces, 
animals,  architecture,  and  still-lifo,  were  her  fa- 
vourite subjects ;  but  she  also  cut  portraits  on 
paper  with  as  striking  a  resemblance  as  if  they 
had  been  painted  by  the  ablest  artists.  The  elec- 
tor-palatine offered  her  one  thousand  florins  for 
three  small  pictures  of  her  cutting,  which  she  re- 
fused as  insufficient.  At  the  request  of  the  em- 
peror of  Germany,  she  designed  a  trophy  with  the 
arms  of  the  empire,  ornamented  with  laurel  crowns, 
wreaths  of  flowers,  and  other  suitable  designs, 
which  she  executed  with  gi-eat  correctness  of 
drawing  and  wonderful  beauty.  The  empress 
gave  her  for  it  four  thousand  florins.  She  also 
cut  the  emperor's  portrait,  which  is  hung  up  in 


the  imperial  cabinet  at  Vienna.    She  died  in  1715, 
aged  sixty-five. 

KO  NIGS  MARK,    MARIE    AURORE, 

COUNTESS  OF, 
One  of  the  numerous  mistresses  of  Augustus  II., 
king  of  Poland  and  elector  of  Saxony,  was  born  in 
1678.  She  was  descended  from  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  Brandenburg,  and  was  a  woman  of 
great  beauty  and  talents,  and  of  uncommon  politi- 
cal abilities.  Thoroughly  educated,  she  spoke 
several  languages,  played  on  various  instruments, 
composed  music,  and  sang  and  painted  with  great 
skill ;  she  also  excelled  in  conversation.  In  1678 
she  went  to  Dresden,  and,  at  first  sight,  Augustus 
fell  in  love  with  her.  She  rejected  his  overtures 
for  some  time,  but  at  last  yielded,  and  l>ecame  the 
mother  of  the  famous  Marshal  Saxe.  When  the 
love  of  Augustus  declined,  the  countess  of  Konigs- 
mark  conducted  herself  so  discreetly  that  he  al- 
ways remained  her  friend.  By  his  influence  she 
was  appointed  superintendent  of  Quedlinberg,  in 
1700,  where  she  remained  till  her  death,  in  1728. 
She  was  beloved  by  all  around  her,  and  was  very 
kind  to  the  poor. 

KRUDENER,   JULIANNA,   BARONESS 
OF   VALERIA, 

Was  born  in  Riga,  about  1776.  Her  father. 
Baron  Vietinghoff",  one  of  the  richest  landed  pro- 
prietors in  Courland,  gave  her  a  careful  education. 
When  a  young  girl,  her  parents  took  her  to  Paris, 
where  her  father's  house  was  the  resort  of  men 
of  talents  ;  and  her  wit,  beauty,  and  cheerfulness, 
were  much  admired.  In  her  fourteenth  year,  she 
was  married  to  Baron  Kriidener,  a  Livonian,  about 
thirty-six  years  old.  She  accompanied  her  hus- 
band to  Copenhagen  and  Venice,  where  he  was 
Russian  minister.  In  these  places,  and  in  St. 
Petersburg,  Madame  Kriidener,  placed  by  rank 
and  wealth  in  the  first  circles,  was  one  of  their 
most  brilliant  ornaments.  She  was  surrounded 
by  admirers  of  her  talents  and  beauty ;  but  she 
was  not  happy.  She  became  the  mother  of  two 
children ;  but  her  natural  liveliness  of  tempera- 
ment, and  the  allurements  of  the  world,  led  her 
into  levities  which  finally  caused  a  divorce  from 
her  husband.  In  1791  she  returned  to  her  father'? 
house,  in  Riga,  where  she  was  considered  one  of 
the  most  amiable  and  accomplished  ladies,  with  a 
feeling  heart  and  lively  imagination.  But  Riga 
did  not  satisfy  her,  and  she  lived  alternately  at 
Paris  and  St.  Petersburg.  Her  love  of  amusements 
involved  her,  in  both  places,  in  many  difliculties. 
In  the  midst  of  these,  she  wrote  a  novel,  of  which 
she  had  formed  the  plan  at  an  earlier  period  — 
"Valerie  ou  Lettres  de  Gustave  de  Linar  a  Erneste 
de  G." — in  which  she  delineated  certain  scenes  of 
her  own  life.  The  disasters  of  Prussia  arrived ; 
and  Madame  Kriidener,  being  then  about  the  per- 
son of  the  queen  of  Prussia,  and  participating  in 
her  affliction,  turned  her  miud  from  the  pleasures 
of  the  world  to  the  subject  of  religion,  though, 
perhaps,  little  change  may  have  been  produced  in 
the  essentials  of  her  character.  Ambition,  a  lively 
sensibility,  and  love  of  excitement,  seem  to  have 

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remained  the  great  springs  of  her  actions.  She 
was  now  attracted  by  the  principles  of  the  Mora- 
vians. She  went  again  to  Paris,  where  she  found 
many  disciples,  chiefly  among  those  who,  having 
been  accustomed  to  live  on  excitements  from  early 
youth,  and  having  become  sickened  with  those  of 
fashionable  life,  turn  with  pleasure  to  those  of 
devotion.  On  the  commencement  of  the  war  of 
the  northern  powers  against  Napoleon,  Madame 
Kriidener  went  to  Geneva.  She  began  to  believe 
herself  called  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  poor ; 
and  therefore  visited  the  prison  at  Heidelberg, 
and  preached  to  the  criminals  condemned  to  death. 
In  1814  she  returned  to  Paris,  where  she  became 
acquainted  with  Alexander,  the  emperor  of  Rus- 
sia, who  had  already  shown  a  disposition  to  reli- 
gious contemplations,  and  upon  whom  her  conver- 
sation had  great  influence.  In  Paris  she  had 
prayer-meetings,  attended  by  distinguished  person- 
ages, where  she  was  seen  in  the  back-ground  of  a 
suite  of  rooms,  in  tlie  dress  of  a  priestess,  kneeling 
in  prayer.  It  is  very  generally  believed  that  her 
conversations  with  Alexander  were  mainly  instru- 
mental in  suggesting  the  idea  of  the  holy  alliance : 
it  is  certain  that  in  her  later  sermons  she  held  it  iip 
almost  as  a  new  covenant.  In  1815  she  went  to 
Bale,  where  a  small  community  of  devoxit  mystics 
was  already  collected.  Here  a  young  clergyman 
of  Geneva  followed  her,  and  preached  in  the 
prayer-meetings  which  the  baroness  held  every 
evening.  Women  and  girls  went  in  numbers  to 
these  meetings,  and  gave  liberally  to  the  poor, 
often  to  a  degree  much  beyond  what  they  could 
aflFord.  These  meetings  had  a  very  bad  moral 
effect.  Cases  were  reported  which  excited  great 
scandal,  and  a  preacher  named  Fiisch  finally  de- 
nounced the  priestess.  The  magistracy  of  Bale 
obliged  her  to  leave  the  city.  She  experienced 
the  same  treatment  at  Lorrach,  Aaran,  and  other 
places ;  yet,  according  to  the  common  course  of 
things,  the  number  of  her  followers  increased, 
particularly  among  young  females.  At  the  same 
time,  she  carried  on  an  extensive  correspondence, 
and  money  was  sent  to  her  from  great  distances. 
In  1816,  with  her  daughter,  she  went  to  reside 
not  far  from  Bale,  in  Baden.  Here  she  assembled 
many  poor  people,  great  numbers  of  whom  were 
vagabonds,  whom  she  provided  with  food  and  lodg- 
ings without  labour.  These  were  very  ready  to 
profit  by  the  kindness  of  the  benevolent  lady,  who 
preached  against  the  cold-heartedness  of  the  rich 
as  the  source  of  all  evil.  The  public  peace  was 
so  mvich  disturbed  by  these  proceedings,  that  her 
place  of  residence  was  surrounded  by  soldiers,  in 
1817,  and  her  disciples  carried  away  to  Lorrach. 
She  wrote,  in  consequence,  a  remarkable  letter  to 
the  minister  at  Carlsruhe,  in  which  she  spoke  of 
the  "  desert  of  civilization"  through  which  she  was 
obliged  to  wander,  and  reminded  him  of  the  law 
of  God,  requiring  the  authorities  to  take  care  of 
the  poor.  She  now  travelled  about,  preaching  in 
the  open  air,  often  surrounded  by  thousands  of 
people,  and  giving  bountifully  to  the  poor.  Wher- 
ever she  arrived,  she  was  under  the  surveillance 
of  the  police.  In  Leipsic,  police  ofiicers  were 
even  placed  at  her  door,  so  that  nobody  could  be 


admitted  to  see  her.  At  length  the  police  trans- 
ported her  to  the  Russian  frontier,  where  she  re- 
ceived orders  not  to  go  to  Moscow  or  to  St.  Peters- 
burg. In  1824,  she  went  with  her  daughter  and 
her  son-in-law  to  the  Crimea,  and  died  there  the 
same  year,  December  13th,  at  Karafubasar.  She 
appears  to  have  been  an  amiable  enthusiast,  pour- 
ing out  pious  effusions,  mingled  with  arrogant 
prophecies ;  and  is  one  of  the  many  instances 
where  ardent  zeal  and  good  intention  (for  it  is 
probable  that  she  considered  herself  to  be  doing 
right)  are  by  no  means  sufficient  to  render  one 
capable  of  effecting  a  great  reformation. 


LABBE,  LOUISE,  (LA  BELLE  CORDIERE), 

Was  born  in  Lyons,  in  1525  or  1526.  Her  fa- 
ther, Pierre  Chardin,  surnamed  Labb^,  was  a  rope- 
maker  or  seller.  He  had  her  carefully  instructed 
in  the  Greek,  Latin,  Spanish,  and  Italian  lan- 
guages, and  also  in  riding  and  military  exercises. 
She  was  fond  of  music,  hunting,  and  war.  Her 
boldness  was  increased  by  the  example  of  the  he- 
roines of  her  own  time.  Before  she  was  sixteen, 
she  went  to  Perpignan,  in  the  army  of  the  young 
dauphin,  where,  under  the  name  of  Captain  Loys, 
she  showed  great  valour.  Among  the  numerous 
admirers  attracted  by  her  beauty,  her  talents,  and 
her  courage,  a  young  warrior,  whose  name  is  un- 
known, inspired  her  with  a  lasting  passion. 

Louise  Labbe  married  Ennemond  Perrin,  a 
wealthy  rope-seller,  by  which  she  was  enabled  to 
devote  herself  entirely  to  her  literary  tastes.  Her 
house,  near  Lyons,  became  the  resort  of  men  of 
letters,  and  persons  of  distinction.  In  these  so- 
cieties, where  Louise  was  the  presiding  genius, 
every  thing  was  collected  that  could  gratify  the 
understanding,  delight  the  imagination,  or  capti- 
vate the  senses.  The  charms,  talents,  and  assem- 
blies of  La  belle  Cordiere,  excited  jealousy,  and 
provoked  scandal  in  the  society  of  Lyons.  Her 
writings,  too,  sometimes  voluptuous,  and  some- 
times satirical,  afforded  new  provocation  for  cen- 
sure, for  which  her  conduct  gave  suspicion  if  not 
proof. 

The  most  celebrated  of  her  works  is  a  fiction 
entitled  "  Debat  de  Folic  et  d'Amour ;"  it  is  dedi- 
cated to  her  illustrious  friend  Clemence  de  Bourges. 
This  piece  is  full  of  wit,  originality,  and  beauty. 
Erasmus  and  La  Fontaine  were  both  indebted  to 
it ;  the  first,  for  the  idea  of  "  The  Praise  of  Folly," 
and  the  last,  for  "  L'Amour  et  la  Folie."  In 
truth,  La  Fontaine's  poem  is  only  a  versification 
of  the  prose  story  of  Louise  Labb6.  Her  elegies 
and  sonnets  are  highly  esteemed  by  the  French. 

We  may  find  some  excuse  for  her  conduct  in  the 
character  of  the  age,  when  gallantry  was  not  con- 
sidered dishonourable ;  and  she  herself  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  agreeable  and  distinguished, 
but  licentious  men.  Her  generosity,  her  taste  for 
learning,  and  her  acquirements,  so  extraordinary 
for  the  times,  effaced  this  stain  in  the  eyes  of 

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most  of  her  contemporaries,  as  we  leai-n  from  tri- 
butes of  esteem  paid  her.  The  street  in  Lyons 
where  her  house  was  situated  was  called  after  her, 
and  still  bears  the  name  of  La  Belle  Cordiere.  The 
charm  of  her  conversation,  her  accomplishments, 
her  talents,  the  verses  which  she  composed  and 
sung  to  the  lute,  contributed  to  fascinate  her  ad- 
mirers to  the  end  of  her  life.     She  died  in  1566. 


LABROUSE,  CLOTILDE  SUZETTE 
COURCELLES, 

A  CELEBRATED  French  visionary,  was  born  May 
8th,  1747,  of  respectable  parents,  in  the  town  of 
Vauxains,  in  Perigord,  in  the  department  of  Dor- 
dogne.  From  the  age  of  four  she  displayed  deep 
religious  fervour,  and  her  greatest  happiness  was 
in  the  performance  of  her  religious  duties,  to 
which,  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances  of  her 
mother,  and  the  raillery  of  her  young  companions, 
she  devoted  the  most  of  her  time.  From  her  ear- 
liest years  she  regarded  herself  as  an  especial  in- 
strument to  make  known  the  will  of  God.  She 
fasted,  wore  a  girdle  lined  with  sharp  points,  slept 
on  the  floor  in  winter,  cut  off  her  beautiful  hair, 
and  gave  up  music,  of  which  she  was  very  fond. 
She  had  ofters  of  marriage,  from  a  young  man  of 
great  piety  and  immense  fortune,  whom  she  liked, 
but  refused  to  marry,  as  she  said  an  internal  voice 
commanded  her  to  do,  that  she  might  not  fail  in 
the  great  mission  which  had  devolved  on  her. 

Her  strongest  desire  was  to  travel  to  convert 
mankind,  but  this  she  was  prevented  from  doing 
till  1779;  she  hen  escaped  from  her  home,  and 
aiTived  safely  in  Paris,  where  she  passed  some 
time  under  the  protection  of  the  Duchess  de  Bour- 
bon. Here  she  was  visited  by  all  classes  of  people, 
and  regarded  as  a  prophetess.  She  predicted 
various  events,  and  carried  on  a  profound  argu- 
ment with  the  Abbe  Maury,  in  which  she  came 
oif  victorious.  Leaving  Paris,  where  she  had  been 
very  successful,  she  returned  to  Perigord,  and 
went  from  there  to  Rome,  to  convert  the  pope  and 
cardinals  "  to  the  princiiDles  of  liberty  and  equa- 
lity ;  of  the  civil  constitution  of  the  clergy ;  and 
to  pei'suade  the  pope  to  abdicate  his  temjjoral 
power."  Suzette  preached  at  the  dilferent  places 
through  which  she  passed ;  but  when  she  reached 
Boulogne,  in  October,  1792,  she  was  ordered  by 
the  pope's  legate  to  leave  the  city.  She  took  re- 
fuge in  Viterbo ;  but  the  pope  had  her  seized,  and 
confined  in  the  castle  of  San  Angelo.  She  was 
not  ill-treated,  however ;  and  when  the  Directory, 
in  179G,  requested  her  liberation,  she  replied  that 
she  did  not  wish  to  leave  Italy  till  1800,  when  she 
had  predicted  that  there  would  be  a  sign  in  hea- 
ven which  would  open  the  eyes  of  the  pope  him- 
self. But  when  the  French  took  Rome,  in  1798, 
she  returned  to  Paris,  where  she  was  surrounded 
by  a  number  of  disciples,  although  the  year  1800 
passed  without  the  sign.  Her  followers,  many 
of  whom  were  learned  men,  remained  steadfast, 
however,  and  Suzette  continued  to  have  visions 
till  she  was  seventy-four.  She  died  in  1821. 
Pontard,  bishop  of  Paris,  remained  faithful  to  her 
to  the  last. 


LACOMBE,    ROSE, 

One  of  the  terrible  heroines  or  rather  furies 
of  the  French  revolution,  born  about  1768,  was 
an  actress  of  high  reputation,  and  very  beautiful. 
She  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  that  crowd  of  fero- 
cious women  who  attacked  the  Hotel-de-Ville,  and 
obliged  the  king  and  his  family  to  return  from 
Versailles  to  Paris.  She  founded  a  club  of  women, 
in  which  she  was  the  chief  speaker ;  and  joined  in 
the  attack  on  the  Tuilleries,  in  which  she  showed 
such  intrepidity,  that  the  city  of  Marseilles  de- 
creed to  her  a  civic  crown.  She  entered  with  her 
whole  soul  into  all  the  scenes  of  savage  cruelty 
which  disgraced  those  times.  After  having  been 
the  recognised  leader  and  orator  of  the  republican 
women  for  some  time,  she  suddenly  lost  nearly  all 
her  influence  by  falling  violently  in  love  with,  and 
endeavouring  with  her  usual  reckless  impetuosity, 
to  save,  but  in  vain,  a  young  nobleman  who  was 
imprisoned. 

The  latter  part  of  her  life  was  passed  in  a  small 
shop,  where  she  gained  her  livelihood  by  the  sale 
of  petty  articles.  The  time  or  manner  of  her  death 
is  not  known. 

LAFAYETTE,    MADAME, 

Belonged  to  the  noble  family  of  Noailles,  and 
was  married,  when  quite  young,  to  General  La- 
fayette. When,  in  1793,  he  was  imprisoned  at 
Olmutz  by  the  Austrians,  she  was  confined  in  Paris, 
and  only  saved  from  the  guillotine  by  the  death  of 
Robespierre.  The  first  use  she  made  of  her  free- 
dom was  to  proceed  to  Vienna,  where,  through  the 
compassion  of  prince  de  Rossenberg,  she  succeed- 
ed in  obtaining  an  audience  of  the  emperor.  She 
pleaded  earnestly  for  the  release  of  her  husband  on 
the  grounds  of  common  justice  and  humanity,  and 
urged  her  strong  desire  to  see  him  restored  to  his 
family.  The  emperor  said  it  was  out  of  his  power 
to  grant  her  request,  but  he  was  willing  she  and 
her  two  daughters,  (then  about  twelve  and  fifteen 
years  of  age.)  should  enliven  the  prisoner  by  taking 
up  their  abode  with  him.  This  indulgence  was 
gratefully  accepted,  and  the  long-separated  friends 
were  restored  to  each  other. 

]\Iadame  Lafayette  was  deeply  afi'ected  at  the 
emaciated  figure  and  pale  countenance  of  her  hus- 
band. She  found  him  sufl'ering  under  annoyances 
much  worse  than  she  had  feared. 

She  wished  to  write  to  the  emperor ;  but  this 
was  refused.  She  made  applications  for  redress 
in  other  quarters,  but  received  no  answer,  except, 
"  Madame  Lafayette  has  submitted  to  share  the 
captivity  of  her  husband.     It  is  her  own  choice." 

At  length,  her  health,  already  impaired  by  six- 
teen months  imprisonment  in  Paris,  began  to  give 
way.  She  solicited  permission  to  go  to  Vienna,  to 
breathe  pure  air,  and  consult  a  physician.  During 
two  months  she  received  no  reply ;  but,  at  last, 
.she  was  informed  that  the  emperor  permitted  her 
to  go  out,  upon  condition  that  she  never  returned 
to  the  prison. 

Being  desired  to  signify  her  choice  in  writing, 
she  wrote  as  follows. 

"  I  consider  it  a  duty  to  my  family  and  friends 

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to  desire  the  assistauce  necessary  for  my  health ; 
but  they  well  know  it  cannot  be  accepted  by  me 
at  the  price  attached  to  it.  I  cannot  forget  that 
while  we  were  on  the  point  of  perishing,  myself 
by  the  tyranny  of  Robespierre,  and  my  husband 
by  the  physical  and  moral  sufferings  of  captivity, 
I  was  not  permitted  to  obtain  any  intelligence  of 
him,  nor  to  acquaint  him  that  his  children  and 
myself  were  yet  alive ;  and  I  shall  not  expose  my- 
self to  the  horrors  of  another  separation.  What- 
ever then  may  be  the  state  of  my  health,  and  the 
inconveniences  of  this  abode  for  my  daughters, 
we  will  gratefully  avail  ourselves  of  his  Imperial 
Majesty's  generosity,  in  permitting  us  to  partake 
this  captivity  in  all  its  circumstances." 

After  this,  Madame  Lafayette  fearful  of  being 
separated  from  her  husband,  refrained  from  mak- 
ing any  complaint ;  although  the  air  of  the  prison 
was  so  foetid,  that  the  soldiers,  who  brought  food, 
covered  their  faces  when  they  opened  the  door. 

She  remained  with  him  till  he  was  set  at  free- 
dom, after  four  years'  captivity,  by  the  interven- 
tion of  Bonapai-te.  Madame  Lafayette's  health 
suffered  so  much  from  the  close  confinement,  that 
she  died  soon  after  her  release,  izi  1807. 

LA   FERTE    IMBAULT,   MARIA   THERESA 
GEOFFRIN,  MARCHIONESS  DE, 

Daughter  of  the  celebrated  Madame  Geoffrin, 
was  born  at  Paris  in  1715.  She  married,  in  1733, 
the  Marquis  de  la  Ferte,  great-grandson  of  the 
marshal  of  that  name  ;  and  distinguished  herself, 
not  only  by  her  literary  talents,  but  also  by  her 
opposition  to  the  philosophical  party  among  the 
French  literati  of  the  last  century,  with  whom  her 
mother  had  been  intimately  connected.  In  1771, 
the  Marquis  de  Croismare,  a  man  of  wit,  and  a 
friend  of  Madame  de  la  Ferte  Imbault,  founded 
the  burlesque  order  of  the  Lanturelas,  of  which 
he  appointed  that  lady  the  grand-tnistress,  while 
he  was  himself  the  grand-master.  This  whimsical 
institution  gave  rise  to  a  great  many  songs  and 
lively  verses ;  and  it  attracted  so  much  attention 
that  Catharine  II.  was  accustomed  to  advise  all 
the  Russian  nobles  who  visited  Paris  to  become 
Lanturelus,  an  honour  which  was  sought  by  se- 
veral sovereign  princes.  The  Marchioness  drew 
up  a  series  of  extracts  from  the  writings  of  the 
ancient  Pagan  and  Christian  philosophers,  for  the 
instruction  of  the  grandchildren  of  Louis  XV.  ; 
and  she  wrote  a  great  number  of  letters  to  persons 
of  rank  and  celebrity,  which  remain  in  manuscript 
in  the  hands  of  her  husband's  relations.  She  died 
at  Paris,  in  1791. 

LAFITE,  MARIE  ELIZABETH  DE, 

Was  born  at  Paris  in  1750,  and  died  at  London 
in  1794.  She  wrote  "  Reponses  a  D^meler  ou 
Essai  d'une  Maniere  d'exercer  I'attention;"  "  En- 
tretieres,  Drames,  et  Contes  Moraux,  a  I'usage  des 
Enfans."  She  also  translated  into  French,  some  of 
the  works  of  Wieland,  Gellert,  and  Lavater. 

LAMB,  LADY   CAROLINE, 
Daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Besborough,  was  born 
iu  1785.     The  history  of  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  is 


painfully  interesting.  She  was  united,  before  the 
age  of  twenty,  to  the  Honourable  William  Lamb, 
(Lord  Melbourne,)  and  was  long  the  delight  of 
the  fashionable  circles,  from  the  singularity  as 
well  as  the  grace  of  her  manners,  her  literary 
accomplishments,  and  personal  attractions.  On 
meeting  with  Lord  Byron,  she  contracted  an  un- 
fortunate attachment  for  the  noble  poet,  which 
continued  three  years,  and  was  the  theme  of  much 
remai'k.  The  poet  is  said  to  have  trifled  with  her 
feelings,  and  a  rupture  took  place.  "  For  many 
years  Lady  Caroline  led  a  life  of  comparative 
seclusion,  principally  at  Brocket  Hall.  This  was 
interrupted  by  a  singular  and  somewhat  romantic 
occurrence.  Riding  with  Mr.  Lamb,  she  met,  just 
by  the  park-gates,  the  hearse  which  was  conveying 
the  remains  of  Lord  Byron  to  Newstead  Abbey. 
She  was  taken  home  insensible :  an  illness  of  length 
and  severity  succeeded.  Some  of  her  medical  at- 
tendants imputed  her  fits,  certainly  of  great  inco- 
herence and  long  continuance,  to  partial  insanity. 
At  this  supposition  she  was  invariably  and  bitterly 
indignant.  Whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  certain 
from  that  time  her  conduct  and  habits  materially 
changed  ;  and  about  three  years  before  her  death 
a  separation  took  place  between  her  and  Mr.  Lamb, 
who  continued,  however,  frequently  to  visit,  and, 
to  the  day  of  her  death,  to  correspond  with  her. 
It  is  just  to  both  parties  to  add,  that  Lady  Caroline 
constantly  spoke  of  her  husband  in  the  highest 
and  most  affectionate  terms  of  admiration  and  re- 
spect. A  romantic  susceptibility  of  temperament 
and  character  seems  to  have  been  the  bane  of  this 
unfoi-tunate  lady.  Her  fate  illustrates  the  wisdom 
of  Thomson's  advice — 

Then  keep  each  passion  doivn,  however  dear. 
Trust  me,  the  tender  are  the  most  severe. 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb  was  the  authoress  of  three 
works  of  fiction,  which,  from  extrinsic  circum- 
stances, were  highly  popular  in  their  day.  The 
first,  "Glenarvon,"  was  published  in  1816;  and 
the  hero  was  understood  to  shadow  forth  the  cha- 
racter and  sentiments  of  Lord  Byron !  It  was  a 
representation  of  the  dangers  attending  a  life  of 
fashion.  The  second,  "  Graham  Hamilton,"  de- 
picted the  difficulties  and  dangers  inseparable, 
even  in  the  most  amiable  minds,  from  weakness 
and  irresolution  of  character.  The  third,  "Ada 
Reis,"  (1823,)  is  a  wild  Eastern  tale,  the  hero  be- 
ing introduced  as  the  Don  Juan  of  his  day,  a 
Georgian  by  birth,  who,  like  Othello,  "is  sold 
to  slavery,"  but  rises  to  honours  and  distinctions. 
In  the  end  Ada  is  condemned,  for  various  mis- 
deeds, to  eternal  punishment ! 

LAMB,    MARY, 

The  daughter  of  respectable  parents,  was  born 
in  London  about  1766.  She  was  subject  to  attacks 
of  insanity,  and  in  one  of  them,  in  1796,  brought 
on  by  over-exertion,  and  anxiety  about  her  mo- 
ther, then  quite  an  aged  person,  she  stabbed  her 
mother  to  the  heart,  killing  her  instantly.  After 
recovering  from  this  attack,  she  resided  with  her 
brother  Charles,  the  well-known  author  of  "Essays 
of  Elia,"  who  devoted  his  whole  life  to  her.     They 

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lived  in  or  near  London.  In  connexion  with  her 
brother,  Miss  Lamb  wrote  two  volumes  of  juvenile 
poetry  ;  "  Stories  for  Children,  or  Mrs.  Leicester's 
School;"  and  "Tales  from  Shakspeare."  Miss 
Lamb  was  remarkable  for  the  sweetness  of  her 
disposition,  the  clearness  of  her  understanding, 
and  the  gentle  wisdom  of  all  her  acts  and  words, 
notwithstanding  the  distraction  under  which  she 
suffered  for  weeks,  and  latterly  for  months,  in 
every  year.  She  sui-vived  her  brother  eleven 
years,  dying  May  20th,  1847.  She  was  buried 
with  him  in  Edmonton  church-yard. 

LAMBALLE,  MARIE  THERESE  LOUISE,   OF 
SAVOY,  CARIGNAN,  PRINCESS  DE, 

Was  born  at  Turin,  September  8th,  1749,  and 
married  the  duke  of  Bourbon  Penthifevre,  by  whom 
she  was  left  a  wealthy,  young,  beautiful,  and  ami- 
able widow.  AVhen  appointed  intendant  of  the 
royal  household  of  Marie  Antoinette,  she  gained 
and  deserved  the  confidence  and  warm  affection 
of  her  mistress.  On  the  unfortunate  flight  of  the 
royal  family  to  Varennes,  Madame  Lamballe 
escaped  by  another  road  from  France  to  England, 
where  she  might  have  lived  in  safety ;  but  she  no 
sooner  heard  of  the  imprisonment  of  her  royal 
friend,  than  she  hastened  back  to  Paris  to  soothe 
her  miseries.  This  fidelity  and  devotion  proved 
fatal  to  her.  Dragged  to  the  prison  of  La  Force, 
she  was  tried  before  the  bloody  tribunal,  Septem- 
ber 3d,  1792;  and,  when  questioned  about  the 
queen,  she  answered  with  firmness  and  dignity. 
Some  of  the  judges,  moved  by  her  heroism,  youth, 
and  beauty,  wished  to  spare  her ;  but  as  soon  as 
she  had  left  the  place  of  her  trial,  she  was  seized 
by  the  mob  and  literally  torn  and  cut  to  pieces. 
Her  head  was  placed  on  a  pike,  and  paraded  by 
the  diabolical  monsters  in  view  of  the  unfortunate 
queen  and  her  family. 

The  character  of  the  princess  de  Lamballe  was 
so  perfect,  that  not  even  her  enemies  and  assassins 
dared  to  asperse  it. 

LAMBERT,  ANNE  THERESE,  MARQUISE  DE, 
Was  daughter  of  a  master  of  the  accounts,  and 
was  born  at  Paris  in  1647.  She  lost  her  father  at 
three  years  old ;  and  her  mother  then  married  the 
ingenious  Bachaumont,  who  took  great  pleasure 
in  cultivating  his  step-daughter's  talents.  She 
married  Henri  Lambert,  marquis  of  St.  Bris,  in 
1666;  but  he  died  in  1688.  After  this,  she  had 
long  and  troublesome  law-suits  ;  but  succeeding  in 
them,  she  took  a  house  in  Paris,  to  which  it  was 
considered  an  honour  to  be  admitted.  All  literai-y 
persons  resorted  to  it  for  the  sake  of  conversation, 
as  hers  was  almost  the  only  house  free  from  the 
vice  of  gaming.  She  died  in  1733,  aged  86.  Her 
works  were  printed  in  two  volumes,  and  are  mark- 
ed by  fine  sense,  taste,  and  spirit.  The  principal 
ones  are,  "Avis  d'une  M6re  a  son  fils,  et  d'une 
M^re  a  sa  fiUe."  These  are  not  mere  dry  didactic 
precepts,  but  the  easy  and  graceful  effusions  of  a 
noble  and  delicate  mind.  "  Nouvelles  Reflexions 
sur  les  Femmes;"  "  Traits  de  TAmitic  ;"  "  Traits 
de  la  Yiellesse ;  et  "  La  Femme  Hermite;"  were 
among  her  works.    The  following  selections  give  a 


more  striking  portrait  of  this  excellent   woman 
than  any  mere  description. 

EXTRAIT    DES    AVIS    d'uNE    MERE    A    SON    FILS. 
***** 

Au-dessus  de  tons  vos  devoirs,  est  le  culte  que 
vous  devez  a  I'Etre  Supreme.  La  religion  est  un 
commerce  ^tabli  entre  Dieu  et  les  hommes  ;  par  la 
grace  de  Dieu  aux  hommes,  et  par  le  culte  des 
hommes  k  Dieu.  Les  ames  ^lev^es  ont  pour  Dieu 
des  sentimens  et  un  culte  a  part,  qui  ne  ressemble 
point  a  celui  du  peuple  :  tout  part  du  cceur  et  va  a 
Dieu.  Les  vertus  morales  sont  en  danger,  sans 
les  chr^tiennes.  Je  ne  vous  demande  point  une 
religion  remplie  de  faiblesse  et  de  superstition :  je 
demande  seulement  que  I'amour  de  I'ordre  sou- 
mette  ^  Dieu  vos  lumiferes  et  vos  sentimens,  que 
le  meme  amour  de  I'ordre  se  r^paude  sur  votre 
conduite  ;  il  vous  donnera  la  justice,  et  la  justice 
assure  toutes  les  vertus. 

II  y  a  des  ames  basses  qui  sont  toujours  pros- 
tern^es  devant  la  grandeur.  II  faut  sgparer 
rhomme  de  la  dignity,  et  voir  ce  qu'il  est,  quand 
il  en  est  d^pouille ;  il  y  a  bien  une  autre  grandeur 
que  celle  qui  vient  de  I'autorit^ ;  ce  n'est  ni  la 
puissance  ni  les  richesses  qui  distinguent  les 
hommes ;  la  superiority  r6elle  et  veritable  entre 
eux,  c'est  le  m^rite. 

Le  titre  d'honnete  homme  est  bien  au-dessus 
des  titres  de  la  fortune.  Le  plaisir  le  plus  delicat 
est  de  faire  le  plaisir  d'autrui ;  mais  pour  cela,  il 
ne  faut  pas  tant  faire  de  cas  des  biens  de  la  for- 
tune. Les  richesses  n'ont  jamais  donn^  la  vertu ; 
mais  la  vertu  a  souvent  donn^  les  richesses 

L'honnete  homme  aime  mieux  manquer  a  sa 
fortune  qu'a  la  justice.  L'amour  des  richesses 
est  le  commencement  de  tons  les  vices,  comme  le 
desint^ressement  et  le  principe  de  toutes  les  vertus. 

Le  plaisir  le  plus  touchant  pour  les  honnetes 
gens,  c'est  de  faire  du  bien,  et  de  soulager  les 
mis^rables.  Quelle  difference  d'avoir  un  pen  plus 
d'argent,  ou  de  le  savoir  perdre  pour  faire  plaisir, 
et  de  le  changer  contre  la  reputation  de  bont6  et 
de  g^n^rositg  ! 

Ayez  des  pens6es  et  des  sentimens  qui  soient 
dignes  de  vous.  La  vertu  rehausse  I'etat  de 
rhomme,  et  le  vice  le  degrade. 

EXTRAIT    DES    AVIS    d'uNE    M^RE    A    SA    FILLE. 

II  ne  suffit  pas,  ma  fille,  pour  etre  estimable,  de 
s'assujettir  ext^rieurement  aux  bienseances ;  ce 
sont  les  sentimens  qui  forment  le  caractfere,  qui 
conduisent  I'esprit,  qui  gouvernent  la  volonte,  qui 
r<;pondent  de  la  r^alit^  et  de  la  duree  de  toutes 
nos  vertus.  Quel  sera  le  principe  de  ces  senti- 
mens ?  la  religion ;  quand  elle  sera  grav^e  dans 
notre  cceur,  alors  toutes  les  vertus  couleront  de 
cette  soui'ce  ;  tous  les  devoirs  se  rangeront  chacun 
dans  leur  ordre.  Ce  n'est  pas  assez  pour  la  con- 
duite des  jeunes  personnes,  que  de  les  obliger  -X 
faire  leur  devoir ;  il  faut  le  leur  faire  aimer :  I'au- 
torite  est  le  tyran  de  I'extiJrieur,  qui  n'assujettit 
point  le  dedans.  Quand  on  prescrit  une  conduite, 
il  faut  en  montrer  les  raisons  et  les  motifs,  et  don- 
ner  du  gout  pour  ce  que  Ton  conseille. 

Nous  avous  tant  d'int6ret  a  pratiquer  la  vertu, 

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que  nous  ne  devons  jamais  la  regarder  comme 
notre  ennemie,  mais  comme  la  source  de  bonheur, 
de  la  gloire  et  de  la  paix.  Vous  arrivez  dans  le 
monde ;  venez-y,  ma  fiUe,  avec  des  principes ; 
vous  ne  sauriez  trop  vous  fortifier  contre  ce  qui 
vous  attend ;  apportez-y  toute  votre  religion : 
nourrissez-la  dans  voti'e  coeur  par  des  sentimens ; 
soutenez-la  dans  votre  esprit  par  des  reflexions  et 
par  des  lectures  convenables 

Les  femmes  qui  n'ont  nourri  leur  esprit  que  des 
maximes  de  sifecle,  tombent  dans  un  grand  vide 
en  avan9ant  dans  I'age  :  le  monde  les  quitter,  et 
la  raison  leur  ordonne  aussi  de  le  quitter :  a  quoi 
se  prendre  ?  le  pass^  nous  fournit  des  regrets,  le 
present  des  chagrins,  et  I'avenir  des  craintes.  La 
religion  seule  calme  tout,  et  console  de  tout;  en 
vous  unissant  a  Dieu,  elle  vous  reconcilie  avec  le 
monde  et  avec  vous-meme 

Les  plaisirs  du  monde  sont  trompeurs ;  ils  prom- 
mettent  plus  qu'ils  ne  donnent ;  ils  noiis  inquifetent 
dans  leur  recherche,  ne  nous  satisfont  point  dans 
leur   possession,  et  nous   desesperent  dans   leur 

perte Ne  nous  croyons  heureuses,  ma  fille, 

que  lorsque  nous  sentirons  nos  plaisirs  naitre  du 

fond  de  notre  ame II  y  a  de  grandes  vertus, 

qui,  portees  a  un  certain  degr^,  font  pardonner 
bien  des  defauts :  la  supreme  valeur  dans  les 
hommes,  et  I'extreme  pudeur  dans  les  femmes. 
On  pardonnait  tout  a  Agrippine,  femme  de  Ger- 
manicus,  en  faveur  de  sa  chastet6 :  cette  prin- 
cesse  etait  ambitieuse  et  hautaine ;  mais,  dit  Ta- 
cite,  "  toutes  ses  passions  6taient  consacr^es  par 
&a  chastete."  .... 

Que  votre  premiere  parure  soit  done  la  modes- 
tie  :  elle  a  de  grands  avantages,  elle  augmente  la 
beauts  et  sert  de  voile  a  la  laideur ;  la  modestie 

est  le  supplement  de  la  beauty II  ne  faut 

pas  n^gliger  les  talens  ni  les  agr^mens,  puisque 
les  femmes  sont  destinies  a  plaire ;  mais  il  faut 
bien  plus  penser  a  se  donner  un  m^rite  solide, 
qu'a  s'occuper  de  choses  frivoles.  Rien  n'est  plus 
court  que  le  rfegne  de  la  beautfe ;  rien  n"est  plus 
triste  que  la  suite  de  la  vie  des  femmes  qui  n'ont 

su  qu'etre  belles Une  honnete  femme  a  les 

vertus  des  hommes,  I'amitie,  la  probity,  la  fidelity 
a  ses  devoirs. 

Les  femmes  apprennent  volontiers  I'ltalien  qui 
me  parait  dangereux :  c'est  la  langue  de  I'amour, 
les  auteurs  italiens  sont  peu  chati6s ;  il  rfegne 
dans  leurs  ouvrage  un  jeux  de  mots,  une  imagina- 
tion sans  rfegle,  qui  s'oppose  a  la  justesse  de 
I'esprit. 

La  poesie  pent  avoir  des  inconv^niens  ;  j'aurais 
pourtant  de  la  peine  a  interdire  la  lecture  des 
belles  tragedies  de  Corneille :  mais  souvent  les 
meilleures  vous  donnent  des  le9ons  de  vertu,  et 
vous  laissent  I'impression  du  vice. 

La  lecture  des  romans  est  plus  dangereuse :  je 
ne  voudrais  pas  que  Ton  en  fit  un  grand  usage,  ils 
mettent  du  faux  dans  I'esprit.  Le  roman  n'6tant 
jamais  pris  sur  le  vrai,  allume  I'imagination,  af- 
faiblit  la  pudeur,  met  le  d^sordre  dans  le  coeur,  et, 
pour  peu  qu'une  jeune  personne  ait  de  la  disposi- 
tion a  la  tendresse,  hate  et  pr^cipite  son  penchant. 
II  ne  faut  point  augmenter  le  charme  et  I'illusion 
de  I'amour:  plusil  est  adoucit  plus  il  est  modeste 


et  plus  il  est  dangereux.  Je  ne  voudrais  point  les 
defendre ;  toutes  defenses  blessent  la  liberty,  et 
augmentent  le  d^sir;  mais  il  faut,  autant  qu'on 
pent,  s'accoutumer  a  des  lectures  solides,  qui  or- 
nent  I'esprit  et  fortifient  le  coeur :  on  ne  pent  trop 
6viter  celles  qui  laissent  des  impressions  dange- 
reuses  et  difficiles  a  effacer. 

PORTRAIT    DE    FENELON. 

F^nelon  ^tait  d'une  assez  haute  taille,  bien  fait, 
maigre  et  pale  ;  il  avait  la  nez  grand  et  bien  tir^. 
Le  feu  et  I'esprit  sortaient  de  ses  yeux  comme  un 
torrent.  Sa  physionomie  6tait  telle  qu'on  n'ea 
voyait  point  qui  lui  ressemblat ;  aussi  ne  pouvait- 
on  I'oublier  dfes  qu'une  fois  on  I'avait  vu:  elle 
rassemblait  tout,  et  les  contraires  ne  s'y  combat- 
taient  point ;  elle  avait  de  la  gravity  et  de  la  dou- 
ceur, du  s^rieux  et  de  la  gaiety.  Ce  qui  surnageait 
sur  tout  sa  personne,  c'^tait  la  finesse,  la  d^cence, 
les  graces,  et  surtout  la  noblesse:  il  fallait  faire 
eflfort  sur  soimeme  pour  cesser  de  la  regarder. 
Tons  ses  portraits  sont  parlans,  sans  que  n^an- 
moins  on  art  jamais  pu  attraper  la  justesse  et 
I'harmonie  qui  frappaient  dan's  I'original,  et  la 
deiicatesse  que  chaque  caractere  de  ce  visage  r6- 
unissait.  Ses  manieres  y  repondait  dedans  la  meme 
proportion :  c'^tait  une  aisance  qui  en  Thonneur 
aux  autres,  un  air  de  bon  gout  dont  il  etait  rede- 
vable  a  I'usage  du  grand  monde  et  de  la  meilleure 
compagnie,  et  qui  se  r6pandait,  comme  de  soi- 
meme, dans  toutes  ses  conversations,  et  cela  avec 
une  eloquence  naturelle,  douce,  fleurie ;  une  po- 
litesse  insinuante,  mais  noble  et  proportionnee; 
une  elocution  facile,  nette,  agreable ;  un  ton  de 
clarte  et  de  precision  pour  se  faire  entendre,  meme 
en  traitant  les  mattieres  les  plus  abstraites  et  les 
plus  embarrassees.  Avec  cela  il  ne  voulait  jamais 
avoir  plus  d' esprit  que  ceux  a  qui  il  parlait ;  il  se 
mettait  a  la  portee  de  chacun  sans  le  faire  sentir, 
il  mettait  a  I'aise,  et  semblait  enchanter  de  fayon 
qu'on  ne  pouvait  le  quitter,  ni  s'en  defendre,  ni 
ne  pas  soupirer  apres  le  moment  de  le  retrouver. 
C'est  ce  talent  si  rare  et  qu'il  avait  au  supreme 
degre,  qui  lui  tint  ses  amis  si  attaches  toute  sa 
vie,  malagre  sa  chute,  sa  disgrace,  et  qui,  dans  le 
triste  eioignement  oil  ils  etaient  de  lui,  les  reunis- 
sait  pour  parler  de  lui,  pour  le  regretter,  pour  le 
desirer,  pour  soupirer  apres  son  retour,  et  I'esp^- 
rer  sans  cesse. 

LA  MB  RUN,  MARGARET, 
Was  a  Scotchwoman,  one  of  the  retinue  of 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  as  was  also  her  husband, 
who  died  of  grief  on  account  of  his  queen's  execu- 
tion. Margaret  Lambrun  then  resolved  to  avenge 
the  death  of  both  by  assassinating  Queen  Eliza- 
beth ;  she,  therefore,  dressed  herself  like  a  man, 
took  the  name  of  Anthony  Sparke,  and  went  to 
the  court  of  the  English  queen,  carrying  with  her 
a  brace  of  pistols ;  one  for  the  queen,  and  the 
other  for  herself.  But,  as  she  was  pressing  through 
the  crowd  to  get  near  her  majesty,  who  was  then 
walking  in  her  garden,  she  dropped  one  of  her 
pistols.  This  being  seen  by  the  guards,  she  was 
seized,  and  brought  before  the  queen,  who  wished 
to  examine  the  prisoner  herself.     When  Elizabeth 

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demanded  lier  name,  country,  and  condition,  Mar- 
garet replied  with  great  firmness : 

"  Madam,  though  I  appear  in  this  habit,  I  am  a 
woman ;  my  name  is  Margaret  Lambrun ;  I  was 
sevei-al  years  in  the  service  of  Queen  Mary,  whom 
you  have  so  unjustly  put  to  death ;  and,  by  her 
death,  you  have  also  caused  that  of  my  husband, 
who  died  of  grief  to  see  so  innocent  a  queen  perish 
so  iniquitously.  Now,  as  I  had  the  greatest  love 
and  aifection  for  both  these  personages,  I  resolved, 
at  the  peril  of  my  life,  to  revenge  their  death  by 
killing  you,  who  are  the  cause  of  both.  I  confess 
to  you,  that  I  suifered  many  struggles  within  my 
breast,  and  have  made  all  possible  efforts  to  divert 
my  resolution  from  so  pernicious  a  design,  but  all 
in  vain ;  I  found  myself  necessitated  to  prove  by 
experience  the  certain  tnith  of  that  maxim,  that 
neither  reason  nor  force  can  hinder  a  woman  from 
vengeance,  when  she  is  impelled  thereto  by  love." 

The  queen  heard  this  bold  address  with  compo- 
sure, and  answered  calmly:  "You  are  then  per- 
suaded that,  in  this  action,  you  have  done  your 
duty,  and  satisfied  the  demands  which  your  love 
for  your  mistress  and  your  spouse  indispensably 
required  from  you ;  but  what  think  you  now  is 
my  duty  to  do  to  you  ?" 

Margaret  replied,  with  the  same  unmoved  hardi- 
ness: "I  will  tell  you  frankly  my  oj^inion,  pro- 
vided you  will  let  me  know  whether  you  put  this 
question  in  the  quality  of  a  queen  or  in  that  of  a 
judge?" 

To  which  her  majesty  professing  that  of  a  queen : 
"Then,"  said  Margaret,  "your  majesty  ought  to 
grant  me  a  pardon." 

"  But  what  assurance  can  you  give  me,"  said 
the  queen,  "that  you  will  not  make  the  like  at- 
tempt on  some  other  occasion  ?" 

"Madam,"  replied  Lambrun,  "a  favour  given 
under  such  restraint  is  no  more  a  favour ;  and,  in 
so  doing,  your  majesty  would  act  against  me  as  a 
judge." 

The  queen  turned  to  some  of  her  council,  and 
said,  "  I  have  been  thirty  years  a  queen,  but  do 
not  remember  to  have  had  such  a  lecture  ever 
read  to  me  before;"  and  immediately  granted  an 
entire  and  unconditional  pardon.  Margaret  Lam- 
brun showed  her  prudence  by  begging  the  queen 
to  extend  her  generosity  still  farther,  and  grant 
her  a  safe  conduct  to  the  coast  of  France ;  with 
which  request  Elizabeth  complied. 

LAMOTTE,  VALOIS,  COUNTESS  OF, 
Was  the  principal  actor  in  the  affair  of  the 
necklace,  which  cavised  so  much  annoyance  and 
injury  to  Marie  Antoinette,  queen  of  France.  The 
countess  of  Lamotte,  an  immoral  intriguing  wo- 
man, well  known  as  such  to  most  of  the  principal 
persons  in  Paris,  suddenly,  from  great  poverty, 
apparently  became  very  wealthy.  The  means  by 
which  she  supported  her  extravagance  at  length 
was  ascertained.  The  countess,  knowing  the  great 
desire  of  prince  Louis  de  Rohan,  cardinal  bishop 
of  Strasburg,  who  had  fallen  into  disgrace  at  court, 
to  regain  favour,  told  him  that  the  queen,  Marie 
Antoinette,  with  whom  she  said  she  was  on  very 
confidential  terms,  wished  to  obtain  a  diamond 


necklace  then  for  sale,  but  not  having  at  the  time 
sufficient  money  by  her,  would  like  him  to  pur- 
chase the  necklace  as  if  for  himself,  and  the  queen 
would  repay  him  by  instalments  and  restore  him 
to  favour.  The  cardinal  did  so,  and  gave  the 
necklace  to  the  countess  de  Lamotte  for  the  queen, 
who  gave  him  in  return  a  bond  which  she  had 
forged.  The  countess  also  procured  a  woman  who 
resembled  the  queen,  to  personate  her  in  a  private 
interview  with  the  cardinal,  on  a  night  in  August, 
1784.  When  the  time  for  payment  arrived,  the 
cardinal,  not  being  able  to  meet  the  demand, 
told  the  jewellers  that  he  had  bought  it  for  the 
queen.  The  jewellers,  after  some  time,  applied  to 
the  king,  and  the  fraud  was  discovered.  Rohan 
was  tried  and  acquitted ;  but  the  countess  de  La- 
motte was  sentenced  to  be  scourged,  branded,  and 
imprisoned  for  life.  After  some  months'  confine- 
ment she  escaped  and  went  to  England,  where  her 
husband  was  living  on  the  proceeds  dei-ived  from 
the  sale  of  the  necklace.  Here  she  wrote  a 
pamphlet  defaming  the  queen,  which  prejudiced 
many  people  against  that  princess.  The  countess 
was  found  one  morning  dead  on  the  pavement  in 
one  of  the  streets  of  London,  having  fallen,  while 
intoxicated,  from  a  window  in  the  third  story  of 
her  lodgings. 

LANDA,    CATHARINE, 
Was  eminent  for  her  beauty  and  learning.    She 
wrote  a  letter  in  Latin  to  Peter  Bembo,  which, 
with  his  answer,  is  printed  in  that  author's  works. 
She  died  in  1526,  at  a  very  early  age. 

LANE,  JANE, 
A  WOMAN  of  great  spirit  and  sagacity,  assisted 
in  the  escape  of  Charles  II.  after  the  battle  of 
Worcester.  The  royal  fugitive,  disguised  in  her 
father's  livery,  rode  before  her  on  horseback  from 
Bentley-Hall,  in  Stafi'ordsbire,  to  Mr.  Norton's, 
near  Bristol.  Charles  II.,  on  his  restoration,  re- 
warded her  amply ;  and  she  married  Sir  Clement 
Fisher,  bart.,  of  Packington-Hall,  in  Warwick- 
shire. 

LANDON,  LETITIA  ELIZABETH, 
Generally  known  as  L.  E.  L.,  in  consequence 
of  having  fii-st  published  under  her  initials  only, 
was  bom  at  Hans  Place,  Chelsea,  in  1802.  Her 
father,  Mr.  Landon,  was  a  partner  in  the  house 
of  Adairs,  army  agents.  When  about  seven  years 
of  age,  Miss  Landon's  parents  removed  to  Trevor 
Park,  not  far  from  East  Barnet,  where,  amidst 
scenes  vividly  depicted  in  various  passages  in  her 
later  works,  were  passed  many  of  the  happiest 
days  of  her  childhood.  In  the  "  Traits  and  Trials 
of  Early  Life,"  in  "  The  History  of  a  Child,"  she 
is  supposed  to  have  pourtrayed  that  of  her  own 
early  years  ;  but  the  account  is  part  romance  and 
part  reality.  She  describes  "  a  large,  old,  and 
somewhat  dilapidated  place," — of  which  "only 
part  of  the  grounds  were  kept  in  their  original 
high  order."  Here  she  was  wont  "  to  wander  in 
the  almost  deserted  shrubberies,  where  the  flowers 
grew  in  all  the  luxm-iance  of  neglect  over  the 
walls."     According  to  the  same  fictitious  picture, 

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on  a  small  island,  in  a  deep  pond,  almost  dark 
with  the  depth  of  shadow,  and  partly  covered  with 
water-lilies,  "  with  the  large  green  leaves  that 
support  the  loveliest  of  ivory  boats,  fit  for  the 
fairy  queen  and  her  summer  court,"  grew  one 
curiously-shaped  but  huge  yew-tree,  and  in  the 
shadows  of  this  gloomy  tree  the  embryo  poetess 
was  wont  to  conceal  herself  for  the  whole  of  her 
playtime,  "chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter 
fancy,"  and  brooding  over  the  troubles  and  sor- 
rows which  necessarily  await  every  shy  and  sensi- 
tive person,  and  which  are  perhaps  never  more 
acutely  felt  than  in  the  days  of  early  childhood. 
Her  childhood,  however,  was  cheerful  and  often 
joyous. 


lu  1815,  when  Miss  Landon  was  about  thirteen 
years  of  age,  the  family  quitted  Trevor  Park ;  and 
after  a  twelvemonths'  residence  at  Lewis  Place, 
Fulham,  Mr.  Landon  removed  to  Brompton,  where 
a  considerable  part  of  his  daughter's  youth  was 
passed,  excepting  a  year  or  two  spent  with  her 
grandmother  in  Sloane  street,  and  some  occasional 
visits  to  her  relations.  Here,  no  sooner  was  she 
emancipated  from  the  school-room,  and  allowed  to 
pursue  the  bent  of  her  own  mind,  than  her  poetical 
reveries  were  committed  to  paper ;  and  through 
the  encouraging  kindness  of  Mr.  Jerdan,  the  editor 
of  the  Literary  Gazette,  to  whose  judgment  they 
were  submitted,  while  still  in  her  teens,  the  youth- 
ful writer  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  some  of  her 
verses  first  appear  in  print,  in  the  pages  of  that 
periodical,  and  visions  of  fame,  perhaps,  in  some 
degree,  comforted  her  for  the  reverses  to  which 
her  family  were  then  beginning  to  be  subjected. 

"  The  Fate  of  Adelaide,"  a  romantic  tale,  and 
some  minor  poems,  were  published  in  1821,  when 
Miss  Landon  was  nineteen ;  and  the  first  of  her 
principal  poetical  works  was  issued  in  1824.  In 
the  summer  of  1825,  the  "  Troubadour"  appeared, 
and  some  other  volumes  of  her  poetry. 

Her  father  died  about  this  time,  and  Miss  Lan- 
don's  literary  exertions  were  directed  to  support 
her  family  and  assist  her  brother.  An  extract 
from  a  letter  of  hers  touchingly  alludes  to  the 
painful  circumstances  in  which  this  delicate  daugh- 
ter of  the  muse  was  placed : 


"  The  more  I  think  of  my  past  life,  and  of  my 
future  prospects,  the  more  dreary  do  they  seem. 
I  have  known  little  else  than  privation,  disappoint- 
ment, unkindness,  and  harassment ;  from  the  time 
I  was  fifteen,  my  life  has  been  one  continual  strug- 
gle, in  some  shape  or  other,  against  absolute  po- 
verty ;  and  I  must  say  not  a  tithe  of  my  profits 
have  I  ever  expended  on  myself.  And  here  I  can- 
not but  allude  to  the  remarks  on  my  dress.  It  is 
easy  for  those  whose  only  trouble  on  that  head  is 
change,  to  find  fault  with  one  who  never  in  her  life 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  two  dresses  at  a  time. 
No  one  knows  but  myself  what  I  have  had  to  con- 
tend with." 

Miss  Landon  has  herself  remarked,  that  "  a 
history  of  the  hoiv  and  where  works  of  imagination 
have  been  produced,  would  often  be  more  extra- 
ordinary than  the  works  themselves."  A  friend 
of  hers  observes,  that  "  though  a  dilettante  of 
literature  would  assign  for  the  scene  of  her  author- 
ship a  fairy-like  boudoir,  with  rose-coloured  and 
silver  hangings,  filled  with  all  the  luxuries  of  a 
fastidious  taste,"  yet  the  reality  was  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent nature ;  for  though  her  drawing-room  was 
pi*ettily  furnished,  it  was  her  invariable  habit  to 
write  in  her  bed-room,  —  "a  homely-looking,  al- 
most uncomfortable  room,  fronting  the  street,  and 
b.^rely  furnished — with  a  simple  white  bed,  at  the 
foot  of  which  was  a  small,  old,  oblong-shaped  sort 
of  dressing-table,  quite  covered  with  a  common 
worn  writing-desk,  heaped  with  papers,  while 
some  strewed  the  ground,  the  table  being  too 
small  for  aught  besides  the  desk.  A  little  high- 
backed  cane  chair,  which  gave  you  any  idea  but 
that  of  comfort,  and  a  few  books  scattered  about, 
completed  the  author's  paraphernalia." 

"  Miss  Landon  was  not  strictly  handsome,  her 
eyes  being  the  only  good  feature  in  her  face ;  but 
her  countenance  was  intellectual  and  piquant, 
and  her  figure  slight  and  beautifully  proportioned. 
Altogether,  however,  her  clear  complexion,  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  the  vivacious  expression  with  which 
the  latter  were  lighted  up  when  animated  and  in 
good  health,  combined  with  her  kind  and  fascinat- 
ing manners,  to  render  her  extremely  attractive ; 
so  that  the'  rustic  expression  of  sentiment  from 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  when  he  was  first  introduced 
to  her,  '  I  did  nae  think  ye  had  been  sae  bonny,' 
was  perhaps  the  feeling  experienced  by  many 
when  they  first  beheld  L.  E.  L." 

Such  is  the  portrait  of  this  fascinating  writer, 
drawn  by  one  of  her  biographers.  William  Howitt, 
in  his  notice  of  Miss  Landon,  gives  a  sweeter 
touch  to  the  picture.  "  Your  first  impressions  of 
her  were — what  a  little,  light,  simple-looking  girl ! 
If  3'ou  had  not  been  aware  of  her  being  a  popular 
poetess,  you  would  have  suspected  her  of  nothing 
more  than  an  agreeable,  bright,  and  joyous  young 
lady.  This  feeling  in  her  own  house,  or  among  a 
few  congenial  people,  was  quickly  followed  by  a 
feeling  of  the  kind-heartedness  and  goodness  about 
her.  You  felt  that  you  could  not  be  long  with  her 
without  loving  her." 

In  her  later  productions.  Miss  Landon  greatly 
improved  in  the  philosophy  of  her  art.  She  ad- 
dresses other  feelings  besides  love;  her  style  has 

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more  simplicity  and  strength,  and  tlie  sentiment 
becomes  elevated  and  womanly  —  for  we  hold  that 
the  loftiest,  purest,  and  best  qualities  of  our  na- 
ture, the  moral  feelings,  are  peculiarly  suitable,  for 
their  development  and  description,  to  the  genius 
of  woman.  "  The  Lost  Pleiad"  and  "  The  History 
of  the  Lyre,"  have  many  passages  of  true  and 
simple  feeling,  united  with  an  elevated  moral 
sentiment,  and  that  accurate  knowledge  of  life, 
which  shows  the  observing  and  reasoning  mind 
in  rapid  progress.     Such  are  the  following  pas- 


"  Can  that  man  be  dead 
Whose  spiritual  influence  is  upon  his  kind? 
He  lives  in  glory  ;  and  such  speaking  dust 
Has  more  of  life  than  half  its  breathing  moulds. 
Welcome  a  grave,  with  memories  such  as  these, 
Making  the  sunshine  of  our  moral  world." 

***** 
"Love  mine,  I  know  my  weakness,  and  I  know 
How  far  I  fall  short  of  the  glorious  goal 
I  purpose  to  myself;  yet  if  one  line 
Has  stolen  from  the  eye  unconscious  tears, 
Recalled  one  lover  to  fidelity, 
Which  is  the  holiness  of  love  —  or  bade 
One  maiden  sicken  at  cold  vanity, 
When  dreaming  o'er  affection's  tenderness, 
The  deep,  the  true,  the  honoured  of  my  song,— 
If  but  one  worldly  soil  has  been  effaced. 
That  song  has  not  been  utterly  in  vain. 
One  true,  deep  feeling  purifies  the  heart." 


In  1838,  Miss  Landon  married  George  Maclean, 
governor  of  Cape-Coast  castle,  and  soon  after  sailed 
for  Cape-Coast  with  her  husband.  She  landed 
there  in  August,  and  was  resuming,  for  the  benefit 
of  her  family  in  England,  her  literary  engagements 
in  her  solitary  African  home,  when  one  morning, 
after  writing  the  previous  night  some  cheerful  and 
affectionate  letters  to  her  friends  in  England,  she 
was  (October  16th)  found  dead  in  her  room,  with 
a  bottle,  which  had  contained  prussic  acid,  in  her 
hand.  It  was  conjectured  that  she  had  undesign- 
edly taken  an  over-dose  of  the  fatal  medicine,  as 
a  relief  from  spasms  in  the  stomach,  to  which  she 
was  subject.  Her  last  poems  are  superior  in  free- 
dom, force,  and  originality,  to  her  first.  She  is 
most  distinguished  for  her  poetical  writings,  though 
her  tales  and  romances  show  great  wit,  vivacity, 
and  knowledge  of  life.  Her  principal  poetical 
works  are  "The  Improvisatrice;"  "  Tlie  Trouba- 
dour;" "The  Golden  Violet;"  "  The  Golden  Brace- 
let;" and  "The  Vow  of  the  Peacock."  Besides 
these,  she  has  written  three  novels,  "Romance 
and  Reality;"  "  Francesca  Carrera;"  and  "Ethel 
Churchill ;"  and  a  volume  of  tales,  entitled  "  Traits 
and  Trials,"  in  which  she  is  supposed  to  have  de- 
picted the  history  of  her  own  childhood.  She  was 
a  frequent  contributor  to  many  of  the  periodicals, 
and  nearly  all  the  annuals  of  the  day.  Many  of 
her  best  poems  were  written  for  these  publica- 
tions, and  may  be  found  in  "  Literary  Remains 
of  L.  E.  L.,  with  Memoirs  of  her  Life."  Edited 
by  Laman  Blanchard.  In  our  selections,  we  will 
cull  a  few  of  the  aphorisms  and  sentiments  which 
make  her  prose  remai-kable  for  its  boldness  of 
truth  and  sympathy  with  "those  who  suffer  and 
are  sad." 


Extracts  from  "  Francesca  Carrera." 
YOUTH. 

No  marvel  that  we  regret  our  youth.  Let  its 
bloom,  let  pleasures  depart,  could  they  but  leave 
behind  the  singleness  and  the  innocence  of  the 
happy  and  trusting  heart.  The  lessons  of  expe- 
rience may  open  the  eyes ;  but,  as  in  the  northern 
superstition,  they  only  open  to  see  dust  and  clay, 
where  they  once  beheld  the  beauty  of  palaces. 

ENTHUSIASM. 

Enthusiasm  is  the  royal  road  to  success.  Now, 
call  it  fame,  vanity — what  you  will — how  strange 
and  how  strong  is  the  feeling  which  urges  on  the 
painter  or  the  author !  We  ought  to  marvel  less 
at  the  works  produced,  than  at  the  efforts  made. 
Their  youth  given  to  hopes,  or  rather  fears  —  now 
brightening  and  now  darkening,  on  equally  slight 
grounds, 

"  A  breath  can  mar  them,  as  a  breath  has  made,"  — 

hours  of  ceaseless  exertion  in  solitude,  of  feverish 
solicitude  in  society :  doomed  to  censure,  which 
is  always  in  earnest,  and  to  praise,  which  is  not. 
Alas !  we  talk  of  their  vanity ;  we  forget  that  in 
doling  forth  the  careless  sneer,  we  are  bestowing 
but  the  passing  thought  of  a  moment  to  that  which 
has  been  the  work  of  an  existence.  Truly,  genius, 
like  virtue,  ought  to  be  its  own  reward,  but  it  can- 
not. Bitter  though  the  toil,  and  vain  the  hope, 
human  exertion  must  still  look  to  human  appro- 
bation. 

IMAGINATION. 

Nothing  at  first  frames  such  false  estimates  as 
an  imaginative  temperament.  It  finds  the  power 
of  creation  so  easy,  the  path  it  fashions  so  actual, 
that  no  marvel  for  a  time  hope  is  its  own  security, 
and  the  fancied  world  appears  the  true  copy  of 
the  real. 

APHORISMS. 

There  never  was  a  mask  so  gay  but  some  tears 
were  shed  behind  it. 

We  cannot  understand  what  we  have  never  ex- 
perienced ;  we  need  pain,  were  it  only  to  teach  us 
sympathy. 

It  is  a  great  error  for  the  heart  to  hoard  up  the 
romance  which  is  only  graceful  in  youth  —  and  it 
is  dangerous  too. 

Hopes  and  regrets  are  the  sweetest  links  of 
existence. 

Society  is  like  a  large  piece  of  frozen  water ; 
and  skating  well  is  the  great  art  of  social  life. 

From  "Trials  of  Early  Life." 
What  a  duty  it  is  to  cultivate  a  pleasant  man- 
ner !  how  many  a  meeting  does  it  make  cheerful 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  stupid  and  for- 
mal !     AVe  do  not  mean  by  this  the  mere  routine 

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of  polite  obsei-vance ;  but  we  mean  that  general 
cheerfulness  which,  like  sunshine,  lights  up  what- 
ever it  touches ;  that  attention  to  others  which 
discovers  what  subject  is  most  likely  to  interest 
them ;  and  that  information  which,  ready  for  use, 
is  easily  laid  under  contribution  by  the  habit  of 
turning  all  resources  to  immediate  employ.  In 
short,  a  really  pleasant  manner  grows  out  of  bene- 
volence, which  can  be  as  much  shown  in  a  small 
courtesy  as  in  a  great  service. 

EXTRACTS   FROM   MISS   LANDON's   POEMS. 

From  "  A  History  of  the  Lyre." 

woman's  destiny. 

"  I  am  a  woman:— tell  me  not  of  fame  ! 

The  eagle's  wing  may  sweep  the  stormy  path, 

And  fling  hack  arrows,  where  the  dove  would  die. 

Look  on  those  flowers  near  yon  acacia  tree — 

Tlie  lily  of  the  valley  —  mark  how  pure 

The  snowy  blossoms,  —  and  how  soft  a  breath 

Is  almost  hidden  by  the  large  dark  leaves. 

Not  only  have  those  delicate  flowers  a  gift 

Of  sweetness  and  of  beauty,  but  the  root — 

A  healing  power  dwells  there;  fragrant  and  fair. 

But  dwelling  still  in  some  beloved  shade. 

Is  not  this  woman's  emblem  ?  —  she  whose  smile 

Should  only  make  the  loveliness  of  home— 

Who  seeks  support  and  shelter  from  man's  heart. 

And  pays  it  with  affection  quiet,  deep, — 

And  in  his  sickness  —  sorrow  — with  an  aid 

He  did  not  deem  in  aught  so  fragile  dwelt. 

Alas  I  this  has  not  been  my  destiny. 

Again  I'll  borrow  Summer's  eloquence. 

Yon  Eastern  tulip  —  that  is  emblem  mine; 

Ay!  it  has  radiant  colours  —  every  leaf 

Is  as  a  gem  from  its  own  country's  mines. 

'Tis  redolent  with  sunshine  ;  but  with  noon 

It  has  begun  to  wither:  —  look  within. 

It  has  a  wasted  bloom,  a  burning  heart; 

It  has  dwelt  too  much  in  the  open  day, 

And  so  have  I ;  and  both  must  droop  and  die ! 

I  did  not  choose  my  gift :  —  too  soon  my  heart, 

Watch-like,  had  pointed  to  a  later  hour 

Than  time  had  reached;  and  as  my  years  passed  on, 

Shadows  and  floating  visions  grew  to  thoughts, 

And  thoughts  found  words,  the  passionate  words  of  song. 

And  all  to  me  was  poetry. 

THE    poet's    power. 

Oh,  never  had  the  poet's  lute  a  hope. 
An  aim  so  glorious  as  it  now  may  have. 
In  this  our  social  state,  where  petty  cares 
And  mercenary  interests  only  look 
Upon  the  present's  littleness,  and  shrink 
From  the  bold  future,  and  the  stately  past,— , 
Where  the  smooth  surface  of  society 
Is  polished  by  deceit,  and  the  warm  heart 
With  ail  its  kind  affections'  early  flow. 
Flung  back  upon  itself,  forgets  to  beat, 
At  least  for  others:  —  'tis  the  poet's  gift 
To  melt  these  frozen  waters  into  tears. 
By  sympathy  with  sorrows  not  our  own. 
By  wakening  memory  with  those  mournful  notes. 
Whose  music  is  the  thoughts  of  early  years, 
When  truth  was  on  the  lip,  and  feelings  wore 
The  sweetness  and  the  freshness  of  their  morn. 
Young  poet,  if  thy  dreams  have  not  such  hope 
To  purify,  refine,  exalt,  subdue, 
To  touch  the  selfish,  and  to  shame  the  vain 
Out  of  themselves,  by  gentle  mournfulness, 
Or  chords  that  rouse  some  aim  of  enterprise. 
Lofty  and  pure,  and  meant  for  general  good; 
If  thou  hast  not  some  power  that  may  direct 
The  minil  from  the  mean  round  of  daily  life. 
Waking  affections  that  might  else  have  slept, 
Or  high  resolves,  the  petrified  before. 
Or  rousing  in  that  mind  a  finer  sense 
Z 


Of  inward  and  external  loveliness. 
Making  imagination  serve  as  guide 
To  all  of  heaven  that  yet  remains  on  eaith  — 
Thine  is  a  useless  lute:  break  it,  and  die 

MUSINGS. 

Methinks  we  must  have  known  some  former  suite 
More  glorious  than  our  present,  and  the  hear* 
Is  haunted  with  dim  memories,  shadows  left 
By  past  magnificence  ;  and  hence  we  pine 
With  vain  aspirings,  hopes  that  fill  the  eyes 
With  bitter  tears  for  their  own  vanity. 
Remembrance  makes  the  poet ;  't  is  the  past 
Lingering  within  him,  with  a  keener  sense 
Than  is  upon  the  thoughts  of  common  men. 
Of  what  has  been,  that  fills  the  actual  world 
With  unreal  likenesses  of  lovely  shapes, 
That  were  and  are  not ;  and  the  fairer  they. 
The  more  their  contrast  with  existing  things; 
The  more  his  power,  the  greater  is  his  grief 
— Are  we  then  fallen  from  some  noble  star. 
Whose  consciousness  is  as  an  unknown  curse, 
And  we  feel  capable  of  happiness 
Only  to  know  it  is  not  of  our  sphere  ? 

I  have  sung  passionate  songs  of  beating  hearts; 
Perhaps  it  had  been  better  they  had  drawn 
Their  inspiration  from  an  inward  source. 
Had  1  known  even  an  unhappy  love. 
It  would  have  flung  an  interest  round  life 
Mine  never  knew.    This  is  an  empty  wish; 
Our  feelings  are  not  fires  to  light  at  will 
Our  nature's  fine  and  subtle  mysteries; 
We  may  control  them,  but  may  not  create. 
And  love  less  than  its  fellows.     I  have  fed 
Perhaps  too  much  upon  the  lotus  fruits 
Imagination  yields,  —  fruits  which  unfit 
The  palate  for  the  more  substantial  food 
Of  our  own  land  —  reality.     I  made 
My  heart  too  like  a  temple  for  a  home  ; 
My  thoughts  were  birds  of  paradise,  that  breathed 
The  airs  of  heaven,  but  died  on  touching  earth. 
—The  knight  whose  deeds  were  stainless  as  his  crest. 
Who  made  my  name  his  watchword  in  the  field ; 
The  poet  with  immortal  words,  whose  heart 
I  shared  with  beauty;  or  the  patriot. 
Whose  eloquence  was  power,  w  ho  made  my  smile 
His  recompense  amid  the  toil  which  shaped 
A  nation's  destiny  :  these,  such  as  these. 
The  glorified  —  the  passionate  —  the  brave  — 
In  these  I  might  have  found  the  head  and  heart 
I  could  have  worshipped.     Where  are  such  as  these  ? 
—  Not  'mid  gay  cavaliers  who  make  the  dance 
Pleasant  with  graceful  flatteries;  whose  words 
A  passing  moment  might  light  up  my  cheek. 
But  haunted  not  my  solitude.    The  fault 
Has  been  my  own  ;  perhaps  I  asked  too  much  : — 
Yet  let  me  say,  what  firmly  I  believe. 
Love  can  be  —  ay,  and  is.    I  held  that  Love 
Which  chooseth  from  a  thousand  only  one. 
To  be  the  object  of  that  tenderness 
Natural  to  every  heart;  which  can  resign 
Its  own  best  happiness  for  one  dear  sake  ; 
Can  bear  with  absence ;  hath  no  part  in  Hope,— 
For  Hope  is  somewhat  selfish,— Love  is  not  — 
And  doth  prefer  another  to  itself 
Unchangeable  and  generous,  what,  like  Love, 
Can  melt  away  the  dross  of  worldliness. 
Can  elevate,  refine  and  make  the  heart 
Of  that  pure  gold  which  is  the  fitting  shrine 
For  fire,  as  sacred  as  e'er  came  from  heaven  ? 

From  "  Poems,"  &c. 

LINES    OF    LIFE. 

Orphan  in  my  first  years,  I  early  learnt 
To  make  my  heart  suffice  itself,  and  seek 
Support  and  sympathy  in  its  own  depths. 

Well,  read  my  cheek,  and  watch  my  eye,— 

Too  strictly  schooled  are  they. 
One  secret  of  my  soul  to  show, 

One  hidden  thought  betray. 

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I  never  knew  the  time  my  heart 
Looked  freely  from  my  brow ; 

It  once  was  checked  by  tiiiiidness, 
'Tis  taught  by  caution  now. 

I  live  among  the  cold,  the  false, 
And  I  must  seem  like  them; 

And  such  I  am,  for  I  am  false 
As  those  I  most  condemn. 

I  teach  my  lip  its  sweetest  smile, 

My  tongue  its  softest  tone; 
I  borrow  others'  likeness,  till 

Almost  1  lose  my  own. 

I  pass  through  flattery's  gilded  sieve. 

Whatever  I  would  say  ; 
In  social  life,  all,  like  the  blind, 

Must  learn  to  feel  their  way. 

I  check  my  thoughts  like  curbed  steeds 
That  struggle  with  the  rein; 

I  hid  my  feelings  sleep,  like  wrecks 
In  the  unfathomed  main. 

I  hear  them  speak  of  love,  the  deep, 
The  true,  —  and  mock  the  name; 

Mock  at  all  high  and  early  truth. 
And  I  too  do  the  same. 

I  hear  them  tell  some  touching  tale, 

I  swallow  down  the  tear; 
I  hear  them  name  some  generous  deed, 

And  I  have  learned  to  sneer. 

I  hear  the  spiritual,  the  kind. 
The  pure,  but  named  in  mirth  ; 

Till  all  of  good,  ay,  even  hope. 
Seems  exiled  from  our  earth. 

And  one  fear,  withering  ridicule. 

Is  all  that  I  can  dread  ; 
A  sword  hung  by  a  single  hair. 

Forever  o'er  the  head 

We  bow  to  a  most  servile  faith. 

In  a  most  servile  fear; 
While  none  among  us  dares  to  say 

\Vhat  none  will  choose  to  hear. 

And  if  we  dream  of  loftier  thoughts. 
In  weakness  they  are  gone; 

And  indolence  and  vanity 
Rivet  our  fetters  on. 

Surely  I  was  not  born  for  this  ! 

I  feel  a  loftier  mood 
Of  generous  impulse,  high  resolve. 

Steal  o'er  my  solitude  ! 

I  gaze  upon  the  thousand  stars 

That  fill  the  midnight  sky  ; 
And  wish,  so  passionately  wish, 

A  light  like  theirs  on  high. 

I  have  such  eagerness  of  hope 

To  benefit  my  kind  ; 
And  feel  as  if  immortal  power 

Were  given  to  my  mind. 

1  think  on  that  eternal  fame. 

The  sun  of  earthly  gloom. 
Which  makes  the  gloriousness  of  death. 

The  future  of  the  tomb — 

Tliat  earthly  future,  the  faint  sign 

Of  a  more  heavenly  one; 
— A  step,  a  word,  a  voice,  a  look, — 

Alas !  my  dream  is  done. 

And  earth,  and  earth's  debasing  stain. 

Again  is  on  my  soul  ; 
And  I  am  but  a  nameless  part 

Of  a  most  worthless  whole. 


Why  write  I  this?  because  my  heart 

Towards  the  future  springs. 
That  future  where  it  loves  to  soar 

On  more  than  eagle  wings. 

The  present,  it  is  but  a  speck 

In  that  eternal  time. 
In  which  my  lost  hopes  find  a  home, 

My  spirit  knows  its  clime. 

Oh!  not  myself, — for  what  am  I? — 
The  worthless  and  the  weak. 

Whose  every  thought  of  self  should  raise 
A  blush  to  burn  my  cheek. 

But  song  has  touched  my  lips  with  fire, 
And  made  my  heart  a  shrine  : 

For  what,  although  alloyed,  debased. 
Is  in  itself  divine. 

I  am,  myself,  but  a  vile  link 

Amid  life's  weary  chain; 
But  I  have  spoken  hallovved  words. 

Oh  do  not  say  in  vain 

My  first,  my  last,  my  only  wish, — 

Say,  will  my  charmed  chords 
Wake  to  the  morning  light  of  fame. 

And  breathe  again  my  words  ? 

Will  the  young  maiden,  when  her  tears 

Alone  in  moonlight  shine — 
Tears  for  the  absent  and  the  loved — 

Murmur  some  song  of  mine  7 

Will  the  pale  youth,  by  his  dim  lamp. 

Himself  a  dying  flame. 
From  many  an  antique  scroll  beside. 

Choose  that  which  bears  my  name? 

Let  music  make  less  terrible 

The  silence  of  the  dead; 
I  care  not,  so  my  spirit  last 

Long  after  life  has  fled. 


FEMALE    FAITH. 

She  loved  you  when  the  sunny  light 

Of  bliss  was  on  your  brow  ; 
That  bliss  has  sunk  in  sorrow's  night, 

And  yet  she  loves  you  now. 

She  loved  you  when  your  joyous  tone 

Taught  every  heart  to  thrill; 
The  sweetness  of  that  tongue  is  gone, 

And  yet — she  loves  you  still. 

She  loved  you  when  you  proudly  stept 

The  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 
That  pride  the  blight  of  time  hath  swept. 

Unlike  her  love,  away. 

She  loved  you  when  your  home  and  heart 
Of  fortune's  smile  could  boast; 

She  saw  that  smile  decay— depart — 
And  then  she  loved  you  most. 

Oh,  such  the  generous  faith  that  glows 

In  woman's  gentle  breast; 
'Tis  like  that  star  that  slays  and  glows 

Alone  in  night's  dark  vest; 

That  slays  because  each  other  ray 

Has  left  the  lonely  shore, 
And  that  the  wanderer  on  his  way 

Then  wants  her  light  the  more. 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.    JOHN. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  magical  flower. 
On  which  love  hath  laid  a  fairy  power; 
Gather  it  on  the  eve  of  St.  John, 
When  the  clock  of  the  village  is  tolling  one  ; 


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Let  no  look  he  turned,  no  word  be  said. 
And  lay  the  rose-leaves  under  your  head; 
Your  sleep  will  be  light,  and  pleasant  your  rest. 
For  your  visions  will  be  of  the  youth  you  love  best. 
Four  days  I  had  not  my  own  love  seen, — 
Where,  sighed  I,  can  my  wanderer  have  been  ? 
I  thought  I  would  gather  the  magical  flower, 
And  see  him  at  least  in  my  sleeping  hour! 
St.  John's  Eve  came  ;  to  the  garden  1  fiew, 
Where  the  white  roses  shone  with  the  silver  dew : 
The  nightingale  sang  as  I  passed  along— 
I  startled  to  hear  even  her  sweet  song; 
The  sky  was  bright  with  moon  and  star  shine. 
And  the  wind  was  sweet  as  a  whisper  of  thine. 
Dear  love;  for  whose  sake  I  stripped  the  tree-rose, 
And  softly  and  silently  stole  to  repose. 
No  look  I  turned,  and  no  word  I  said. 
But  laid  the  white  roses  under  my  head. 

Oh,  sweet  was  the  dream  that  came  to  me  then  ' 

I  dreamt  of  a  lonely  and  lovely  glen. 

There  was  a  clear  and  beautiful  sky. 

Such  as  is  seen  in  the  blue  July  : 

To  the  north  was  a  forest  of  darkling  pine; 

To  the  south  were  hills  all  green  with  the  vine, 

Where  the  ruby  clusters  sparkled  like  gems 

Seen  upon  princely  diadems  ; 

On  the  rocks  were  gnats  as  white  as  snow, 

And  the  sheep-bell  was  heard  in  the  valley  below  ; 

And  like  a  nest  in  the  chestnut's  shade. 

As  just  for  love  and  contentment  made, 

A  little  cottage  stood,  and  the  tree 

Shadowed  it  over  most  gracefully  ; 

A  white  rose  grew  up  beside  the  door. 

The  porch  with  the  blossoms  was  covered  o'er; 

Methought  it  was  yours— you  were  standing  by: 

You  welcomed  me,  and  I  felt  your  sigh 

Warm  on  my  cheek,  and  our  lips  met, — 

On  mine  the  touch  is  thrilling  yet! 

But  alas !  1  awakened,  and  all  I  can  do 

Is  to  tell  the  sweet  dream,  my  own  love,  to  you ! 


LOVE. 

She  prest  her  slight  hand  to  her  brow,  or  pain 

Or  bitter  thoughts  were  passing  there.    The  room 

Had  no  light  but  that  from  the  fireside. 

Which  showed,  then  hid  her  face.     How  very  pale 

It  looked,  when  over  it  the  glimmer  shone! 

Is  not  the  rose  companion  of  the  spring  ? 

Then  wherefore  has  the  red-leaved  flower  forgotten 

Her  cheek  ?    The  tears  stood  in  her  large  dark  eyes- 

Her  beautiful  dark  eyes— like  hyacinth  stars, 

When  shines  their  shadowy  glory  through  the  dew 

That  summer  nights  have  wept : — she  felt  them  not. 

Her  heart  was  far  away  !     Her  fragile  form, 

Like  the  young  willow  when  for  the  first  time 

The  wind  sweeps  o'er  it  rudely,  had  not  lost 

Its  own  peculiar  grace;  but  it  was  bowed 

By  sickness,  or  by  worse  than  sickness — sorrow! 

And  this  is  love  !    Oh !  why  should  woman  love  : 

Wasting  her  dearest  feelings,  till  health,  hope, 

Happiness,  are  but  things  of  which  henceforth 

She  '11  only  know  the  name  ?     Her  heart  is  seared : 

A  sweet  light  has  been  thrown  upon  its  life. 

To  make  its  darkness  the  more  terrible. 

.\nd  this  is  Love! 


LAST    VERSES    OF    L.  E.   L. 
/;[  allusion  to  the  Pole  Star,  during  her  voyage  to  Africa. 

A  star  has  left  the  kindling  sky — 

A  lovely  northern  light; 
How  many  planets  are  on  high! 

But  that  has  left  the  night. 

I  miss  its  bright  familiar  face, 

It  was  a  friend  to  me ; 
Associate  with  my  native  place, 

And  those  beyond  the  sea. 


It  rose  upon  our  English  sky. 

Shone  o'er  our  English  land. 
And  brought  back  many  a  loving  eye. 

And  many  a  gentle  hand. 

It  seemed  to  answer  to  my  thought. 

It  called  the  past  to  mind. 
And  with  its  welcome  presence  brought 

All  I  had  left  behind. 

The  voyage  it  lights  no  longer,  ends 

Soon  on  a  foreign  shore ; 
How  can  I  but  recall  the  friends 

That  I  may  see  no  more  ? 

Fresh  from  the  pain  it  was  to  part — 

How  could  I  bear  the  pain  ? 
Yet  strong  the  omen  in  my  heart 

That  says — We  meet  again. 

Meet  with  a  deeper,  dearer  love ; 

For  absence  shows  the  worth 
Of  all  from  which  we  then  remove, 

Friends,  home,  and  native  earth. 

Thou  lovely  polar  star,  mine  eyes 

Still  turned  the  first  on  thee. 
Till  I  have  felt  a  sad  surprise. 

That  none  looked  up  with  me. 

But  thou  hast  sunk  upon  the  wave. 

Thy  radiant  place  unknown  ; 
I  seem  to  stand  beside  a  grave. 

And  stand  by  it  alone. 

Farewell !  ah,  would  to  me  were  given 

A  power  upon  thy  light ! 
What  words  upon  our  English  heaven 

Thy  roving  rays  should  write! 

Kind  messages  of  love  and  hope 

LTpon  thy  rays  should  be ; 
Thy  shining  orbit  should  have  scope 

Scarcely  enough  for  me. 

Oh,  fancy  vain,  as  it  is  fond. 

And  little  needed  too; 
My  friends!  I  need  not  look  beyond 

My  heart  to  look  for  you. 

L ANNOY,  THE  COUNTESS  OF, 
By  birth,  countess  of  Loos  Coswaren.  She  was 
born  at  the  castle  of  Gray,  in  Brabant,  in  17G7. 
In  1788  she  espoused  the  count  de  Lannoy,  and 
emigrated  with  him,  when  the  Low  Countries  were 
overrun  by  the  French  armies  of  the  republic. 
Having  lost  all  their  property  by  confiscation,  like 
many  other  families  of  rank,  they  were  reduced 
to  the  utmost  need  in  a  strange  land.  All  their 
resources  lay  in  the  energy  and  ability  of  the  coun- 
tess. She  had  always  devoted  herself  to  music 
for  the  gratification  of  her  taste,  and  had  even 
attempted  composition ;  she  now  made  it  a  pro- 
fession, and  gave  instructions  with  success  in  the 
city  of  Berlin.  She  published  several  trios  for  the 
piano,  violin,  and  violoncello ;  several  songs,  with 
an  accompaniment  for  the  harp  and  the  piano ; 
with  other  pieces  of  music  for  those  instruments. 
In  1801  she  was  permitted  to  return  to  Belgium 
with  her  family,  but  was  obliged  to  go  through 
with  a  tedious  lawsuit,  which  involved  all  her  for- 
tune. After  several  anxious  years,  the  suit  was 
lost,  and  she  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  at  Paris, 
with  her  daughters,  where,  by  resuming  her  mu- 
sical labours,  she  obtained  a  scanty  living.  She 
died  in  1822. 

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LAPIEERE,  SOPHIE, 
A  PRETTY  Parisian  singer,  was  a  member  of  the 
conspiracy,  which  was  formed  in  1795,  to  over- 
throw the  Directory,  and  replace  the  authority  in 
the  hands  of  the  people.  Sophie,  and  several 
other  women,  were  taken  prisoners  with  the  con- 
spirators, and  she  confronted  her  judges  with  the 
greatest  composure,  and  even  levity.  As,  how- 
ever, she  could  only  l)e  accused  of  singing  repub- 
lican songs,  she  was  acquitted. 

LASIIFORD,    JOAN, 

Daughter  of  Elizabeth  Warne,  by  a  former 
husband,  was  burned  as  a  heretic  by  the  Roman 
Catholics,  during  the  reign  of  Mary  of  England, 
in  the  j'ear  1556.  A  number  of  other  women, 
about  the  same  time,  sealed  their  faith  with  their 
blood.  Joan  Lashford  was  about  twenty  years  of 
age  when  she  thus  suffered  and  died  a  martyr. 


LAVALETTE,  EMILIE,  COUNTESS  DE, 

Niece  of  the  empress  Josephine,  married  Mai-ie 
Chamans  Lavalette,  aid-de-camp  to  Bonaparte. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Emilie  Beauharnais.  The 
manner  in  which  the  marriage  was  brought  about 
is  well  described  in  the  "  Memoirs  of  Lavalette." 

General  Bonaparte,  wishing  to  reward  the  bra- 
very of  his  aid-de-camp,  and  being  then  restricted 
in  his  power,  determined  he  should  marry  this 
niece  of  Madame  Bonaparte.  "  I  cannot  make 
you  a  major,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  I  must  therefore 
give  you  a  wife.  You  shall  marry  Emilie  Beau- 
harnais. She  is  very  handsome,  and  well  edu- 
cated." 

Lavalette  raised  objections :  he  had  no  fortune, 
and  was  immediately  to  depart  for  Egypt  with  his 
chief;  he  urged  that  he  might  be  killed  there,  or, 
which  was  perhaps  his  strongest  objection,  that 
the  lady  might  not  fancy  him. 

Bonaparte  overruled  all  these  objections,  telling 
him  that,  if  he,  Lavalette,  was  killed,  his  widow 
would  have  a  pension,  and  might  marry  again  ad- 
vantageously;  and  concluded  by  saying,  "The 
wedding  shall  take  place  in  eight  days.     I  will 


allow  you  a  fortnight  for  the  honeymoon.  You 
must  then  come  and  join  us  at  Toulon.  Come, 
come,  the  thing  is  all  settled.  Tell  the  coachman 
to  drive  home." 

Lavalette  continues  the  story  thus : 
"In  the  evening  I  went  to  see  Madame  Bona- 
parte. She  knew  what  was  going  forward,  and 
was  kind  enough  to  show  some  satisfaction,  and 
call  me  her  nephew.  "  To-morrow,"  she  said, 
"we  shall  go  to  St.  Germains — I  will  introduce 
you  to  my  niece :  you  will  be  delighted  with  her 
— she  is  a  charming  girl."  Accordingly,  next  day, 
the  General,  Madame  Bonaparte,  Eugene,  and  I, 
went  in  an  open  carriage  to  St.  Germains,  and 
stopped  at  Madame  Campan's.  The  visit  was  a 
great  event  at  the  boarding-school ;  all  the  young 
girls  were  at  the  windows,  in  the  parlours,  or  in 
the  court-yard,  for  they  had  obtained  a  holiday. 
We  soon  entered  the  gardens.  Among  the  forty 
young  ladies  I  anxiously  sought  for  her  who  was 
to  be  my  wife.  Her  cousin,  Hortense,  led  her  to 
us,  that  she  might  salute  the  General  and  embrace 
her  aunt.  She  was,  in  truth,  the  prettiest  of  them 
all.  Her  stature  was  tall,  and  most  gracefully 
elegant,  her  features  were  charming,  and  the  glow 
of  her  beautiful  complexion  was  heightened  by 
her  confusion.  Her  bashfulness  was  so  great, 
that  the  General  could  not  help  laughing  at  her, 
but  he  went  no  further.  It  was  decided  that  we 
should  breakfast  in  the  garden.  In  the  mean  time 
I  felt  extremely  uneasy.  Would  she  like  me? 
Would  she  obey  without  reluctance  ?  This  abrupt 
marriage,  and  this  speedy  departure  grieved  me. 
When  we  got  up,  and  the  circle  was  broken,  I 
begged  Eugene  to  conduct  his  cousin  into  a  soli- 
tary walk.  I  joined  them,  and  he  left  us  ;  I  then 
entered  on  the  delicate  subject.  I  made  no  secret 
of  my  birth,  or  of  my  want  of  fortune  ;  and  added 
— "  I  possess  nothing  in  the  world  but  my  sword, 
and  the  good-will  of  the  General — and  I  must  leave 
3'ou  in  a  fortnight.  Open  your  heart  to  me.  I 
feel  myself  disposed  to  love  you  with  all  my  soul 
— but  that  is  not  sufficient.  If  this  marriage  does 
not  please  you,  repose  a  full  confidence  in  me;  it 
will  not  be  difficult  to  find  a  pretext  to  break  it 
off — I  shall  depart :  you  will  not  be  tormented,  for 
I  will  keep  your  secret."  While  I  was  speaking, 
she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground ;  her  only 
answer  was  a  smile,  and  she  gave  me  the  nosegay 
she  held  in  her  hand;  I  embraced  her.  We  re- 
turned slowly  to  the  company,  and  eight  days  af- 
terwards went  to  the  municipality.  The  following 
day,  a  poor  priest,  who  had  not  taken  the  oaths, 
married  us  in  a  small  convent  of  the  Conception, 
in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  This  was  in  some  manner 
forbidden,  but  Emilie  set  a  great  importance  on 
that  point;   her  piety  was  gentle  and  sincere." 

In  a  fortnight  after  the  marriage,  Lavalette  left 
his  bride,  and  joined  the  expedition  to  Egj'pt.  In 
eighteen  months  he  returned,  and  was  most  affec- 
tionately welcomed  by  his  wife,  who  presented  to 
him  their  infant  daughter ;  the  happiness  of  the 
married  pair  was  complete,  and  their  affection  for 
each  other  continued  faithful  and  true  dui-ing 
years  of  prosperity. 

On  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  the  Count 


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Lavalette  was  imprisoned  and  condemned  to  death. 
IIi8  wife  tried  every  means  to  obtain  Lis  pardon ; 
and,  failing  in  this,  she  proposed  to  him,  the  night 
before  his  execution,  to  put  on  her  dress,  and  imi- 
tating her  walk  and  manner,  holding  his  handker- 
chief to  his  face,  as  if  he  were  weeping,  to  go  out 
from  the  prison,  and  when  once  in  the  street,  she 
had  provided  means  for  his  safety.  As  they  were 
about  the  same  height,  the  deception  succeeded, 
and  Count  Lavalette  escaped  to  Belgium  ;  but  his 
wife  was  kept  for  six  weeks  in  prison,  and  not 
allowed  to  see  any  one  but  her  jailor.  She  passed 
twenty-five  days  without  sleep,  fearing  at  evei'y 
moment  that  she  might  see  her  husband  brought 
back  a  prisoner.  This  anxiety  at  length  produced 
insanity,  which  continued,  with  some  intervals  of 
rationality,  during  her  whole  life.  Lavalette  left 
France  in  1816  ;  in  1822  he  was  allowed  to  return, 
and  from  that  time  till  his  death  devoted  himself 
to  the  care  of  his  wife. 

LEAPOR,  MARY, 
Was  born  in  Northamptonshire,  in  1712,  her 
father  having  been  many  years  gardener  to  a  gen- 
tleman in  that  country.  Her  education  was  suit- 
'  able  to  her  humble  rank,  but  her  attainments  far 
surpassed  all  expectation.  Her  modesty  kept  her 
merit  concealed  till  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  reap 
any  temporal  emoluments  from  her  WTitings.  She 
died  in  her  twenty  fourth  year,  and,  when  on  her 
death-bed,  gave  her  father  a  collection  of  papers, 
containing  original  poems,  which  were  afterwards 
published.  Some  of  these  poems  are  very  good. 
She  also  wrote  a  tragedy  entitled  "  The  Unhappy 
Father." 

LEE,  ANNE, 
Was  born  at  Manchester,  England,  in  1736. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  blacksmith,  and  also 
at  an  early  age  she  became  the  wife  of  a  black- 
smith. She  is  distinguished  as  the  person  who 
introduced  Shakerism  into  this  country ;  and  she 
became  the  leader  of  the  sect.  Her  first  "testi- 
mony of  salvation  and  eternal  life,"  borne  in  1770, 
was  the  injunction  of  celibacy  as  the  perfection 
of  human  nature ;  and  next,  she  claimed  to  be  a 
■livine  person.  From  this  time  she  was  honoured 
with  the  title  of  "  Mother  Anne,"  while  she  styled 
tierself  "Anne  the  Word."  Having  been  perse- 
cuted in  England,  she  came  out  to  America,  in 
1774,  with  several  members  of  the  society,  and 
formed  the  first  community  of  Shakers,  at  Water- 
vliet,  near  Albany,  where  she  died,  in  1784. 

LEE,  SOPHIA, 
This  amiable  and  ingenious  lady  was  born  in 
the  metropolis  in  the  year  1750.  Her  father, 
originally  bred  to  the  law,  was  an  actor  of  merit, 
whose  conduct  gained  him  admission  into  the  best 
circles,  and  who  gave  his  children  an  excellent 
education.  At  an  early  age,  the  subject  of  this 
article  exercised  her  pen  in  composition,  and  in 
1780  produced  the  diverting  comedy  entitled  the 
■'Chapter  of  Accidents,"  which  met  with  consi- 
derable success.  With  the  profits  of  this  play,  on 
the  death  of  her  father,  which  took  place  the  fol- 


lowing year,  she  was  enabled  to  open  a  school  at 
Bath,  which,  aided  by  her  sisters,  she  conducted 
for  several  years  with  great  reputation.  Her  next 
performance,  published  in  1784,  was  the  well- 
known  novel  entited  the  "  Recess,  or  a  Tale  of 
Other  Times,"  the  story  of  which  is  founded  on 
the  fate  of  two  supposed  daughters  of  Mary  queen 
of  Scots,  by  a  secret  marriage  with  the  duke  of 
Norfolk.  It  is  ingeniously  and  pathetically  wrought 
up ;  but  some  severe  casuists  have  condemned  the 
unfair  liberty  which  it  takes  with  some  historical 
characters.  This  romance,  which  became  very 
popular,  was  followed  in  1787  by  a  ballad  called  a 
"Hermit's  Tale,  found  in  his  Cell."  In  1796, 
Miss  Lee  produced  a  tragedy,  called  "  Almeyda, 
Queen  of  Grenada;"  but,  although  aided  by  the 
great  talents  of  Mi"s.  Siddons,  it  did  not  realize 
the  expectations  which  her  power  of  moving  the 
passions  in  the  "  Recess"  had  created.  In  the 
succeeding  year  Miss  Harriet  Lee  published  the 
first  five  volumes  of  her  "  Canterbury  Tales," 
three  stories  in  which  were  from  the  pen  of  her 
sister ;  and  of  these  three,  one  called  "  Krutzmar" 
was  selected  for  the  subject  of  a  tragedy  by  Lord 
Byron.  In  1803,  having  secured  a  handsome  com- 
petence, she  retired  from  teaching;  soon  after 
which  appeared  her  "  Life  of  a  Lover,"  a  novel 
written  in  early  life.  In  1807,  a  comedy  by  Miss 
Lee,  termed  the  "  Assignation,"  was  unsuccess- 
fully produced  at  Drury  Lane ;  which  drama  ter- 
minated her  literary  career.     She  died  at  Clifton, 

near  Bristol,  March  13th,  1824. 

c 

LEGGE,    ELIZABETH, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Edward  Legge,  an  ancestor 
of  the  Earl  of  Dartmouth,  was  born  in  1580.  She 
was  particularly  noted  for  her  faculty  of  acquiring 
languages,  having  studied  thoroughly  the  Latin, 
French,  Spanish,  and  Irish  tongues  ;  besides  culti- 
vating her  poetical  genius.  Unfortunately,  these 
acquisitions  soon  proved  nearly  useless,  as  she 
lost  her  sight,  indeed  became  totally  blind,  in  con- 
sequence of  severe  study  and  midnight  readings. 
She  was  never  married,  lived  chiefly  in  Ireland, 
and  died  at  the  great  age  of  105. 

LENNGREN,    ANNA   MARIA, 

A  Swedish  poetess,  was  born,  1754,  and  died 
in  1817.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Professor 
Malmstadt,  of  Upsala.  Her  "Visit  to  the  Par- 
sonage;" "Portraits;"  and  other  writings,  are 
charming  pictures  of  domestic  life.  The  Swedish 
Academy  honoured  her  memory  by  a  media,  on 
one  side  of  which  is  her  bust,  and  on  the  other  a 
muse  holding  a  lyre,  with  this  inscription  :  "  Quo 
minus  gloriam  potebat  eo  magis  assecuta." 

LENCLOS,   ANNE    or    NINON    DE, 

Was  born  in  Paris,  in  1615. '  Her  father,  a  man 
of  good  family,  had  served  under  Henry  IV.  and 
Louis  XIV. ;  had  gained  considerable  reputation 
for  his  bravery  and  knowledge  of  military  tactics. 
Having  resigned  his  commission,  he  determined  to 
spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  pleasures  of  so- 
ciety ;  perhaps  we  might  say  dissipated  society. 
His  wife,  a  timid,  narrow-minded  woman,  had  to> 


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tally  different  views  ;  but  unfortunately,  though 
she  was  pious  and  well-principled,  her  want  of 
character  and  understanding  reduced  her  to  a 
negative  position  in  the  family  ;  and  Ninon,  from 
her  childhood,  was  submitted  to  very  little  disci- 
pline that  did  not  accord  with  her  own  tastes.  She 
manifested  a  precocious  wit  and  aptness  for  learn- 
ing which  gratified  her  father's  vanity  highly ;  he 
delighted  in  the  admiration  she  excited ;  and,  to- 
tally neglecting  the  foundation  of  every  good  edu- 
cation, that  moral  and  religious  training  of  the 
heart,  which  gives  strength  for  the  vicissitudes  of 
life  ;  he  raised  a  dazzling  superstructure  of  accom- 
plishments and  graces,  that  adorned  without  exalt- 
ing their  possessor.  Thus  he  formed  a  woman 
whose  fame  was  her  disgrace,  whose  glory  was  her 
shame. 


The  premature  death  of  both  her  pai-ents  left 
Ninon  an  orphan  at  sixteen.  Her  inheritance 
being  but  moderate,  she  converted  it  into  a  life- 
annuity,  which  gave  her  the  means  of  living  in 
the  enjoyment  of  affluence.  Her  personal  charms 
consisted  not  so  much  in  surprising  beauty  as  in 
unspeakable  grace.  She  was  of  the  middle  height, 
and  perfectly  well  proportioned ;  her  eyes  were 
remarkably  fine  ;  her  voice  soft  and  musical ;  and 
her  manners  were  irresistibly  winning.  She  was 
quite  famous  for  her  conversational,  powers  and 
talents  for  repartee.  As  she  was  by  no  means 
particular  in  the  selection  of  her  society,  and  ex- 
cluded none  but  the  dull  and  tiresome,  her  attrac- 
tions and  the  miscellaneous  group  around  her 
rendered  her  soon  celebrated ;  and  all  the  distin- 
guished men  of  the  day,  the  courtly,  the  learned, 
and  the  military,  resorted  to  her  house. 

Slie  had  two  sons,  one  of  whom  entered  the 
navy ;  the  other,  whose  father  was  the  Marquis 
de  Gersey,  was  the  wretched  being,  victim  of  an 
unhallowed  passion  he  entertained  for  her :  upon 
learning  that  she  was  his  mother,  he  retreated  into 
the  garden  and  put  an  end  to  his  own  existence 
with  his  sword  !  She  was  then  fifty-six  years  of 
age.  This  sad  event  appears  to  have  greatly 
shocked  her  at  the  moment :  but  vicious  habits 


were  too  inveterate  to  be  broken ;  she  returned  to 
her  sallies  of  frivolity,  allured  new  lovers,  and 
again  ran  the  giddy  round  of  dissipation. 

She  was  at  one  time  upon  intimate  terms  with 
that  distinguished  woman,  ]\Iadame  Scarron,  who 
died  the  widow  of  Louis  XIV.  It  is  said  that 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  when  at  Versailles,  offered 
Ninon  the  privilege  of  a  residence  in  that  royal 
chateau.  Ninon,  however,  considered  herself 
happier  in  her  life  of  independence,  and  declined 
the  proposal  of  the  all-powerful  favourite. 

Christina  of  Sweden  visited  Ninon  when  in 
Paris,  and  offered  to  attach  her  to  her  household. 
Less  sagacity  than  that  of  the  witty  Parisian  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  reject  a  bondage  to  so  whim- 
sical a  personage. 

The  most  surprising  circumstance  in  the  history 
of  this  woman,  a  little  apochryphal  to  be  sure,  is, 
that  she  excited  a  violent  passion  in  the  abbe 
Gedoyn,  then  twenty-nine  years  old,  when  she  had 
actually  attained  her  eightieth  birth-day.  She 
may  be  said,  according  to  Horace  Walpole's  ex- 
pression, to  have  "  burned  her  candle  to  the  snuff" 
in  public;"  for  she  never  changed  her  habits  of 
living  in  company,  and  engaging  in  its  diversions 
until  her  death,  which  took  place  in  her  ninetieth 
year. 

A  volume  has  been  published,  said  to  be  her 
letters,  written  to  the  Marquis  de  Sevigne ;  but 
they  are  well  known  to  be  spurious.  Some  of  her 
genuine  letters  are  to  be  found  in  the  correspond- 
ence of  St.  Evremond ;  they  are  written  with  sim- 
plicity, but  by  no  means  justify  the  reputation  of 
her  colloquial  powers.  St.  Evremond  is  the  author 
of  that  well-known  madrigal  in  her  praise,  where 
he  attributes  to  her  nothing  less  than  the  "virtue 
of  Cato."  Whether  we  consider  sex,  place,  cha- 
racter, or  situation,  a  less  appropriate  parallel 
could  scarcely  have  been  found  in  the  catalogue 
of  distinguished  persons. 

That  in  an  age  of  lax  morality,  the  meretricious 
charms  of  Ninon  de  Lenclos  should  have  gained 
her  many  admirers,  and  that  indulgence  should 
have  been  shown  to  her  errors,  may  be  understood. 
Her  bon-mots  are  often  repeated  ;  her  life  of  what 
is  called  pleasure  and  gayety ;  the  attentions  of 
the  illustrious ;  the  charms  that  lasted  nearly  a 
century ;  these  things,  with  the  thoughtless,  some- 
times obscure  the  true  view  of  her  career.  It 
would  be  unpardonable,  then,  in  this  place,  not  to 
exhibit  the  reverse  of  the  medal.  Entitled  by  her 
birth,  and  by  her  individual  talents,  to  an  honour- 
able place  in  society,  she  saw  herself  an  object  of 
dread  and  disgust  to  those  really  distinguished 
women  whose  rank  was  their  least  title  to  consi- 
deration. Madame  Sevign^,  whose  "honest  fame" 
is  contemporary  with  the  name  of  Ninon,  shows  in 
various  passages  the  shallowness  and  mockery  of 
the  homage  paid  by  those  often  cited  great  men  to 
this  celebrated  courtezan.  The  boast  frequently 
repeated  by  her  admirers,  that  if  not  a  virtuous 
woman  she  had  the  qualities  of  an  honest  man,  is 
indeed  an  empty  one.  She  was  under  no  tempta- 
tions to  commit  gross  acts  of  fraud,  intemperance, 
or  other  manly  vices.  If  she  had  been  brought  to 
the  trial,  it  is  less  than  doubtful  that  she  would 

syo 


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have  failed ;  as  the  much  stronger  barriers  that 
fence  woman's  conduct  were  too  feeble  to  resist 
her  passions.  It  was  her  policy  to  carry  off  her 
course  of  life  with  a  gay  air ;  but,  that  she  bitterly 
felt  its  emptiness  and  degradation,  is  evident  from 
what  she  says  in  one  of  her  letters  to  St.  Evre- 
mond.  "  If  I  were  told  I  had  to  go  over  again  the 
life  I  have  led,  I  would  hang  myself  to-morrow," 
are  her  significant  words.  It  is  a  well  authenti- 
cated fact,  that  upon  one  occasion  she  narrowly 
escaped  being  sent  to  a  house  for  the  reformation 
of  the  lowest  objects  of  public  compassion.  The 
queen,  thinking  her  an  object  for  punishment, 
issued  an  order  to  that  effect;  and  it  required 
powerful  influence  to  get  it  countermanded.  Des- 
pised, and  justly,  by  her  relatives,  excluded  from 
her  natural  station  in  life  ;  a  mother,  without  filial 
respect  or  affection ;  feeling  her  life  worse  than 
death  itself!     Such  was  Ninon  de  Lenclos  ! 

"Count  all  the  pleasure  prosperous  vice  attains, — 
"Tis  but  what  virtue  flies  from,  and  disdains." 

LENNOX,    CHARLOTTE, 

The  friend  of  Johnson  and  Richardson,  was 
born  in  1720,  at  New  York,  of  which  her  father, 
Colonel  Ramsay,  was  lieutenant-governor.  She 
was  sent  to  England  to  be  educated ;  married ;  was 
left  a  widow  with  one  child ;  and  resorted  to  her 
pen  for  subsistence.  Her  latter  days  were  clouded 
by  poverty  and  sickness.  Some  of  her  works  are, 
"  The  Female  Quixote ;"  "  Henrietta,  Sophia,  and 
Euphemia;"  "Shakspeare  Illustrated;"  two  plays, 
and  various  translations. 

Dr.  Johnson  assisted  her  in  drawing  up  pro- 
posals for  an  edition  of  her  works,  in  three  vo- 
lumes, 4to. ;  but  it  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
published.  Dr.  Johnson  had  such  an  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Lennox,  that  on  one  occasion,  not  long  before 
his  death,  he  went  so  far  as  to  pronounce  her  ta- 
lents as  a  writer,  superior  to  those  of  Mrs.  Car- 
ter, Miss  Hannah  More,  and  Miss  Burney.  She 
died  January  4th,  1804. 

LENORMAND,    MADEMOISELLE, 

Was  born  in  Alen^on.  Being  left  an  orphan  at 
an  early  age,  she  was  educated,  together  with  her 
sister,  in  the  convents  of  Alen5on,  and  when  of  a 
suitable  age,  she  was  apprenticed  to  a  milliner. 
She  commenced  her  vocation  by  announcing  that 
the  superior  of  the  convent  of  the  Benedictines, 
where  she  was  then  living,  would  be  deprived  of 
her  office,  and  she  informed  her  companions  of  the 
name,  age,  and  other  particulars  of  the  successor 
of  the  deprived  abbess.  For  this  prophecy,  Ma- 
demoiselle Lenormand  was  obliged  to  undergo  a 
penance  ;  but  the  event  verifying  the  truth  of  her 
predictions,  her  pretensions  as  a  prophetess  were 
confirmed.  Alen^on  was,  however,  too  confined  a 
plact  for  a  spirit  like  hers,  and  when  she  was  four- 
teen she  set  out  for  Paris,  with  nothing  but  the 
clothes  she  wore,  and  six  francs  in  her  pocket. 
Her  step-father,  who  was  in  Paris,  obtained  for 
her  a  situation  in  a  shop,  where  she  soon  became 
a  great  favourite,  and  studied  arithmetic,  book- 
keeping, and  mathematics.    After  remaining  there 


some  time.  Mademoiselle  Lenormand  removed  to 
No.  5,  Rue  de  Tournon,  where  she  continued  to 
exercise  her  profession,  without  incurring  the 
censure  of  government.  She  attracted  people  of 
all  ranks  in  life.  The  Princess  de  Lamballe,  the 
Count  de  Provence,  afterwards  Louis  XVIII.,  Mi- 
rabeau,  Murat,  Robespierre,  St.  Just,  Barrifere, 
Madame  Tallien,  and  even  Madame  de  Stael,  were 
among  her  frequent  visitors.  Josephine,  wife  of 
Napoleon,  reposed  the  greatest  confidence  in  her, 
and  constantly  sent  to  ask  the  result  of  any  enter- 
prise the  emperor  was  about  to  undertake.  She 
was  several  times  on  the  point  of  imprisonment : 
at  one  time  for  foretelling  the  divorce  of  Joseph- 
ine ;  at  others,  for  prophesying  the  downfall  of 
persons  in  power;  but  she  always  escaped.  She 
bought  lands  and  houses  at  Alen9on,  where  she 
retired  after  the  revolution  of  July,  1830.  At 
this,  her  native  place,  she  was  unwilling  to  exer- 
cise her  profession.  She  was  a  short,  fat,  and 
very  plain  woman,  with  remarkably  bright  piercing 
eyes.  She  left  her  property  to  her  nephew,  whom 
she  adopted  after  her  sister's  death. 

In  1827,  she  published  "Memoirs  Historiques 
et  Secrets  de  I'imperatrice  Josephine."  She  fore- 
told that  her  own  death  would  not  take  place  till 
she  was  one  hundred  and  twenty-four,  that  is,  till 
near  the  close  of  the  present  century.  In  this  she 
proved  a  false  prophet,  as  she  died  a  few  years 
ago. 

LESCAILE,   CATHARINE, 

One  of  those  learned  and  accomplished  women, 
who  have  been  honoured  with  the  appellation  of 
the  "  Tenth  Muse,"  was  a  native  of  Holland.  Her 
poems  were  published  in  1728.  They  consist 
principally  of  tragedies,  which,  although  they  vio- 
late the  ordinary  rules,  show  frequent  marks  of 
superior  genius.     She  died  in  1711. 

LESPINASSE,  MADEMOISELLE  DE, 

BoKN  about  1720,  was  the  illegitimate  daughter 
of  Madame  d'Albon,  a  married  lady  of  rank.  She 
was  brought  up  in  a  convent,  under  the  name  of 
Lespinasse,  and  when  she  was  of  age,  was  placed 
in  the  family  of  her  mother,  as  a  governess.  Ac- 
quainted with  the  secret  of  her  birth,  her  situation 
was  distressing,  and  the  affection  shown  her  in 
secret  by  her  mother,  was  her  only  consolation. 
But  when  she  died,  and  the  proofs  of  her  birth, 
as  well  as  a  large  sum  of  money,  left  her  by  her 
mother,  were  wrested  from  her  by  her  family,  her 
condition  became  singularly  humiliating  and  deso- 
late. At  this  juncture  she  met  with  Madame  du. 
Deffand,  and  readily  accepted  her  proposal  of  re- 
siding with  her  as  "demoiselle  de  compagnee." 
The  cold,  selfish  Madame  du  Deffand  treated  her 
young  dependant  with  little  kindness.  She  made 
her  sleep,  like  her,  during  the  day,  and  sit  up  all 
night,  in  order  to  read  to  her.  This  imnatural 
mode  of  life  destroyed  the  health  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Lespinasse.  Her  chief  consolation  was  in  the 
friendship  of  D'Alembert,  the  friend  of  Madame 
du  Deffand.  Born  under  similar  circumstances, 
his  sympathy  flowed  out  to  the  friendless  girl, 
and  his  devotion  to  her  continued  till  death  sepa- 

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rated  them.  Madame  du  Deffand's  friends  soon 
discovered  the  attractions  of  her  companion ;  but 
in  order  not  to  excite  her  jealousy,  they  avoided, 
in  her  presence,  taking  too  much  notice  of  her. 
To  enjoy  her  society  they  secretly  visited  her  in 
her  own  room,  an  hour  before  the  usual  time  of 
meeting ;  Madame  du  DefFand  generally  sleeping 
till  the  arrival  of  her  guests.  For  a  long  time 
Madame  du  Deffand  remained  unconscious  of  this 
arrangement ;  but  when  she  became  acquainted 
with  it,  her  rage  was  without  bounds.  She  ac- 
cused Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  of  the  blackest 
treachery,  and  announced  her  intention  of  dis- 
missing her  immediately.  The  sense  of  her  desti- 
tution and  helplessness,  added  to  Madame  du 
Deifand's  reproaches,  acted  powerfully  upon  the 
excitable  imagination  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespi- 
nasse, and,  in  a  fit  of  exaggerated  sensibility,  she 
took  laudanum.  Timely  remedies  saved  her  from 
the  consequences  of  this  rash  act,  but  she  never 
entirely  recovered  the  shock  given  to  her  nerves. 
They  parted,  and  the  Parisian  world  took  sides  in 
the  affair ;  each  had  their  partisans,  and  warm 
and  bitter  recrimination  followed.  The  friends 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  procured  her  a 
pension,  and  Madame  Geoifrin  made  her  a  yearly 
allowance.  Placed  above  want,  she  soon  gathered 
around  her  a  choice  literary  circle,  many  of  the 
friends  of  Madame  du  Deffand  deserting  her  for 
her  young  rival.  All  the  accounts  left  of  the  circle 
of  Jlademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  represent  it  as  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  places  of  Parisian  resort ; 
her  tact  in  presiding  over  society  being  a  quality 
in  which  she  had  attained  the  highest  excellence. 
With  all  the  external  graces  of  a  French  woman 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  Mademoiselle  de  Les- 
pinasse possessed  none  of  the  heartlessness  which 
characterized  the  period.  Her  nature  had  all  the 
fire  and  passion  of  the  inhabitants  of  a  southern 
clime.  A  calm  and  even  state  of  mind  was  insup- 
portable to  her,  and  it  was  perhaps  this  perpetual 
mobility  of  feeling  which  rendered  her  presence 
so  attractive.  Among  her  visitors  was  a  young 
Spanish  nobleman  of  distinguished  talents,  the 
Marquis  de  Mora  ;  he  became  devotedly  attached 
to  her,  and  his  friends  fearing  he  would  marry 
her,  recalled  him  to  Spain.  His  passion  was  re- 
turned, and  during  three  years  of  separation,  the 
lovers  corresponded  unceasingly.  De  Mora's 
health  declining,  his  friends  allowed  him  to  return 
to  Paris ;  but  the  fatigue  of  the  journey  was  too 
great ;  he  died  on  the  road,  without  having  seen 
the  object  of  his  idolatry.  Mademoiselle  de  Les- 
pinasse was  overwhelmed  with  grief,  and  from 
that  time  she  slowly  declined  ;  but  it  was  not  till 
after  her  death  that  it  became  known  that  there 
lay  in  her  heart  a  hidden  sorrow  deeper  still. 
During  the  absence  of  M.  de  Mora  she  had  con- 
ceived a  passion  for  the  Count  de  Guibert,  a  man 
who  ranked  high  in  the  opinion  of  the  world.  She 
loved  him  with  all  the  impassioned  fervour  of  her 
nature,  which  passion  he  for  a  short  time,  through 
vanity,  feigned  to  return ;  but  he  married,  and 
wounded  affection,  united  with  remorse  for  her 
involuntary  faithlessness  to  her  devoted  lover 
Mora,  brought  her  to  the  grave.     Even  D'Alem- 


bert,  her  life-friend,  never  knew  till  after  her 
death  that  Mora  was  not  the  only  one  whom  she 
had  preferred  to  him.  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse's 
history  is  chiefly  remarkable  as  an  illustration  of 
the  difficulties  and  miseries  which  surround  the 
path  of  a  young  lady  who  has  no  natural  or  legal 
protector.  All  these  difficulties  were  enhanced 
by  the  profligacy  of  French  society  luider  the  old 
I'^gime. 

LICHTENAW,  WILHELMINA,  COUNTESS  OF, 

The  celebrated  friend  of  Frederic  William  IL 
Her  father,  whose  name  was  Enke,  travelled  over 
the  greater  part  of  Europe,  as  a  clever  musician 
on  the  French  horn,  and  was  afterwards  received 
into  the  royal  musical  chapel  of  Berlin.  She  had 
two  sisters,  the  eldest  of  whom,  on  account  of  her 
splendid  figure,  was  engaged  at  the  Halian  opera. 
Count  Matuschki  eloped  with  her  to  Venice,  and 
married  her,  after  which  they  returned  to  Berlin, 
where  they  lived  in  a  brilliant  style,  their  house 
becoming  the  resort  of  the  fashionable  world. 
Her  sister,  Wilhelmina,  when  ten  years  of  age, 
lived  with  her.  The  hereditary  prince,  Frederic 
William,  who  visited  the  house  of  Count  Matuschki, 
thus  accidentally  made  her  acquaintance.  She 
was  then  thirteen.  Her  beauty  inspired  the  prince 
with  an  enthusiastic  love ;  and  when,  on  some  oc- 
casion, the  two  sisters  had  quarrelled,  he  consi- 
dered it  most  proper  to  have  her  sent  back  to  the 
house  of  her  father.  However,  his  growing  pas- 
sion did  not  suffer  him  to  stojj  here  ;  he  conducted 
her  to  Potsdam,  to  one  of  his  confidants,  procured 
her  a  governess  and  the  most  skilful  masters,  and 
came  every  day  himself,  to  contribute,  by  his  own 
instruction,  to  her  mental  development.  Their 
mutual  attachment  was  pure  and  disinterested ; 
but  when  also  in  Wilhelmina's  bosom  a  strong 
passion  awoke  for  her  amiable  benefactor,  she 
was  no  longer  able  to  resist  his  i^rotestations  of 
unchangeable  love.  Notwithstanding,  the  prince 
followed  other  transient  inclinations  ;  and,  not  to 
be  disturbed  by  Wilhelmina's  presence,  placed  her, 
under  pretext  of  perfecting  her  mind  and  accom- 
plishments, under  the  guardianship  of  her  sister, 
(the  countess,)  in  Paris.  When  sis  months  had 
elapsed,  he  decided  himself  entirely  in  her  favour ; 
yet,  for  the  sake  of  outward  propriety,  a  marriage 
was  feigned  with  a  certain  Retz.  After  the  death 
of  Frederic  I.  she  was  elevated  to  a  higher  but 
more  difficult  position.  To  avoid  envy  and  jea- 
lousy, was  impossible ;  neither  could  she  live  in 
the  same  good  intelligence  with  all  parties  of  the 
court,  who  differed  greatly  in  their  views.  In  the 
year  1792  she  travelled,  with  the  king,  to  Vienna, 
where  she  was  present  at  the  coronation  of  Fran- 
cis II. ;  three  years  later,  she  visited  Italy,  and 
on  her  return,  received  the  dijjloma,  which  gave 
her  the  title  of  Countess  Lichtenaw.  On  her  ar- 
rival in  Berlin,  she  was  introduced  as  such  to  the 
queen ;  at  the  same  time  she  received  for  her  esta- 
blishment 500,000  crowns,  and  the  estates  to  which 
she  had  a  claim  by  her  title.  Besides,  she  possessed 
a  house  in  Berlin,  (an  inheritance  of  her  deceased 
son.  Count  von  der  Mark,)  and  a  beautiful  villa 
in  Charlottenburg.     Her  situation,  as  well  as  the 

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king's  favour,  lasted  until  his  death,  in  1797.  But 
as  soon  as  Frederic  William  had  closed  his  eyes 
forever,  the  scene  changed.  She  was  foi-thwith 
arrested,  at  Potsdam,  and,  for  four  months,  strong- 
ly secured ;  during  vrliich  time  her  papers  were 
examined,  and  she  herself  minutely  interrogated. 
Although  no  discovery  could  be  made  to  accuse 
her  of  a  state  crime,  she  was  sent  to  Fort  Glagow, 
and  her  property  confiscated.  Not  until  after  an 
imprisonment  of  three  years,  and  an  unconditional 
renunciation  of  her  entire  property,  was  she  re- 
leased, and  obtained  an  annuity  of  4000  crowns. 
In  1811  her  estates  were  partly  restored,  but  the 
annuity  was  withdrawn.  She  afterwards  lived  in 
retirement,  and  died  in  1820. 

As  to  the  bad  influence  which,  according  to  the 
statements  of  her  enemies  and  misinformed  per- 
sons, this  woman  is  said  to  have  exercised  over 
the  monarch,  and,  through  him,  over  the  Prussian 
state,  and  the  abuse  which  she  made  of  her  power 
for  the  destruction  of  worthy  and  the  advance- 
ment of  unworthy  statesmen,  there  is  no  founda- 
tion whatever.  Men  of  undoubted  character  speak 
of  her  with  the  highest  esteem  ;  and  she  is  praised 
by  those  who  intimately  knew  her,  as  a  woman 
of  deep  sensibility,  rare  good-nature,  correct  judg- 
ment, and  unfeigned  self-sacrificing  interest  in 
those  whom  she  loved.  It  is  an  acknowledged 
fact,  that  she  never  sought  distinction  or  wealth 
for  herself,  nor  for  her  nearest  relations.  Her 
parents  died  poor;  her  youngest  sister  was  mar- 
ried to  a  merchant;  and  her  two  brothers,  of 
whom  the  one  was  high -forester,  and  the  other 
equerry,  had  never  more  than  a  competency  to 
live  on,  and  lost  even  that  during  the  unfortunate 
period  of  the  French  war. 

LINCOLN,  ELIZABETH,  COUNTESS  OF, 

Was  one  of  the  daughters  and  co-heiresses  of 
Sir  .John  Knevet,  of  Charlton,  in  Wiltshire,  Eng- 
hind,  and  was  married  to  Thomas,  Earl  of  Lincoln, 
about  1602,  by  whom  she  had  seven  sons  and  nine 
daughters.  She  published,  in  1628,  a  small  but 
valuable  tract,  called  "  The  Countess  of  Lincoln's 
Nursery."  It  was  addressed  to  her  daughter-in- 
law,  the  Countess  of  Lincoln,  and  is  a  well-written 
essay  on  the  advantages  of  mothers  nursing  their 
own  children. 


LLOYD,    MARY, 

Was  the  daughter  of  George  Michael  Mosei', 
of  England,  and  distinguished  herself  so  much  as 
an  admirable  artist  in  flower-painting,  that  she 
was  elected  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy  at 
London.  After  her  marriage,  she  practised  her 
.art  solely  for  amusement.    She  died  in  1819. 

LOGAN,    MARTHA, 

A  GREAT  floi'ist,  was  the  daughter  of  Robert 
Daniel,^  of  South  Carolina.  In  her  fifteenth  year 
she  maiTied  George  Logan,  and  died  in  1779,  aged 
seventy-seven.  At  the  age  of  seventy,  she  wrote 
a  treatise  "On  Gardening." 


LOGES,  MARIE  BRUNEAU, 
Was  one  of  the  most  illustrious  women  in  France 
in  the  seventeenth  century.  She  was  zealous  for 
the  reformed  religion,  and  was  highly  esteemed 
by  Malherbe  and  Balzac,  and  all  the  greatest  wits 
and  princes  of  her  time.  She  died  in  1641,  and 
left  nine  children  by  her  husband,  Charles  de 
Rechignfevoiscn,  Lord  des  Loges,  at  one  time  gen- 
tleman in  ordinary  of  the  king's  bed-chamber. 

LOHMAN,  JOHANNA  FREDERICA, 
Was  born  in  1749,  at  Wittemburg.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  Professor  of  Law,  J.  D.  Rich- 
ter.  She  married  the  auditor  Lohman  in  Schoen- 
beck,  by  Magdeburg.  She  lived  at  first  in  Leipzic, 
then  in  INIagdeburg,  and  after  the  death  of  her 
husband  again  in  Leipzic,  where  she  died,  in  1811. 
Most  of  her  works  were  published  anonymously. 
She  wrote  "The  Jacobin,"  in  1794;  "Clara  of 
AVahburg,"  in  1796;  "Carelessness  and  its  Con- 
sequences," in  1805. 

LOHMAN,  EMELIE  F.  SOPHIE, 

Daughter  of  the  above-mentioned  lady,  was 
born  in  1784,  at  Schoenbeck,  and  died,  in  18.30, 
at  Leipzic.  She  was  a  very  prolific  writer.  Some 
of  her  best  works  are,  "  Winter  Evenings,"  1811 ; 
"Life  and  Poetry,"  1820;  and  "New  Tales," 
1823. 

LONGUEVILLE,    DUCHESS    DE, 

Sister  of  the  great  Conde,  was  the  daughter 
of  Henry,  pi-ince  de  Cond(?,  and  of  Marguerite  de 
Montmorenci.  She  married  Henry  d'Orleans,  duke 
de  Longueville,  who,  though  brave,  intelligent,  and 
virtuous,  preferred  a  quiet  and  retired  life ;  and 
soon  withdrew  from  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  in 
which  his  wife  had  induced  him  to  take  an  active 
part,  to  his  own  estate.  The  duchess,  whose  cha- 
racter was  very  diflFerent,  embraced  with  warm 
ardour  the  views  of  that  party,  whose  heroine  she 
soon,  from  her  high  birth,  beauty  and  intrepidity, 
became.  Her  influence  and  charms  were  of  great 
use  to  the  Frondeurs,  by  inducing  the  celebrated 
Turenne  and  the  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld  to  join 
them.  Turenne,  however,  soon  returned  to  his 
allegiance  to  the  king ;  but  the  duke  remained 
faithful  to  the  last,  "«  ses  beaux  i/ezix." 

After  the  amicable  termination  of  the  civil  war, 
the  duchess  was  received  into  the  favour  of  Louis 
XIII.,  and  from  that  time  devoted  herself  to  litera- 
ture, and  united  with  her  illustrious  brothers,  the 
great  Conde.  and  the  prince  de  Cond^,  in  encou- 
raging rising  genius.  On  the  death  of  the  duke 
de  Longueville,  she  left  the  court,  and  consecrated 
the  remainder  of  her  days  to  the  most  austere 
penitence.  She  had  a  house  built  at  Port-Royal 
aux  Champs,  where,  although  she  renounced  "  the 
pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world,"  she  still  retain- 
ed her  love  for  society,  and  the  conversation  of 
intelligent  persons.  The  recluses  at  Port-Royal 
were  all  people  who  had  acquired  a  high  reputa- 
tion while  they  lived  in  the  world.  Human  glory 
followed  them  to  their  hermitage,  all  the  more  be- 
cause they  dis<lained  it. 

39a 


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The  duchess  de  Longueville  died  April  15th, 
lp79,  at  the  age  of  sixty-one.   She  left  no  children. 

LOUIS,  MADAME, 
The  Tvife  of  an  architect  of  celebrity,  was  dis- 
tinguished for  her  abilities  in  music.  She  com- 
posed an  opera  called  "  Fleur  d'Epine,"  which 
was  performed  at  the  Italian  opera  at  Paris  in 
1776,  and  received  much  commendation  from  the 
musical  critics.  At  the  revolution,  her  husband 
being  banished,  she  emigrated  with  him,  and  pass- 
ed the  remainder  of  her  life  in  obscurity.  She 
published  several  sonatas,  ariettes,  and  some  works 
of  a  scientific  class  upon  music. 

LOUISA   AUGUSTA  WILHELMINA  AMALIA, 

Queen  of  Prussia,  daughter  of  Charles,  duke  of 
Mecklenburg-Strelitz,  was  born  at  Hanover,  where 
her  father  was  commandant,  March  10th,  1776. 
In  1793,  she  and  her  sister  were  presented  at 
Frankfort  to  the  king  of  Prussia.  The  prince- 
royal  was  struck  with  her  beauty,  and  married 
her,  December  24th,  1793.  It  was  the  union  of 
mutual  affection.  Her  husband  became  king, 
November  16th,  1797;  and  she  fulfilled  all  the 
duties  of  this  high  station  so  admirably,  as  well 
as  those  of  wife  and  mother,  that  she  was  almost 
worshipped  by  the  people,  as  well  as  by  her  hus- 
band and  those  immediately  around  her.  In  1806, 
when  Prussia  was  suffering  severely  from  the 
burdens  of  war,  this  good  queen,  by  her  solicitude 
for  others,  even  while  oppressed  with  heavy  cares 
and  sorrows  of  her  own,  was  the  theme  of  general 
praise.  Her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  benevolent 
and  lofty  character,  attracted  the  hearts  of  all, 
and  her  goodness  won  the  confidence  of  the  nation. 
She  died  in  1810. 

LOUVENCOURT,   MARIE   DE, 

Was  born  at  Paris  in  1680.  Graceful  and  in- 
tellectual, she  was  the  ornament  of  both  gay  and 
literary  society.  She  had  a  fine  voice,  and  sang 
and  played  exquisitely.  Sevei-al  of  her  songs  have 
been  set  to  music  by  the  most  celebrated  com- 
posers of  her  time.  She  lived  unmarried,  and  died 
in  1712. 

LUCAR,    ELIZABETH, 

Daughter  of  Paul  Witterpool,  was  born  in  Lon- 
don in  1510.  She  was  liberally  educated,  and 
excelled  in  all  kinds  of  needle-work,  writing,  mu- 
sic, mathematics,  and  the  languages.  She  was  a 
religious  woman,  and  died  in  1537. 

LUCCHESINI,  GUIDICCIONI  LAURA, 
Lived  at  Sienna  in  1601,  and  was  of  the  same 
family  as  John  Guidiccioni,  one  of  the  first  Italian 
poets  of  the  time.  She  was  distinguished  for  her 
poetical  taste  and  talents.  Her  writings  were 
principally  IjtIcs  ;  but  she  also  composed  three 
pastorals  to  be  set  to  music. 

LUMLEY,   JOANNA,    LADY, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Henry  Fitz-Allan,  Earl 
Arundel,  married  Lord  John  Lumley.  She  was 
very  learned,  and  translated  from  the  Greek,  three 


of  the  orations  of  Isocrates,  of  which  the  MS.  is 
still  preserved  in  the  Westminster  Library.  She 
also  translated  the  Iphigenia  of  Eui-ipides.  Her 
death  occurred  in  1620. 

LUSSAN,  MARGARET  DE, 
A  WRITER  very  much  admired  in  France  for  a 
number  of  romances  which  she  produced,  was  the 
daughter  of  a  coachman  belonging  to  Cardinal 
Fleury,  and  was  born  about  1682.  The  celebrated 
Huet  observed  her  early  talents,  assisted  her  in 
her  education,  and  advised  her  to  the  style  of 
writing  in  which  she  afterwards  excelled.  She 
had  no  personal  beauty,  but  possessed  many  noble 
and  generous  qualities  of  mind  and  heart.  She 
supported  herself  chiefly  by  her  pen ;  and  her 
works  would  probably  have  been  more  perfect,  if 
she  had  not  been  obliged  to  write  so  much.  Her 
best  productions  are  "  Histoire  de  la  Comtesse  de 
Gondez  ;"  "  Anecdotes  de  la  Cour  de  Philippe  Au- 
guste;"  "  Les  Viell6es  de  Thessalie  ;"  "Memoirs 
Secret  et  Intrigues  de  la  Cour  de  France,  sous 
Charles  VIII. ;"  "  Anecdotes  de  la  Coiir  de  Fran- 
5ois  I. ;"  &c.  Some  works  were  published  under 
her  name,  which  are  now  known  to  have  been 
written  by  other  persons,  with  whom  she  shared 
the  profits. 


M. 

MACAULAY,    CATHARINE, 

A  CELEBRATED  female  historian  and  politician, 
was  the  youngest  daughter  of  John  Sawbridge, 
Esq.,  of  Ollantigh,  in  Kent.  Catharine  was  born 
about  the  year  1733.  During  her  infancy  her 
mother  died,  and  left  her  and  an  elder  sister  to 
be  brought  up  by  a  governess,  who,  it  appears, 
was  very  unfit  for  such  a  responsible  task.  The 
two  sisters  seem  to  have  been  left  almost  wholly 
to  the  guidance  of  their  own  feelings  and  instincts. 
Catharine,  at  an  early  age,  found  constant  access 
to  her  father's  large  library,  and  rummaged  and 
read  whatever  she  fancied.  Her  first  favourites 
were  the  periodicals,  the  Spectator,  Rambler, 
Guardian,  &c.  ;  next,  history  attracted  her  miiid : 
and  at  length  Rollin's  spirited  account  of  the  Ro- 
man republic  struck  on  the  master  chord  of  her 
noble  nature,  and  made  her  a  republican  and  a 
writer  of  history. 

She  took  the  name  by  which  she  is  best  known 
from  her  first  husband.  Dr.  Geoi'ge  Macaulay,  a 
London  physician,  to  whom  she  was  married  rri 
1760.  It  was  soon  after  this  date  that  she  com- 
menced authoress,  by  the  publication  of  her  "  His- 
tory of  England  from  the  accession  of  James  I.  to 
the  elevation  of  the  House  of  Hanover,"  the  first 
volume  of  which,  in  4to.,  appeared  in  1763,  and 
the  fifth  and  last,  which  however  only  brought  the 
narrative  down  to  the  Restoration,  in  1771.  The 
work  also  went  through  more  than  one  edition  in 
8vo.  On  its  first  publication  it  attracted  consi- 
derable attention,  principally  from  the  double 
piquancy  of  the  sex  and  the  avowed  republicanism 
of  the  writer;   but,  notwithstanding  some  occa- 

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sional  liveliness  of  remark,  and  its  notice  of  a 
good  many  facts  omitted  by  most  of  our  other  his- 
torians ;  yet,  as  its  spirit  was  purely  republican, 
its  advancement  to  a  s  andard  work  was  rendered 
impossible  in  England.  The  style  is  nervous  and 
animated,  although  sometimes  loose  and  inaccu- 
rate, and  the  reflections  of  the  author  are  often 
acute  and  sagacious,  always  noble  and  benevolent. 
The  five  volumes  of  the  History  were  followed,  in 
1778,  by  another,  entitled  "  The  History  of  Eng- 
land from  the  Revolution  to  the  present  time,  in  a 
series  of  Letters  to  the  Reverend  Dr.  Wilson,  rector 
of  St.  Stephen's,  Walbrook,  andprebendary  of  West- 
minster," 4to.,  Bath.  The  six  letters  of  which  this 
volume  consists  come  down  to  the  termination  of 
the  administration  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  in  1742. 
A  female  historian,  by  its  singularity,  would 
not  fail  to  excite  curiosity ;  and  as  Mrs.  Macaulay 
had  ventured  to  step  beyond  the  province  of  her 
sex,  as  it  was  then  considered,  she  was  more  se- 
verely criticised  for  her  political  opinions  than  a 
man  would  have  been.  As  her  talents  could  not 
be  denied,  her  adversaries  resorted  to  petty,  per- 
sonal scurrilities  against  her.  They  said  she  was 
"deformed,"  "ugly,"  "disagreeable;"  and  that 
her  ambition  to  become  distinguished  had,  there- 
fore, taken  this  course,  most  absurd  for  a  woman 
— attempting  to  encroach  on  the  province  of  man. 
Mrs.  Arnold,  a  lady  who  subsequently  became  the 
warm  friend  of  Mrs.  Macaulay,  remarks,  that 
these  notions  had  prejudiced  her,  and  adds : 
"  Judge  then  of  my  surprise,  when  I  saw  a  woman 
elegant  in  her  manners,  delicate  in  her  person, 
and  with  features,  if  not  perfectly  beautiful,  so 
fascinating  in  their  expression,  as  deservedly  to 
rank  her  face  among  the  higher  order  of  human 
countenances.  Her  height  was  above  the  middle 
size,  inclining  to  tall ;  her  shape  slender  and  ele- 
gant ;  the  contour  of  her  face,  neck,  and  shoul- 
ders, graceful.  The  form  of  her  face  was  oval, 
her  complexion  delicate,  and  her  skin  fine ;  her 
hair  was  of  a  mild  brown,  long  and  profuse ;  her 
nose  between  the  Roman  and  the  Grecian;  her 
mouth  small,  her  chin  round,  as  was  the  lower 
part  of  her  face,  which  made  it  appear  to  more 
advantage  in  front  than  in  profile.  Her  eyes  were 
as  beautiful  as  imagination  can  conceive  ;  full  of 
penetration  and  fire ;  but  their  fire  softened  by 
the  mildest  beams  of  benevolence;  their  colour 
was  a  fine  dark  hazel,  and  their  expression  the 
indication  of  a  superior  soul.  Infirm  health,  too 
often  the  attendant  on  an  active  and  highly  culti- 
vated understanding,  gave  to  her  countenance  an 
extreme  delicacy,  which  was  peculiarly  interest- 
ing. To  this  delicacy  of  constitution  was  added  a 
most  amiable  sensibility  of  temper,  which  rendered 
her  feelingly  alive  to  whatever  concerned  those 
with  whom  she  was  connected  either  by  nature  or 
by  friendship." 

In  her  friendships,  we  are  told  by  this  lady,  she 
was  fervent,  disinterested,  and  sincere ;  zealous 
for  the  prosperity,  and  for  the  moral  improvement, 
of  those  whom  she  distinguished  and  loved. 

In  1785,  Mrs.  Macaulay  visited  the  United 
States,  and  travelled  through  the  greater  part  of 
the  country,  where  she  was  very  kindly  received. 


She  terminated  her  journey  by  a  visit  to  General 
Washington,  with  whom  she  corresponded  for  the 
remainder  of  her  life.  She  resided  after  her  re- 
turn principally  at  Binfield,  in  Berkshire. 

In  1778,  or  according  to  another  account,  in 
1785,  Mrs.  Macaulay,  having  lost  her  first  hus- 
band, married  a  Mr.  Graham,  of  whom  all  that  is 
told  is  that  he  Was  so  many  years  her  junior  as  to 
expose  the  lady  to  much  irreverent  remark.  She 
also  wrote  several  pamphlets,  both  during  the  pro- 
gress of  her  great  work,  and  after  its  completion. 
Of  these  the  catalogue-makers  have  preserved  the 
following  titles :  "  Remarks  on  Hobbe's  Rudiments 
of  Government  and  Society,"  1767;  enlarged  and 
republished  in  1769,  with  the  more  striking  title 
of  "  Loose  Remarks  on  some  of  Mr.  Hobbes'  Posi- 
tions ;"  "  Observations  on  a  pamphlet  (Burke's) 
entitled  Thoughts  on  the  Causes  of  the  present 
Discontents,"  1770;  "  An  Address  to  the  People 
of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  on  the  present 
Important  Crisis  of  Affairs,"  1775;  "A  Treatise 
on  the  Immutability  of  Moral  Truth,"  called  in  a 
second  much  enlarged  edition,  "Letters  on  Edu- 
cation," 1790;  and  "Observations  on  the  Reflec- 
tions of  the  Right  Hon.  E.  Burke  on  the  Revolu- 
tion in  France,  in  a  Letter  to  the  Right  Hon.  the 
Earl  of  Stanhope,"  1791. 

This  excellent  woman  died  June  23d,  1791. 
Her  friend  ]\Irs.  Arnold,  in  her  account  of  the 
private  character  of  Mrs.  Macaulay,  says:  "As  a 
wife,  a  mother,  a  friend,  neighbour,  and  the  mis- 
tress of  a  family,  she  was  irreproachable  and  ex- 
emplary. My  sentiments  of  this  amiable  woman 
are  derived  from  a  long  and  intimate  acquaintance 
with  her  various  excellencies  ;  and  I  have  observed 
her  in  different  points  of  view.  I  have  seen  her 
exalted  on  the  dangerous  pinnacle  of  worldly  pros- 
perity, surrounded  by  flattering  friends,  and  an 
admiring  world  ;  I  have  seen  her  mai-ked  out  by 
party  prejudice  as  an  object  of  dislike  and  ridi- 
cule ;  I  have  seen  her  bowed  down  by  bodily  pain 
and  weakness  ;  but  never  did  I  see  her  forget  the 
urbanity  of  a  gentlewoman,  her  conscious  dignity 
as  a  rational  creature,  or  a  fervent  aspiration  after 
the  highest  degree  of  attainable  perfection.  I 
have  seen  her  humble  herself  in  the  presence  of 
j  her  Almighty  Father ;  and,  with  a  contrite  heart, 
acknowledging  her  sins  and  imploring  his  forgive- 
ness ;  I  have  seen  her  languishing  on  the  bed  of 
sickness,  enduring  pain  with  the  patience  of  a 
Christian,  and  with  the  firm  belief,  that  the  light 
afilictions  of  this  life  are  but  for  a  moment,  and 
that  the  fashion  of  the  world  will  pass  away,  and 
give  place  to  a  system  of  durable  happiness." 

Dr.  Wilson,  prebendary  of  Westminster,  was  an 
enthusiastic  admirer  of  hers,  and  erected  a  statue 
to  her,  as  a  patroness  of  liberty,  in  the  church  at 
Walbrook ;  but  on  the  death  of  Dr.  Wilson,  this 
mark  of  homage  was  removed  by  his  successor. 

MACDONALD,  FLORA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Macdonald,  of  Milton, 
in  South  Uist,  one  of  the  Hebrides.  She  was  born 
in  1720,  and,  after  her  father's  death,  resided  in 
the  Isle  of  Skye,  with  her  mother  and  stepfather, 
Hugh  Macdonel,  of  Arnadale.     After  the  disas- 

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trous  defeat  of  Cullo  Jen,  when  prince  Charles  Ed- 
ward, a  hunted  fugitive,  was  seeking  concealment 
in  the  Western  Isles,  Flora  was  on  a  visit  to  her 
brother,  in  South  Uist,  where,  as  it  happened,  the 
prince  lay  hid.  The  circumstances  which  induced 
this  young  and  beautiful  girl  to  become  the  com- 
panion of  the  prince's  wanderings,  and  the  sharer 
of  his  dangers  and  almost  unexampled  hardships, 
have  never  been  clearly  explained.  The  most 
probable  account,  and  no  doubt  the  true  one,  is, 
that  her  stepfather,  Hugh  Macdonel,  though  in 
command  of  a  company  of  royal  militia,  was  in 
secret  so  well  disposed  towards  the  cause  of  the 
Stuarts,  that  he  was  induced  to  allow  his  step- 
daughter to  aid  in  the  prince's  escape,  and  to 
write  privately  to  him  by  a  trusty  messenger, 
making  him  the  offer.  Flora  was  conducted  to 
the  prince  at  midnight,  where  in  a  lonely  hut  they 
concerted  measures  for  his  escape.  The  isles  were 
overrun  with  soldiers  ;  the  prince's  pursuers  had 
traced  him  to  South  Uist,  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds  were  offered  for  his  apprehension.  It  was 
therefore  necessary  to  be  prompt,  wary,  and  cou- 
rageous, in  the  attempt,  all  of  which  equalities 
Flora  brought  to  the  undertaking.  After  passing 
through  numerous  adventures,  concealed  in  rocks 
and  caves,  and  exposed  to  imminent  danger,  they 
succeeded  in  leaving  the  isle ;  the  prince  dressed 
as  a  female,  and  personating  the  character  of  Betty 
Burke,  an  Irish  woman  in  attendance  upon  Miss 
Macdonald.  On  approaching  Skye,  the  boat  was 
fired  upon  by  the  soldiers  on  shore,  and  Flora, 
though  the  bullets  fell  thick  around  her,  positively 
refused  the"  prince's  request  to  lie  down  in  the 
boat  for  .shelter,  unless  he  would  consent  to  do  so 
also,  and  he  was  obliged  to  yield  to  her  importu- 
nities to  ensure  her  safety.  They  succeeded  in 
effecting  a  landing  in  Skye.  Here,  Flora  was 
called  upon  to  exercise  all  her  skill,  fortitude,  and 
courage,  in  behalf  of  the  prince ;  and  many  inte- 
resting anecdotes  of  the  romantic  incidents  con- 
nected with  her  efforts  to  conceal  and  aid  him  in 
his  escape,  are  on  record.  She  conducted  him  in 
safety  to  Portaree,  whose  arrangements  were  made 
to  convey  him  to  a  neighbouring  island,  and  parted 
from  him  after  receiving  his  warmest  assurances 
of  gratitude  and  regard.  Twenty  days  after  they 
parted  the  prince  escaped  to  France,  but  before 
half  that  period  had  elapsed  Flora  was  arrested, 
and  carried  on  board  a  vessel  of  war,  where  she 
was  confined  five  months.  She  was  then  conveyed 
to  London,  and  detained  under  surveillance  for 
eight  months.  In  July,  1747,  she  was  finally  set 
at  liberty,  by  the  provisions  of  the  Act  of  Indem- 
nity. While  in  London,  Flora  was  visited  by 
people  of  the  highest  distinction,  and  on  her  de- 
parture she  was  presented  with  fifteen  hundred 
pounds,  which  had  been  subscribed  by  the  Jaco- 
bite ladies  of  the  metropolis.  In  1750,  Flora  be- 
came the  wife  of  Alexander  Macdonald,  of  Kings- 
burgh.  A  few  years  after,  in  consequence  of  the 
embarrassment  of  their  affairs,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  emigrate  to  America,  where  they  settled 
upon  an  estate  which  they  purchased  in  North 
Carolina.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution- 
ary war,  Macdonald  sided  with  the  royalist  party. 


and  after  the  independence  was  secured,  they  re- 
turned to  Skye.  Here  Flora  died,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  seventy.  By  her  particular  request  her 
body  was  enclosed  and  buried  in  one  of  the  sheets 
that  had  been  used  by  the  iinfortunate  prince  dur- 
ing the  night  he  rested  at  Kingsburgh,  and  which 
she  had  preserved,  unwashed,  for  that  purpose. 
Flora  Macdonald  was  the  mother  of  seven  children, 
all  of  whom  were  an  honour  to  her  name.  Dr. 
Johnson's  interview  with  her  is  recorded  in  his 
"  Tour  to  the  Hebride'^  " 


MADISON,  MRS., 
AVas  the  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Payne,  of 
Virginia,  members  of  the  society  of  Friends,  who 
manumitted  their  slaves  soon  after  their  marriage, 
and  removed  to  Pennsjdvania.  Miss  Dolly  Payne 
was  educated  in  Philadelphia,  and,  when  very 
young,  married  Mr.  Todd,  a  lawyer  in  that  city, 
who  soon  left  her  a  widow,  with  one  son.  In 
1794,  Mrs.  Todd  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  James 
Madison,  and  went  to  live  on  his  estates  in  Virgi- 
nia, till  he  was  appointed  secretary  of  state,  in 
1801,  when  they  removed  to  W\ashiugton,  where 
Mrs.  Madison  won  the  admiration  of  all  by  the 
charms  of  her  elegant  hospitality.  Mrs.  Madison 
also  presided  at  the  White  House,  in  the  absence 
of  Mr.  Jefferson's  daughters,  and  her  frank  and 
cordial  manners  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  fre- 
quent parties  there  assembled.  But  there  were 
individuals  who  never  visited  at  the  president's, 
nor  met  at  the  other  ministerial  houses,  whom 
Mrs.  Madison  won,  by  the  sweet  influence  of  her 
conciliatory  disposition,  to  join  her  evening  cir- 
cle, and  sit  at  her  husband's  table — always  covered 
with  the  profusion  of  Virginia  hospitality,  but 
not  always  in  the  style  of  European  elegance. 
The  wife  of  a  foreign  minister  ridiculed  the  enor- 
mous size  and  number  of  the  dishes,  observing 
that  "it  was  more  like  a  harvest-home  supper, 
than  the  entertainment  of  a  secretary  of  state.'' 
Mrs.  Madison  heard  of  this  and  similar  remarks, 
and  only  answered  with  a  smile,  "  that  she  thought 
abundance  was  preferable  to  elegance ;  that  cir- 
cumstances formed  customs,  and  customs  formed 
taste ;  and  as  the  profusion,  so  repugnant  to  fo- 

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reign  customs,  arose  from  the  happy  circumstance 
of  the  superabuncUince  and  prosperity  of  our  coun- 
try, she  did  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  the  delicacy 
of  European  taste,  for  the  less  elegant,  but  more 
liberal  fashion  of  Virginia."  Her  house  was  very 
plainly  furnished,  her  dress  never  extravagant; 
it  was  only  in  hospitality  and  in  charity  that  she 
was  profuse.  The  many  families  daily  supplied 
from  that  profusely-spread  table  testified  to  the 
real  hospitality  of  the  hostess. 

In  1809  Mr.  Madison  was  elected  president  of 
the  United  States,  which  high  office  he  adminis- 
tered for  eight  yeai's.  During  all  this  period, 
which  included  the  most  stormy  times  of  our  re- 
public, when  the  war  with  Great  Britain  and  other 
important  questions,  arrayed  a  most  violent  oppo- 
sition to  the  government,  and  party  animosity  was 
bitter  and  vindictive ;  yet  always  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Madison,  the  spirit  of  discord  was  hushed ; 
the  leaders  of  opposite  parties  would  stand  around 
her,  smiling  and  courteous  to  each  other,  as  though 
in  the  sunshine  of  her  benevolence  all  were  friends. 
Mr.  Madison  was,  in  manner,  cold,  reserved,  and 
lofty ;  his  integrity  of  character  was  respected  by 
all ;  but  the  popularity  he  enjoyed  was  won  by 
the  mildness  and  gentle  virtues  of  his  wife;  she 
ruled  over  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  her.  It  is 
said  that  she  never  forgot  a  name  she  had  once 
heard,  nor  a  face  she  had  once  seen,  nor  the  per- 
sonal circumstances  connected  with  every  indivi- 
dual of  her  acquaintance.  Hence  her  quick Vocog- 
nition  of  persons ;  her  recurrence  to  the  peculiar 
interests  of  each  left  the  gratifying  impression 
that  each  one  was  an  object  of  especial  regard. 

In  1817,  Jlr.  Madison's  second  term  of  office 
having  expired,  he  retired  to  his  jjaternal  estate, 
in  Virginia.  Montpelier,  as  this  place  was  called, 
had  a  large  and  commodious  mansion,  designed 
more  for  comfort  and  hospitality  than  show,  where 
the  mother  of  Mr.  Madison  had  always  resided. 
One  wing  of  the  house  was  appropriated  to  her, 
and  she  had  there  her  separate  establishment  and 
her  old  servants,  and  maintained  all  the  old  cus- 
toms of  the  last  century.  By  only  opening  a  door 
the  observer  passed  from  the  elegancies,  refine- 
ments, and  gayeties  of  modern  life,  into  all  that 
was  venerable,  respectable,  and  dignified  in  by- 
gone days.  It  was  considered  a  high  favour  and 
distinction  by  the  great  and  the  gay  who  thronged 
to  visit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Madison  at  Montpelier,  if 
they  were  permitted  to  pay  the  homage  of  their 
respects  to  his  reverend  mother.  A  lady  who  was 
admitted  to  visit  her  when  she  was  in  her  ninety- 
seventh  year,  thus  describes  the  scene:  "She — 
Mrs.  Madison,  the  elder  —  still  retained  all  her 
faculties,  though  not  free  from  the  bodily  infirmi- 
ties of  age.  She  was  sitting,  or  rather  reclining 
on  a  couch ;  beside  her  was  a  small  taVjle  filled 
with  large,  dark,  and  worn  quartos  and  folios,  of 
most  venerable  appearance.  She  closed  one  as 
we  entered,  and  took  up  her  knitting,  which  lay 
beside  her.  Among  other  inquiries,  I  asked  her 
how  she  passed  her  time. 

"  I  am  never  at  a  loss,"  she  replied  ;  "  this  and 
these" — touching  her  knitting  and  her  books — 
"  keep  me  always  busy ;  look  at  my  fingers,  and 


you  will  perceive  I  have  not  been  idle."  In  truth 
her  delicate  fingers  were  polished  by  her  knitting- 
needles.  "And  my  eyes,  thanks  be  to  God,  have 
not  failed  me  yet,  and  I  read  most  part  of  the 
day.  But  in  other  respects  I  am  feeble  and  help- 
less, and  owe  everything  to  her" — pointing  to 
Mrs.  Madison,  who  sat  by  us.  "She  is  my  mo- 
ther 710W,  and  tenderly  cares  for  all  my  wants!" 
My  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  as  I  looked  from 
the  one  to  the  other  of  these  excellent  women. 
Never,  in  the  midst  of  her  splendid  drawing-room, 
surrounded  by  the  courtly  and  brilliant,  the  ad- 
mired and  respected — herself  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion, the  object  of  admiration  —  never  was  Mrs. 
Madison  so  interesting,  so  lovely,  so  estimable, 
as  in  her  attendance  on  her  venerable  mother-in- 
law,  whom  she  loved  and  honoured  with  grateful 
affection." 

In  1836  Mr.  Madison  died.  He  had  lived 
twenty  years  in  retirement,  and  had  found,  in  the 
society  of  his  wife,  and  in  her  unremitting  atten- 
tions to  him,  when  enfeebled  by  age  and  infirmity, 
that  she  was  the  best  gift  of  God ;  or,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  "his  connexion  with  her  was  the  hap- 
piest event  of  his  life." 

After  his  decease,  Mrs.  Madison  removed  to  the 
city  of  Washington,  where  she  continued  to  be 
held  in  the  highest  respect  till  her  death,  which 
occurred  July  22d,  1849.  Her  funeral  was  at- 
tended by  a  very  large  concourse ;  the  highest 
officers  of  the  government  united  with  the  people 
in  this  testimonial  of  regard  to  the  honoured  and 
beloved  Mrs.  Madison. 

MAILLARD,    MADEMOISELLE, 

A  BEAUTIFUL  French  actress  and  dancer,  who 
made  herself  conspicuous  in  the  revolution  in 
France,  by  representing,  in  1793,  in  public,  the 
part  of  the  Goddess  of  Reason,  and  receiving  in 
that  character  the  homage  of  the  phrenzied  people. 

MAINE,  ANNE,  LOUISE,  BENEDICTE  DE 
BOURBON,  DUCHESS  DE, 

Geand-daugiiter  of  the  great  Conde,  was  born 
in  1676;  and  was  married,  in  1692,  to  Louis  Au- 
gustus de  Bourbon,  duke  de  Maine,  son  of  Louis 
XIV.,  and  Madame  de  Montespan.  Through  the 
influence  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  the  children 
of  Madame  de  Montespan  were  legitimized ;  and 
she  wrung  from  the  old  king,  on  his  death-bed,  a 
testament  in  favour  of  the  duke  du  Maine.  This 
having  been  revealed  to  the  duke  of  Orleans,  he 
took  steps,  before  the  opening  of  the  will,  to  have 
his  claim  to  the  regency,  as  first  prince  of  the 
blood,  acknowledged,  and  the  will  was  set  aside. 
A  strong  and  dangerous  party,  opposed  to  the 
power  of  the  regent,  immediately  sprung  up,  of 
which  the  duchess  du  Maine  was  the  acknowledged 
chief.  Her  rank,  talents,  and  ambition,  rendered 
her  influence  formidable  ;  and  had  she  only  been 
able  to  impart  her  own  active  and  energetic  spirit 
to  her  husband,  the  duke  of  Orleans  would  not 
have  obtained  the  regency  without  a  struggle. 
She  held  her  little  court  at  Sceaux,  and,  under 
the  mask  of  pleasure  and  devotion  to  literature, 
she  carried  on  political  intrigues. 

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Madame  du  Maine  had  received  an  excellent 
classical  education.  Her  wit  was  light  and  bril- 
liant, and  her  conversation  singularly  felicitous. 
She  was  bold,  active,  and  vehement,  but  deficient 
in  moral  courage.  Her  temper  was  fickle,  selfish, 
and  violent ;  and,  small  as  she  was  in  person,  she 
had  the  reputation  of  beating  her  husband,  who, 
grave,  learned,  and  deformed  in  person,  had  no 
latent  energies  to  arouse.  The  weakness  of  du 
Maine  encouraged  the  princes  of  the  blood  to  pro- 
test against  the  edicts  by  which  the  legitimized 
children  of  Louis  XIV.  had  been  rendered  their 
equals  in  rank.  Madame  du  Maine  answered  this 
attack  by  a  long  and  learned  memorial,  in  which 
the  rights  of  these  princes  were  set  forth ;  but 
without  avail.  The  legitimized  princes  were  de- 
prived of  their  right  of  succession  to  the  crown. 
Bent  upon  revenge,  Madame  du  Maine's  projects 
were  favoured  by  the  state  of  the  country.  She 
carried  on  intrigues  with  Spain  and  with  the  dis- 
affected Bretons,  and  moved  every  engine  within 
her  reach  to  bring  the  regent  into  disrepute  and 
overturn  his  power.  A  plot  was  foi'med,  having 
many  ramifications,  its  chief  objects  being  the 
deposition  of  the  regent,  and  the  aggrandizement 
of  the  duke  du  Maine.  The  plot,  however,  was 
prematurely  discovered.  The  duke  and  duchess 
were  arrested,  and  the  duchess  was  imprisoned  in 
the  castle  of  Dijon,  where,  after  a  tedious  con- 
finement, she  became  so  heartily  weary  as  to  make 
her  submission  to  the  regent.  She  was  liberated, 
and  her  husband  was  released  at  the  same  time. 
They  i-esumed  their  former  mode  of  existence,  and 
the  little  court  at  Sceaux  was  soon  as  gay  as  ever, 
though  it  was  never  again  so  brilliant  as  formerly. 
The  political  part  of  Madame  du  Maine  ended  with 
her  captivity.  Her  literary  influence,  though  cir- 
cumstances caused  it  to  decline,  was  more  real  and 
lasting  than  her  political  power.  If  she  gave  no 
new  impulse  to  genius,  she  assisted  its  develope- 
ment,  and  had  enough  taste  to  feel  the  superiority 
of  Voltaire.  Her  most  extraordinary  quality  ap- 
pears to  have  been  her  conversational  style. 

MAINTENON,  MADAME  DE, 
An  extraordinary  woman,  who,  from  a  low  con- 
dition, was  elevated  to  the  honour  of  becoming 
the  wife  of  Louis  XIV.,  was  descended  from  the 
ancient  family  of  d'Aubign^,  her  proper  name  be- 
ing Frances  d'Aubign^.  M.  d'Aubign^,  her  grand- 
father, was  a  Protestant,  and  a  man  of  great  merit 
and  high  standing ;  but  his  son,  Constante  d'Au- 
bign6,  the  father  of  iSIadame  de  Maintenon,  was  a 
man  of  most  infamous  character,  and  actually 
murdered  his  first  wife.  He  married  afterwards 
the  daughter  of  Peter  de  Cardillac,  lord  of  Lane, 
at  Bordeaux,  December  27th,  1627.  Going  to 
Paris  soon  after  his  second  marriage,  he  was,  for 
some  very  great  offence,  thrown  into  prison.  Ma- 
dame d'Aubign^  in  vain  solicited  his  pardon.  Car- 
dinal Richelieu  told  her,  that  "  to  take  such  a 
husband  from  her,  was  to  do  her  a  friendly  office." 
Madame  d'Aubigng  shut  herself  up  in  prison  with 
him,  and  there  her  two  oldest  sons  were  born. 
She  then  obtained  leave  to  have  her  husband  re- 
moved to  the  prison  at  Niort,  that  they  might  be 


near  their  relations.  In  that  prison  her  only 
daughter,  Madame  de  Maintenon,  was  born,  No- 
vember 27th,  1635.  Her  aunt,  Madame  Villette, 
took  compassion  on  the  poor  infant,  and  gave  it  to 
the  care  of  her  daughter's  nurse.  M.  d'Aubign6 
was  at  length  released  on  condition  that  he  should 
become  a  Roman  Catholic;  and,  in  1G39,  he  em- 
barked for  America  with  his  family.     He  died  at 


Martinico  in  1G46,  leaving  his  wife  in  the  greatest 
poverty.  She  returned  to  France,  leaving  her 
daughter  in  the  hands  of  the  principal  creditor, 
as  a  pledge  for  the  payment  of  her  debts ;  but  he 
soon  sent  her  to  France  after  her  mother,  who, 
being  unable  to  support  her,  her  aunt  Villette 
offered  her  a  home,  which  she  thankfully  accepted. 
But  Madame  Villette  was  a  Protestant,  and  in- 
structed her  niece  in  the  peculiar  tenets  of  that 
faith.  This  alarmed  another  relation  of  Frances 
d'Aubigne's,  Madame  de  Neuillaut,  a  Catholic,  who 
solicited  and  obtained  an  order  from  the  court  to 
take  her  out  of  the  hands  of  Madame  Villette  ; 
and,  by  means  of  threats,  artifices,  and  hardships, 
she  at  length  made  a  convert  of  her. 

In  1651,  Madame  de  Neuillaut  took  her  to  Paris, 
where,  meeting  the  famous  wit,  the  abb6  Scarron, 
she  married  him,  notwithstanding  his  being  infirm 
and  deformed ;  preferring  this  to  the  dependent 
state  she  was  in.  She  lived  with  him  many  years ; 
and  Voltaire  says  that  these  were  undoubtedly  the 
happiest  part  of  her  life.  Her  beauty,  but  still 
more  her  wit,  though  her  modesty  and  good  sense 
preserved  her  from  all  frivolity,  caused  her  society 
to  be  eagerly  sought  by  all  the  best  company  in 
Paris,  and  she  became  highly  distinguished.  Her 
husband's  death  in  1660  reduced  her  to  the  same 
indigent  state  as  before ;  and  her  friends  used 
every  effort  to  prevail  on  the  court  to  continue  to 
her  the  pension  which  Scarron  had  enjoyed.  So 
many  petitions  were  sent  in,  beginning  "  The 
widow  Scarron  most  humbly  prays,"  that  the  king 
exclaimed  with  irritation,  "  Must  I  always  be  tor- 
mented with  the  widow  Scarron  ?"  At  last,  how- 
ever, he  settled  a  much  larger  pension  on  her,  as 
a  mark  of  esteem  for  her  talents. 

In  1671,  the  birth  of  the  duke  of  Maine,  the 

398 


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son  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Madame  de  Montespan, 
who  was  then  a  year  old,  had  not  yet  been  made 
public.  The  child  had  a  lame  foot,  and  the  physi- 
cian advised  that  he  should  be  sent  to  the  waters 
of  Barege.  This  trust  was  committed  to  Madame 
Scarron,  as  a  safe  person ;  and  from  this  time  she 
had  the  charge  of  the  duke  of  Maine's  education. 
The  letters  she  wrote  to  the  king  on  this  subject 
charmed  him,  and  were  the  origin  of  her  fortune. 
Louis  gave  her  the  lands  and  name  of  Maintenon 
in  1679,  which  was  the  only  estate  she  ever  had, 
though  afterwards  in  a  position  that  afforded  her 
an  opportunity  of  acquiring  an  immense  property. 

Her  elevation,  however,  was  to  her  only  a  re- 
treat. Shut  up  in  her  rooms,  which  were  on  the 
same  floor  with  the  king,  she  confined  herself  to 
the  society  of  two  or  three  ladies,  whom  she  saw 
but  seldom.  The  king  came  to  her  apartment 
every  day,  and  continued  there  till  after  midnight. 
Here  he  did  business  with  his  ministers,  while 
Madame  de  Maintenon  employed  herself  with 
reading  or  needle-work,  carefully  avoiding  all  in- 
terference in  state  affairs,  but  studying  more  how 
to  please  him  who  governed,  than  to  govern.  She 
made  but  little  use  of  her  influence  over  the  king, 
either  to  enable  her  to  confer  benefits  or  do  inju- 
ries. 

About  the  end  of  1685,  Louis  married  Madame 
de  Maintenon.  She  was  then  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  the  king  forty-eight.  This  union  was  kept  a 
profound  secret,  and  she  enjoyed  very  little  public 
distinction  in  consequence  of  her  elevation.  But 
after  the  king  began  to  lead  this  retired  life  with 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  the  court  grew  every  day 
more  serious ;  and  the  monotony  of  her  life  was 
so  great,  that  she  once  exclaimed  to  her  brother, 
"  I  can  bear  this  no  longer ;  I  wish  I  were  dead !" 

The  convent  of  St.  Cyr  was  built  by  her  at  the 
end  of  the  park  of  Versailles,  in  1686.  She  gave 
the  form  to  this  establishment,  assisted  in  making 
the  rules,  and  was  herself  supei-ior  of  the  convent, 
where  she  often  went  to  dissipate  her  ennui  and 
melancholy. 

The  king  died,  September  2d,  1715  ;  after  which 
event,  Madame  de  Maintenon  retired  wholly  to  St. 
Cyr,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  her  days  in  acts 
of  devotion.  Louis  XIV.  made  no  certain  provision 
for  her,  but  recommended  her  to  the  duke  of  Or- 
leans, who  bestowed  on  her  a  pension  of  80,000 
livres,  which  was  all  she  would  accept.  She  died, 
April  15th,  1719. 

In  1756,  the  letters  of  Madame  de  Maintenon 
were  published  in  nine  volumes,  at  Amsterdam ;  but 
with  many  arbitrary  changes.  Another,  and  more 
complete  edition,  was  published  in  1812.  In  1818, 
"A  History  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  &c.,  by  M. 
le  Due  de  Noailles,"  appeared  in  Paris.  This  last 
work  gives  a  highly  favourable  portrait  of  the 
character  of  Madame  de  Maintenon.  Her  talents 
no  one  ever  questioned ;  and  none,  save  the  ene- 
mies of  virtue,  have  doubted  hers.  The  following 
morceaux  are  from  her  published  letters : 

LETTRE    A   M.    d'AUBIQN^,    SON    FRERE. 

On  n'est  malheureux  que  par  sa  faute.  Ce  cera 
toujours  mon  texte  et  ma  r^ponse  a  vos  lamenta- 


tions. Songez,  mon  cher  frfere,  au  voyage  d'Am6- 
rique,  aux  malheurs  de  notre  pfere,  aux  malheurs 
de  notre  enfance,  a  ceux  de  notre  jeunesse,  et  vous 
b^nirez  la  providence,  au  lieu  de  murmurer  centre 
la  fortune.  H  y  a  dix  ans  que  nous  6tions  bien 
eloign^s  I'un  et  I'autre  du  point  oil  nous  sommes 
aujourd'hui.  Nos  esp^rances  ^taient  si  peu  de 
chose,  que  nous  bornions  nos  vues  a  trois  mille 
livres  de  rente.  Nous  en  avons  il  present  quatre 
fois  plus,  et  nos  souhaits  ne  seraient  pas  encore 
remplis  !  Nous  jouissons  de  cette  heureuse  m^dio- 
crite  que  vous  yantiez  si  fort.  Soyons  contens. 
Si  les  biens  nous  viennent,  recevons-les  de  la  main 
de  Dieu ;  mais  n'ayons  pas  de  vues  trop  vastes. 
Nous  avons  le  n^cessaire  et  le  commode  ;  tout  le 
reste  n'est  que  cupidit6.  Tous  ces  d^sirs  de  gran- 
deur partent  du  vide  d'un  cceur  inquiet.  Toutes 
vos  dettes  sont  payees ;  vous  pouvez  vivre  d^li- 
cieusement,  sans  en  faire  de  nouvelles.  Que  d6- 
sirez-vous  de  plus?  Faut-il  que  des  projets  de 
richesse  et  d'ambition  vous  coutent  la  perte  de 
votre  repos  et  de  votre  sant6  ?  Lisez  la  vie  de 
Saint  Louis,  vous  verrez  combien  les  grandeurs  de 
ce  monde  sont  au-dessous  des  d^sirs  du  cceur  de 
I'homme.  II  n'y  a  que  Dieu  qui  puisse  le  rassa- 
sier.  Je  vous  le  r6pfete,  vous  n'etes  malheureux 
que  par  votre  faute.  Vos  inquietudes  dgtruisent 
votre  sant6,  que  vous  devriez  conserver,  quand  ce 
ne  serait  que  parce  que  je  vous  aime.  Travaillez 
sur  votre  humeur ;  si  vous  pouvez  la  rendre  moins 
bilieuse  et  moins  sombre,  ce  sera  un  grand  point 
de  gagn^.  Ce  n'est  point  I'ouvi-age  des  reflexions 
seules ;  il  y  faut  de  I'exercice,  de  la  dissipation, 
une  vie  unie  et  r6g\6e.  Vous  ne  penserez  pas  bien, 
tant  que  vous  vous  porterez  mal ;  des  que  le  corps 
est  dans  I'abattement,  I'ame  est  sans  vigueur. 
Adieu.  Ecrivez-moi  plus  souvent,  et  sur  un  ton 
moins  lugubre. 

A    MADAME    DE    ST.    GERAN. 

Vous  voulez  savior,  Madame,  ce  qui  m'a  attird 
un  si  beau  present.  La  chose  du  monde  la  plus 
simple.  On  croit  dans  le  monde  que  je  le  dois  a 
Madame  de  Montespan,  on  se  trompe :  je  le  dois 
au  petit  due.  Le  roi  s'amusant  avec  lui,  et  con- 
tent de  la  manifere  dont  il  r^pondit  a  ses  questions, 
lui  dit:  "  Vous  etes  bien  raisonnable." — "  II  faut 
que  je  le  sois,  r^pondit  I'enfant ;  j'ai  une  gouver- 
nante  qui  est  la  raison  meme." — "  Allez  lui  dire, 
reprit  le  roi,  que  vous  lui  donnerez  ce  soir  cent 
mille  francs  pour  vos  dragees."  La  mfere  me 
brouille  avec  le  roi ;  son  fils  me  r^concilie  avec 
lui ;  je  ne  suis  pas  deux  jours  de  suite  dans  la 
meme  situation :  je  ne  me  fais  point  a  cette  vie, 
moi  qui  me  croyais  capable  de  me  faire  a  tout. 
On  ne  m'envierait  pas  ma  condition,  si  Ton  savait 
de  combien  de  peines  elle  est  environn^e,  combien 
de  chagrin  elle  me  coute.  C'est  un  assujettisse- 
ment  qui  n'a  point  d'exemple ;  je  n'ai  ni  le  temps 
d'^crire,  ni  de  faire  mes  prifcrcs ;  c'est  un  verita- 
ble esclavage.  Tous  mes  amis  s'adressent  a  moi, 
et  ne  voient  pas  que  je  ne  puis  rien,  meme  pour 
mes  parens.  On  ne  m'accordera  point  le  regi- 
ment que  je  demande  depuis  quinze  jours :  on  ne 
m'^coute  que  quand  on  n'a  personne  a  dcouter. 
J'ai  parie  trois  fois  il  M.  Colbert ;  je  lui  ai  repr6- 

399 


MA 


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sent6  la  justice  de  vos  pretentions :  il  a  fait  mille 
diflScultes,  et  m'a  dit  que  le  roi  seul  pouvait  les 
r6soudre.  J'int^resserai  Madame  de  Montesi^an, 
mais  il  fixut  uu  moment  favorable,  et  qui  sait  s'il 
se  pr^sentera  ?  S'il  ne  s'offre  point,  je  cliargerai 
notre  ami  de  votre  affaire,  et  il  parlera  au  roi ;  je 
compte  beaucoup  sur  liii. 


Sire, — La  reine  n'est  pas  a  plaindre :  elle  a  y^cu, 
elle  est  morte  comme  une  sainte :  c'est  une  grande 
consolation  que  I'assurance  de  son  salut.  Vous 
avez,  Sire,  dans  le  ciel,  une  amie  qui  demandera  a 
Dieu  le  pardon  de  vos  p^ches  et  les  graces  des 
justes.  Que  votre  majeste  se  nourrisse  de  ces 
sentimens :  Madame  la  dauphine  se  porte  mieux. 
Soyez,  Sire,  aussi  bon  cLr^tien  que  vous  etes 
gi'and  roi. 

A    MADAME    DE    LA    MAISON-FORT. 

II  ne  vous  est  pas  mauvais  de  vous  trouver  dans 
des  troubles  d'esprit :  vous  en  serez  plus  humble, 
et  vous  sentirez  par  votre  experience,  que  nous  ne 
trouvons  nulle  ressource  en  nous,  quelque  esprit 
que  nous  ayons.  Vous  ne  serez  jamais  contente, 
ma  chfere  fiUe,  que  lorsque  vous  aimerez  Dieu  de 
tout  votre  coeur :  ce  que  je  ne  dis  pas,  par  rapport 
a  la  profession  oil  vous  vous  ^tes  engag^e.  Salo- 
mon vous  a  dit  il  y  a  longtemps,  qu'aprfes  avoir 
clierch^,  trouv6  et  gout6  de  tons  les  plaisirs,  il 
confessait  que  tout  n'est  que  vanity  et  affliction 
d'esprit,  hors  aimer  Dieu  et  le  servir.  Que  ne 
puis-je  vous  donner  toute  mon  experience !  Que 
ne  puis-je  vous  faire  voir  I'ennui  qui  d^vore  les 
grands,  et  la  peine  qu'ils  ont  a  remplir  leurs  jour- 
n^es !  Ne  voyez-vous  pas  que  je  meurs  de  tristesse 
dans  une  fortune  qu'on  aurait  eu  peine  a  imaginer, 
et  qu'il  n'y  a  que  le  secours  de  Dieu  qui  m'empeche 
d'y  succomber  ?  J'ai  6t6  jeune  et  jolie,  j'ai  gout6 
des  plaisii'S,  j'ai  ^te  aim^e  partout ;  dans  un  age 
un  peu  avance,  j'ai  passe  des  annees  dans  le  com- 
merce de  I'esprit,  je  suis  venue  a  la  faveur ;  et  je 
vous  proteste,  ma  chhve  fille,  que  tons  les  etats 
laissent  un-vide  affreux,  une  inquietude,  une  lassi- 
tude, une  envie  de  connaitre  autre  chose,  parce 
qu'en  tout  cela  rien  ne  satisfait  entiferement.  On 
n'est  en  repos  que  lorsqu'on  s'est  donne  a  Dieu, 
mais  avec  cette  volonte  determinee  dont  je  vous 
parle  quelquefois :  alors  on  sent  qu'il  n'y  a  plus 
rien  a  chercher,  qu'on  est  arrive  a  ce  qui  seul  est 
bon  sur  la  terre :  on  a  des  chagrins,  mais  on  a 
aussi  une  solide  consolation,  et  la  paix  au  fond  du 
coeur  au  milieu  des  plus  grandes  peines. 

MALEGUZZI-VALERI,    VERONICA, 

A  LEARNED  lady,  born  at  Reggio.  She  support- 
ed in  public,  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner,  two 
theses  on  the  liberal  arts,  which  have  been  pub- 
lighed ;  besides  "  Innocence  Recognised,"  a  drama. 
She  died,  1G90,  in  the  convent  of  Modena,  where 
she  had  retired. 

MALEPIERRA,   OLYMPIA, 

A  Venetian  lady  of  noble  birth,  who  wrote 
poems  of  some  merit,  published  at  Naples,  and 
died  in  1559. 


MALESCOTTE,    MARGHERITA, 
Of  Sienna,  has  left  some  poems  in  the  collection 
of  Bergalli.     She  enjoyed  considerable  reputation 
among  the  learned  of  her  day,  and  died  in  1720. 

MALIBRAN,   MARIA   FELICITE, 

D.\.UGHTER  of  a  singer  and  composer  of  music 
of  some  celebrity,  of  the  name  of  Garcia,  was  born 
at  Paris,  March  24th,  1808.  When  scarcely  five, 
she  commenced  her  musical  education  at  Naples, 
under  the  best  masters.  She  sang  in  public,  for 
the  first  time,  in  1824,  and  so  successfully  as  to 
give  promise  of  attaining  a  very  high  order  of 
excellence  in  her  art.  In  1825,  she  accompanied 
her  father  to  England,  when  a  sudden  indisposi- 
tion of  Madame  Pasta  led  to  her  performance,  at  a 
short  notice,  of  the  part  of  Rosina,  in  the  Barbel 
of  Seville.  The  highly  satisfactory  manner  in 
which  she  acquitted  herself,  secured  to  her  an 
engagement  for  the  season  in  London ;  and  she 
sang  afterwards  in  Manchester,  York,  and  Liver- 
pool. Her  father,  having  been  induced  to  come 
to  the  United  States,  brought  his  daughter  with 
him,  as  the  j^rima  donna  of  his  operatic  corps. 
Here  her  success  was  unbounded,  and  she  qualified 
hei'self  bj'  the  most  assiduous  study,  for  competing, 
on  her  return  to  Europe,  with  the  most  celebrated 
singers  of  the  time. 

In  March,  1826,  she  married,  at  New  York,  a 
French  merchant  of  the  name  of  Malibran,  of 
more  than  double  her  own  age,  but  who  was 
thought  very  wealthy.  SoOn  after  the  maiTiage, 
he  became  a  bankrupt;  and  the  cold  and  selfish 
reliance  he  placed  on  her  musical  powers,  as  a 
means  of  re-establishing  his  ruined  fortunes,  so 
offended  the  feelings  of  his  wife,  that  she  left  him, 
and  went  to  France  in  September,  1827. 

After  two  yeai's  of  a  most  brilliant  career  in 
Paris  and  the  departments,  she  accompanied  La- 
blache  on  a  professional  tour  through  Italy.  Her 
winters  were  afterwards  passed  in  Paris,  and  her 
summers  in  excursions  in  different  directions.  In 
1835,  the  French  court  pronounced  her  marriage 
with  M.  Malibran  to  have  been  ab  initio  null  and 
void,  not  having  been  contracted  before  an  autho- 
rity regarded  as  competent  by  the  French  law. 
In  1836,  she  married  M.  de  Beriot,  the  celebrated 
violinist,  and  went  with  him  to  Brussels  to  reside. 
In  consequence  of  an  injury  received  by  a  fall 
from  a  horse  a  few  weeks  after  her  marriage,  her 
health  began  to  decline ;  and,  having  gone  to 
England  during  the  summer,  she  was  suddenly 
attacked  by  a  nervous  fever,  after  singing  at  a 
musical  festival  at  Manchester,  contrary  to  the 
advice  of  her  physicians.  Her  enfeebled  consti- 
tution was  unable  to  resist  the  progress  of  the 
disease, 'and  she  died,  September  23d,  1836,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-eight. 

MAN  LEY,    MRS., 

The  author  of  "  The  Atalantis,"  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Sir  Roger  Manley,  and  born  in  Guernsey, 
of  which  her  father  was  governor.  She  became 
an  orphan  early,  and  was  deceived  into  a  false 
marriage  by  a  relation  of  the  same  name,  to  whose 

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care  Sir  Roger  had  bequeathed  her.  He  brought 
her  to  London,  but  soon  deserted  her,  and  she 
passed  three  years  in  solitude.  Then  the  duchess 
of  Cleveland,  mistress  of  Charles  II.,  took  her 
under  her  protection ;  but,  being  a  very  fickle 
woman,  she  grew  tired  of  Mrs.  Manley  in  a  few 
months,  who  returned  again  to  her  solitary  mode 
of  life. 

Her  first  tragedy,  called  "  The  Royal  Mischief," 
was  acted  in  1696,  and  brought  her  great  applause 
and  admiration,  which  proved  fatal  to  her  virtue. 
She  then  wrote  "  The  New  Atalantis,"  in  which 
she  spoke  freely  of  many  exalted  persons  ;  several 
of  the  characters  in  the  book  being  only  satires 
on  those  who  brought  about  the  revolution  which 
placed  William  and  Mary  on  the  throne  of  Great 
Britain. 

To  shield  the  printer  and  publisher  of  these 
volumes,  against  whom  a  warrant  was  issued, 
Mrs.  Manley  voluntarily  presented  herself  before 
the  court  of  King's-bench  as  the  unassisted  author 
of  the  "Atalantis."  She  was  confined  for  a  short 
time,  but  afterwards  admitted  to  bail,  and  finally 
discharged.  She  lived  for  some  time  after  in  high 
reputation  as  a  wit,  and  in  great  gayety.  She 
wrote  several  dramas,  and  was  also  employed  in 
writing  for  Queen  Anne's  ministry,  under  the 
direction,  it  is  supposed,  of  Dean  Swift.  She 
died,  July  11th,  1724. 

HANSON,  MARIE  FRAN^AISE  CLAIRISSE, 

Remarkable  from  the  manner  in  which  she 
became  implicated  with  murderers  and  robbers 
in  a  criminal  trial,  was  born  in  1785,  at  Rhodes, 
a  manufacturing  town  in  the  south  of  France. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  President  Enjalran,  and 
the  wife  of  Antoine  Manson,  an  officer,  whom  she 
had  married  in  obedience  to  her  father,  but  from 
whom  she  was  separated.  She  is  represented  as 
a  woman  of  amiable  disposition,  somewhat  enthu- 
siastic and  independent  in  character,  but  of  fair 
reputation. 

M.  Fauldes  was  a  highly  esteemed  and  wealthy 
inhabitant  of  Rhodes,  who  dealt  in  money  trans- 
actions with  all  the  rich  and  respectable  inhabi- 
tants of  the  place  ;  among  them  were  the  brothers 
Jausion  and  Bastide  Grammont,  who  were  his  re- 
lations and  daily  visitors,  and  deeply  in  his  debt. 
Fualdes,  having  sold  his  real  estate  with  the  in- 
tention of  removing  from  Rhodes,  insisted  upon 
settling  his  aifairs  with  the  Grammonts.  On  the 
morning  of  the  19th  of  March,  1817,  they  had 
some  altercation  about  it,  and  a  meeting  for  the 
evening  of  the  same  day  was  agreed  upon,  to  con- 
clude the  business.  With  this  view,  Fualdes  set 
out  at  eight  o'clock  P.  M.,  to  proceed  to  the  place 
of  meeting.  In  the  Rue  des  Hebdomadiers,  he 
was  set  upon  by  several  men,  who  at  a  concerted 
signal  were  joined  by  numerous  others.  He  was 
dragged  into  a  suspicious  house,  belonging  to  one 
Bancal,  where,  after  having  been  forced  to  sign 
several  bills  of  exchange,  he  was  murdered  in  the 
most  revolting  manner.  The  children  of  Bancal, 
a  woman  in  masculine  attire,  and  another  covered 
with  a  veil,  witnessed  the  whole  scene  in  an  ad- 
joining room.  The  dead  body  was  packed  like  a 
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bale  of  merchandise,  carried  through  the  streets, 
and  thrown  into  the  river  near  the  town,  where  it 
was  found  the  next  morning.  The  ofiicers  of  jus- 
tice immediately  began  a  search ;  traces  of  murder 
were  discovered  in  the  house  of  Bancal,  whose 
little  daughter  had  already  betrayed  some  circum- 
stances of  importance.  The  brothers  Grammont, 
Bancal,  and  several  others,  were  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison,  where  Bancal  committed  sui- 
cide. 

On  the  trial,  witnesses  were  wanted ;  but  Ma- 
dame Manson,  having  spoken  in  conversation  of 
circumstances  connected  with  the  deed  which  led 
to  the  suspicion  that  she  had  witnessed  it,  was 
examined,  and  confessed  to  her  father  and  the 
prefect,  that  on  the  evening  of  the  19th  she  had 
been  in  disguise  in  the  street  when  the  attack  was 
made,  and  had  taken  refuge  in  the  first  house 
open,  which  proved  to  be  Bancal's.  She  was 
forced  into  a  closet,  and  a  scream  of  horror,  ac- 
companied by  a  fainting  fit,  betrayed  her  presence 
to  the  murderers.  One  of  them  was  about  to  kill 
her,  but  was  prevented  by  the  rest;  they  then 
swore  her  to  silence  upon  the  dead  body.  As  soon 
as  the  report  of  this  confession  was  spread  through 
the  town,  Madame  Manson  received  several  letters 
threatening  her  life,  and  that  of  her  little  daugh- 
ter. Overwhelmed  with  terror  when  she  appeared 
at  court  and  beheld  the  murderers,  she  fainted ; 
and,  on  being  questioned,  recalled  her  confession, 
and  denied  having  been  in  the  house  of  Bancal. 
The  murderers  were  convicted,  bw,t  appealed  to  a 
higher  court.  Madame  Manson  was  arrested  for 
giving  false  evidence.  On  the  second  trial,  upon 
being  spoken  to  by  Bastide  in  an  insulting  manner, 
she  confessed  her  duplicity,  and  gave  a  true  ac- 
count of  the  ti'ansaction.  Bastide  and  his  accom- 
plices were  condemned  to  death.  Madame  Manson 
wrote  her  memoirs  while  in  prison.  In  Paris  four 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  a  few  houi's ;  and  it 
went  through  seven  editions  in  the  course  of  the 
year.  The  whole  trial  was  full  of  dramatic  in- 
terest, and  attracted  so  much  attention  that  Ma- 
dame Manson  was  ofi^ered  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  francs  to  come  to  Paris  to  gratify  the 
curiosity  of  the  Paorisian  world. 

MANZONI,  GIUSTI   FRANCESCA. 

This  erudite  lady  was  as  highly  esteemed  for 
her  virtue  and  prudence  as  for  her  extraordinary 
intellect  and  the  fertility  of  her  imagination.  Her 
death,  which  happened  in  1743,  was  universally 
lamented.  She  was  a  member  of  the  academy  of 
the  Filodossi  of  Milan.  The  subjoined  is  a  list 
of  her  works : — "  An  Epistle  in  Verse  to  the  Em- 
press Maria  Theresa ;"  "Ester,"  a  tragedy ;  "  Abi- 
galle,"  a  sacred  drama;  "  Debora,"  an  oratorio; 
"  Gedeone,"  an  oratorio  ;  "  Sagrifizio  d'Abramo  :" 
"  Translation  of  Ovid's  Tristitia." 

MARA,    GERTRUDE   ELIZABETH. 

Dauohter  of  Mr.  Schmilling,  city  musician  in 
Cassel,  was  born  about  1749.  AVhen  she  was  seven, 
she  played  very  well  on  the  violin,  and  when  she 
was  fourteen,  she  appeared  as  a  singer.  Frederic 
the  Great  of  Prussia,  notwithstanding  his  preju- 

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ilice  against  German  performers,  invited  her  to  | 
Potsdam,  in  1770,  and  gave  her  an  appointment  . 
immediately.  In  1774,  she  married  Mara,  a  vio- 
loncello player,  a  very  extravagant  man,  and  he 
involved  her  so  much  in  debt,  that,  in  1786,  Fre- 
deric withdrew  her  appointment  from  her,  and  she 
went  to  Vienna,  Paris,  and  London,  where  she 
was  received  with  great  enthusiasm.  In  1808  she 
went  to  Russia,  and  while  at  Moscow  she  married 
Florio,  her  companion  since  her  separation  from 
Mara.  By  the  burning  of  Moscow  she  lost  most 
of  her  property.  She  passed  the  latter  part  of 
her  life,  which  was  very  long,  at  Reval,  where  she 
died,  in  1833.  She  possessed  extraordinary  com- 
pass of  voice,  extending  with  great  ease  over  three 
octaves. 

MAEATTI,    ZAPPI   FAUSTINA, 

Of  Rome.  Her  poems  appear  to  have  contri- 
buted to  the  improvement  of  style  which  took 
place  in  the  Italian  poetry  when  she  wrote.  They 
are  filled  with  the  tender  affection  of  a  devoted 
wife  and  mother.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the 
famous  painter  Maratti.     She  died  in  1740. 

MARGARET,  DUCHESS  OF  PARMA, 

Was  the  natural  daughter  of  Charles  V.  of  Ger- 
many and  Margaret  of  Gest.  She  was  born  in 
1522,  and  married,  first,  Alexander  de  Medici, 
jind  afterwards  Octavio  Farnese,  duke  of  Parma 
and  Piacenza.  Her  half-brother,  Philijj  II.  of 
Spain,  appointed  her,  in  1559,  to  the  government 
of  the  Netherlands,  where  she  endeavoured  to  re- 
store tranquillity  ;  and  she  might  have  succeeded, 
if  the  duke  of  Alva  had  not  been  sent  with  such 
great  power  that  nothing  was  left  to  her  but  the 
title.  Indignant  at  this,  Margaret  returned  to 
her  husband  in  Italy,  and  died  at  Ortona,  1586. 
She  left  one  son,  Alexander  Farnese,  duke  of 
Parma. 

MARGARET  OF  FRANCE, 
Queen  of  Navarre,  daughter  of  Henry  II.  of 
France  and  Catharine  de  Medicis,  was  born  in 
1552.  Brantome  says,  "  If  ever  there  was  a  per- 
fect beauty  born,  it  was  the  queen  of  Navarre, 
who  eclipsed  the  women  who  were  thought  charm- 
ing in  her  absence."  She  walked  extremely  well, 
and  was  considered  the  most  graceful  dancer  in 
Europe.  She  gave  early  proofs  of  genius,  and 
was  a  brilliant  assemblage  of  talents  and  faults, 
of  virtues  and  vices.  This  may,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, be  attributed  to  her  education  in  the  most 
polished,  y»>t  most  corrupt  court  in  Europe.  Mar- 
garet was  demanded  in  marriage,  both  by  the  em- 
peror of  Germany  and  the  king  of  Poi-tugal ;  but. 
In  1572,  she  was  married  to  Henry,  prince  of 
Beam,  afterwards  Henry  IV.  of  France.  Nothing 
oould  equal  the  magnificence  of  this  marriage ; 
which  was  succeeded  by  the  horrors  of  the  mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew.  Though  Margaret  was 
•,i  strict  Roman  Catholic,  she  was  not  entrusted 
with  the  secrets  of  that  horrible  day.  She  was 
alarmed  with  suspicions,  which  her  mother  would 
not  explain  to  her,  and  terrified  by  a  gentleman, 
'who,  covered  with  wounds,  and  pursued  by  four 


archers,  burst  into  her  chamber  before  she  had 
risen  in  the  morning.  She  saved  his  life,  and  by 
her  prayers  and  tears,  obtained  from  her  mother 
grace  for  two  of  her  husband's  suite.  Henry  him- 
self escaped  the  fate  prepared  for  him,  and  Mar- 
garet refused  to  suffer  her  marriage  to  be  cancelled. 
In  1573,  when  the  Polish  ambassadors  came  to 
create  her  brother,  the  duke  of  Anjou,  king  of 
that  country,  Margaret,  as  a  daughter  of  France, 
received  them.  The  bishop  of  Cracow  made  his 
harangue  in  Latin,  which  she  answered  so  elo- 
quently, that  they  heard  her  with  astonishment. 
She  accompanied  the  duke  d' Anjou  as  far  as  Bla- 
mont,  and  during  this  journey  she  discovered  a 
plot  of  her  husband  and  her  next  brother,  who 
was  become  duke  d' Anjou,  to  revenge  the  massa- 
cre, which  she  revealed  to  her  mother,  on  condi- 
tion that  no  one  should  be  executed.  The  princes 
were  imprisoned;  but  the  death  of  Charles  IX., 
in  1577,  set  them  at  liberty. 

The  king  of  Navarre,  continually  occupied  by 
new  beauties,  cared  little  for  the  reputation  of  his 
wife ;  yet,  when  he  stole  from  the  court,  he  com- 
mended his  interests  to  her,  in  a  letter  he  left  for 
her.  But  Margaret  was  then  confined  to  her 
apartments,  and  her  confidants  were  treated  with 
the  greatest  severity.  Catharine,  however,  nre- 
vented  her  brother  from  pushing  matters  to  ex- 
tremity with  her,  and  by  her  assistance  she  ob- 
tained a  short  peace.  Margaret  then  demanded 
permission  to  retire  to  her  husband  in  Guienne ; 
but  Henry  III.  refused  to  allow  his  sister  to  live 
with  a  heretic. 

At  length  open  war  was  commenced  against  the 
Protestants,  and  Margaret  withdrew  into  the  Low 
Countries,  to  prepare  the  people  in  favour  of  her 
brother,  the  duke  d'Alenfon,  who  meditated  the 
conquest  of  them  by  the  Spaniards.  There  are 
curious  details  of  this  journey  in  her  memoirs. 
On  her  return,  she  stopped  at  La  Fere,  in  Picardy, 
which  belonged  to  her,  where  she  learned  that, 
for  the  sixth  time,  peace  was  made  in  1577.  The 
duke  d'Alen9on  came  to  Picardy,  and  was  de- 
lighted with  the  pleasures  that  reigned  in  the  little 
court  of  Margaret.  She  soon  returned  to  France, 
and  lived  with  her  husband  at  Pan,  in  Beam, 
where  religious  toleration  was  almost  denied  her  by 
the  Protestants ;  and  Henry  showed  her  little  kind- 
ness ;  yet  the  tenderness  with  which  she  nursed 
him  during  an  illness,  re-established  friendship 
between  them,  from  1577  to  1580,  when  the  war 
again  broke  out.  She  wished  to  effect  another 
reconciliation,  but  could  only  obtain  the  neutrality 
of  Nerac,  where  she  resided. 

After  the  war,  Henry  III.,  wishing  to  draw  the 
king  of  Navarre,  and  Margaret's  favourite  brother, 
the  duke  d' Anjou,  to  court,  wrote  to  Margaret  to 
come  to  him.  Discontented  with  the  conduct  of 
her  husband,  she  gladly  complied,  and  went  in 
1 582 ;  yet  so  much  was  her  brother  irritated  by 
her  affection  for  the  duke  d' Anjou,  that  he  treated 
her  very  unkindly.  Some  time  after,  a  courier, 
whom  he  had  sent  to  Rome  with  important  dis- 
patches, being  murdered  and  robbed  by  four  cava- 
liers, he  suspected  his  sister  of  being  concerned 
in  the  plot,  and  publicly  reproached  her  for  her 

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irregularities,  saying  everything  that  was  bitter 
and  taunting.  Margaret  kept  a  profound  silence, 
hut  left  Paris  the  next  morning,  saying,  that  there 
never  had  been  two  pi-incesses  as  unfortunate  as 
herself  and  Mary  of  Scotland.  On  the  journey 
she  was  stopped  by  an  insolent  captain  of  the 
guards,  who  obliged  her  to  unmask,  and  interro- 
gated the  ladies  who  were  with  her.  Her  husband 
received  her  at  Nerac,  and  resented  the  cruel 
treatment  she  had  experienced  from  her  brother ; 
but  her  conduct,  and  the  new  intrigues  in  which 
she  was  constantly  engaged,  widened  the  breach 
between  them.  AVhen  her  husband  was  excom- 
municated, she  left  him,  and  went  to  Agen,  and 
thence  from  place  to  place,  experiencing  many 
dangers  and  difficulties. 

Her  charms  made  a  conquest  of  the  marquis  de 
Carnillac,  who  had  taken  her  prisoner  ;  but  though 
he  insured  her  a  place  of  refuge  in  the  castle  of 
Usson,  she  had  the  misery  of  seeing  her  friends 
cut  to  pieces  in  the  plains  below ;  and  though  the 
fortress  was  impregnable,  it  was  assailed  by  fa- 
mine, and  she  was  forced  to  sell  her  jewels,  and 
but  for  her  sister-in-law,  Eleanor  of  Austria,  she 
must  have  perished.  The  duke  d'Anjou,  who 
would  have  protected  her,  was  dead ;  and  though, 
on  the  accession  of  her  husband  to  the  throne  of 
France,  in  1589,  she  might  have  returned  to  court, 
on  condition  of  consenting  to  a  divorce,  she  never 
would  do  so  during  the  life  of  Gabrielle  d'Estrees. 
After  the  death  of  the  mistress,  Margaret  her- 
self solicited  Clement  VIII.  to  forward  the  divorce, 
and,  in  1600,  Henry  was  married  to  Marie  de 
Medicis.  Margaret,  in  the  mean  time,  did  some 
acts  of  kindness  for  the  king,  and  was  permitted 
to  return  to  court  after  an  absence  of  twenty-two 
years.  She  even  assisted  at  the  coronation  of 
Marie  de  Medicis,  where  etiquette  obliged  her  to 
walk  after  Henry's  sister.  She  consoled  herself 
by  pleasures  for  the  loss  of  honours ;  and  though 
Henry  IV.  begged  her  to  be  more  prudent,  and 
not  to  turn  night  into  day  and  day  into  night,  she 
paid  but  little  attention  to  his  advice. 

Margaret  passed  her  last  years  in  devotion, 
study,  and  pleasure.  She  gave  the  tenth  of  her 
revenues  to  the  poor,  but  she  did  not  pay  her 
debts.  The  memoirs  she  has  left,  which  finish  at 
the  time  of  her  re-appearance  at  court,  prove  the 
elegant  facility  of  her  pen  ;  and  her  poetry,  some 
of  which  has  been  preserved,  equals  that  of  the 
best  poets  of  her  time.  She  was  very  fond  of  the 
society  of  learned  men. 

"Margaret,"  said  Catharine  de  Medicis,  "is  a 
living  proof  of  the  injustice  of  the  Salic  law  ;  with 
her  talents,  she  might  have  equalled  the  greatest 
kings." 

"  The  last  of  the  house  of  Valois,"  says  Meze- 
ray,  "  she  inherited  their  spirit ;  she  never  gave 
to  any  one,  without  apologising  for  the  smallness 
of  the  gift.  She  was  the  refuge  of  men  of  letters, 
had  always  some  of  them  at  her  table,  and  im- 
proved so  much  by  their  conversation,  that  she 
spoke  and  wrote  better  than  any  woman  of  her 
time."  She  appears  to  have  been  good-natured 
and  benevolent;  wanting  in  fidelity,  not  in  com- 
plaisance to  her  husband ;  as,  at  his  request,  she 


rose  early  one  morning,  to  attend  to  one  of  hig 
mistresses  who  was  ill.  How  could  Henry  re- 
proach her  for  infidelities,  while  living  himself  a 
life  of  the  most  scandalous  licentiousness !  If 
Margaret  had  had  a  more  aifectionate  and  faithful 
husband,  she  would  doubtless  have  been  a  true 
and  affectionate  wife.  This  does  not  justify  her 
errors,  but  it  accounts  for  them.  She  died  in 
1615,  aged  sixty-three. 

IMARGARET, 
Daughter  of  Francis  I.  of  France,  married  Em- 
manuel Philibert,  duke  of  Savoy,  and  died  highly 
respected,  September  14th,  1574,  aged  fifty-one. 

MARGARET  LOUISA  OF  LORRAINE, 
Daughter  of  Henry,  duke  of  Guise,  married,  in 
1605,  at  the  instance  of  Henry  IV.,  who  was  in 
love  with  her,  and  wished  to  fix  her  at  court, 
Francis  de  Bourbon,  prince  of  Conti.  They  how- 
ever left  the  coiirt  immediately  on  marrying.  The 
prince  died  in  1617,  and  Louisa  devoted  herself 
to  the  belles-lettres.  She  was  one  of  Cardinal 
Richelieu's  enemies,  and  he  banished  her  to  Eu, 
where  she  died  in  1531.  She  was  suspected  of 
having  married  the  marshal  of  Bassompierre  for 
her  second  husband.  She  wrote  the  amours  of 
Henry  IV.,  under  the  title  of  "  Les  Amours  du 
Gr.  Alexandre." 

MARQUETS,   ANNE   DE, 

Was  born  of  noble  and  rich  parents,  and  was 
carefully  instructed  in  belles-lettres,  and  in  her 
religious  duties.  She  became  a  nun  in  a  convent 
of  the  order  of  St.  Dominic,  at  Poissy,  where  she 
devoted  the  poetic  talents  for  which  she  was  dis- 
tinguished, to  the  service  of  religion.  Her  poems 
show  great  but  enlightened  zeal.  Ronsard,  and 
other  celebrated  contemporary  poets,  have  spoken 
very  highly  of  her.  She  reached  an  advanced 
age,  but  lost  her  sight  some  time  before  her  death, 
which  took  place  in  1558.  She  bequeathed  to 
Sister  Marie  de  Fortia,  a  nun  in  the  same  convent, 
three  hundred  and  eighty  sonnets  of  a  religious 
nature. 

MARIA   THERESA, 

Archduchess  of  Austria,  queen  of  Hungary 
and  Bohemia,  and  empress  of  Germany,  born  in 
1717,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of 
Austria,  emperor  of  Germany.  In  1724,  Charles, 
by  his  will,  known  as  the  Pragmatic  Sanction, 
regulated  the  order  of  succession  in  the  house  of 
Austria,  declaring  that  in  default  of  male  issue, 
his  eldest  daughter  should  be  heiress  of  all  the 
Austrian  dominions,  and  her  children  after  her. 
The  Pi-agmatic  Sanction  was  guaranteed  by  the 
diet  of  the  empire,  and  by  all  the  German  princes, 
and  by  several  powers  of  Europe,  but  not  by  the 
Bourbons.  In  1736,  Maria  Theresa  married  Francis 
of  Lorraine,  who,  in  1737,  became  grand-duke  of 
Tuscany;  and  in  1739,  Francis,  with  his  consort, 
repaired  to  Florence. 

Upon  the  death  of  Charles  VI.  in  1740,  the 
ruling  powers  of  Prussia,  Bavaria,  Saxony,  France, 
Spain,  and  Sardinia,  agreed  to  dismember  the  Aus- 

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trian  monarchy,  to  portions  of  which  each  laid 
claim.  Maria  Theresa,  however,  went  immediately 
to  Vienna,  and  took  possession  of  Austria,  Bohe- 
mia, and  her  other  German  states ;  she  then  re- 
paired to  Presburg,  took  the  oaths  to  the  consti- 
tution of  Hungary,  and  was  solemnly  proclaimed 
queen  of  that  kingdom  in  1741.  Frederic  of 
Prussia  offered  the  young  queen  his  friendship  on 
condition  of  her  giving  up  to  him  Silesia,  which 


Ehe  resolutely  refused,  and  he  then  invaded  that 
province.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria,  assisted  by  the 
French,  also  invaded  Austria,  and  pushed  his 
troops  as  far  as  Vienna.  Maria  Theresa  took  re- 
fuge in  Presburg,  where  she  convoked  the  Hunga- 
rian diet ;  and  appearing  in  the  midst  of  them 
with  her  infant  son  in  her  arms,  she  made  a  heart- 
stirring  appeal  to  their  loyalty.  The  Hungarian 
nobles,  drawing  their  swords,  unanimously  ex- 
claimed, "Moriamur  pro  Kege  nostro,  Maria 
Theresa!"  "We  will  die  for  our  queen,  Maria 
Theresa."  And  they  raised  an  army  and  drove 
the  French  and  Bavarians  out  of  the  hereditary 
states.  What  would  have  been  their  reflections 
could  those  brave  loyal  Hungarians  have  foreseen 
that,  in  a  little  over  a  century,  a  descendant  of 
this  idolized  queen  would  trample  on  their  rights, 
overthrow  their  constitution,  massacre  the  nobles 
and  patriots,  and  ravage  and  lay  waste  their  beau- 
tiful land !  Well  would  it  be  for  men  to  keep 
always  in  mind  the  warning  of  the  royal  psalmist, 
"  Put  not  your  trust  in  princes." 

In  the  mean  time,  Charles  Albert,  Elector  of 
Bavaria,  was  chosen  Emperor  of  Germany,  by  the 
diet  assembled  at  Frankfort,  under  the  name  of 
Charles  VII. 

Frederic  of  Prussia  soon  made  peace  with  Maria 
Theresa,  who  was  obliged  to  surrender  Silesia  to 
him.  In  1745,  Charles  VII.  died,  and  Francis, 
Maria  Theresa's  husband,  was  elected  emperor. 
In  1748,  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  terminated 
the  war  of  the  Austrian  succession,  and  Maria 
Theresa  was  left  in  possession  of  all  her  hereditary 
dominions,  except  Silesia.  In  1756  began  the 
Seven  Years'  war  between  France,  Austria,  and 
Russia,  on  one  side,  and  Prussia  on  the  other.    It 


ended  in  17G3,  leaving  Austria  and  Prussia  with 
the  same  boundaries  as  before.  In  1765,  Maria 
Theresa  lost  her  husband,  for  whom  she  wore 
mourning  till  her  death.  Her  son  Joseph  was 
elected  emperor.  She  however  retained  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  government. 

The  only  act  of  her  political  life  with  which  she 
can  be  reproached  is  her  participation  in  the  first 
partition  of  Poland ;  and  this  she  did  very  unwil- 
lingly, only  when  she  was  told  that  Russia  and 
Prussia  would  not  regard  her  disapproval,  and 
that  her  refusal  would  endanger  her  own  domi- 
nions. 

The  improvements  Maria  Theresa  made  in  her 
dominions  were  many  and  important.  She  abolish- 
ed torture,  also  the  rural  and  personal  services  the 
peasants  of  Bohemia  owed  to  their  feudal  supe- 
riors. She  founded  or  enlarged  in  different  parts 
of  her  extensive  dominions  several  academies  for 
the  improvement  of  the  arts  and  sciences ;  insti- 
tuted numerous  seminaries  for  the  education  of 
all  ranks  of  people ;  reformed  the  public  schools, 
and  ordered  prizes  to  be  distributed  among  the 
students  who  made  the  greatest  progress  in  learn- 
ing, or  were  distinguished  for  propriety  of  beha- 
viour, or  purity  of  morals.  She  established  prizes 
for  those  who  excelled  in  different  branches  of 
manufacture,  in  geometry,  mining,  smelting  me- 
tals, and  even  spinning.  She  particularly  turned 
her  attention  to  agriculture,  which,  on  a  medal 
struck  by  her  order,  was  entitled  the  "  Art  which 
nourishes  all  other  arts;"  and  founded  a  society 
of  agriculture  at  Milan,  with  bounties  to  the  pea- 
sants who  obtained  the  best  crops.  She  took  away 
the  pernicious  rights  which  the  convents  and 
churches  enjoyed  of  affording  sanctuary  to  all  cri- 
minals without  distinction,  and  in  many  other  ways 
evinced  her  regard  for  the  welfare  of  the  people. 
She  was  a  pious  and  sincere  Roman  Catholic,  but 
not  a  blind  devotee,  and  could  discriminate  be- 
tween the  temporal  and  spiritual  jurisdiction.  She 
put  a  check  on  the  power  of  the  Inquisition,  which 
was  finally  abolished  during  the  reign  of  her  sons. 
She  possessed  the  strong  affections  of  her  Belgian 
subjects ;  and  never  was  Lombardy  so  prosperous 
or  tranquil  as  under  her  reign.  The  population 
increased  from  900,000  to  1,130,000.  During  her 
forty  years'  reign  she  showed  an  undeviating  love 
of  justice,  truth,  and  clemency ;  and  her  whole 
conduct  was  characterized  by  a  regard  for  pro- 
priety and  self-respect. 

Maria  Theresa  was,  in  her  youth,  exceedingly 
beautiful ;  and  she  retained  the  majesty,  grace, 
and  elegance  of  queenly  attractiveness  to  the  close 
of  her  life.  She  was  strictly  religious,  sincere  in 
her  affection  for  her  husband,  and  never  marred 
the  power  of  her  loveliness  by  artifice  or  coquetry. 
She  used  her  gifts  and  graces  not  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  her  own  vanity,  to  win  lovers,  but  as  a 
wise  sovereign  to  gain  over  refractory  subjects ; 
and  she  succeeded,  thus  showing  how  potent  is 
the  moral  strength  with  which  woman  is  endowed. 
This  queen  has  been  censured  for  what  was  styled 
"neglect  of  her  children." 

Maria  Theresa  was  the  mother  of  sixteen  chil- 
dren, all  born  within  twenty  years.    There  is  every 

404 


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reason  to  suppose  that  her  naturally  warm  affec- 
tion, and  her  strong  sense,  would  have  rendered 
her,  in  a  private  station,  an  admirable,  an  exem- 
plary parent ;  and  it  was  not  her  fault,  but  rather 
her  misfortune,  that  she  was  placed  in  a  situation 
where  the  most  sacred  duties  and  feelings  of  her 
sex  became  merely  secondary.  While  her  numer- 
ous family  were  in  their  infancy,  the  empress  was 
constantly  and  exclusively  occupied  in  the  public 
duties  and  cares  of  her  high  station ;  the  affairs 
of  government  demanded  almost  every  moment 
of  her  time.  The  court  phj'sician.  Von  Swietar, 
waited  on  her  each  morning  at  her  levee,  and 
brought  her  a  minute  report  of  the  health  of  the 
princes  and  princesses.  If  one  of  them  was  in- 
disposed, the  mother,  laying  aside  all  other  cares, 
immediately  hastened  to  their  apartment.  They 
all  spoke  and  wrote  Italian  with  elegance  and 
facility.  Her  children  were  brought  up  with  ex- 
treme simplicity.  They  were  not  allowed  to  in- 
dulge in  personal  pride  or  caprice  ;  their  benevo- 
lent feelings  were  cultivated  both  by  precept  and 
example.  They  were  sedulously  instructed  in  the 
"  Lives  of  the  Saints,"  and  all  the  tedious  forms 
of  unmeaning  devotion,  in  which,  according  to  the 
sincere  conviction  of  their  mother,  all  true  piety 
consisted.  A  high  sense  of  family  pride,  an  un- 
bounded devotion  to  the  house  of  Austria,  and  to 
their  mother,  the  empress,  as  the  head  of  that 
house,  was  early  impressed  upon  their  minds,  and 
became  a  ruling  passion,  as  well  as  a  principle  of 
conduct  with  all  of  them. 

We  have  only  to  glance  back  upon  the  history 
of  the  last  fifty  years  to  see  the  result  of  this  mode 
of  education.  We  find  that  the  children  of  Maria 
Theresa,  transplanted  into  different  countries  of 
Europe,  carried  with  them  their  national  and 
family  prejudices  ;  that  some  of  them,  in  later 
years,  supplied  the  defects  of  their  early  educa- 
tion, and  became  remarkable  for  talent  and  for 
virtue.  That  all  of  them,  even  those  who  were 
least  distinguished  and  estimable,  displayed  occa- 
sionally both  goodness  of  heart  and  elevation  of 
character ;  and  that  their  filial  devotion  to  their 
mother  and  what  they  considered  her  interests, 
was  carried  to  an  excess,  which  in  one  or  two  in- 
stances proved  fatal  to  themselves.  Thus  it  is 
apparent  that  her  maternal  duties  were  not  ne- 
glected; had  this  been  the  case  she  could  never 
have  acquired  such  unbounded  influence  over  her 
children. 

Maria  Theresa  had  long  been  accustomed  to 
look  death  in  the  face ;  and  when  the  hour  of  trial 
came,  her  resignation,  her  fortitude,  and  her  hum- 
ble trust  in  heaven,  never  failed  her.  Her  agonies 
during  the  last  ten  days  of  her  life,  were  terrible, 
but  never  drew  from  her  a  single  expression  of 
complaint  or  impatience.  She  was  only  appre- 
hensive that  her  reason  and  her  physical  strength 
might  fail  her  together.  She  was  once  heard  to 
say,  "God  grant  that  these  sufferings  may  soon 
terminate,  for  otherwise,  I  know  not  if  I  can  much 
longer  endure  them." 

After  receiving  the  last  sacraments,  she  sum- 
moned all  her  family  to  her  presence,  and  solemnly 
recommended  them  to  the  care  of  the  emperor 


Joseph,  her  eldest  son.  "  My  son,"  said  she,  "  as 
you  are  the  heir  to  all  my  worldly  possessions,  I 
cannot  dispose  of  them ;  but  my  children  are  still, 
as  they  have  ever  been,  my  own.  I  bequeath  them 
to  you ;  be  to  them  a  father.  I  shall  die  contented 
if  you  promise  to  take  that  oflSce  upon  you."  She 
then  turned  to  her  son  Maximilian  and  her  daugh- 
ters, blessed  them  individually,  in  the  tenderest 
tei'ms,  and  exhorted  them  to  obey  and  honour  their 
elder  brother  as  their  father  and  sovereign.  After 
repeated  fits  of  agony  and  suffocation,  endured,  to 
the  last,  with  the  same  invariable  serenity  and 
patience,  death,  at  length,  released  her,  and  she 
expired  on  the  29th  of  November,  1780,  in  her 
sixty-fourth  year.  She  was  undoubtedly  the  great- 
est and  best  ruler  who  ever  swayed  the  imperial 
sceptre  of  Austria ;  while,  as  a  woman,  she  was 
one  of  the  most  amiable  and  exemplary  who  lived 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

MARIA   ANTOINETTA   AMELIA, 

Duchess  of  Saxe  Gotha,  daughter  of  Ulric  of 
Saxe  Meinungen,  was  born  in  1572.  Her  talents 
as  a  performer  on  the  piano,  and  as  a  composer, 
would  have  been  creditable  to  a  professed  artist. 
Several  of  her  canzoni,  and  also  variations  for  the 
piano,  have  been  published ;  but  her  most  impor- 
tant work  is  a  symphony  in  ten  parts.  She  died 
towards  the  beginning  of  this  century. 


MARIE   ANTOINETTE   JOSEPHE 
JEANNE    DE   LORRAINE, 

Archduchess  of  Austria  and  queen  of  France, 
daughter  of  the  emperor  Francis  I.  and  Maria 
Therese,  was  born  at  Vienna,  November  2d,  1755. 
She  was  carefully  educated,  and  possessed  an  un- 
common share  of  grace  and  beauty.  Her  hand 
was  demanded  by  Louis  XV.  for  his  grandson,  the 
dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  XVI.,  to  whom  she 
was  married  in  1770,  before  she  had  attained  her 
fifteenth  year.  A  lamentable  accident,  which  oc- 
curred during  the  festivities  given  by  the  city  of 
Paris  to  celebrate  the  marriage,  was  looked  upon 
as  a  sinister  omen,  which  subsequent  events  hav- 
ing confirmed,  has  acquired  undue  importance. 

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Owing  to  the  injudicious  arrangements  for  the 
exhibition  of  fireworks,  "a,  great  number  of  people 
•were  thrown  down  and  trodden  to  death,  more 
than  three  hundred  persons  having  been  killed  or 
TT^ounded.  In  1774  Louis  XVI.  ascended  the 
throne;  in  1778  the  queen  became,  for  the  first 
time,  a  mother.  During  the  first  years  of  her 
residence  in  France,  Marie  Antoinette  was  the 
idol  of  the  people.  After  the  birth  of  her  second 
son,  when,  according  to  usage,  she  went  to  church 
to  return  thanks,  the  populace  wished  to  remove 
the  horses  from  her  carriage,  and  draw  her  through 
the  streets ;  and  when  she  alighted  and  walked, 
to  gratify  them,  they  flung  themselves  upon  their 
knees,  and  rent  the  air  with  acclamations.  Four 
years  from  this  period,  all  was  changed.  The  acts 
of  kindness  and  benevolence  which  the  queen  had 
exhibited ;  her  grace,  beauty,  and  claims  upon  the 
nation  as  a  woman  and  a  foreigner,  were  all  for- 
gotten. Circumstances  remote  in  their  origin  had 
brought  about,  in  France,  a  state  of  feeling  fast 
ripening  to  a  fearful  issue.  The  queen  could  no 
longer  do  with  impunity  what  had  been  done  by 
her  predecessors.  The  extravagance  and  thought- 
lessness of  youth,  and  a  neglect  of  the  strict  for- 
mality of  court  etiquette,  injured  her  reputation. 
She  became  a  mark  for  censure,  and  finally  an 
object  of  hatred  to  the  people,  who  accused  her 
of  the  most  improbable  crimes.  An  extraordinary 
occurrence  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  calumny. 
The  countess  de  la  Motte,  a  clever  but  corrupt 
■woman,  by  a  vile  intrigue  in  which  she  made  the 
cardinal  de  Rohan  her  tool,  purchased,  in  the 
queen's  name,  a  magnificent  diamond  necklace, 
valued  at  an  enornious  sum.  She  imposed  upon 
the  cardinal  by  a  feigned  correspondence  with  the 
queen,  and  forged  her  signature  to  certain  bills ; 
obtained  possession  of  the  necklace,  and  sold  it  in 
England.  The  plot  exploded.  The  queen,  indig- 
nant at  the  cardinal,  demanded  a  public  investiga- 
tion. The  affair  produced  the  greatest  scandal 
throughout  France,  connecting  as  it  did  the  name 
of  the  queen  with  such  disgraceful  proceedings ; 
and  though  obviously  the  victim  of  an  intrigue, 
she  received  as  much  censure  as  if  she  had  been 
guilty.  Accused  of  being  an  Austrian  at  heart, 
and  an  enemy  to  France,  every  evil  in  the  state 
■was  now  attributed  to  her,  and  the  Parisians  soon 
exhibited  their  hatred  in  acts  of  open  violence. 
In  May,  1789,  the  States-General  met.  In  Octo- 
ber the  populace  proceeded  with  violence  to  Ver- 
sailles, broke  into  the  castle,  murdered  several  of 
the  body-guard,  and  forced  themselves  into  the 
queen's  apartments.  When  questioned  by  the 
oflScers  of  justice  as  to  what  she  had  seen  on  that 
memorable  day,  she  replied,  "  I  have  seen  all,  I 
have  heard  all,  I  have  forgotten  all." 

She  accompanied  the  king  in  his  flight  to  Va- 
rennes,  in  1791,  and  endured  with  him  with  un- 
exampled fortitude  and  magnanimity  the  insults 
which  now  followed  in  quick  succession.  In  April, 
1792,  she  accompanied  the  king  from  the  Tuille- 
ries,  where  they  had  been  for  some  time  detained 
close  prisoners,  to  the  Legislative  Assembly,  where 
he  was  arraigned.  Transferred  to  the  Temple, 
she  endured,  with  the  members  of  the  royal  fa- 


mily, every  variety  of  privation  and  indignity. 
On  the  21st  of  January,  1793,  the  king  perished 
on  the  scaffold;  the  dauphin  was  forcibly  torn 
from  her,  and  given  in  charge  to  a  miserable 
wretch,  a  cobbler  called  Simon,  who  designedly 
did  everything  in  his  power  to  degrade  and  bru- 
talize the  innocent  child.  On  the  2d  of  August, 
Marie  Antoinette  was  removed  to  the  Conciergerie, 
to  await  her  trial  in  a  damp  and  squalid  cell.  On 
the  14th  of  October,  she  appeared  before  the  revo- 
lutionary tribunal.  Dui-ing  the  trial,  which  lasted 
seventy-three  hours,  she  preserved  all  her  dignity 
and  composure.  Her  replies  to  the  infamous 
charges  which  were  preferred  against  her  were 
simple,  noble,  and  laconic.  When  all  the  ac- 
cusations had  been  heard,  she  was  asked  if  she 
had  anything  to  say.  She  replied,  "I  was  a 
queen,  and  you  took  away  my  crown ;  a  wife, 
and  you  killed  my  husband;  a  mother,  and  you 
deprived  me  of  my  children.  My  blood  alone  re- 
mains :  take  it,  but  do  not  make  me  suffer  long." 
At  four  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of  the  16th,  she 
was  condemned  to  death  by  an  unanimous  vote. 
She  heard  her  sentence  with  admirable  dignity 
and  self-possession.  At  half-past  twelve,  on  the 
same  day,  she  ascended  the  scaffold.  Scarcely 
any  traces  remained  of  the  dazzling  loveliness 
wliich  had  once  charmed  all  hearts ;  her  hair  had 
long  since  become  blanched  by  grief,  and  her  eyes 
were  almost  sightless  from  continued  weeping. 
She  knelt  and  prayed  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  low 
tone,  then  rose  and  calmly  delivered  herself  to  the 
executioner.  Thus  perished,  in  her  thirty-seventh 
year,  the  wife  of  the  greatest  monarch  in  Europe, 
the  daughter  of  the  heroic  Maria  Theresa,  a  vic- 
tim to  the  circumstances  of  birth  and  position. 
No  fouler  crime  ever  stained  the  annals  of  savage 
life,  than  the  murder  of  this  unfortunate  queen, 
by  a  people  calling  themselves  the  most  civilized 
nation  in  the  world. 

Marie  Antoinette  had  four  children.  Marie 
Therese  Charlotte,  the  companion  of  her  parents 
in  captivity,  born  1778.  In  1795  she  was  ex- 
changed for  the  deputies  whom  Dumouriez  had 
surrendered  to  Austria,  and  resided  in  Vienna  till 
1799,  when  she  was  mai-ried  by  Louis  XVIII.  to 
his  nephew,  oldest  son  of  Charles  X.  Napoleon 
said  of  her  that  "  she  was  the  only  man  of  her 
family."  The  dauphin,  Louis,  born  in  1781,  and 
died  in  1789.  Charles  Louis,  born  in  1785;  the 
unfortunate  prince  who  shared  his  parents'  impri- 
sonment for  a  time,  and  died  in  1795,  a  victim  to 
the  ill-treatment  of  the  ferocious  Simon ;  and  a 
daughter  who  died  in  infancy. 

MARIA  LOUISA  LEOPOLDINE  CAROLINE, 
Archduchess  of  Austria,  duchess  of  Parma, 
was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Francis  I.,  emperor  of 
Austria,  by  his  second  marriage,  with  Maria  The- 
resa, daughter  of  the  king  of  Naples.  She  was 
born  in  1791,  and  April  1st,  1810,  married  Napo- 
leon. Her  son  was  born  March  20,  1811.  When 
Napoleon  left  Paris  to  meet  the  allied  army,  he 
made  her  regent  of  the  empire.  On  the  29th  of 
March,  1814,  she  was  obliged  to  leave  Paris ;  Na- 
poleon  abdicated  his   authority  April  11th,  and 

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Maria  Louisa  went  to  meet  her  father  at  Ram- 
bouillet,  who  would  not  allow  her  to  follow  her 
husband,  but  sent  her,  with  her  son,  to  Schon- 
brunn.  When  Napoleon  returned  from  Elba,  he 
wrote  to  his  wife  to  join  him,  but  his  letters  re- 
mained unanswered.  In  1816  she  entered  upon 
the  administration  of  the  duchies  of  Parma,  Pia- 
cienza,  and  Guastalla,  secured  to  her  by  the  treaty 
of  Fontaiuebleau.  While  there  she  privately  mar- 
ried her  master  of  the  horse,  Colonel  Neipperg, 
by  whom  she  had  several  children.  She  was  ap- 
parently amiable,  but  weak,  self-indulgent,  and 
surrounded  by  artful  advisers,  who  kept  her  in 
the  thraldom  of  sensuous  pleasures  till  she  lost  the 
moral  dignity  of  woman.  What  signified  her  royal 
blood  and  high  station!  She  lived  unhonoured, 
and  died  unwept. 

MARINA,    DONA, 

Celebrated  for  her  faithfulness  to  the  Spa- 
niards, and  for  the  assistance  which  she  afforded 
them  in  the  conquest  of  Mexico,  was  born  at 
Painalla,  in  the  province  of  Coatzacualco,  on  the 
south-eastern  borders  of  the  Mexican  empire.  Her 
father,  a  rich  and  powerful  Cacique,  died  when 
she  was  very  young.  Her  mother  married  again  ; 
and,  wishing  to  give  her  daughter's  inheritance  to 
her  son  by  the  second  marriage,  she  cruelly  sold 
her  to  some  travelling  merchants,  and  announcing 
her  death,  performed  a  mock-funeral  to  deceive 
those  around  her.  These  merchants  sold  the  In- 
dian maiden  to  the  Cacique  of  Tabasco  ;  and  when 
the  Tabascans  surrendered  to  Cortes,  she  was  one 
of  twenty  female  slaves  who  were  sent  to  him  as 
propitiatory  offerings.  Speaking  two  of  the  Mexi- 
can dialects,  Marina  was  a  valuable  acquisition  to 
Cort6s  as  interpreter,  which  value  increased  ten- 
fold, when  with  remarkable  rapidity  she  acquired 
the  Spanish  language.  Cortes  knew  how  to  value 
her  services ;  he  made  her  his  secretary,  and, 
finally  won  by  her  charms,  his  mistress.  She  had 
a  son  by  him,  Don  Martin  Cortes,  commendador 
of  the  military  order  of  St.  James,  who  after- 
wards rose  to  high  consideration ;  but  finally 
falling  under  suspicion  of  treasonable  practices 
against  the  government,  was,  in  1568,  shamefully 
subjected  to  the  torture  in  the  very  capital  which 
his  father  had  acquired  for  the  Castilian  crown ! 

Prescott,  to  whose  admirable  work,  "  The  Con- 
quest of  Mexico,"  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  this 
memoir,  describes  jMarina  as  follows:  —  "  She  is 
said  to  have  possessed  uncommon  personal  attrac- 
tions ;  and  her  open,  expressive  features,  indi- 
cated her  generous  temper.  She  always  remained 
faithful  to  the  countrymen  of  her  adoption ;  and 
her  knowledge  of  the  language  and  customs  of  the 
Mexicans,  and  often  of  their  designs,  enabled  her 
to  extricate  the  Spaniards,  more  than  once,  from 
the  most  embarrassing  and  perilous  situations. 
She  had  her  errors,  as  we  have  seen ;  but  they 
should  be  rather  charged  to  the  defects  of  her 
early  education,  and  to  the  evil  influence  of  him 
to  whom,  in  the  darkness  of  her  spirit,  she  looked 
with  simple  confidence  for  the  light  to  guide  her. 
All  agree  that  she  was  full  of  excellent  qualities ; 
and  the  important  services  which  she  rendei-ed 


the  Spaniards  have  made  her  memory  deservedly 
dear  to  them ;  while  the  name  of  Malinche  —  the 
name  by  which  she  is  still  known  in  Mexico — was 
pronounced  with  kindness  by  the  conquered  races, 
with  whose  misfortunes  she  showed  an  invariable 
sympathy." 

Cortes  finally  gave  Marina  away  in  marriage  to 
a  Spanish  knight,  Don  Juan  Xamarillo.  She  had 
estates  assigned  her,  where  she  probably  passed 
the  remainder  of  her  life.  Marina  is  represented 
as  having  met  and  recognised  her  mother  after  a 
long  lapse  of  time,  when  passing  through  her  na- 
tive province.  Her  mother  was  greatly  terrified, 
fearing  that  Cortes  would  severely  punish  her; 
but  Marina  embraced  her,  and  allayed  her  fears, 
saying,  "  that  she  was  sure  she  knew  not  what  she 
did  when  she  sold  her  to  the  traders,  and  that  she 
forgave  her."  She  gave  her  mother  all  the  jewels 
and  ornaments  about  her  person,  and  assured  her 
of  her  happiness  since  she  had  adopted  the  Chris- 
tian faith. 

MARINELLI,    LUCREZIA, 

Of  Venice,  was  bom  in  1571.  Her  talents  were 
surprisingly  versatile.  She  was  learned  in  church 
history,  understood  and  practised  the  art  of  sculp- 
ture, was  skilled  in  music,  and  besides  left  many 
literary  productions,  lives  of  several  saints,  a 
treatise  entitled  "  The  Excellence  of  Women  and 
the  Defects  of  Men  ;"  an  epic  poem  ;  several  epis- 
tles to  the  duchess  d'Este  ;  and  many  other  pieces 
of  poetry,  both  sacred  and  profane.  She  died  in 
1653. 

MARINELLA,    LUCRETIA, 

A  Venetian  lady,  who  lived  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  in  1601,  published  a  book  at  Venice  with 
this  title — "  La  nobilita  6  la  eccellenza  della  donne. 
con  difetti  €  marcamenti  degli  uomini;"  in  which 
she  attempted  to  prove  the  superiority  of  women 
to  men.  ]Marinella  published  some  other  works : 
among  these,  one  called  "La  Colomba  Sacra;" 
and  "  The  Life  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and  that  of  St. 
Francis." 

MARLBOROUGH,  SARAH,  DUCHESS  OF, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Jennings,  a  country 
gentleman  of  respectable  lineage  and  good  estate. 
She  was  born  on  the  26th  of  May,  1660,  at  Holy- 
well, a  suburb  of  St.  Albans.  Her  elder  sister, 
Frances,  afterwards  duchess  of  Tyrconnel,  was 
maid  of  honour  to  the  duchess  of  York ;  and 
Sarah,  when  quite  a  child,  was  introduced  at 
court,  and  became  the  playfellow  of  the  princess 
Anne,  who  was  several  years  younger  than  her- 
self. Sarah  succeeded  her  sister  as  maid  of  ho- 
nour to  the  duchess  of  Tork  ;  which,  however,  did 
not  prevent  her  having  constant  intercourse  with 
the  princess,  who  lived  under  the  same  roof  with 
her  father,  and  who  at  that  early  age  showed  the 
greatest  preference  for  her. 

In  1677,  Sarah  Jennings  married,  clandestinely, 
the  handsome  colonel  Churchill,  favourite  gentle- 
man of  the  dnke  of  Tork.  Both  parties  being 
poor,  it  was  an  imprudent  match ;  but  the  duchess 
of  York,  whom  they  made  the  confidant  of  their 

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attachment,  stood  their  friend,  and  offered  her 
powerful  assistance.  She  gave  her  attendant  a 
Jiandsome  donation,  and  appointed  her  to  a  phxce 
of  trust  about  her  person.  The  young  couple 
followed  the  fortunes  of  the  duke  of  York  for 
some  years,  while  he  was  a  sort  of  honourable 
exile  from  the  court ;  but  when  the  establishment 
of  the  princess  Anne  was  formed,  she  being  now 


married,  Mrs.  Churchill,  secretly  mistrusting  the 
durability  of  the  fortunes  of  her  early  benefactress, 
expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  become  one  of  the 
ladies  of  the  princess  Anne,  who  requested  her 
father's  permission  to  that  effect,  and  received  his 
consent.  The  early  regard  evinced  by  the  princess 
Anne  for  Mrs.  Churchill,  soon  ripened  into  a 
romantic  attachment ;  she  lost  sight  of  the  diflFer- 
ence  in  their  rank,  and  treated  her  as  an  equal, 
desiring  a  like  return.  When  apart,  they  corre- 
sponded constantly  under  the  names,  chosen  by 
the  princess,  of  Mrs.  Morley  and  Mrs.  Freeman. 

No  two  persons  could  be  less  alike  than  the 
princess  and  Sarah  Churchill ;  the  former  was 
quiet,  somewhat  phlegmatic,  easy  and  gentle,  ex- 
tremely well  bred,  fond  of  ceremony,  and  averse 
to  mental  exertion ;  the  latter,  resolute,  bold,  in- 
clined to  violence,  prompt,  unwearied  and  haughty. 
Swift,  who  was,  however,  her  bitter  enemy,  de- 
scribes her  as  the  victim  of  "three  furies  which 
reigned  in  her  breast,  sordid  avarice,  disdainful 
pride,  and  ungovernable  rage."  The  duchess  of 
Marlborough's  strongest  characteristic  appears  to 
have  been  a  most  powerful  will.  Much  is  said  of 
the  ascendancy  which  a  strong  mind  acquires  over 
a  weak  one ;  but  in  many  instances  where  this  is 
thought  to  be  the  case,  the  influence  arises  from 
strength  of  will,  and  not  from  mental  superiority. 
In  the  present  instance,  this  was  not  altogether 
so  ;  for  the  duchess  of  Marlborough  was  undoubt- 
edly greatly  superior  to  queen  Anne  in  mind,  but 
if  her  sense  and  discretion  had  been  properly 
exercised,  in  controlling  that  indomitable  will, 
which  foamed  and  raged  at  everything  which  ob- 
structed her  path  or  interfered  with  her  opinions, 
her  influence  might  have  been  as  lasting  as  it  was 
once  powerful. 


On  the  accession  of  James  II.,  Churchill  was 
created  a  baron;  but,  attaching  himself  to  the 
Protestant  cause,  when  the  prince  of  Orange 
landed,  he  deserted  his  old  master  and  joined  the 
prince ;  lady  Churchill,  meanwhile,  aiding  the 
princess  Anne  in  her  flight  and  abandonment  of 
the  king  her  father.  On  the  accession  of  William 
and  Mary,  in  1692,  to  the  English  throne,  Churchill 
was  rewarded  for  his  zeal  by  the  earldom  of  Marl- 
borough, and  the  appointment  of  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  English  army  in  the  Low  Country. 
Afterwards,  falling  into  disgrace  with  the  king 
and  queen,  lord  and  lady  Marlborough  were  dis- 
missed the  court.  Princess  Anne  espoused  the 
cause  of  her  favourite,  and  retired  also  ;  but,  upon 
the  death  of  queen  Mary,  they  were  restored  to 
favour.  The  accession  of  Anne  to  the  throne  on 
the  death  of  William,  placed  lady  Marlborough  in 
the  position  which  her  ambitious  spirit  coveted  ; 
she  knew  her  own  value  and  that  of  her  gallant 
husband.  She  knew  that  Anne  not  only  loved  but 
feared  her ;  that  she  would  require  her  aid,  and 
have  recourse  to  her  on  all  occasions  of  difiiculty ; 
and  she  felt  equal  to  every  emergency.  A  perusal 
of  the  letters  of  the  queen  to  lady  Marlborough 
at  this  period,  is  sufficient  evidence  of  the  sub- 
jection in  which  she  (the  queen)  was  held  by  her 
imperious  favourite  ;  the  humility  which  they  ex- 
press are  unworthy  of  her  as  a  sovereign  and  as  a 
woman.  That  Anne  was  already  beginning  to 
writhe  under  this  intolerable  yoke,  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  From  the  commencement  of  her  reign, 
a  diff"erence  in  politics  between  herself  and  her 
favourite  was  manifested.  Lady  Marlborough  had 
a  strong  leaning  to  the  whig  side,  while  the  queen 
was  always  attached  to  the  tory  party :  and  dis- 
sensions soon  arose  as  to  the  ministers  who  were 
to  surround  the  throne.  Since  the  advancement 
of  lord  Marlborough,  his  lady  had  lost  much  of 
the  caressing  devotion  which  she  had  hitherto 
manifested  for  the  queen ;  and  exhibited  to  her 
some  of  that  overbearing  arrogance  with  which 
she  treated  the  rest  of  her  contemporaries.  It  is 
not  astonishing  that  the  queen,  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, should  have  sought  for  sympathy  in 
one  near  her  person  who  had  sufi"ered  from  the 
same  overbearing  temper.  Abigail  Hill,  a  poor 
relation  of  lady  Marlborough's,  whom  she  had 
placed  about  the  queen  as  bed-chamber  woman, 
was  the  prudent  and  careful  recipient  of  her  mis- 
tress's vexations,  and  gradually  acquired  such 
influence  with  her  as  eventually  to  supersede  her 
powerful  relative  as  favourite.  Much  has  been 
said  of  the  ingratitude  of  Mrs.  Masham  to  her 
early  benefactress.  As  there  is  no  evidence  that 
she  had  recourse  to  improper  or  dishonourable 
means  to  ingratiate  herself  with  the  queen,  this 
charge  cannot  be  substantiated.  The  queen's  fa- 
vour was  a  voluntary  gift.  Lady  Mai-lborough 
alienated  her  mistress  by  her  own  arbitrary  tem- 
per ;  and  the  queen  only  exercised  the  privilege 
which  every  gentlewoman  should  possess,  of  se- 
lecting her  own  friends  and  servants.  Meanwhile, 
the  brilliant  successes  of  lord  Marlborough  obliged 
the  queen  to  suppress  her  estranged  feelings  to- 
wards his  wife,  and  bound  her  more  closely  to  the 

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interests  of  his  family.  In  1702,  lord  Marlborough 
was  created  a  duke ;  and  in  1705,  after  the  battle 
of  Blenheim,  the  royal  manors  of  Woodstock  and 
Wootton  were  bestowed  upon  him,  and  the  palace 
of  Blenheim  was  erected  by  the  nation  at  an  enor- 
mous cost. 

The  duchess  of  Marlborough's  favour  waned 
rapidly.  She  began  to  suspect  Mrs.  Hill,  and  re- 
monstrated angrily  with  the  queen  on  the  subject, 
as  if  regard  and  aifection  were  ever  won  back  by 
reproaches !  The  secret  marriage  of  Abigail  Hill 
to  Mr.  Masham,  a  page  of  the  court,  which  the 
queen  attended  privately,  finally  produced  an  open 
rupture.  After  a  protracted  attempt  to  regain  her 
influence,  during  which  period  the  queen  had  to 
listen  to  much  "plain  speaking"  from  the  angry 
duchess,  she  was  forced  to  resign  her  posts  at 
court,  and  with  her,  the  different  members  of  her 
family,  who  filled  neai-ly  all  the  situations  of 
dignity  and  emolument  about  the  queen. 

The  duchess  followed  her  husband  abroad  soon 
after  her  dismissal,  where  they  remained  till  the 
death  of  queen  Anne.  George  I.  restored  the  duke 
of  Marlborough  at  once  to  his  station  of  captain- 
general  of  the  land  forces,  and  gave  him  other 
appointments ;  but  he  never  regained  his  former 
political  importance.  The  duchess  of  Marlborough 
was  the  mother  of  five  children  ;  her  only  son  died 
at  the  age  of  seventeen,  of  that  then  fatal  disease, 
the  small-pox.  Her  four  daughters,  who  inherited 
their  mother's  beauty,  married  men  of  distinction, 
two  of  whom  only  survived  her.  Lady  Godolphin, 
the  oldest,  succeeded  to  the  title  of  the  duchess 
of  Marlborough. 

The  duchess  survived  her  hxisband  twenty-three 
years.  Her  great  wealth  brought  her  many  suitors, 
to  one  of  whom,  the  duke  of  Somerset,  she  made 
the  celebrated  reply,  "that  she  could  not  permit 
an  emperor  to  succeed  in  that  heart  which  had 
been  devoted  to  John  duke  of  Marlborough." 

In  her  eighty-second  year  she  published  her 
vindication  against  all  the  attacks  that  in  the 
course  of  her  long  life  had  been  made  against  her. 
She  also  left  voluminous  papers  to  serve  for  the 
memoirs  of  her  husband,  as  well  as  many  docu- 
ments since  used  in  compiling  her  own  life.  Much 
of  her  latter  life  was  spent  in  wrangling  and  quar- 
relling with  her  descendants  ;  with  some  of  whom 
she  was  at  open  war.  She  is  said  to  have  re- 
venged herself  upon  her  grand-daughter,  lady 
Anne  Egerton,  by  painting  the  face  of  her  portrait 
black,  and  inscribing  beneath  it,  "  She  is  blacker 
within." 

The  duchess  of  Marlborough,  in  a  corrupt  age, 
and  possessed  of  singular  beauty,  was  of  unble- 
mished reputation.  She  had  many  high  and  noble 
qualities.  She  was  truthful  and  honourable,  and 
esteemed  those  qualities  in  others.  Her  attach- 
ment to  her  husband  was  worthy  of  its  object, 
and  of  the  love  he  bore  her.  A  touching  anecdote 
of  the  duke's  unfading  love  for  her  is  upon  record, 
as  related  by  herself.  "  She  had  very  beautiful 
hair,  and  none  of  her  charms  were  so  highly  prized 
by  the  duke  as  these  tresses.  One  day,  upon  his 
offending  her,  she  cropped  them  short,  and  laid 
them  in  an  ante-chamber  through  which  he  must 


pass  to  her  room.  To  her  great  disappointment, 
he  passed,  and  repassed,  calmly  enough  to  pro- 
voke a  saint,  without  appearing  conscious  of  the 
deed.  When  she  sought  her  hair,  however,  where 
she  had  laid  it,  it  had  vanished.  Nothing  more 
ever  transpired  upon  the  subject  till  the  duke's 
death,  when  she  found  her  beautiful  ringlets  care- 
fully laid  by  in  a  cabinet  where  he  kept  whatever 
he  held  most  precious.  At  this  part  of  the  story 
the  duchess  always  fell  a  crying."  The  duchess 
of  Marlborough  died  in  October,  1774,  at  the  age 
of  eighty-four,  leaving  an  enormous  fortune. 

MARLEY,    LOUISE   FRANgOISE   DE, 
MARCHIONESS   DE   VIELBOURG, 
Was  a  French  lady  of  eminence  for  her  exten- 
sive learning  and  great  virtues.     She  lived  about 
1615. 

MARON,  THERESA  DE, 
A  SISTER  of  the  celebrated  Raphael  Mengs,  was 
born  at  Auszig,  in  Bohemia.  From  her  earliest 
youth  she  excelled  in  enamel,  miniature,  and 
crayon  paintings ;  and  she  retained  her  talents  in 
full  vigour  till  her  death,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  in 
1806.  She  married  the  Cavalier  Maron,  an  Italian 
artist  of  merit. 


MARS,    MADEMOISELLE    HYPPO- 
LITE   BOUTET, 

An  eminent  French  actress,  daughter  of  Mon- 
vel,  a  celebrated  French  actor,  was  born  in  1778. 
She  appeared  in  public  in  1793,  and  was  soon  en- 
gaged at  the  Theatre  Franyais. 

Her  father,  Monvel,  w;ho  was  an  actor  of  great 
celebrity,  in  giving  her  instructions  had  the  good 
taste  and  judgment  not  to  make  her  a  mere  crea- 
ture of  art.  On  the  contrary,  he  taught  her  that 
much  ought  to  be  left  to  the  inspiration  of  natural 
feelings,  and  that  art  ought  only  to  second,  not  to 
supersede  nature.  Her  original  cast  of  parts  con- 
sisted of  those  which  the  French  term  ingenues  — 
parts  in  which  youthful  innocence  and  simplicity 
are  represented.  These  she  performed  for  many 
years  with  extraordinary  applause.  At  length 
she  resolved  to  shine  in  a  diametrically  opposite 

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kind  of  acting  —  that  of  tlie  higher  class  of  co- 
quettes. In  accomplishing  this,  she  had  to  en- 
counter a  violent  opisosition  from  Mademoiselle 
Leverd,  who  was  already  in  possession  of  this  de- 
partment ;  for,  in  France,  each  actor  has  exclusive 
right  to  a  certain  species  of  character.  Made- 
moiselle Mars  succeeded,  however,  in  breaking 
through  this  rule,  a  great  triumph  for  her ;  and 
in  the  coquette  she  was  fully  as  charming  and 
successful  as  in  personating  the  child  of  nature. 
She  pleased  foreigners  as  well  as  her  own  coun- 
trymen. Mr.  Alison,  the  son  of  the  historian, 
spoke  of  her  as  being  "probably  as  perfect  an 
actress  in  comedy  as  ever  appeared  on  any  stage. 
She  has  (he  continues)  united  every  advantage  of 
countenance,  and  voice,  and  figure,  which  it  is 
possible  to  conceive."  Mademoiselle  Mars  was 
very  beautiful,  and  retained  her  charms  till  a  late 
period  in  life.  This  beauty  gave,  no  doubt,  addi- 
tional power  to  her  genius,  and  assisted  her  in 
establishing  her  sway  over  the  theatrical  world. 
At  Lyons  she  was  crowned  publicly  in  the  theatre 
with  a  garland  of  flowers,  and  a  fete  was  celebrated 
in  honour  of  her  by  the  public  bodies  and  autho- 
rities of  the  city.  Her  last  performance  at  the 
theatre  was  at  Paris,  in  April,  1841 ;  and  she  died 
in  that  city  in  1848,  aged  seventy  years. 

MARTHA,  SISTER,  (ANNA  BIGET,) 
Was  born  on  the  26th  of  October,  1748,  at  Tho- 
raise,  a  pleasant  village  situated  on  the  Doub, 
near  Besan9on.  Her  parents  were  poor,  hard- 
working country  folks.  From  infancy  she  showed 
an  uncommonly  tender  and  kind  disposition ;  al- 
%7ays  wishing  to  aid  those  who  were  in  any  dis- 
tress ;  ever  willing  to  share  her  dinner  with  the 
beggar  or  the  wayfarer.  At  the  age  to  be  placed 
in  some  service,  she  petitioned,  and  obtained  the 
situation  of  toiiriire  sister  in  the  convent  of  the 
Visitation.  This  monastic  establishment  had  been 
founded  by  the  baroness  of  Chartal ;  it  was  chiefly 
intended  as  an  asylum  for  young  ladies  of  high 
birth,  who  needed  a  protecting  refuge,  or  whose 
piety  urged  them  to  withdraw  from  the  world ; 
but  as  the  delicate  education  and  habits  of  such 
ladies  would  render  them  inadequate  to  many 
rough  duties  essential  to  every  household,  the 
convent  received  poor  girls  from  the  families  of 
peasants  and  petty  artizans,  who  had  been  used 
from  childhood  to  labour  and  fatigue.  In  this 
capacity  Anne  Biget  was  received.  Upon  pro- 
nouncing her  vows,  she  took  the  name  of  Sister 
Martha,  a  name  ever  to  be  remembered  among 
the  benefactors  of  misery.  The  archbishop  of 
Besan9on  gave  her  permission  to  visit  the  prisons, 
and  she  devoted  herself  to  the  wretched  tenants 
with  enthusiasm,  when  the  breaking  out  of  the 
revolution  filled  them  with  a  diff'erent  and  still 
more  miserable  order  of  inhabitants.  During  the 
reign  of  terror,  Sister  Martha,  her  convent  de- 
stroyed, her  companions  dispersed,  remained  faith- 
ful to  her  vocation.  She  still  comforted  the  pri- 
soners, now  prisoners  of  war;  she  dressed  their 
wounds,  applied  to  the  charitable  throughout  the 
town,  for  the  means  of  aff"ording  them  necessary 
comforts ;  they  were  as  her  children,  so  active,  so 


devoted  was  her  zeal  in  their  behalf  during  a  se- 
ries of  years.  Spaniards,  Englishmen,  Italians, 
all  in  turn  experienced  her  tender  cares.  When 
the  French  soldiers  who  were  accustomed  to  her 
care  were  wounded,  and  away  from  home,  they 
would  exclaim,  "Oh,  where  is  Sister  Martha?  If 
she  were  here,  we  shovild  suS'er  less."  When  the 
allied  sovereigns  were  in  Paris,  they  sent  for  Sister 
Martha,  and  bestowed  valuable  gifts  upon  her. 
Medals  were  sent  her,  at  diiferent  times,  from  the 
emperor  of  Russia  and  from  the  emperor  of  Aus- 
tria. Nor  was  her  benevolence  confined  to  the 
soldiers  alone ;  the  poor,  the  suffering  of  every 
description,  resorted  to  Sister  Martha,  and  never 
in  vain.  In  1816  she  visited  Paris,  to  obtain  suc- 
cours for  her  poor  countrymen  suffei'ing  from  a 
scanty  harvest,  and  consequent  scarcity  of  food. 
She  was  very  graciously  received  by  Louis  XVIII., 
and  the  giddy  butterflies  of  the  court  vied  with 
each  other  in  attentions  and  caresses  to  the  poor 
nun.  Sister  Martha  finished  a  life  employed  in 
good  works  in  1824,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six. 

MARTIN,  ELIZABETH  AND  GRACE, 

The  wives  of  the  two  eldest  sons  of  Abram 
Martin,  of  South  Carolina,  who  were  engaged  in 
active  service  in  their  country's  cause  during  the 
war  of  the  revolution,  distinguished  themselves 
by  a  daring  exploit.  Being  left  at  home  alone 
with  their  mother-in-law,  Elizabeth  Martin,  dur- 
ing their  husbands'  absence,  and  hearing  that  two 
British  officers,  with  important  despatches,  were  to 
pass  that  night  along  the  road  near  their  dwelling, 
the  two  young  women  disguised  themselves  in  their 
husbands'  apparel,  and  taking  fire-arms,  concealed 
themselves  by  the  road,  till  the  courier  appeared 
with  his  attendant  guards,  when  springing  from 
the  bushes,  they  demanded  the  despatches.  Taken 
by  surprise,  the  men  yielded,  gave  up  the  papers, 
and  were  put  on  their  parole.  The  despatches 
were  immediately  sent  to  General  Greene. 

MARTIN,   SARAH, 

Who  has  won  for  herself  the  fame  most  desira- 
ble for  a  woman,  that  of  Christian  benevolence, 
unsurpassed  in  the  annals  of  her  sex,  was  born  in 
1791.  Her  father  was  a  poor  mechanic  in  Caister, 
a  village  three  miles  from  Yarmouth,  England. 
Sarah  was  the  only  child  of  her  parents,  who  both 
died  when  she  was  very  young ;  she  had  then  to 
depend  on  her  grandmother,  a  poor  old  widow, 
whose  name  was  Bonnett,  and  who  deserves  to 
have  it  recorded  for  the  kind  care  she  took  of  her 
granddaughter. 

Sarah  Martin's  education  was  merely  such  as 
the  village  school  afforded.  At  the  age  of  four- 
teen, she  passed  a  year  in  learning  the  business 
of  dress-making ;  and  then  gained  her  livelihood 
by  going  out  and  working  at  her  trade  by  the  day, 
among  the  families  of  the  village.  In  the  town 
of  Yai-mouth  was  the  county  prison,  where  crimi- 
nals were  confined ;  their  condition  is  thus  set 
forth  in  the  work*  from  which  we  gather  our 
sketch : 


*  Edinburg  Review,  1847 


410 


MA 


MA 


"  Their  time  was  given  to  gaming,  swearing, 
playing,  fighting,  and  had  language ;  and  their 
visitors  were  admitted  from  without  with  little 
restrictions.  There  was  no  divine  worship  in  the 
jail  on  Sundays,  nor  any  respect  paid  to  that  holy 
day.  There  were  underground  cells,  (these  con- 
tinued even  down  to  1836,)  quite  dark,  and  defi- 
cient in  proper  ventilation.  The  prisoners  de- 
scribe their  heat  in  summer  as  almost  suffocating, 
but  they  prefer  them  for  their  warmth  in  winter ; 
their  situation  is  such  as  to  defy  inspection,  and 
they  are  altogether  unfit  for  the  confinement  of 
any  human  being." 

No  person  in  Yarmouth  took  thought  for  these 
poor,  miserable  prisoners ;  no  human  eye  looked 
with  pity  on  their  dreadful  condition ;  and  had 
their  reformation  been  proposed,  it  would,  no 
doubt,  have  been  scouted  as  an  impossibility. 

In  August,  1819,  a  woman  was  committed  to 
the  jail  for  a  most  unnatural  crime.  She  was  a 
mother  who  had  "forgotten  her  sucking  child." 
She  had  not  "  had  compassion  upon  the  son  of  her 
womb,"  but  had  cruelly  beaten  and  ill-used  it. 
The  consideration  of  her  offence  was  calculated 
to  produce  a  great  effect  upon  a  female  mind  ;  and 
there  was  one  person  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Yar- 
mouth who  was  deeply  moved  by  it.  Sarah  Mar- 
tin was  a  little  woman  of  gentle,  quiet  manners, 
possessing  no  beauty  of  person,  nor,  as  it  seemed, 
any  peculiar  endowment  of  mind.  She  was  then 
just  eight-and-twenty  years  of  age,  and  had,  for 
thirteen  years  past,  earned  her  livelihood  by  going 
out  to  the  houses  of  various  families  in  the  town 
as  a  day-labourer  in  her  business  of  dress-making. 
Her  residence  was  at  Caister,  a  village  three  miles 
from  Yarmouth,  where  she  lived  with  an  aged 
grandmother,  and  whence  she  walked  to  Yarmoutli 
and  back  again  in  the  prosecution  of  her  daily  toil. 
This  poor  girl  had  long  mourned  over  the  condi- 
tion of  the  inmates  of  the  jail.  Even  as  long  back 
as  in  1810,  "whilst  frequently  passing  the  jail," 
she  says,  "  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  obtain  admis- 
sion to  the  prisoners  to  read  the  Scriptures  to 
them  ;  for  I  thought  much  of  their  condition,  and 
of  their  sin  before  God ;  how  they  were  shut  out 
from  society,  whose  rights  they  had  violated,  and 
how  destitute  they  were  of  the  scriptural  instruc- 
tion which  alone  could  meet  their  unhappy  cir- 
cumstances." The  case  of  the  unnatural  mother 
stimulated  her  to  make  the  attempt,  but  "I  did 
not,"  she  says,  "  make  known  my  purpose  of  seek- 
ing admission  to  the  jail  until  the  object  was  at- 
tained, even  to  my  beloved  grandmother ;  so  sen- 
sitive was  mj'  fear  lest  any  obstacle  should  thereby 
arise  in  my  way,  and  the  project  seem  a  visionary 
one.  God  led  me,  and  I  consulted  none  but  Him." 
She  ascertained  the  culprit's  name,  and  went  to 
the  jail.  She  passed  into  the  dai-k  porch  which 
overhung  the  entrance,  fit  emblem  of  the  state  of 
things  within ;  and  no  doubt  with  bounding  heart, 
and  in  a  timid  modest  form  of  application,  uttered 
with  that  clear  and  gentle  voice,  the  sweet  tones 
of  which  are  yet  well  remembered,  solicited  per- 
mission to  see  the  cruel  parent.  There  was  some 
difficulty — there  is  always  "a  lion  in  the  way"  of 
doing  good — and  she  was  not  at  first  permitted  to 


enter.  To  a  wavering  mind,  such  a  check  would 
have  appeared  of  evil  omen;  but  Sarah  Martin 
was  too  well  assui-ed  of  her  own  purposes  and 
powers  to  hesitate.  Upon  a  second  application 
she  was  admitted. 

The  manner  of  her  reception  in  the  jail  is  told 
by  herself  with  admirable  simplicity.  The  unna- 
tural mother  stood  before  her.  She  "  was  sur- 
prised at  the  sight  of  a  stranger."  "  AVhen  I  told 
her,"  says  Sarah  Martin,  "  the  motive  of  my  visit, 
her  guilt,  her  need  of  God's  mercy,  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  thanked  me  !" 

Her  reception  at  once  proved  the  necessity  for 
such  a  missionary,  and  her  own  personal  fitness 
for  the  task ;  and  her  visit  was  repeated  again 
and  again,  during  such  short  intervals  of  leisure 
as  she  could  spare  from  her  daily  labours.  At 
first  she  contented  herself  with  merely  reading  to 
the  prisoners ;  but  familiarity  with  their  wants 
and  with  her  own  powers  soon  enlarged  the  sphere 
of  her  tuition,  and  she  began  to  instiiict  them  in 
reading  and  writing.  This  extension  of  her  labour 
interfered  with  her  ordinary  occupations.  It  be- 
came necessary  to  sacrifice  a  portion  of  her  time, 
and  consequently  of  her  means,  to  these  new  du- 
ties. She  did  not  hesitate.  "  I  thought  it  right," 
she  says,  "to  give  up  a  day  in  the  week  from 
dress-making,  to  serve  the  prisoners.  This  regu- 
larly given,  with  many  an  additional  one,  was  not 
felt  as  a  pecuniary  loss,  but  was  ever  followed 
with  abundant  satisfaction,  for  the  blessing  of  God 
was  upon  me." 

In  the  year  1826,  Sarah  Martin's  grandmother 
died,  and  she  came  into  possession  of  an  annual 
income  of  ten  or  twelve  pounds,  derived  from  the 
investment  of  "between  two  and  three  hundred 
pounds."  She  then  removed  from  Caister  to  Yar- 
mouth, where  she  occupied  two  rooms  in  a  house 
situated  in  a  row  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  town ; 
and,  from  that  time,  devoted  herself  with  in- 
creased energy  to  her  philanthropic  labours.  A 
benevolent  lady,  resident  in  Yarmouth,  had  for 
some  years,  with  a  view  to  securing  her  a  little 
rest  for  her  health's  sake,  given  her  one  day  in  a 
week,  by  compensating  her  for  that  day  in  the 
same  way  as  if  she  had  been  engaged  in  dress- 
making. AVith  that  assistance,  and  with  a  few 
quarterly  subscriptions,  "  chiefly  2s.  6d.  each,  for 
bibles,  testaments,  tracts,  and  other  books  for  dis- 
tribution," she  went  on  devoting  every  available 
moment  of  her  life  to  her  great  purpose.  But 
dressmaking,  like  other  professions,  is  a  jealous 
mistress ;  customers  fell  off,  and,  eventually,  al- 
most entirely  disappeared.  A  question  of  anxious 
moment  now  presented  itself,  the  determination 
of  which  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  and 
memorable  incidents  of  her  life.  Was  she  to  pur- 
sue her  benevolent  labours,  even  although  they 
led  to  utter  poverty  ?  Her  little  income  was  not 
more  than  enough  to  pay  her  lodging,  and  the  ex- 
penses consequent  upon  the  exercise  of  her  chari- 
table functions :  and  was  actual  destitution  of 
ordinary  necessaries  to  be  submitted  to  ?  She 
never  doubted ;  but  her  reasoning  upon  the  subject 
presents  so  clear  an  illustration  of  the  exalted 
character  of  her  thoughts  and  purposes,  and  ex- 

411 


MA 


MA 


liibits  so  eminent  an  example  of  Christian  devoted- 
ness  and  heroism,  that  it  would  be  an  injustice  to 
her  memory  not  to  quote  it  in  her  own  words :  — 
"  In  the  full  occupation  of  dressmaking,  I  had 
care  with  it,  and  anxiety  for  the  future ;  but  as 
that  disappeared,  care  fled  also.  God,  who  had 
called  me  into  the  vineyard,  had  said,  '  Whatsoever 
is  right  I  will  give  you.'  I  had  learned  from  the 
Scriptures  of  truth  that  I  should  be  supported ; 
God  was  my  master,  and  would  not  forsake  his 
servant ;  He  was  my  father,  and  could  not  forget 
his  child.  I  knew  also  that  it  sometimes  seemed 
good  in  his  sight  to  try  the  faith  and  patience  of 
his  servants,  by  bestowing  upon  them  very  limited 
means  of  support ;  as  in  the  case  of  Naomi  and 
Ruth ;  of  the  widow  of  Zarephath  and  Elijah ; 
and  my  mind,  in  the  contemplation  of  such  trials, 
seemed  exalted  by  more  than  human  energy ;  for 
I  had  counted  the  cost ;  and  my  mind  was  made 
up.  If,  whilst  imparting  truth  to  others,  I  became 
exposed  to  temporal  want,  the  privation  so  mo- 
mentai-y  to  an  individual,  would  not  admit  of  com- 
parison with  following  the  Lord,  in  thus  adminis- 
tering to  others." 

Her  next  object  was  to  secure  the  observance 
of  Sunday ;  and,  after  long  urging^  and  recom- 
mendation, she  prevailed  upon  the  prisoners  "to 
form  a  Sunday  service,  by  one  reading  to  the 
rest;  ....  but  aware,"  she  continues,  "of  the 
instability  of  a  practice  in  itself  good,  without  any 
corresponding  principle  of  preservation,  and  think- 
ing that  my  presence  might  exert  a  beneficial  ten- 
dency, I  joined  their  Sunday  moi'ning  worship  as 
a  regular  hearer." 

After  three  years'  perseverance  in  this  "happy 
and  quiet  course,"  she  made  her  next  advance, 
which  was  to  introduce  employment,  first  for  the 
women  prisoners,  and  afterwards  for  the  men.  In 
1823,  "one  gentleman,"  she  says,  "presented  me 
with  ten  shillings,  and  another,  in  the  same  week, 
with  a  pound,  for  prison  charity.  It  then  occurred 
to  me  that  it  would  be  well  to  expend  it  in  mate- 
rial for  baby-clothes ;  and  having  borrowed  pat- 
terns, cut  out  the  articles,  fixed  prices  of  payment 
for  making  them,  and  ascertained  the  cost  of  a 
set,  that  they  might  be  disposed  of  at  a  certain 
price,  the  plan  was  carried  into  effect.  The  pri- 
soners also  made  shirts,  coats,  &c.  *  *  *  By 
means  of  this  plan,  many  young  women  who  were 
not  able  to  sew,  learned  this  art,  and,  in  satisfac- 
tory instances,  had  a  little  money  to  take  at  the 

end    of    the    term   of  imprisonment The 

fund  of  £1  10s.  for  this  purpose,  as  a  foundation 
and  perpetual  stock,  (for  whilst  desiring  its  pre- 
servation, I  did  not  require  its  increase,)  soon  rose 
to  seven  guineas,  and  since  its  establishment,  above 
£408  worth  of  various  articles  have  been  sold  for 
charity." 

The  men  were  thus  emploj'ed : — 
"  They  made  straw  hats,  and,  at  a  later  period, 
bone  spoons  and  seals ;  others  made  mens'  and 
boys'  caps,  cut  in  eight  quarters  —  the  material, 
old  cloth  or  moreen,  or  whatever  my  friends  could 
find  up  to  give  me  for  them.  In  some  instances, 
young  men,  and  more  frequently  boys,  have  learn- 
ed to  sew  grey  cotton  shirts,  or  even  patch-work, 


with  a  view  of  shutting  out  idleness  and  making 
themselves  useful.  On  one  occasion  I  showed  to 
the  prisoners  an  etching  of  the  chess-player,  bj' 
Retzsch,  which  two  men,  one  a  shoemaker  and  the 
other  a  bricklayer,  desired  much  to  copy ;  they 
were  allowed  to  do  so,  and  being  furnished  with 
pencil,  pen,  paper,  &c.,  they  succeeded  remarkably 
well.  The  chess-player  presented  a  pointed  and 
striking  lesson,  which  could  well  be  applied  to  any 
kind  of  gaming,  and  was,  on  this  account,  suitable 
to  my  pupils,  who  had  generally  descended  from 
the  love  of  marbles  and  pitch-halfpenny  in  chil- 
dren, to  cards,  dice,  &c.,  in  men.  The  business 
of  copying  it  had  the  advantage  of  requiring  all 
thought  and  attention  at  the  time.  The  attention 
of  other  prisoners  was  attracted  to  it,  and  for  a 
year  or  two  afterwards  many  continued  to  copy  it." 
After  another  interval  she  proceeded  to  the  for- 
mation of  a  fund  which  she  applied  to  the  furnish- 
ing of  work  for  prisoners  upon  their  discharge ; 
"affording  me,"  she  adds,  "the  advantage  of  ob- 
serving their  conduct  at  the  same  time." 

She  had  thus,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  — 
during  which  her  mind  had  gradually  expanded  to 
the  requirements  of  the  subject  before  her  —  pro- 
vided for  all  the  most  important  objects  of  prison 
discipline  ;  moral  and  intellectual  tuition,  occupa- 
tion during  imprisonment,  and  employment  after 
discharge.  Whilst  great  and  good  men,  unknown 
to  her,  were  inquiring  and  disputing  as  to  the  way 
and  the  order  in  which  these  very  results  were  to 
be  attained  —  inquiries  and  disputes  which  have 
not  yet  come  to  an  end  —  here  was  a  poor  woman 
who  was  actually  herself  personally  accomplishing 
them  all !  It  matters  not  whether  all  her  measures 
were  the  very  wisest  that  could  have  been  imagined. 
She  had  to  contend  with  many  difiiculties  that  are 
now  unknown ;  prison  discipline  was  then  in  its 
infancy ;  everything  she  did  was  conceived  in  the 
best  spirit ;  and,  considering  the  time,  and  the 
means  at  her  command,  could  scarcely  have  been 
improved. 

The  full  extent  to  which  she  was  personally  en- 
gaged in  carrying  out  these  objects,  has  yet  to  be 
explained.  The  Sunday  service  in  the  jail  was 
adopted,  as  we  have  seen,  upon  her  recommenda- 
tion, and  she  joined  the  prisoners,  as  a  fellow- 
worshipper,  on  Sunday  morning.  Their  evening 
service,  which  was  to  be  read  in  her  absence,  was 
soon  abandoned  ;  but,  finding  that  to  be  the  case, 
she  attended  on  that  part  of  the  day  also,  and  the 
service  was  then  resumed.  "  After  several  changes 
of  readers,  the  office,"  she  says,  "  devolved  on  me. 
That  happy  privilege  thus  graciously  opened  to 
me,  and  embraced  from  necessity,  and  in  much 
fear,  was  acceptable  to  the  prisoners,  for  God 
made  it  so ;  and  also  an  unspeakable  advantage 
and  comfort  to  myself."  These  modest  sentences 
convey  but  a  very  faint  notion  of  the  nature  of 
these  singular  services.  Fortunately,  in  a  report 
of  captain  Williams,  one  of  the  inspectors  of  pri- 
sons, we  have  a  far  more  adequate  account  of  the 
matter.     It  stands  thus : — 

"  Sunday,  November  29, 1835.— Attended  divine 
service  in  the  morning  at  the  prison.  The  male 
prisoners  only  were  assembled ;  a  female,  resident 

412 


MA 


MA 


In  the  toYm,  officiated ;  her  voice  was  exceedingly 
melodious,  her  delivery  emphatic,  and  her  enun- 
ciation extremely  distinct.  The  service  was  the 
liturgy  of  the  church  of  England ;  two  psalms  were 
sung  by  the  whole  of  the  prisoners,  and  extremely 
well  —  much  better  than  I  have  frequently  heard 
in  our  best-appointed  churches.  A  written  dis- 
course, of  her  own  composition,  was  read  by  her ; 
it  was  of  a  purely  moral  tendency,  involving  no 
doctrinal  points,  and  admirably  suited  to  the 
hearers.  During  the  performance  of  the  service, 
the  prisoners  paid  the  profoundest  attention,  and 
the  most  mai-ked  respect ;  and,  as  far  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  judge,  appeared  to  take  a  devout  interest. 
Evening  service  was  read  by  her  afterwards  to  the 
female  prisoners." 

We  believe  that  there  are  gentlemen  in  the 
world  who  stand  so  stiffly  upon  the  virtue  of  cer- 
tain forms  of  ministerial  ordination,  as  to  set  their 
faces  against  all  lay,  and  especially  against  all 
female,  religious  teaching.  AVe  will  not  dispute 
as  to  what  may,  or  may  not,  be  the  precise  value 
of  those  forms.  They  oiight  to  confer  powers  of 
inestimable  worth,  considering  how  stubbornly 
they  are  defended  —  and  perhaps  they  do  so  ;  but 
every  one  amongst  us  knows  and  feels  that  the 
power  of  writing  or  preaching  good  sermons  is  not 
amongst  the  number.  The  cold,  laboured  elo- 
quence which  boy -bachelors  are  authorized  by 
custom  and  constituted  authority  to  inflict  upon 
us  —  the  dry  husks  and  chips  of  divinity  which 
they  bring  forth  from  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
theology  (as  it  is  called)  of  the  fathers,  or  of  the 
middle  ages,  sink  into  utter  worthlessness  by  the 
side  of  the  jail  addresses  of  this  poor,  uneducated 
seamstress.  From  her  own  registers  of  the  pri- 
soners who  came  under  her  notice,  it  is  easy  to 
describe  the  ordinary  members  of  her  congrega- 
tion :  —  pert  London  pickpockets,  whom  a  cheap 
steamboat  brought  to  reap  a  harvest  at  some 
country  festival ;  boors,  whom  ignorance  and  dis- 
tress led  into  theft ;  depraved  boys,  who  picked 
up  a  precarious  livelihood  amongst  the  chances 
of  a  seaport  town ;  sailors,  who  had  committed 
assaults  in  the  boisterous  hilarity  consequent  upon 
a  discharge  with  a  paid-up  arrear  of  wages ;  ser- 
vants, of  both  sexes,  seduced  by  bad  company 
into  the  commission  of  crimes  against  their  mas- 
ters ;  profligate  women,  who  had  added  assault  or 
theft  to  the  ordinary  vices  of  a  licentious  life ; 
smugglers  ;  a  few  game-law  criminals  ;  and  pau- 
pers transferred  from  a  work-house,  where  they 
had  been  initiated  into  crime,  to  a  jail,  where  their 
knowledge  was  perfected.  Such  were  some  of  the 
usual  classes  of  persons  who  assembled  around 
this  singular  teacher  of  righteousness. 

Noble  woman !  A  faith  so  firm,  and  so  disinte- 
rested, might  have  removed  mountains ;  a  self- 
sacrifice  founded  upon  such  principles  is  amongst 
the  most  heroic  of  human  achievements. 

This  appears  to  have  been  the  busiest  period  of 
Sarah  Martin's  life.  Her  system,  if  we  may  so 
term  it,  of  superintendence  over  the  prisoners, 
was  now  complete.  For  six  or  seven  hours  daily 
she  took  her  station  amongst  them ;  converting 
that  which,  without  her,  would  liave  been,  at  best, 


a  scene  of  dissolute  idleness,  into  a  hive  of  indus- 
try and  order.  We  have  already  explained  the 
nature  of  the  employment  which  she  provided  for 
them  ;  the  manner  of  their  instruction  is  described 
as  follows:  "Any  one  who  could  not  read,  I  en- 
couraged to  learn,  whilst  others  in  my  absence 
assisted  them.  They  were  taught  to  write  also  ; 
whilst  such  as  could  write  already,  copied  extracts 
from  books  lent  to  them.  Prisoners,  who  were 
able  to  read,  committed  verses  from  the  Holy 
Scriptures  to  memory  every  day  according  to  their 
ability  or  inclination.  I,  as  an  example,  also 
committed  a  few  verses  to  memory  to  repeat  to 
them  every  day  ;  and  the  efi'ect  was  remarkable  ; 
always  silencing  excuse  when  the  pride  of  some 
prisoners  would  have  prevented  their  doing  it. 
Many  said  at  first,  '  It  would  be  of  no  use ;'  and 
my  reply  was,  '  It  is  of  use  to  me,  and  why 
should  it  not  be  so  to  you  ?  You  have  not  tried 
it,  but  I  have.'  Tracts  and  children's  books,  and 
large  books,  four  or  five  in  number,  of  which  they 
were  very  fond,  were  exchanged  in  every  room 
daily,  whilst  any  who  could  read  more  were  sup- 
plied with  larger  books." 

There  does  not  appear  to  have  been  any  instance 
of  a  prisoner  long  refusing  to  take  advantage  of 
this  mode  of  instruction.  Men  entered  the  prison 
saucy,  shallow,  self-conceited,  full  of  cavils  and 
objections,  which  Sarah  Martin  was  singularly 
clever  in  meeting ;  but  in  a  few  days  the  most 
stubborn,  and  those  who  had  refused  the  most 
peremptorily,  either  to  be  employed  or  to  be  in- 
structed, would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  take  their 
part  in  the  general  course.  Once  within  the  circle 
of  her  influence,  the  elFect  was  curious.  Men  old 
in  years,  as  well  as  in  crime,  might  be  seen  striv- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  to  hold  a  pen, 
or  bending  hoary  heads  over  primers  and  spelling- 
books,  or  studying  to  commit  to  memory  some 
precept  taken  from  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Young 
rascals,  as  impudent  as  they  were  ignorant,  be- 
ginning with  one  verse,  went  on  to  long  passages  ; 
and  even  the  dullest  were  enabled  by  perseverance 
to  furnish  their  minds  and  memories  with  "from 
two  to  five  verses  every  day."  All  these  opera- 
tions, it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  were  carried  on 
under  no  authority  save  what  was  derived  from 
the  teacher's  innate  force  of  character.  Aware 
of  that  circumstance,  and  that  any  rebellion  would 
be  fatal  to  her  usefulness,  she  so  contrived  every 
exercise  of  her  power  as  to  "  make  a  favour  of  it," 
knowing  well  that  "to  depart  from  this  course, 
would  only  be  followed  by  the  prisoners'  doing 
less,  and  not  doing  it  well."  The  ascendency  she 
thus  acquired  was  very  singular.  A  general  per- 
suasion of  the  sincerity  with  which  "  she  watched, 
and  wept,  and  prayed,  and  felt  for  all,"  rendered 
her  the  general  depository  of  the  little  confidences, 
the  tales  of  weakness,  treachery,  and  sorrow,  in 
the  midst  of  which  she  stood !  and  thus  she  was 
enabled  to  fan  the  rising  desire  for  emancipation, 
to  succour  the  tempted,  to  encourage  the  timid, 
and  put  the  erring  in  the  way. 

After  the  close  of  her  labours  at  the  jail,  she 
proceeded,  at  one  time  of  her  life,  to  a  large  school 
which  she  supei-intended  at  the  work-house ;  and 

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afterwards,  when  that  school  was  turned  over  to 
proper  teachers,  she  devoted  two  nights  in  the 
week  to  a  school  for  factory  girls,  which  was  held 
in  the  capacious  chancel  of  the  old  church  of  St. 
Nicholas.  There,  or  elsewhere,  she  was  every- 
thing. Other  teachers  would  send  their  classes 
to  stand  by  and  listen,  whilst  Sarah  Martin,  in 
her  striking  and  effective  way,  imparted  instruc- 
tion to  the  forty  or  fifty  young  women  who  were 
fortunate  enough  to  be  more  especially  her  pupils. 
Every  countenance  was  upon  her ;  and,  as  the 
questions  went  round,  she  would  explain  them  by 
a  piece  of  poetry,  or  an  anecdote,  which  she  had 
always  ready  at  command,  and,  more  especially, 
by  Scripture  illustration.  The  Bible  was,  indeed,* 
the  great  fountain  of  her  knowledge  and  her  power. 
For  many  j^ears  she  read  it  through  four  times 
every  year,  and  had  fonned  a  most  exact  reference 
book  to  its  contents.  Her  intimate  familiarity 
with  its  striking  imagery  and  lofty  diction,  im- 
pressed a  poetical  character  upon  her  own  style, 
and  filled  her  mind  with  exalted  thoughts.  After 
her  class  duties  were  over,  there  remained  to  be 
performed  many  offices  of  kindness,  which  with 
her  were  consequent  upon  the  relation  of  teacher 
and  pupil ;  there  was  personal  communication 
with  this  scholar  and  with  that ;  some  inquiry 
here,  some  tale  to  listen  to  there ;  for  she  was 
never  a  mere  schoolmistress,  but  always  the  friend 
and  counsellor,  as  well  as  the  instructor. 

The  evenings  on  which  there  was  no  tuition 
were  devoted  by  her  to  visiting  the  sick,  either  in 
the  work-house,  or  through  the  town  generally ; 
and  occasionally  an  evening  was  passed  with  some 
of  those  worthy  people  in  Yarmouth  by  whom  her 
labours  were  regarded  with  interest.  Her  ap- 
pearance in  any  of  their  houses  was  the  signal  for 
a  busy  evening.  Her  benevolent  smile,  and  quick, 
active  manner,  communicated  her  own  cheerful- 
ness and  energy  to  every  one  around  her.  She 
never  failed  to  bring  work  with  her,  and,  if  young 
people  were  present,  was  sure  to  employ  them  all. 
Something  was  to  be  made  ready  for  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  prisoners,  or  for  their  instruction ;  pat- 
terns or  copies  were  to  be  prepared,  or  old  mate- 
rials to  be  adjusted  to  some  new  use,  in  which 
last  employment  her  ingenuity  was  pre-eminent. 
Odd  pieces  of  woollen  or  cotton,  scraps  of  paper, 
mere  litters,  things  which  other  people  threw 
away,  it  mattered  not  what,  she  always  begged 
that  such  things  might  be  kept  for  her,  and  was 
sure  to  turn  them  to  some  account.  If,  on  such 
occasions,  whilst  everybody  else  was  occupied, 
some  one  would  read  aloud,  Sarah  IVIartin's  satis- 
faction was  complete ;  and  at  intervals,  if  there 
were  no  strangers  present,  or  if  such  communica- 
tion were  desired,  she  would  dilate  upon  the  sor- 
rows and  sufferings  of  her  guilty  flock,  and  her 
own  hopes  and  disappointments  in  connexion  with 
them,  in  the  language  of  simple,  animated  truth. 

Her  day  was  closed  by  no  "  return  to  a  cheerful 
fireside  prepared  by  the  cares  of  anothei-,"  but  to 
her  solitary  apartments,  which  she  had  left  locked 
up  during  her  absence,  and  where  "most  of  the 
domestic  offices  of  life  were  performed  by  her  own 
hands."     There  she  kept  a  copious  record  of  her 


proceedings  in  reference  to  the  prisoners ;  notes 
of  their  circumstances  and  conduet  duj-ing  such 
time  as  they  were  under  her  observation,  which 
generally  extended  long  beyond  the  period  of  their 
imprisonment;  with  most  exact  accounts  of  the 
expenditure  of  the  little  subscriptions  before  men- 
tioned, and  also  of  a  small  annual  payment  from 
the  British  Ladies'  Society,  established  by  Mrs. 
Fry,  and  of  all  other  money  committed  to  her  in 
aid  of  any  branch  of  her  charitable  labours.  These 
books  of  record  and  account  have  been  very  pro- 
perly preserved,  and  have  been  presented  to  a 
public  library  in  Yarmouth. 

In  scenes  like  these  Sarah  Martin  passed  her 
time,  never  appearing  to  think  of  herself;  indeed 
her  own  scanty  fare  was  hardly  better  than  that 
of  the  poorest  prisoner.  Yet  her  soul  was  tri- 
umphant, and  the  joy  of  her  heart  found  expres- 
sion in  sacred  songs.  Nothing  could  restrain  the 
energy  of  her  mind.  In  the  seclusion  of  a  lonely 
chamber,  "apart  from  all  that  could  disturb,  and 
in  a  universe  of  calm  repose,  and  peace,  and 
love;"  when  speaking  of  herself  and  her  condi- 
tion, she  remarked,  in  words  of  singular  beauty, 

"  I  seem  to  lie 

So  near  the  heavenly  portals  bright, 
I  catch  the  streaming  rays  that  fly 
From  eternity's  own  light." 

Thus  she  cheered  her  solitary  room  with  strains 
of  Christian  j^raise  and  gratitude,  and  entered  the 
dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  with  hymns  of 
victoi'y  and  triumph.  She  died  on  the  15th  of 
October,  1843,  aged  fifty-two  years. 

Sarah  Martin  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  Chris- 
tian heroines  the  nineteenth  century  has  produced. 
The  two  predominant  qualities  of  her  soul  were 
love,  or  "  the  charity  which  hopeth  all  things," 
and  moral  courage  ;  both  eminently  feminine  en- 
dowments. She  performed  her  wonderful  works 
with  true  womanly  discretion.  She  is,  therefore, 
an  example  of  excellence  of  whom  her  sex  should 
be — more  than  proud  —  they  should  be  thankful 
for  this  light  of  moral  loveliness  enshrined  in  a 
female  form.  "  Her  gentle  disijosition,"  says  one 
of  her  biographers,  "never  irritated  by  disap- 
pointment, nor  her  charity  straitened  by  ingrati- 
tude, present  a  combination  of  qualities  which 
imagination  sometimes  portrays  as  the  ideal  of 
what  is  pure  and  beautiful,  but  which  are  rarely 
found  embodied  with  humanity.  She  was  no 
titular  Sister  of  Charity,  but  was  silently  felt  and 
acknowledged  to  be  one,  by  the  many  outcast  and 
destitute  persons  who  received  encouragement 
from  her  lips,  and  relief  from  her  hands,  and  by 
the  few  who  were  witnesses  of  her  good  works. 

It  is  the  business  of  literature  to  make  such  a 
life  stand  out  from  the  masses  of  ordinary  exist- 
ences, with  something  of  the  distinctness  with 
Avhicli  a  lofty  building  uprears  itself  in  the  confu- 
sion of  a  distant  view.  It  should  be  made  to  at- 
tract all  eyes,  to  excite  the  hearts  of  all  persons 
who  think  the  welfare  of  their  fellow-mortals  an 
object  of  interest  or  duty ;  it  should  be  included 
in  collections  of  biography,  and  chronicled  in  the 
high  places  of  history ;  men  should  be  taught  to 
estimate  it  as  that  of  one  whose  philanthropy  has 

414 


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entitled  her  to  renown,  and  children  to  associate 
the  name  of  Sarah  Martin  with  those  of  Howard, 
Buxton,  Fry — the  most  benevolent  of  mankind." 

MARTINEZ,    MARIANNE, 

Was  the  daughter  of  a  gardener  of  Vienna. 
One  day  the  poet  Metastasio  met  her  in  the  sti'eet, 
when  she  was  a  very  little  child  ;  she  was  singing 
some  popular  air.  Her  voice,  and  her  vivacity 
pleased  the  poet,  and  he  oifered  her  parents  to 
educate  her.  They  accepted  his  proposals,  and 
he  kept  his  promises.  Nothing  was  neglected  to 
make  the  young  girl  an  artist.  She  had  the  good 
fortune  to  receive  lessons  in  music,  and  on  the 
harpsichord,  from  Haydn,  whose  genius  was  not 
yet  famous ;  and  Porpora  taught  her  the  art  of 
singing,  and  the  science  of  composition.  Her 
progress  was  rapid ;  she  played  with  neatness  and 
grace  ;  she  sang  beautifully,  and  her  compositions 
showed  a  vigour  of  conception  together  with  ex- 
tensive learning.  She  reunited  the  qualities  of 
many  distinguished  artists.  Dr.  Burney,  who 
knew  her  at  Venice,  in  1772,  speaks  of  her  with 
admiration.  Metastasio  bequeathed  to  her  all  his 
property.  In  1796  she  lived  at  Vienna,  in  afflu- 
ence, and  gave  weekly  concerts  at  her  house, 
where  she  received  all  the  musical  celebrities. 
Dr.  Burney  cites  with  high  eulogy  many  of  her 
sonatas,  and  her  cantatas  on  words  of  Metastasio. 
She  composed  a  miserere,  with  orchestral  accom- 
paniment. Gerbert  had  a  mass  and  an  oratorio 
written  by  her. 

MARTINOZZI,    LAURA. 

Francesco  I.,  duke  of  Modena,  became  pos- 
sessed of  the  sovereignty,  in  1629,  by  the  resigna- 
tion of  his  father,  Alphonso  III.,  who  entered  a 
convent  of  Capuchins,  and,  under  the  name  of 
brother  Oiambattesta,  renounced  all  worldly  pomps 
and  vanities.  Overtures  had  been  made  to  the 
young  prince,  by  cardinal  Mazarin,  for  an  alliance 
with  his  niece,  Laura  Martinozzi.  These  had  been 
rather  evaded ;  when  an  autograph  letter,  from 
Louis,  king  of  France,  urgently  pressing  the  mar- 
riage, determined  the  affair ;  and,  in  1655,  at- 
tended by  the  most  magnificent  pomp,  Laura  was 
received  at  Modena  as  tlie  wife  of  its  sovereign. 
At  the  end  of  six  years  of  conjugal  happiness,  Al- 
fonso died,  appointing  his  widow  regent,  and 
guardian  of  his  son  and  daughter.  The  duchess 
held  the  reins  of  empire,  for  thirteen  years,  with 
a  firm  hand,  and  appears  to  have  governed  with 
more  ability  than  her  predecessor  or  her  successor. 
In  1676  she  retired  to  Rome,  where  she  lived  in 
comparative  seclusion  till  1687,  when  she  died. 
Her  daughter,  Mary  Beatrice,  was  the  wife  of  the 
unfortunate  James  II.,  of  England,  whose  reverses 
and  exile  she  shared. 


MARY  THERESA  OF  AUSTRIA, 

Daughter  of  Philip  IV.  of  Spain,  manned,  in 
1660,  Louis  XIV.  of  France,  and  died  1683,  aged 
forty-five.  Her  life  was  embittered  by  his  infi- 
delities. 


MARY  OF  CLEVES 
Married  Henry  I.,  prince  of  Cond4.  She  was 
loved  so  ardently  by  the  duke  of  Anjou,  afterwards 
Henry  III.,  that  when  called  to  the  throne  of  Po- 
land, he  wrote  to  her,  signing  his  name  with  his 
blood.  AVhen  raised  to  the  French  throne,  he  de- 
termined to  annul  Mary's  marriage  ;  but  his  mo- 
ther, Catharine  de  Medicis,  opposed  it,  and  Mary 
died  suddenly,  in  1574,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  as 
was  supposed,  by  poison. 


MARY   I.,    QUEEN   OF   ENGLAND, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Henry  VIII.,  by  his  first 
wife,  Catharine  of  Spain,  was  boim  at  Greenwich, 
in  February,  1517.  Her  mother  was  very  careful 
of  her  education,  and  provided  her  with  proper 
tutors.  Her  first  preceptor  was  the  famous  Lin- 
acre;  and  after  his  death,  Lewis  Vires,  a  leaimed 
Spaniard,  became  her  tutor.  She  acquired,  under 
these  learned  men,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
Latin ;  so  that  Erasmus  commends  her  epistles  in 
that  language. 

Towards  the  end  of  her  father's  reign,  at  the 
earnest  request  of  queen  Catharine  Parr,  she  un- 
dertook to  translate  Erasmus'  Paraphrase  on  the 
Gospel  of  St.  John ;  but,  being  taken  ill  soon  after 
she  commenced  it,  she  left  it  to  be  finished  by  her 
chaplain.  It  was  published ;  but,  on  Mary's  ac- 
cession to  the  throne,  she  issued  a  proclamation 
suppressing  it ;  and  it  is  supposed  that  the  sick- 
ness that  seized  her  while  translating  this  work 
was  affected. 

Edwai'd  VI.,  her  brother,  dying  July  6th,  1553, 
she  was  proclaimed  queen  the  same  month,  and 
crowned  in  October.  Upon  her  accession,  she  de- 
clared in  her  speech  to  the  council  that  she  would 
not  persecute  her  Protestant  subjects ;  but,  in  the 
following  month,  she  prohibited  preaching  without 
a  special  license,  and  in  less  than  three  months 
the  Protestant  bishops  were  excluded  the  house 
of  Lords,  and  all  the  statutes  of  Edward  VI.  re- 
specting the  Protestant  religion  were  repealed. 

In  July,  1554,  she  was  maiTied  to  prince  Philip 
of  Spain,  who  was  eleven  years  younger  than  her- 
self, and  by  temper  little  disposed  to  act  the  lover. 

416 


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His  ruling  passion  was  ambition,  wliich  his  fond 
consort  was  resolved  to  gi'atify.  She  was,  how- 
ever, less  successful  in  this  point,  than  in  her 
favourite  wish  of  reconciling  the  kingdom  to  the 
pope,  which  was  effected  in  form,  by  the  legate, 
cardinal  Pole.  The  sanguinary  laws  against  he- 
retics were  renewed,  and  put  into  execution.  The 
shocking  scenes  which  followed  this  determination 
have  indelibly  fixed  upon  the  sovereign  the  epithet 
of  "bloody  queen  Mary."  A  disappointment  in  a 
supposed  pregnancy,  her  husband's  coldness  and 
unkindness,  and  the  discontent  of  her  subjects, 
aggravated  her  natural  fretfulness.  Although 
Pole  disapproved  of  the  severity  of  persecution, 
the  arguments  of  Gardiner  and  others  in  its  favour 
suited  the  queen's  disposition  so  well,  that  in  three 
or  four  years  two  hundred  and  seventy-seven  per- 
sons were  committed  to  the  flames,  including  pre- 
lates, gentlemen,  laymen,  women,  and  even  chil- 
dren. The  sincerity  of  Mary's  zeal  could  not  be 
doubted,  for  she  sacrificed  the  revenues  of  the 
crown  in  restitution  of  the  goods  of  the  church  ; 
and  to  remonstrances  on  this  head,  she  replied, 
"that  she  preferred  the  salvation  of  her  soul  to 
ten  such  kingdoms  as  England."  She  had,  indeed, 
no  scruple  in  indemnifying  herself  by  arbitrary 
exactions  on  the  property  of  her  subjects ;  and 
her  whole  reign  showed  a  marked  tendency  to 
despotism. 

Some  have  supposed  that  the  queen  was  com- 
passionate, and  that  most  of  these  barbarities  were 
committed  by  her  bishops  without  her  knowledge. 
But  among  numberless  proofs  of  the  falsity  of  this 
opinion,  we  need  only  mention  her  treatment  of 
the  archbishop  Cranmer,  who  had  saved  her  life, 
when  her  father,  Henry  VIII.,  irritated  by  her 
firm  adherence  to  her  mother,  and  her  obstinacy 
in  refusing  to  submit  to  him,  had  resolved  to  put 
her  openly  to  death.  Cranmer  alone  ventured  to 
urge  king  Henry  against  such  an  act ;  and,  by  his 
argument,  succeeded  in  saving  her.  In  return  for 
this,  he  was  condemned  and  burnt  by  Mary  for 
heresy.  She  died,  November  7th,  1558,  at  the  age 
of  forty-three,  of  an  epidemic  fever.  The  loss  of 
Calais,  just  before  her  death,  so  affected  her,  that 
she  remarked  to  her  attendants  that  they  would 
find  Calais  written  on  her  heart. 

Strype  preserved  three  pieces  of  her  writing ;  a 
prayer  against  the  assaults  of  vice ;  a  meditation 
touching  adversity  ;  and  a  prayer  to  be  read  at  the 
hour  of  death.  In  "  Fox's  Acts  and  Monuments" 
are  printed  eight  of  her  letters  to  king  Edward 
and  the  lords  of  council;  and  in  the  ^' Syllogae 
Epistolorum"  are  several  more  of  her  letters. 

Miss  Strickland,  in  her  history  of  the  "Queens 
of  England,"  has  collected  many  facts  which  serve 
to  soften  the  dark  picture  of  Mary's  reign,  here- 
tofore exhibited.  We  will  quote  a  portion  of  these 
remarks : 

"Although  every  generous  feeling  is  naturally 
roused  against  the  horrid  cruelties  perpetrated  in 
Mary's  name,  yet  it  is  unjust  and  ungi-ateful  to 
mention  her  maiden  reign  with  unqualified  abhor- 
rence ;  for  if  the  tyrannical  laws  instituted  by  her 
father  had  remained  a  few  years  more  in  force, 
the  representative  government  of  England  would 


gradually  have  withered  under  the  terrors  of  impri- 
sonments and  executions  without  impartial  trial, 
and  regal  despotism  would  have  been  as  success- 
fully established  here,  as  it  was  in  France  and 
Spain,  by  the  descendants  of  Henry  VIII. 's  asso- 
ciates, Francis  I.  and  Charles  V.  This  change 
arose  from  the  queen's  own  ideas  of  rectitude ; 
for  the  majority  of  her  privy-councillors,  judges, 
and  aristocracy,  had  as  strong  a  tendency  to  cor- 
rupt and  slavish  principles  as  the  worst  enemy  to 
national  freedom  could  wish. 

"  Many  wholesome  laws  were  made  or  revived 
by  her;  among  others,  justices  of  the  peace  were 
enjoined  to  take  the  examination  of  felons  in 
writing,  at  the  same  time  binding  witnesses  over 
to  prosecute :  without  these  regulations,  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  will  show,  that  much  malignant 
accusation  might  take  place  in  a  justice-room, 
unless  witnesses  were  bound  to  prove  their  words. 
All  landholders  and  householders  were  made  pro- 
portionably  chargeable  to  the  repairs  of  roads. 
The  jails  were  in  a  respectable  state ;  since  Fox 
allows  that  the  persons  imprisoned  for  conscience' 
sake  were  treated  humanely  in  the  prisons  under 
royal  authority,  while  the  persecuting  bishops 
made  noisome  confinement  part  of  the  tortures  of 
the  unhappy  Protestants. 

"  Queen  Mary  is  commended  for  the  merciful 
provision  she  made  for  the  poor ;  there  is,  how- 
ever, no  trace  of  poor-rates,  levied  from  the  com- 
munity at  large,  like  those  established  by  her 
sister  Elizabeth,  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. But  that  the  poor  were  relieved  by  Mary 
is  evident,  by  the  entire  cessation  of  those  insur- 
rections, on  account  of  utter  destitution,  which 
took  place  in  her  father's  and  brother's  reigns ; 
and  now  and  then  under  the  sway  of  Elizabeth. 
This  is  more  singular,  since  corn  was  at  famine 
price,  throughout  the  chief  pai't  of  Mary's  reign, 
owing  to  a  series  of  inclement  years  and  wet  har- 
vests. It  seems  likely  that  part  of  the  church 
lands  she  restored  were  devoted  to  the  relief  of 
the  destitute,  since  very  few  monasteries  were  re- 
founded.  In  her  reign  was  altered  that  mysterious 
law,  called  benefit  of  clergy.  It  had  originated  in 
the  earliest  dawn  of  civilization,  when  the  church 
snatched,  from  the  tyranny  of  barbarous  and  igno- 
rant chiefs,  all  prisoners  or  victims  who  could  read, 
and  claiming  them  as  her  own,  asserted  the  privi- 
lege of  bringing  them  to  trial.  Thus  were  the 
learned  judged  by  the  learned,  and  the  ignorant 
left  to  the  mercies  of  those  savage  as  themselves. 
This  law  tended  to  the  encouragement  of  learning 
in  times  when  not  more  than  one  person  out  of 
two  thousand  laymen  knew  a  letter  in  the  book. 
Since  the-  comparative  cessation  from  civil  war, 
after  the  accession  of  queen  Mary's  grandfather, 
general  knowledge  had  surged  forward  in  such 
mighty  waves,  that  the  law  of  benefit  of  clergy, 
with  many  others  of  high  utility  five  centuries 
before,  were  left  without  an  object,  their  actual 
purposes  having  ebbed  away  in  the  transitions  of 
the  times." 

Queen  Mary,  having  overcome  the  repugnance 
of  the  English  to  be  governed  by  a  sovereign  lady, 
was  disposed  to  place  her  own  sex  in  stations  of 

416 


MA 


MA 


authority,  of  which  there  had  been  few  examples 
before  or  since.  She  made  lady  Berkley  a  justice 
of  the  peace  for  Gloucestershire ;  and  lady  Rous 
she  appointed  of  the  quorum  for  Suffolk,  "who 
did  usually  sit  on  the  bench  at  assizes  and  sessions, 
among  the  other  judges,  cineta  gladio,  girt  with 
the  sword." 


L     /;]] 


MARY  II.,    QUEEN   OF   ENGLAND, 

And  wife  of  William  III.,  with  whom  she  reigned 
jointly,  was  born  at  St.  James'  palace,  Westmin- 
ster, on  the  30th  of  April,  1662.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  James  II.  by  Anne  Hyde,  his  first 
wife.  She  married,  November  4th,  1677,  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  and 
sailed  two  weeks  after  for  the  Hague.  Here  she 
lived,  fulfilling  all  her  duties  as  a  wife  and  prin- 
cess, to  the  admiration  of  all  who  knew  her,  till 
February  12th,  1689;  when,  accepting  a  solemn 
invitation  from  the  states  of  England,  she  followed 
her  husband,  who  had  arrived  the  preceding  No- 
vember, to  London. 

The  throne  was  declared  vacant  by  the  flight  of 
James  II.,  and  William  and  Mary  were  crowned 
as  next  heirs,  April  11th,  1689. 

Though  Mary  was  declared  joint  possessor  of 
the  throne  with  her  husband,  king  William,  yet 
the  administration  of  the  government  was  left  en- 
tirely to  him.  This  arrangement  cost  Mary  no 
sacrifice ;  indeed  she  desired  it  should  be  made, 
that  all  rule  and  authority  should  be  vested  in 
him,  remarking  —  "There  is  but  one  command 
which  I  wish  him  to  obey ;  and  that  is,  '  Husbands, 
love  your  wives.'  For  myself,  I  shall  follow  the 
injunction,  '  Wives,  be  obedient  to  yoxir  husbands  in 
all  things.' "  She  kept  the  promise  voluntarily 
made ;  and  all  her  efforts  were  directed  to  pro- 
mote her  husband's  happiness,  and  make  him 
beloved  by  the  English  people.  He  had  great 
confidence  in  her  abilities ;  and  when,  during  his 
absence  in  Ireland  and  on  the  continent,  she  was 
left  regent  of  the  kingdom,  she  managed  parties 
at  home  with  much  prudence,  and  governed  with  a 
discretion  not  inferior  to  his  own. 

Mary  was  strongly  attached  to  the  Protestant 
religion  and  the  Church  of  England,  and  was 
2B 


evidently  led  to  consider  its  preservation  a  para- 
mount duty,  even  when  opposed  to  the  claims  of 
filial  obedience.  The  unfriendly  terms  on  which 
she  lived  with  her  sister,  afterwards  queen  Anne 
have  been  alluded  to  as  a  blemish  in  the  character 
of  Mary;  but  political  jealousies,  and  the  foolish 
attachment  of  Anne  to  overbearing  favourites, 
may  sufficiently  account  for  this  coolness.  Mary 
was,  in  truth,  an  amiable  and  excellent  queen, 
and  by  her  example  made  industry  and  domestic 
virtue  fashionable.  Her  letter  to  lady  Russell,  in 
which  she  deplores  the  bustle  and  pomp  of  royalty, 
because  it  separated  her  so  much  from  her  hus- 
band, is  a  beautiful  proof  how  the  best  feelings  of 
the  woman  were  always  prominent  in  her  heart. 

Mary  died  of  the  small-pox,  at  Kensington,  in 
the  year  1675,  being  in  her  thirty-third  year.  The 
people  were  sincere  mourners  ;  but  to  her  husband 
the  blow  was  almost  overwhelming.  For  several 
weeks  he  was  incapable  of  attending  to  business. 
To  archbishop  Tennison,  who  was  striving  to  con- 
sole him,  William  said — "I  cannot  do  otherwise 
than  grieve,  since  I  have  lost  a  wife  who,  during 
the  seventeen  years  I  have  lived  with  her,  never 
committed  an  indiscretion." 


MARY,    OF   HUNGARY, 

Daughter  of  Philip,  king  of  Spain,  married,  in 
1521,  Louis,  king  of  Hungary,  who  was  killed  in 
battle  five  years  after.  She  was  made  governess 
of  the  Netherlands  by  her  brother,  Charles  V., 
where  she  behaved  with  great  courage,  and  op- 
posed, successfully,  Henry  II.  of  France.  She 
was  a  friend  to  the  Protestants,  and  a  patroness 
of  literatm-e.  Her  fondness  for  field-sports  pro- 
cured her  the  name  of  Diana ;  and  from  her  mili- 
tary prowess,  she  was  called  the  mother  of  the 
camp. 

Her  sagacity  and  penetration  were  of  singular 
service  to  her  brother,  by  whom  she  was  consulted 
on  all  affairs  of  government.  She  conducted  se- 
veral wars  with  glory  and  success,  frequently 
mingling  on  horseback  with  the  troops.  While 
Charles  V.  was  besieging  Mentz,  Mary  made  a 
diversion  in  Picardy,  to  prevent  the  king  of  France 
from  succouring  the  besieged ;  she  caused,  on  this 
occasion,  great  havoc,  ruining  seven  or  eight  hun- 
dred villages,  and  burning  Folembrai,  a  royal 
palace,  built  by  Francis  I.  Henry  II.  of  France, 
in  retaliation,  burned  several  of  the  populous 
towns  of  the  Netherlands,  and  the  royal  palace 
of  Bains,  the  wonder  of  the  age.  When  Mary 
heard  of  this,  she  swore  that  all  France  should 
repent  the  outrage ;  and  she  carried  out  her 
threat,  even  to  cruelty,  as  far  as  she  could.  Henry 
ardently  desired  to  take  Mary  prisoner,  to  see 
whether  she  would  retain  in  captivity  the  same 
courageous  and  lofty  spirit. 

Her  person  was  majestic  and  handsome,  and 
her  manners  agreeable ;  her  court  was  celebrated 
for  the  magnificence  of  its  feasts,  its  tournaments, 
and  its  spectacles.  She  was  also  fond  of  study, 
particularly  of  the  Latin  authors.  In  1555,  she 
left  her  government  of  the  Netherlands  and  re- 
turned to  Spain,  where  she  died,  in  1558, 

417 


MA 


MA 


MARY  LECZINSKA, 
Daughter  of  Stanislaus,,  of  Poland,  married 
Louis  XV.  of  France,  in  1725.  She  was  an  amia- 
ble and  virtuous  princess.  She  bore  to  Louis  XV. 
two  sons  and  eight  daughters ;  and  died,  univer- 
sally regretted,  in  1768,  aged  sixty-five. 

MARY   BEATRICE   D'ESTE, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Alphonso,  duke  of  Modena. 
She  was  boi'n,  October  5th,  1658.  Educated  in  a 
convent,  she  was  desirous  of  becoming  a  nun ;  but 
before  she  reached  her  fifteenth  year,  she  was 
married,  against  her  will,  to  the  duke  of  York, 
afterwards  James  II.,  who  was  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  older  than  herself.  Her  early  repug- 
nance to  her  husband  soon  wore  off;  she  became 
fondly  attached  to  him,  and  her  whole  future  life 
marked  her  devotion  to  him.  James,  thovigh  a 
kind  and  indulgent  husband,  was  an  unfaithful 
one ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  moral  dignity  of  her 
character  became  developed  by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, that  he  learned  to  admire  and  respect 
her  as  she  deserved.  The  beauty  and  purity  of 
life  of  this  princess,  singular  in  a  court  so  corrupt 
as  that  of  Charles  II.,  won  for  her  in  the  early 
part  of  her  married  life,  universal  regard ;  but 
the  unpopularity  of  her  husband,  whose  open 
profession  of  the  Catholic  faith  rendered  him  ob- 
noxious to  the  English  people,  was  transferred  to 
her.  Even  before  the  accession  of  James  to  the 
throne,  symptoms  of  an  intention  to  throw  a  doubt 
upon  the  title  of  any  son  borne  by  Mary,  were 
evident;  and  when,  in  1688,  after  she  became 
queen,  she  gave  birth  to  a  son,  she  was  openly 
charged  with  having  imposed  a  spvirious  heir  upon 
the  nation.  As  Mary  had  already  been  the  mother 
of  four  children,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how 
any  people  could  entertain  so  absurd  a  belief,  par- 
ticularly with  the  powerful  evidence  to  the  con- 
trary before  them.  In  this  year  the  rebellion 
broke  out ;  the  Prince  of  Orange  landed  in  Eng- 
land, and  Mary  was  obliged,  to  ensure  her  safety, 
and  that  of  the  young  prince,  who  was  then  only 
six  months  old,  to  escape  with  him  at  midnight, 
and  embark  for  France.  King  James  soon  follow- 
ed her,  and  they  were  received  by  Louis  XIV.  in 
a  spirit  of  noble  sympathy  and  generosity  that  he 
never  failed  to  exhibit  to  the  unfortunate  exiles 
during  life. 

It  was  in  adversity  that  the  virtues  of  queen 
Mary  shone  in  their  brightest  lustre.  Louis  XIV., 
who  appeared  greatly  struck  with  her  conjugal 
tenderness,  said  of  her,  "  She  was  always  a  queen 
in  her  prosperity,  but  in  her  adversity  she  is  an 
angel." 

James  himself  frankly  acknowledged  that  he 
had  never  known  what  true  happiness  was,  till 
rendered  wise  by  many  sorrows  he  had  learned 
fully  to  appreciate  the  virtues  and  self-devotion 
of  his  queen ;  and  was  accustomed  to  say  that, 
• '  Like  Jacob,  he  counted  his  sufferings  for  no- 
thing, having  such  a  support  and  companion  in 
them."  Four  years  after  the  birth  of  her  sou, 
Mary  of  Modena  became  the  mother  of  a  daughter. 
She  was  the  solace  and  comfort  of  her  parents  in 


their  sorrows,  but  was  cut  ofi'  at  the  early  age  of 
nineteen  by  that  grievous  scourge,  the  small-pox. 
James  II.  died  at  St.  Germain's  in  1701.  Hence- 
forward his  sorrowing  widow  devoted  herself  to 
religion  ;  her  sole  remaining  tie  to  earth  being  the 
hope  of  one  day  seeing  her  son — commonly  called 
the  Pretender  —  restored  to  his  birthi-ight.  She 
lived  to  witness  his  failure  in  1715,  and  died  on 
the  7th  of  May,  1718,  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  her 
age,  and  the  thirtieth  of  her  exile.  The  political 
events  connected  with  the  life  of  Mary  of  Modena 
must  be  sought  for  in  history.  Her  personal  life 
is  related  in  a  narrative  of  uncommon  interest,  in 
Miss  Strickland's  "  Lives  of  the  English  Queens." 
Mary  of  Modena  plaj'ed  an  important,  rather  than 
a  conspicuous  part,  in  the  historic  drama  of  the 
stirring  times  in  which  her  lot  was  cast.  She 
evinced,  when  called  upon,  a  remarkable  aptitude 
for  business  ;  but  it  is  in  her  domestic  character, 
as  a  devoted  wife  and  mother,  and  as  a  practical 
Christian,  that  she  chiefly  recommends  herself  to 
our  judgment  and  sympathies. 


MARY  DE  MEDICI, 
Daughter  of  Francis  I.,  grand-duke  of  Tus- 
cany, and  of  the  archduchess  Joan  of  Austria,  was 
born  at  Florence,  in  1573,  and  was  married,  in 
1600,  to  Henry  IV.  of  France.  She  was  hand- 
some, and  Henry  was,  for  a  time,  really  attached 
to  her;  but  she  was  violent,  jealous,  and  obsti- 
nate, and  often  quarrelled  with  her  husband,  so 
that  his  affections  were  soon  alienated.  But 
the  best  historians  acquit  her  of  any  more  se- 
rious misconduct,  especially  of  the  insinuation 
thrown  out  by  some  writers,  that  she  was  privy 
to  the  murder  of  her  husband.  Maria  was  weak 
rather  than  wicked,  and  ambitious  without  corre- 
sponding mental  powers.  After  her  husband's 
death,  and  during  the  minority  of  Louis  XIII. ,  she 
became  regent  and  guardian  of  her  son.  Dis- 
missing the  great  Sully,  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
guided  by  Italian  and  Spanish  favourites.  The 
state  lost  its  respect  abroad,  and  was  torn  by  the 
dissensions  of  the  nobles  at  home.  A  treaty  was 
concluded  in  1614,  granting  to  the  disaffected  all 
they  had  required ;  but  this  did  uot  bring  quiet. 

418 


MA 


MA 


Mary's  conduct  caused  universal  dissatisfaction, 
as  she  permitted  the  marshal  d'Ancre  and  his  wife 
to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  kingdom.  Louis  XIII. 
was  at  length  persuaded  to  favour,  if  not  to  order, 
the  murder  of  d'Ancre,  the  shameless  favourite, 
and  Mary  was  banished  for  a  time  ;  but  cardinal 
Richelieu,  in  1619,  reconciled  the  mother  and  son. 
Mary  grew  dissatisfied,  because  the  terms  of  the 
treaty  were  not  fulfilled ;  another  civil  war  was 
kindled,  but,  fortunately  for  the  people,  soon  sub- 
dued. The  death  of  de  Euynes,  the  connetable, 
who  was  the  enemy  of  Mary,  gave  her  the  ascen- 
dency, and  she  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the 
council  of  state.  In  order  to  strengthen  her  au- 
thority, she  introduced  Richelieu  into  the  council  ; 
but  he  proved  ungrateful  the  moment  he  felt  his 
power  secure,  and  Mary  then  sought  to  effect  his 
downfall.  This  was  no  easy  task.  Richelieu  had 
obtained  complete  ascendency  over  the  weak- 
minded  king,  who  resisted  all  the  eiForts  of  his 
mother  to  draw  him  to  her  party.  This  contest 
for  the  mastery  over  the  king  was  at  length  de- 
cided in  favour  of  Richelieu,  who  succeeded  in 
making  Louis  believe  his  crown  would  be  lost 
without  the  support  of  the  prime-minister.  The 
cardinal  roused  the  apprehensions  of  the  king,  and 
excited  him  against  his  mother  the  queen,  by  re- 
presenting that  she  intended  to  place  her  second 
son,  Gaston,  on  the  throne.  Mary  was  therefore 
ordered,  in  1634,  to  retire  to  the  castle  of  Com- 
piegne,  and  all  her  adherents  were  either  banished 
or  confined  in  the  Bastile.  Richelieu  was  now 
all-powerful  in  the  kingdom,  and  Mary  soon  felt 
she  was  a  prisoner  at  Compiegne ;  she  therefore 
escaped,  went  to  Belgium,  England,  and  Germany, 
wandering  about  from  place  to  place  in  much  sor- 
row, and  even  want.  Repeatedly  she  demanded 
justice  from  the  parliament ;  but  she  was  a  weak 
woman,  and  who  would  dare  listen  to  her  com- 
plaints against  the  vindictive  cardinal,  who  was 
the  real  sovereign  of  the  state?  After  leading 
this  miserable  wandering  life  for  about  ten  years, 
the  poor  exiled  queen  died  at  Cologne,  1642,  in 
great  poverty  and  sorrow.  Mary  was  unfortunate, 
but  there  is  no  stain  of  vice  or  cruelty  on  her  cha- 
racter. She  did  much  to  embellish  Paris,  built 
the  superb  palace  of  Luxembourg,  the  fine  aque- 
ducts and  public  walks,  called  Cours-la-Reine.  She 
was  jealous,  and  suffered  deeply  in  her  affections 
from  the  licentiousness  of  her  husband,  which 
was,  probably,  the  first  cause  of  her  violent  tem- 
per, so  often  censured.  His  was  the  fault.  Had 
Henry  IV.  been  a  faithful  husband,  Mary  would, 
no  doubt,  have  been  a  devoted  wife.  "  She  was," 
says  one  of  her  biographers,  "ambitious  from 
vanity,  confiding  from  want  of  intelligence,  and 
more  avaricious  of  distinction  than  power."  The 
defects  of  character  thus  enumerated  are  such  as 
a  bad  or  neglected  education  induces,  rather  than 
the  emanations  of  a  bad  heart. 

MARY  STUART,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 
Celebrated  for  her  beauty,  her  wit,  her  learn- 
ing, and  her  misfortunes,  was  born  December  3d, 
1542,  and  was  the  daughter  and  sole  heiress  of 
James  V.  of  Scotland,  by  Marie  of  Lorraine,  his 


second  queen,  a  French  princess  of  the  family  of 
Guise.  Mary  was  eight  days  old  when  her  father 
died ;  after  many  disturbances,  it  was  agreed,  that 
the  earl  of  Arran,  the  next  heir  to  the  crown, 
should  be  made  governor  of  the  kingdom,  and 
guardian  to  the  infant  queen,  who  remained,  with 
her  mother,  in  the   royal  palace  of"  Linlithgow. 


Henry  VIII.  wished  to  obtain  the  hand  of  this 
princess  for  his  son  Edward,  and  it  was  at  first 
promised  to  him;  but  being  afterwards  refused 
by  the  earl  of  Arran,  the  famous  battle  of  Mussel- 
burgh was  fought  in  consequence.  Upon  the  de- 
feat of  the  Scots  in  this  battle,  Mary  was  carried 
by  her  mother  to  the  island  of  Inchemahon,  where 
she  laid  the  foundation  of  her  knowledge  in  the 
Latin,  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  tongues,  which 
Mary  afterwards  carried  to  such  perfection  that 
few  were  found  to  equal  her  in  any  of  them. 

AVhen  the  young  queen  was  six  years  old,  she 
was  taken  by  her  mother  to  France,  where  she 
was  sent  to  a  convent,  in  which  the  daughters  oi 
the  nobility  of  the  kingdom  were  educated.  She 
wrote  and  spoke  Latin  with  great  ease  and  ele- 
gance, and  had  a  taste  for  poetry ;  many  of  her 
compositions  were  highly  esteemed  by  Ronsard. 
She  played  well  on  several  instruments,  danced 
gracefully,  and  managed  a  horse  with  ease  and 
dexterity:  she  also  spent  much  time  in  needle- 
work. 

On  the  20th  of  April,  1558,  Mary  was  man-ied 
to  the  dauphin,  afterwards  Francis  II.  of  France, 
who  died  December  5th,  1560,  about  six  months 
after  his  accession  to  the  throne.  Mary  was  very 
much  attached  to  him,  and  mourned  his  loss  with 
sincere  sorrow.  She  soon  after  left  France,  with 
great  reluctance,  to  return  to  her  own  kingdom. 
She  is  said  to  have  remained  on  the  deck  of  the 
vessel  that  bore  her  from  her  beloved  France, 
gazing  on  the  shores  of  that  country  till  they  had 
completely  disappeared  from  her  view ;  then  re- 
tiring below,  she  wrote  some  verses  on  the  occa- 
sion, full  of  beauty  and  pathos. 

She  was  welcomed  with  joj-  by  her  subjects,  and 
soon  after  her  return,  Charles,  archduke  of  Aiu- 
tria,  was  proposed  to  her  as  a  husband,,  by  the 

419 


MA 

cardinal  of  Lorraine.  But  Elizabeth  of  England 
interposed,  and  desired  she  would  not  marry  with 
any  foreign  prince.  She  recommended  to  her 
either  the  earl  of  Leicester,  or  the  lord  Darnley ; 
giving  her  to  understand,  that  her  succession  to 
the  crown  of  England  would  be  very  precarious  if 
she  did  not  comply.  Overawed  by  Elizabeth,  and 
pleased  by  the  beauty  of  Darnley,  she  consented 
to  marry  him  ;  and  creating  him  earl  of  Ross  and 
duke  of  Rothsay,  July  28th,  1565,  he  was  the 
same  day  proclaimed  king,  at  Edinburgh,  and 
married  to  the  queen  the  day  after :  thus  uniting 
the  two  nearest  heirs  to  the  throne  of  England. 
She  had  one  son  by  Darnley,  born  at  Edinburgh, 
.June  19th,  15G6;  afterwards  James  VL  of  Scot- 
land, and  I.  of  England. 

David  Rizzio,  son  of  a  musician  at  Turin,  had 
accompanied  the  Piedmontese  ambassador  to  Scot- 
land, and  gained  admission  into  the  queen's  family 
by  his  musical  talents.    His  manners  were  insinu- 
ating, and  he  crept  into  Mary's  favour,  and  she 
made  him  her  French  secretary.     He  afterwards 
acquired  so  much  consequence,  that  he  was  ap- 
plied to  by  all  the  court  suitors  for  his  recommen- 
dation and  interest.     When  Darnley  first  became 
a  candidate  for  the  queen's  affection,  he  contracted 
an  intimacy  with  Rizzio,   who  assisted   him,   in 
hopes  of  confirming  his  own  influence.     Not  long 
after  the  nuptials,  Darnley  displayed  such  a  total 
want  of  every  estimable  quality,  and  behaved  with 
such  inattention  and  disrespect  to  his  royal  con- 
sort, that  her  hasty  love  was  succeeded  by  dislike 
and  disgust.     The  king  disregarded  the  remon- 
strances of  Rizzio   against  his  misconduct,  and 
looking  with  jealousy  on  the  increasing  familiarity 
between  him  and  the  queen,  resolved  to  get  rid  of 
him  by  violence.     Several  men  of  high  rank,  re- 
senting the  insolence  and  arrogance  of  the  favour- 
ite, concurred   in  this  plan.     A  conspiracy  was 
formed,  and  one  evening  in  March,  1566,  a  band 
of  ai-med   men  took  possession  of  the  gates  of 
Holyrood  house,  while  the  king,  with  some  accom- 
plices, and  Lord  Ruthven,  in  complete  armour, 
entered  the  room  where  Mary  was  at  supper  with 
the  countess  of  Argyle  and  Rizzio.     The  unhappy 
victim  saw  his  danger,  and  clung  to  the  queen  for 
protection.     Her  teai's,  entreaties,  and  menaces, 
were  unavailing ;  he  was  dragged  from  her  pre- 
sence, and  murdered  in  the  next  apartment,  within 
her  hearing.     This  savage  and  unmanly  deed,  ag- 
gravated by  the  queen's  situation,  could  never  be 
forgiven.    The  conspirators  took  possession  of  her 
person,  but  she  had  still  so  much  influence  over 
the  weak  king,  that  she  contrived  to  detach  him 
from  his  associates,  and  persuaded  him  to  escape 
with  her. 

She  retired  to  Dunbar,  where  she  was  soon 
joined  by  some  nobles  with  their  vassals,  with 
whom  she  advanced  towards  Edinburgh.  The 
earl  of  Murray,  her  half-brother,  the  illegitimate 
son  of  James  V.  and  the  countess  of  Douglas, 
with  the  other  exiled  lords,  returned  to  Scotland ; 
but  Mary  had  the  address  to  separate  them  from 
the  conspirators,  and  the  latter,  destitute  of  every 
resource,  fled  to  England.  Mary,  now  triumphant, 
was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her  hatred  of  her  hus- 


MA 

band,  whom  she  treated  with  every  mark  of  aTcr- 
sion  and  contempt ;  nor  did  the  birth  of  her  son 
produce  any  reconciliation. 

At  this  time,  a  new  favourite  had  obtained  an 
influence  over  her  susceptible  heart.  This  was 
Hepburn,  earl  of  Bothwell,  a  powerful  nobleman, 
who  had  always  shown  an  attachment  to  her 
cause,  and  had  been  a  principal  instrument  in 
rescuing  her  from  the  power  of  the  conspirators. 
The  influence  he  obtained  over  her  seems  at  first 
to  have  been  of  a  political  kind ;  but  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  sentiments  of  a  more  tender  nature 
succeeded.  The  king,  unable  to  endure  his  degra- 
dation, formed  a  design  of  quitting  Scotland,  and 
residing  on  the  continent ;  and,  when  this  was 
prevented,  he  continued  to  live  apart  from  the 
queen  in  solitude  and  neglect.  On  removing  from 
Stirling  to  Glasgow  in  the  beginning  of  1567,  he 
was  seized  with  a  disorder  which  endangered  his 
life,  and  was  by  some  attributed  to  poison.  When 
he  was  in  a  state  of  convalescence,  Mary  visited 
him  at  Glasgow,  and,  by  her  apparent  kindness 
and  afi'ection,  so  won  his  confidence  that  he  con- 
sented to  accompany  her  to  Edinburgh,  that  he 
might  have  the  benefit  of  her  attentions,  and  of 
the  advice  of  the  best  physicians. 

At  Edinburgh  he  was  lodged  in  a  solitary  house, 
called  Kirk  of  Field,  at  some  distance  from  the 
city.  Mary  attended  to  him  tenderly,  and  slept 
at  night  in  the  room  under  his  apartment.  On 
February  9th,  she  left  him  at  about  eleven  at 
night,  in  order  to  be  present  at  a  masque  in  the 
palace  on  the  next  day ;  and,  at  two  o'clock,  the 
house  was  blown  up  with  gun-powder,  and  the 
king's  dead  body  found  in  an  adjacent  field. 

Public  opinion  accused  the  earl  of  Bothwell  of 
this  murder ;  and  the  queen  was  suspected  of  be- 
ing an  accessory.  After  the  king's  father,  Lennox, 
had  publicly  accused  Bothwell  of  the  murder,  and 
had  him  brought  to  trial,  Mary  continued  to  admit 
him  to  her  intimacy,  and  even  conferred  on  him 
the  command  of  Edinburgh  castle.  His  trial  was 
hurried  on,  without  regard  to  the  requisition  of 
Lennox  for  delay ;  and  no  person  appearing  as  his 
accuser  on  the  day  appointed,  he  was  necessarily 
acquitted.  Within  a  week  after,  Bothwell  invited 
all  the  nobles  to  an  entertainment,  when  he  de- 
clared his  intention  of  marrying  the  queen ;  and 
so  much  was  the  assembly  swayed  by  dread  of  his 
power,  or  desire  of  his  favour,  that  they  unani- 
mously subscribed  a  paper  expressing  their  full 
conviction  of  his  innocence  of  the  murder,  and 
recommending  him  as  a  husband  to  the  queen. 
But  the  sentiments  of  the  nation  at  large  by  no 
means  corresponded  with  the  declaration  of  these 
mean-spirited  nobles ;  and  the  projected  marriage 
was  generally  looked  upon  with  detestation.  Both- 
well,  therefore,  resolved  to  effect  it  in  a  manner 
suited  to  his  daring  and  violent  character.  As 
Mary  was  proceeding  from  Edinburgh  to  Stirling, 
on  a  visit  to  her  infant  son,  Bothwell  suddenly 
appeared  on  the  road  with  a  large  body  of  horse, 
dispersed  without  resistance  her  slender  train, 
and  seizing  the  queen,  with  a  few  of  her  courtiers, 
carried  them  to  Dunbar.  The  queen  showed  nei- 
ther terror  nor  indignation ;  and  her  attendants 

420 


MA 


MA 


were  informed  that  everything  was  done  with  her 
consent.  Bothwell  unfortunately  had  a  wife  al- 
ready ;  but  he  obtained  a  speedy  divorce  from  her, 
on  the  double  ground  of  their  being  cousins  within 
the  prohibited  degrees,  and  of  his  ovm  unfaithful- 
ness. Mary  was  then  taken  to  Edinburgh  castle, 
where  she  appeared  at  the  court  of  session  and 
declared  herself  at  full  liberty  ;  and,  on  May  15th, 
little  more  than  three  months  from  her  husband's 
murder,  this  scandalous  union  was  consummated. 
Bothwell,  without  the  title  of  king,  possessed  the 
whole  power  of  the  crown ;  no  access  was  per- 
mitted to  the  queen  except  by  his  creatures ;  and 
he  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  obtain  pos- 
session of  the  person  of  the  young  prince. 

From  this  time  a  series  of  misfortunes  attended 
the  queen.  The  different  views  and  interests  of 
the  nobility,  clergy,  and  gentry,  in  regard  to  reli- 
gion and  politics,  had  so  disturbed  the  peace  of  the 
kingdom,  that  all  things  appeared  in  the  greatest 
confusion.  Bothwell,  defeated  in  a  battle,  was 
forced  to  fly  to  Denmark  ;  and  the  queen  was  taken 
prisoner  to  Lochleveu,  and  committed  to  the  care 
of  Murray's  mother,  who,  having  been  the  mis- 
tress of  James  V.,  insulted  the  unfortunate  queen, 
by  pretending  that  she  was  the  lawful  wife  of 
James  V.,  and  that  Murray  was  his  legitimate 
child.  When  queen  Elizabeth  heard  of  this  treat- 
ment of  Mary,  she  seemed  very  indignant  at  it, 
and  sent  Sir  Nicholas  Throgmorton  into  Scotland, 
to  expostulate  with  the  conspirators,  and  to  con- 
sult about  restoring  her  to  liberty.  But  Elizabeth 
was  by  no  means  in  earnest ;  and,  if  not  the  con- 
triver of  these  troubles,  as  some  have  supposed  her 
to  have  been,  she  secretly  rejoiced  at  them.  When 
Elizabeth  was  crowned,  Mary,  then  in  France,  had 
been  persuaded  by  the  Roman  Catholics  to  assume 
the  arms  and  title  of  the  kingdom  of  England ; 
thereby  declaring  Elizabeth  illegitimate,  and  her 
title  null  and  void.  This  indignity  Elizabeth  never 
forgave. 

Having  been  detained  prisoner  at  Lochleven 
eleven  months,  and  most  inhumanly  forced  to  com- 
ply with  demands  highly  detrimental  to  her  honour 
and  interest,  she  escaped,  May  2d,  1568,  and  went 
to  Hamilton  castle.  Here,  in  an  assembly  of  many 
of  the  nobility,  was  drawn  a  sentence,  declar- 
ing that  the  grants  extorted  from  her  majesty  in 
prison,  among  which  was  a  resignation  of  the 
crown,  were  void  from  the  beginning ;  upon  which, 
in  two  or  three  days,  more  than  six  thousand  peo- 
ple assembled  to  her  assistance. 

Murray,  who  had  been  declared  regent  of  the 
kingdom,  made  all  possible  preparations ;  and 
when  the  two  parties  joined  battle,  the  queen's 
army,  consisting  of  raw  soldiers,  were  entirely 
defeated ;  and  she  was  obliged  to  save  herself  by 
flight,  travelling  sixty  miles  in  one  day,  to  the 
house  of  Maxwell,  lord  Herries.  Thence  she  des- 
patched a  messenger  to  queen  Elizabeth,  with  a 
diamond  which  she  had  formerly  received  from 
her,  signifying  that  she  would  come  into  England, 
and  asking  her  assistance.  Elizabeth  returned  a 
kind  answer,  with  large  promises ;  but  before  the 
messenger  returned,  Mary,  rejecting  the  advice 
of  her  friends,  hastened  into  England,  and  land- 


ing. May  17th,  at  Woriington,  in  Cumberland,  she 
wi'ote  a  long  letter  in  French  with  her  own  hand 
to  Elizabeth,  detailing  her  misfortunes,  and  asking 
her  aid.  Elizabeth  affected  to  comfort  her,  gave 
her  dubious  promises,  and  commanded,  under  pre- 
tence of  greater  security,  that  she  should  be  car- 
ried to  Carlisle. 

Mary  immediately  perceived  her  error.  Denied 
access  to  Elizabeth,  she  was  kept  wandering  foi' 
nineteen  years  from  one  prison  to  another,  and 
was  at  length  tried,  condemned,  and  beheaded,  for 
being  engaged  in  Babington's  conspiracy  against 
queen  Elizabeth.  She  professed  to  die  for  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion,  and  has  been  considered 
a  saint  by  that  church.  She  was  executed  at 
Fotheringay  castle,  February  8th,  1587,  and  met 
her  death  with  dignity  and  composure.  Her  re- 
mains were  interred  by  her  son,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  after  his  accession  to  the  English  throne. 

Authors  have  differed  about  the  moral  character 
of  this  queen ;  there  has  been  but  one  opinion  as- 
to  her  charms  as  a  woman,  or  the  variety  of  her 
accomplishments.  She  wrote  poems  in  the  Latin. 
Italian,  French,  and  Scotch  languages;  "Royal' 
Advice"  to  her  son,  during  her  imprisonment : 
and  a  great  number  of  letters,  many  of  which  are 
now  in  the  library  at  Paris.  Some  of  them  have 
been  printed. 

Such  were  her  fascinations  of  person  and  mind 
that  few  could  be  placed  under  their  influence 
without  becoming  convinced  of  her  innocence  of 
all  the  charges  against  her,  and  devoted  to  her 
service.  She  also  possessed  keen  powers  of  irony 
and  sarcasm,  which  she  sometimes  used  with  too 
little  discretion.  Though  at  all  times  strongly  at- 
attached  to  her  own  faith,  she  is  free  from  the 
charges  of  bigotry  and  persecution.  A  melancholj' 
interest  attaches  every  heart  to  the  memory  of 
Mary  of  Scotland.  It  is  painfully  felt  that  fate 
or  providence  had  designed  her  for  suffering.  Her 
charms  of  beauty  and  genius,  that  made  her  such 
a  fascinating  woman,  unfitted  her  for  the  throne 
of  a  rude  nation,  in  the  most  stormy  period  of  its 
history.  She  had  the  misfortune  to  live  among 
enemies  paid  to  slander  her ;  and  few  dared  de- 
fend, while  her  proud  and  powerful  rival  queen 
was  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  crush  her. 
"No  inquiry,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  his- 
tory of  Scotland,  "has  been  able  to  bring  us  to 
that  clear  opinion  upon  the  guilt  of  Mary  which 
is  expressed  by  many  authors,  or  to  guide  us  to 
that  triumphant  conclusion  in  favour  of  her  inno- 
cence of  all  accession,  direct  or  tacit,  to  the  death 
of  her  husband,  which  others  have  maintained 
with  the  same  obstinacy.  The  great  error  of 
marrying  Bothwell,  stained  as  he  was  by  universal 
suspicion  of  Darnley's  murder,  is  a  spot  upon  her 
character  for  which  we  in  vain  seek  for  an  apology. 
What  excuse  she  is  to  derive  from  the  brutal  in- 
gratitude of  Dai-nley ;  what  from  the  perfidy  and 
cruelty  of  the  fiercest  set  of  nobles  who  existed 
in  any  age ;  what  from  the  manners  of  a  time  in 
which  assassination  was  often  esteemed  a  virtue, 
and  revenge  the  discharge  of  a  debt  of  honoui". 
must  be  left  to  the  charity  of  the  reader." 

The  misfortunes  of  Mary  have  furnished  a  sub- 

421 


MA 


MA 


ject  for  the  tragic  muse  of  Schiller  and  Alfieri ; 
but  these  are  not  so  expressive  of  her  feelings  as 
the  two  following,  WTitten  by  Mary  during  her 
imprisonment  in  Fotheringay  castle.  The  French 
being  the  tongue  she  had  used  from  infancy,  she 
preferred  when  writing  ;  the  hymn  was  in  Latin, 
as  that  was  the  language  of  her  devotions ;  this 
was  her  last  production,  "  composed  and  repeated" 
by  her,  the  day  before  her  execution. 


SONNET. 

Que  siiis-je,  helas !  et  de  quoi  sen  la  vie  ? 
J'eii  siiis  fVirs  qu'uii  corps  privii  de  cueur  ; 
Vn  ombre  vayn,  un  object  de  malheiir, 
Uui  n'a  plus  rien  que  de  mourir  en  vie. 
Plus  ne  me  portez,  O  enemys,  d'envie, 
(iui  n'a  plus  I'esprit  a  la  grandeur: 
J'ai  consomme  d'excessive  douleur, 
Voitre  ire  en  bref  de  voir  assouvie, 
Et  vous  amys  qui  m'avez  lenu  chere, 
Souvenez-vous  que  sans  cueur,  et  sans  santey, 
Je  ne  scaurois  auqun  bon  oeuvre  faire. 
Et  que  sus  bas  etant  assez  punie, 
J'aie  ma  part  en  la  joie  infinie. 

Translation  by  a  Scotch  Lady. 

Alas!  what  am  I?  and  in  what  estate? 

A  wretched  corse  bereaved  of  its  heart; 
An  empty  shadow,  lost  unfortunate, 

To  die  is  now  in  life  my  only  part. 
Foes  to  my  greatness  !  let  your  envy  rest. 

In  me  no  taste  for  grandeur  now  is  found  ; 
Consumed  by  grief,  with  heavy  ills  oppressed, 

V'our  wishes  and  desires  will  soon  be  crowned. 
And  you,  my  friends,  who  still  have  held  me  dear, 

Bethink  you,  that  when  health  and  heart  are  fled, 

And  every  hope  of  earthly  good  is  dead, 
'Tis  time  to  wish  our  sorrow  ended  here; 
And  that  this  punishment  on  earth  is  given 
That  my  pure  soul  may  rise  to  endless  bliss  in  heaven. 


O  Domine  Deusl  speravi  in  te 

O  care  mi  Jesii !  nunc  libera  me. 
In  dura  catena,  in  misera  pcEna,  desidero  te ; 
Languendo,  gemendo,  et  genu-flectendo, 
Adoro,  imploro,  ut  liberes  me ! 

Translation  by  Rev.  Geo.   W.  Bethune. 

My  God,  O  Jehovah,  I  have  trusted  in  thee ; 

O  Jesus,  my  Saviour,  now  rescue  thou  me  ; 
Like  fetters  in  iron  deep  griefs  me  environ,  —  thy  smile  let 

me  see ! 
With  sighing  and  crying,  at  thy  feet  lowly  lying, 
I  adore  ihee,  implore  thee,  now  rescue  thou  me ! 

MASQUIERES,  FRANgOISE, 
Was  the  daughter  of  a  steward  of  the  king,  and 
was  born  at  Paris,  where  she  died  in  1728.  She 
had  a  great  taste  for  poetry,  and  wrote  it  with 
facility.  Among  her  poetical  works  are  a  "De- 
scription of  the  Gallery  of  St.  Cloud,"  and  "  The 
Origin  of  the  Lute." 

MASHAM,  LADY  DAMARIS, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Ralph  Cudworth,  and 
born  at  Cambridge  on  the  18th  of  January,  1658. 
She  was  the  second  wife  of  Sir  Francis  Masham, 
of  Gates,  in  the  county  of  Essex,  by  whom  she  had 
only  one  son.  Her  father  took  great  pains  in  her 
education ;  and  she  was  skilled  in  philosophy  and 
divinity.    Much  of  her  improvement  was  undoubt- 


edly owing  to  her  intimacy  with  the  famous  Locke, 
who  lived  many  years  in  her  family,  and  died  in 
her  house  at  Gates.  She  wrote  "A  Discourse 
concerning  the  Love  of  God;"  and  "Occasional 
Thoughts  in  reference  to  a  Virtuous  and  Christian 
Life ;"  and  several  other  pamphlets  which  she 
published  anonymously.  She  died  in  1708,  and 
was  interred  in  the  cathedral  church  at  Bath, 
where  a  monument  is  erected  to  her  memory. 

MASHAM,  ABIGAIL, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Hill,  a  wealthy  mer- 
chant of  London,  who  married  the  sister  of  Mr. 
Jennings,  the  father  of  the  duchess  of  Marlbo- 
rough. The  bankruptcy  of  her  father  obliged  her 
to  become  the  attendant  of  lady  Rivers,  a  baronet's 
lady,  whence  she  removed  into  the  service  of  her 
relative,  then  lady  Churchill,  who  procured  her 
the  place  of  waiting-maid  to  the  princess  Anne. 
The  maid  retained  her  situation  after  her  mistress 
ascended  the  throne,  and  gradually  acquired  con- 
siderable influence  over  her.  Abigail  Hill  was  not 
a  woman  of  superior  mind  or  attainments ;  but 
there  were  many  points  of  sympathy  between  the 
queen  and  herself,  which  may  account  for  the 
ascendency  of  this  favourite.  She  possessed  great 
powers  of  mimicry,  and  considerable  taste  in 
music,  of  which  latter  accomplishment  the  queen 
was  very  fond.  She  also  favoured  the  tories,  to 
which,  party  the  queen  was  secretly  attached. 
Subjected  for  years  to  the  violent  and  domineering 
temper  of  the  duchess  of  Marlborough,  the  queen 
turned  naturally  to  the  milder  and  more  conciliat- 
ing disposition  of  her  maid  in  waiting  for  sympa- 
thy and  repose  ;  and  she  gradually  superseded  the 
duchess  as  favourite.  In  1707,  Abigail  Hill  mar- 
ried Mr.  Masham,  a  man  of  ancient  family,  one 
of  the  pages  of  the  court.  This  marriage  was 
performed  secretly,  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
queen.  The  duchess  of  Marlborough,  on  learning 
these  facts,  gave  way  to  such  violence,  that  it  se- 
vered finally  the  tie  between  herself  and  the  queen ; 
and  in  a  short  time  she  was  deprived  of  all  her 
ofiices  and  dignities  at  court.  One  of  her  situa- 
tions, that  of  keeper  of  the  privy-seal,  was  given 
to  Mrs.  Masham. 

Mrs.  Masham  leagued  herself  with  Harley  and 
Bolingbroke,  who  were  intriguing  to  remove  the 
duke  of  Marlborough  and  his  adherents,  and  be- 
came an  instrument  in  their  hands.  In  1711,  a 
change  of  ministry  took  place,  and  Mr.  Masham 
was  raised  to  the  peerage.  Henceforward  lady 
Masham  became  involved  in  all  the  intrigues  of 
the  court,  especially  in  those  of  the  tories  in  fa- 
vour of  the  exiled  house  of  Stuart,  which  she 
warmly  advocated.  Attached  to  the  cause  of  the 
Pretender,  she  was  the  medium  of  communication 
between  the  queen  and  her  unfortunate  young 
brother,  in  the  latter  part  of  her  reign,  when  the 
succession  was  still  uncertain,  and  when  in  her 
moments  of  vacillation  and  remorse  she  clung  to 
the  hope  that  her  brother,  by  renouncing  his  reli- 
gion, might  succeed  her. 

Mrs.  Masham's  name  occupies  a  prominent  place 
in  the  political  writings  of  those  times,  connected 
as  she  was  with  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  Bolingbroke, 

422 


MA 


MA 


and  other  eminent  men.  Mrs.  Masham  was  plain 
in  appearance,  and  delicate  in  health.  One  of  her 
personal  ti'aits  was  a  remarkably  red  nose,  fur- 
nishing the  wits  of  the  day  with  a  constant  subject 
at  which  to  level  their  shafts.  After  the  death  of 
the  queen  she  lived  in  great  retirement,  and  died 
at  an  advanced  age.  Her  husband's  title  became 
extinct  upon  the  death  of  her  only  son  in  1776. 

MATRAINI,    CLARA   CANTARINI, 

Was  of  a  noble  family  of  Lucca,  and  one  of  the 
best  poets  of  her  time.  She  was  living  in  1562. 
Her  style  is  said  to  be  pure,  correct,  and  full  of 
force  and  elegance ;  her  ideas  clear,  noble,  and 
ingenious  ;  and  she  particularly  excels  as  a  lyrist. 
Many  of  her  pieces  were  printed  at  Venice,  in 
1560.  Many  others  were  subjoined  to  her  letters, 
which  were  printed  at  Lucca  in  1595.  In  these 
she  appears  well  instructed  in  sacred  history, 
and  in  theology  in  general ;  one,  to  her  son,  con- 
tains many  useful  maxims  of  manners  and  con- 
duct. Her  "  Christian  Meditations,"  mixed  with 
very  beautiful  scraps  of  poetry,  and  concluded 
by  a  female's  ode  to  the  Almighty,  were  printed 
there.  She  also  wrote  a  life  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
in  which  are  many  pieces  of  poetry ;  others  are 
found  in  different  collections.  She  was  well  skilled 
in  the  Platonic  philosophy,  was  generally  esteemed 
by  the  literati  of  that  age,  and  corresponded  with 
many  of  them. 

MAUPIN,  N.  AUBIGNY, 
A  CELEBRATED  singer  at  the  Paris  oj^era.  She 
possessed  great  personal  courage ;  and,  on  some 
occasions,  assumed  a  man's  dress  to  avenge  insults 
offered  to  her.  She  left  the  stage  in  1705,  and 
died  in  1707,  aged  thirty-three. 

MAYO,  SARAH  C.  EDGARTON, 
Was  born  in  Shirley,  Massachusetts,  in  1819. 
She  began  to  write  when  very  young,  and  for  nine 
years  edited  an  annual  called  "  The  Rose  of  Sha- 
ron." She  also  edited  "  The  Ladies'  Repository," 
published  in  Boston ;  and  wrote  several  works, 
both  in  prose  and  verse ;  "  The  Palfreys  ;"  "  Ellen 
Clifford ;"  "  The  Poetry  of  Women ;"  and  "  Memoir 
and  Poems  of  Mrs.  Julia  H.  Scott,"  &c.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Edgarton.  She  married,  in  1846, 
the  Rev.  A.  D.  Mayo,  of  Gloucester,  Massachu- 
setts, and  continued  her  literary  pursuits  with  in- 
creased advantages.  Had  her  life  been  prolonged, 
she  gave  promise  of  being  one  of  our  most  distin- 
guished female  writers ;  but  death  suddenly  de- 
stroyed these  bright  hopes  of  earthly  usefulness. 
She  died,  July  9th,  1848.  The  following  poems 
have  a  tenderness  in  their  tone,  and  a  delicate 
sensibility  in  the  feelings  expressed,  which  were 
characteristics  of  the  writer. 

TYPES    OF    HEAVEN. 

Why  love  I  the  lily-bell 
Swinging  in  the  scented  dell? 
Why  love  I  the  woodnoles  wild. 
Where  the  sun  hath  faintly  smiled? 
Daisies,  in  their  beds  secure. 
Gazing  out  so  meek  and  pure? 


Why  love  I  the  evening  dew 
In  the  violet's  bell  of  blue? 
Why  love  1  the  vesper  star, 
Trembling  in  its  shrine  afar? 
Why  love  I  the  summer  night 
Softly  weeping  drops  of  light  ? 

Why  to  me  do  woodland  springs 
Whisper  sweet  and  holy  things? 
Why  does  every  bed  of  moss 
Tell  me  of  my  Saviour's  cross  ? 
Why  in  every  dimpled  wave 
Smiles  the  light  from  o'er  the  grave  ? 

Why  do  rainbows,  seen  at  even, 
Seem  the  glorious  paths  to  heaven  ? 
Why  are  gushing  streamlets  fraught 
With  the  notes  from  angels  caught? 
Can  ye  tell  me  why  the  wind 
Bringeth  seraphs  to  my  mind? 

Is  it  not  that  faith  hath  bound 
Beauties  of  all  form  and  sound 
To  the  dreams  that  have  been  given 
Of  the  holy  things  of  heaven  ? 
Are  they  not  bright  links  that  bind 
Sinful  souls  to  Sinless  Mind? 

From  the  lowly  violet  sod. 
Links  are  lengthened  unto  God. 
All  of  holy — stainless  —  sweet — 
That  on  earth  we  hear  or  meet. 
Are  but  types  of  that  pure  love 
Brightly  realized  above. 


THE    SHADOW -CHILD. 

Whence  came  this  little  phantom 

That  flits  about  my  room — 
That's  here  from  early  morning 

Until  the  twilight  gloom? 
For  ever  dancing,  dancing, 

She  haunts  the  wall  and  floor, 
And  frolics  in  the  sunshine 

Around  the  open  door. 

The  ceiling  by  the  table 

She  makes  her  choice  retreat. 
For  there  a  little  human  girl 

Is  w-ont  to  have  her  seat. 
They  take  a  dance  together — 

A  crazy  little  jig; 
And  sure  two  baby  witches 

Ne'er  ran  so  wild  a  rig ! 

They  pat  their  hands  together 

With  frantic  jumps  and  springs, 
Until  you  almost  fancy 

You  catch  the  gleam  of  wings. 
Shrill  shrieks  the  human  baby 

In  the  madness  of  delight. 
And  back  return  loud  echoes 

From  the  little  shadow  sprite. 

At  morning  by  my  bedside 

When  first  the  birdies  sing. 
Up  starts  the  little  phantom 

With  a  merry  laugh  and  spring! 
She  woos  me  from  my  pillow 

With  her  little  coaxing  arms; 
I  go  where'er  she  beckons — 

A  victim  to  her  charms. 

At  night  I  still  am  haunted 

By  glimpses  of  her  face; 
Her  features  on  my  pillow 

By  moonlight  I  can  trace. 
Whence  came  this  shadow-baby 

That  haunts  my  heart  and  home? 
What  kindly  hand  hath  sent  her, 

And  wherefore  hath  she  come  ? 


423 


MA 


ME 


Long  be  her  dancing  image 

Our  guest  by  night  and  day, 
For  lonely  were  our  dwelling 

If  she  were  now  away. 
Far  happier  hath  our  home  been, 

More  blest  than  e'er  before. 
Since  first  that  little  shadow 

Came  gliding  through  our  door. 

MAZARIN,  HORTENSE  MANCINI, 
DUCHESS  OF, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Lorenzo  Manciui,  a  noble- 
man of  Rome,  and  Jeronina  Mazarin,  sister  of  the 
celebrated  cardinal.  She  was  born  in  1647,  and 
in  1653  was  sent  to  France,  to  be  educated  under 
the  care  of  her  uncle.  She  was  distinguished  for 
her  beauty,  her  reckless  vivacity,  and  her  great 
wealth.  In  his  misfortunes,  Charles  II.  of  Eng- 
land, was  a  rejected  suitor  for  her  hand.  In  1660, 
Hortense  married  Armand  Charles  de  la  Porte, 
duke  de  Meilleraye  and  Mayenne,  who,  on  his 
marriage,  took  the  name,  title,  and  ai'ms  of  Maza- 
rin. Mazarin  died  the  next  year,  leaving  his  niece 
the  sum  of  1,625,000  pounds  sterling.  The  hus- 
band of  Hortense  was  very  unsuited  to  her,  but 
she  lived  quietly  with  him  for  six  years,  when  she 
suddenly  left  him,  and  attempted  to  obtain  a  sepa- 
ration from  him.  Finding  that  she  was  likely  to 
be  unsuccessful,  she  determined  on  flight,  and  dis- 
guising herself  and  her  maid  in  male  attire,  she 
left  Paris,  June,  1667,  for  Switzerland,  and  from 
thence  rambled  over  most  of  the  countries  of  Eu- 
rope. In  1678,  she  arrived  at  London,  and  com- 
menced an  attack  on  the  heart  of  Charles  II.,  in 
which  she  soon  succeeded.  She  became  one  of 
his  favourites,  and  he  gave  her  apartments  in  St. 
James',  and  a  pension  of  £4000  a  year.  This  was 
afterwards  withdrawn,  in  consequence  of  a  par- 
tiality she  openly  displayed  for  the  prince  de  Mo- 
naco, but  Charles  soon  restored  it  to  her.  She 
resided  during  the  latter  part  of  her  life  at  Chel- 
sea, where  her  house  was  the  resort  of  the  gay, 
beautiful,  and  mtellectual.  The  duchess  of  Maza- 
rin died  at  Chelsea,  June  2d,  1699,  in  her  fifty- 
third  year.  She  was  so  much  in  debt  at  the  time 
that  her  body  was  seized  by  her  creditors. 

MELLON,  HARRIET,  DUCHESS  OF 
ST.  ALBANS, 

Was  born  in  Westminster,  England,  about  1775. 
Her  father  was  a  gentleman  in  the  service  of  the 
East  India  Company,  but  died  before  the  birth  of 
his  daughter.  Her  mother  afterwards  married 
Mr.  Entwistle,  a  professor  of  music,  and  leader 
of  the  band  at  the  York  theatre.  Miss  Mellon 
was  educated  for  the  stage,  and  made  her  debut 
at  Drury-Lane,  London,  in  1793;  she  was  consi- 
dered at  the  head  of  the  second-i-ate  actresses, 
and  was  often  intrusted  with  first-rate  comic  cha- 
racters. In  1815,  Miss  Mellon  married  Mr.  Coutts, 
a  wealthy  banker,  who  had  long  been  attached  to 
her ;  and,  at  his  death,  in  1822,  he  left  her  his 
immense  fortune.  Mrs.  Coutts  afterwards  mar- 
ried the  duke  of  St.  Albans,  a  man  much  younger 
than  herself.  On  her  death,  she  left  most  of  the 
property  to  Miss  Burdett,  daughter  of  Sir  Francis 
Burdett,  on  the  condition  that  the  young  lady  should 


bear,  in  addition  to  Burdett,   the  sm-name  and 
arms  of  Coutts. 

MERCER,    MARGARET, 

Deserving  a  place  among  the  most  distinguished 
of  her  sex,  for  her  noble  philanthropy,  and  efforts 
in  the  cause  of  female  education,  was  born  at  An- 
napolis, Maryland,  in  1791.  The  family  of  Mercer 
descended  from  an  ancient  English  stock,  trans- 
planted to  this  country  soon  after  its  colonization ; 


the  race  has,  in  its  new  location,  done  honour  to 
the  source  from  whence  it  was  derived.  The 
father  of  Margaret  was,  at  the  time  of  her  birth, 
governor  of  Maryland,  a  man  of  excellent  education, 
refined  taste,  and  large  wealth.  Retiring  from  pub- 
lic life,  governor  Mercer  withdrew  to  his  estate  at 
Cedar  Fork,  and  devoted  himself  to  agricultural 
pursuits,  and  the  training  of  his  children.  Marga- 
ret was  his  only  daughter,  and  her  education  was 
conducted  under  his  immediate  care,  with  little 
assistance  from  other  teachers:  she  often  re- 
marked, that  she  had  been  "  brought  up  at  her 
father's  feet."  Margaret  Mercer  is  another  ex- 
ample, added  to  the  list  our  "Record"  furnishes, 
of  the  beneficial  influence  which  thorough  mental 
training  exercises  on  woman's  character,  by  en- 
abling her  to  make  her  moral  power  more  re- 
spected and  more  effective.  Scarcely  an  instance 
can  be  found  where  a  father  has  aided  and  encou- 
raged the  mental  improvement  of  his  daughter, 
but  that  she  has  done  honour  to  his  care  and 
kindness,  and  been  the  brightest  jewel  in  his  in- 
tellectual crown.  Such  was  Margaret  Mercer; 
proud  as  the  family  might  well  be  of  the  name 
they  bore,  she  has  added  its  holiest  lustre.  "  Her 
character,"  says  her  biographer,*  in  his  excellent 
"Memoir"  of  this  noble  woman,  "comprised  ele- 
ments apparently  very  diverse,  and  yet  all  com- 
bined into  a  perfect  whole,  as  the  varied  colours 
of  a  ray  of  light.  Gentle,  and  full  of  affection  for 
all,  and  ready  to  sympathize  with  sorrow  wherever 
met  with ;  feelings,  the  evidence  of  which  will  be 
found  scattered  everywhere  around  these  traces 


*  Caspar  Morris,  M.  D. 


424 


ME 


ME 


of  her  path  through  life,  she  yet  possessed  an  en- 
ergy and  firmness  rarely  found  in  this  connexion." 

If  Dr.  Morris  had  reflected  farther  on  the  sub- 
ject, how  few  girls  are  trained  as  Margaret  Mercer 
was — her  mental  powers  developed,  and  directed 
to  guide  and  strengthen  rightly  those  delicate 
moral  sensibilities  and  tender  affections  peculiar 
to  her  sex,  he  would  have  found  the  reason  of  her 
superiority ;  and  also  he  would  have  understood 
why  learning — we  use  the  term  in  its  widest  sense 
— is  of  great  advantage  to  woman  as  well  as  to 
man. 

In  another  place,  after  giving  a  sketch  of  her 
studies  in  botany,  and  love  of  gardening,  &c.,  Dr. 
Morris  says : 

"  But  it  was  not  upon  these  sportive  fancies 
alone  that  her  mind  exerted  its  powers.  Gi'aver 
subjects  occupied  her  attention,  and  performed 
their  part  in  giving  increased  vigour  to  her  rea- 
soning faculties,  whilst  the  others  were  adding  to 
the  already  aboimding  stores  of  her  fertile  imagi- 
nation. It  has  been  mentioned  that  she  had  ac- 
cess to  a  choice  collection  of  works  on  history  and 
general  literature :  these  were  her  familiar  com- 
panions, and  her  mind  was  thoroughly  stored  with 
their  contents ;  whilst  we  find  her  sometimes  deep 
in  mathematics,  allowing  herself  but  four  hours' 
rest  in  the  twenty-four,  that  she  might  bring  her 
mind  under  the  wholesome  discipline  of  this  pa- 
rent of  careful  thought;  at  others,  theological 
discussions  asserted  an  unrivalled  empire  over  her 
mind,  and  in  order  to  drink,  as  she  supposed, 
more  purely  from  the  fountain  itself,  with  less  in- 
tervention of  human  teaching,  she  devoted  herself 
with  almost  undivided  attention  to  the  study  of 
Hebrew ;  and  a  short  time  after,  we  find  her  care- 
fully threading  the  intricate  mysteries  of  medical 
science,  that  by  the  acquisition  of  coi-rect  know- 
ledge on  the  nature  of  diseases  and  remedies,  she 
might  enlarge  the  sphere  of  her  benevolent  use- 
fulness. The  deep  abstractions  of  metaphysics 
did  not  deter  her  from  trying  to  fathom  those 
abysses  into  which  the  mind  plunges  its  line  in 
vain,  growing  old  in  drawing  up  no  certain  token 
of  reaching  the  solid  foundation  over  which  its 
deep  waters  roll  so  proudly.  She  remarks  to  a 
friend :  '  I  do  not  come  on  very  well  with  meta- 
physics ;  I  dislike  anything  so  inconclusive,  and 
should  be  tired  of  following  an  angel,  if  he  talked 
so  in  a  ring.'  A  paper  of  '  Thoughts  on  the  Mag- 
net' proves  her  to  have  given  attention  to  natural 
philosophy,  and  at  an  early  period  to  have  at- 
tempted to  solve  some  of  those  mysterious  ti'uths 
which  are  now  but  dawning  upon  the  horizon  of 
human  knowledge.  But  whilst  on  all  these  sub- 
jects she  could  express  herself  with  ease  and  elo- 
quence, there  was  a  simplicity  and  delicacy  about 
her  character  which  separated  her  as  widely  as 
can  be  conceived  from  that  class  of  '  women  of 
masculine  understanding,'  whose  assumption  of 
claims  to  superiority  over  their  own  sex  leads 
them  to  despise  the  refinements  and  delicacy  which 
communicate  an  appropriate  and  attractive  grace 
to  the  female  character.  These  can  never  be  laid 
aside,  no  matter  how  great  the  positive  acquire- 
ment, without  a  violation  of  the  laws  of  nature, 


and  a  consequent  shock  to  that  unity  of  action 
which  constitutes  the  beauty  of  the  works  of  Him, 
who  gave  to  each  an  appropriate  part  in  the  sub- 
lime harmony  of  the  universe,  which  attests  His 
wisdom  and  power.  Never  was  feminine  grace 
more  beautifully  illustrated  than  in  her  whole  ca- 
reer. She  never  forgot  that  it  is  the  peculiar 
province  of  woman  to  minister  to  the  comfort,  and 
promote  the  happiness,  first,  of  those  most  nearly 
allied  to  her,  and  then  of  those,  who  by  the  pro- 
vidence of  God  are  placed  in  a  state  of-<lependence 
upon  her.  To  discharge  these  duties  was  her  un- 
ceasing object,  to  the  accomplishing  which  she 
devoted  herself  with  entire  singleness  of  purpose. 
Thus  she  writes  to  a  friend :  '  I,  like  every  little 
mole  toiling  in  his  own  dark  passage,  have  been 
given  to  murmui'ing,  and  my  great  complaint  for 
some  time  past  has  been,  that  I  was  cut  off  from 
every  means  of  usefulness,  and  could  not  find  any- 
thing on  earth  to  do  that  might  not  as  well  remain 
undone ;  and  while  I  am  fretting  at  having  nothing 
to  do,  you  find  equal  discomfort  in  having  too 
much.  Somebody,  no  matter  who,  has  said  the 
secret  of  happiness  was  that  the  busy  find  leisure, 
and  the  idle  find  business,  and  it  would  seem  so 
between  us.  And  yet  I  doubt  whether  happiness 
is  not  a  principle  which  belongs  exclusively  to 
God,  and  whether  we  can  ever  be  satisfied  till  we 
wake  up  in  his  likeness.  Whenever  you  can  find 
that  spot,  sacred  to  religious  peace  and  true 
friendship,  send  for  me  to  your  paradise,  but  re- 
member this  is  the  reward  promised  to  those  who 
have  gone  through  the  struggle  of  our  great  spiritual 
warfare.' 

At  this  time  her  pencil,  her  pen,  and  her  needle, 
were  all  put  in  requisition  in  aid  of  the  Greeks,  in 
their  struggle  for  liberty. 

When  Margaret  Mercer  was  about  two-and- 
twenty,  she  made  a  public  profession  of  religion ; 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  she  thus  commemorates 
this  important  event: 

"I  was  confirmed,  and  had  the  pious  blessing 
of  our  venerable  old  bishop,  the  day  before  I  came 
from  home.  You  cannot  think  how  humble,  how 
penitent,  how  happy  I  feel.  It  seems  as  though 
I  still  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand  on  my  head. 
He  has  promised  to  come  to  see  me  next  spring. 
...  I  do  not  think  I  was  ever  made  for  a  married 
woman ;  I  feel  as  if  I  was  not  intended  to  take  so 
great  a  share  in  worldly  things.  If  I  did,  I  should 
forget  my  God,  perhaps ;  and  may  Providence 
load  me  with  every  human  misery,  and  deprive 
me  of  every  earthly  good,  rather  than  that." 

And  now  that  her  fine  talents  had  been  culti- 
vated by  a  liberal  education  and  an  extensive 
course  of  reading,  and  her  naturally  amiable  dis- 
position warmed  and  purified  by  true  piety,  she 
was  ready  for  her  work.  Yet  who  that  then  looked 
upon  her  would  have  dreamed  what  that  work 
was  to  be  !  Her  biographer  thus  describes  her  at 
this  period : 

"In  personal  appearance,  Miss  Mercer  was 
peculiarly  attractive ;  her  stature  was  originally 
tall,  her  carriage  graceful,  her  eye  beaming  with 
intelligence,  and  her  whole  countenance  expressive 
of  the  loveliest  traits  of  female  character.    Disease 

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and  care  set  their  marks  upon  her  face  in  after 
life,  and  caused  her  form  to  lose  its  symmetry, 
but  never  quenched  the  beaming  of  the  eye,  nor 
darkened  the  radiance  of  her  soul,  which  shone 
on  every  feature  to  the  very  last.  Her  appear- 
ance was  indeed  the  embodiment  of  the  ideal  of 
female  loveliness  and  worth ;  and  it  may  be  as- 
serted with  safety,  that  none  ever  approached  her 
without  receiving  the  impression  of  the  presence 
of  one  elevated  above  the  common  grade  of  mortal 
life.  There  was  a  combination  of  the  attractive 
graces  with  the  impressiveness  of  superior  power 
which  is  rarely  met  with ;  and  while  her  manner 
was  often  sportive,  and  she  could  adorn  the  most 
common  subjects  of  conversation  by  the  most 
graceful  turns  of  thought  and  purity  of  language, 
thei'e  was  frequently  an  elevation  of  thought  and 
force  of  expression,  which  carried  those  thrown 
into  association  with  her,  into  a  higher  sphere 
than  that  of  common  every-day  existence.  Even 
those  who  could  not  sympathize  with  and  appre- 
ciate her  character,  were  still  struck  with  this 
feature  in  it,  and  its  influence  was  acknowledged 
in  the  fact,  that  none  would  dare  to  express  be- 
fore her  sentiments  or  opinions  which  would  have 
been  uttered  in  conversation  with  other  persons 
without  restraint." 

This  is  the  true  moral  influence  which  woman, 
when  her  education  is  properly  conducted,  and 
her  position  rightly  understood,  will  exercise  over 
men,  over  society.  That  this  moral  power  was 
held  by  woman,  Miss  Mercer  felt  to  be  true  ;  and 
hence  arose  her  distaste  for  the  "  chatter""of  the 
vain,  frivolous,  accomplished  young  ladies,  whom 
she  met  in  society.  Thus  she  writes  of  her  visit 
at  Washington : 

"I  acknowledge  that  there  are  many  persons 
around  me  vastly  better  than  I  am ;  but  I  am 
speaking  of  society,  not  people ;  and  I  confess 
that  the  '  unidea-ed  chatter  of  females'  is  past  my 
endurance ;  they  are  very  capable  of  better  things, 
but  what  of  that  ?  Is  it  not  yet  more  annoying, 
that  they  will  do  nothing  better  ?  And  besides  all 
this,  I  have  more  painful  feelings  of  embarrass- 
ment in  company  than  I  had  at  sixteen.  I  am  old, 
too ;  and,  when  I  go  into  gay  scenes,  the  illusion 
is  gone,  and  I  fancy  the  illuminated  hall  to  resem- 
ble the  castle  of  enchantment,  where  Armida  kept 
all  who  were  capable  of  virtue  bound  in  the  lap 
of  pleasure.  I  think  how  a  M.  Fellenberg  has 
devoted  a  noble  spirit  to  a  grand  system  of  educa- 
tion, and  given  them  the  model.  All  admire,  all 
talk  of  it,  and  no  one  on  the  wide  globe  follows 
the  example.  Mrs.  Fry  opens  the  prison  gates — 
looses  the  bonds  of  the  captive  —  carries  healing 
into  broken  hearts,  or  plants  virtue  where  vice 
was  the  only  growth  —  what  are  all  these  chatter- 
ing women  about,  that  they  cannot  wear  a  simple 
garb,  and  follow  her  to  jails  and  hospitals  and 
poor-houses  ?  No  —  if  I  cannot  do  good  where 
there  is  so  much  to  do,  I  never  was  and  never  will 
be  a  votary  of  folly." 

She  was  now  engaged  in  founding  a  Sunday 
school.  Writing  to  a  friend,  she  says  —  "When 
my  head  turns  to  this  subject,  it  seems  to  me  I 
want  forty  heads,  well  stored  with  strong  sense  ; 


forty  frames  supported  by  vigorous  strength  and 
health ;  and  a  hundred  hands  as  organs  of  execu- 
tion for  the  plans  and  projects  of  my  head." 

Miss  Mercer  was  to  have  a  wider  sphere  for  the 
office  of  teacher,  which  seemed  her  peculiar  mis- 
sion. Her  mother  died  when  Margaret  was  young. 
Her  father's  death,  which  took  place  at  Philadel- 
phia, whither  she  had  accompanied  him  for  his 
health,  proved  the  crisis  of  her  life.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  all  the  indulgences  love  and  wealth 
can  bestow.  From  this  time,  she  was  to  prove 
what  those  endure  who  have  only  their  faith  in 
God  and  their  own  energies  on  which  to  rely. 
Much  of  her  property  consisted  in  slaves  —  these 
she  liberated,  provided  for,  and  sent  to  Liberia. 
Thus  Dr.  Morris  gives  the  summary : 

"  This  emancipation  of  her  slaves  was  one  of  a 
chain  of  acts  inseparably  linked  together,  by  which 
she  reduced  herself  from  affluence  to  absolute  de- 
pendence on  her  own  exertions  for  maintenance  ; 
and  that  not  ignorantly  and  gradually,  but  in- 
stantly, and  with  full  knowledge  of  the  inevitable 
result.  She  therefore  apologizes  to  Mr.  Gurley 
for  doing  so  little  for  them,  and  remarks :  '  Should 
any  think  I  have  not  done  my  part  by  these  poor 
creatures,  I  can  but  bear  the  blame  silently.  A 
formal  remonstrance  against  my  making  such  a 
disposition  of  my  property  has  been  addressed  to 

me  by and .     Had  it  been  anything  but 

human  flesh  and  blood,  souls  belonging  to  the  God 
that  made  them,  I  should  have  yielded.  But  I 
have  determined  to  abide  the  consequences.'  These 
consequences  were  anxiety,  toil,  and  poverty,  en- 
dured without  a  murmur  or  regret,  during  twenty- 
five  years  of  life  enfeebled  by  constant  disease. 
These  sacrifices  for  Africa,  and  her  efi'orts  in  be- 
half of  the  negro  race,  were  alone  sufficient  to 
place  her  name  high  on  the  roll  of  female  philan- 
thropists." 

Yes,  the  name  of  Margaret  Mercer  should  be 
placed  among  the  highest.  Elizabeth  Fry  made 
few,  if  any,  pecuniary  sacrifices.  Sarah  Martin 
never  descended  from  a  high  social  position  to  aid 
the  poor ;  but  Margaret  Mercer  performed  both 
of  these  self-denying  deeds  of  heroic  virtue. 

And  now  she  was  to  begin  the  world ;  she  chose 
the  arduous  post  of  teacher  in  a  school  for  young 
girls  in  Virginia ;  but  her  plans  of  charity  were 
not  given  up.     Thus  she  writes  to  a  friend : 

"  I  have  been  desiring  a  day  or  two  of  repose 
that  I  might  devote  to  you  and  your  dearest  mo- 
ther. But,  indeed,  you  have  very  little  idea  of 
the  life  I  lead.  Saturday  is  as  laboriously  spent 
in  working  for  the  Liberian  Society,  as  any  other 
day  in  the  week ;  and  on  Sunday  we  have  a  Sun- 
day-school, in  which  I  have  my  part,  and  so  make 
out  to  employ  every  day  fully.  Drawing  keeps  me 
on  my  feet  for  six  hours  every  other  day ;  and  at 
first  it  was  truly  bewildei-ing  to  teach  twenty-three 
children  who  did  not  know  how  to  make  a  straight 
line.  You  are  anxious  to  know  all  about  me,  and 
you  see  I  am  free  in  my  communication :  there 
are  many  encouraging  circumstances  in  the  mode 
of  life  I  have  adopted ;  for  those  very  things  that 
are  most  painful  prove  how  much  there  is  to  do  ;  and 
where  there  is  much  to  do,  steady  laborious  efforts 

426 


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ME 


to  do  good  will  doubtless  be  blessed,  although  we 
may  in  mei-cy  be  denied  the  luxury  of  seeing  our 
work  under  the  sun  prosper.  ]Mrs.  G.  is  sometimes 
very  much  dispirited,  at  times  without  cause ;  for 
every  little  painful  occurrence  of  misconduct  in  the 
children  affords  opportunity  of  more  strenuously 
enforcing  good  principles.  I  never  knew  how  to 
be  thankful  to  my  parents,  above  all  to  my  God, 
for  a  good  education,  until  I  came  to  look  into  the 
state  of  young  ladies  generally." 

The  desire  to  be  made  instrumental  in  training 
souls  for  eternity  was  the  ruling  motive  by  which 
she  was  influenced ;  and,  from  the  very  first,  her 
chief  efforts  were  devoted  to  this  great  end,  which 
was  pursued  without  deviation  throughout  her 
whole  career,  though  by  no  means  to  the  neglect  of 
those  subsidiary  acquirements  which  she  esteemed 
as  highly  as  any  one  could  do,  and  laboured  most 
unremittingly  to  communicate  to  her  pupils. 

She  continued  in  this,  her  chosen  profession, 
for  about  twenty-five  years ;  established  a  school 
of  her  own  ;  and  her  example  and  influence  have 
had  a  most  salutary  and  wide-spread  effect  on 
the  community  where  she  resided.  TJiis  admirable 
woman  died  in  the  autumn  of  1846,  aged  fifty-five 
years.  She  prepared  two  works  for  her  pupils, 
"  Studies  for  Bible  Classes,"  and  a  volume  entitled 
"  Ethics ;"  in  the  form  of  lectures  to  young  ladies, 
which  she  employed  as  a  text-book  in  teaching 
moral  philosophy.  It  is  admirably  adapted  to  its 
purpose,  conveying  in  chaste,  yet  glowing  lan- 
guage, the  feelings  of  a  sanctified  heart.  She 
adopts  the  word  of  God  as  the  only  source  of 
knowledge,  as  well  of  the  practical  duties  of  life, 
as  of  our  relations  to  the  Author  of  our  being,  and 
endeavours  to  explain  and  enforce  the  principles 
there  laid  down  for  the  formation  of  character, 
and  the  government  of  life.  It  is  a  work  well 
worthy  of  the  diligent  study  of  every  woman  who 
desires  to  attain  to  a  high  degree  of  moral  worth. 
We  give  one  extract. 

CONVERSATION. 

"  If  you  are  conscious  that  the  sin  of  idle  talk- 
ing prevails  among  you  ;  if  you  are  sensible  of  so 
offending  individually ;  or,  if  the  sad  effect  of  this 
low,  disgraceful,  and  corrupting  vice  disturbs  the 
peace  and  serenity  of  your  little  circle,  let  me  en- 
treat you,  as  the  most  certain  corrective  of  the 
evil,  to  form  some  common  plan  for  promoting  the 
perfection  and  happiness  of  your  fellow-creatures. 
Imbue  your  hearts  with  the  spirit  of  active  charity, 
and  the  gossip  of  the  worldly-minded  will  indeed 
sound  on  your  ears  like  idle  words.  No  conversa- 
tion will  then  appear  to  you  worthy  of  notice,  but 
such  as  has  some  evident  bearing  upon  the  im- 
provement or  happiness  of  the  human  race.  When 
this  has  once  become  the  main  object  of  your 
hopes,  your  fears,  your  labours,  and  your  prayers, 
it  will  become  the  most  interesting  subject  of  your 
thoughts,  and  the  favourite  theme  of  your  conver- 
sations. Imagine  Mr.  Howard,  or  Mrs.  Fry,  to 
return  home  at  evening,  with  souls  filled  with 
images  of  the  poor  prisoners  they  had  visited, 
hand-cuflfed  and  chained,  lying  on  a  pile  of  filthy 
itraw,  perishing  with  cold  and  hunger ;  or,  worse. 


in  the  horrid  bondage  of  sin,  blaspheming,  drink- 
ing and  fighting  in  their  subterrene  hole.  Do 
you  think  they  would  be  agreeably  amused,  if, 
when  their  efforts  were  directed  to  '  stir  up  the 
pure  minds  fervently,'  of  the  young  around  them, 
to  aid  in  their  noble  labours,  they  were  called 
upon  to  join  in  the  childish  prattle  of  girls  dis- 
cussing the  ribands  on  their  hair,  or  the  rings  on 
their  fingers  ;  or,  in  the  equally  contemptible  jar- 
gon of  young  men  of  fashion,  of  their  hat-rims, 
or  coat-capes,  or  shoe-ties,  or,  still  worse,  the 
cruel,  wicked  custom,  usual  with  both  sexes,  of 
dissecting  characters,  and  speaking  evil  of  others, 
merely  to  excite  some  interest  in  their  vapid  con- 
versation ?  Conversation  is  to  ivorks  tvhat  the  flower 
is  to  the  fruit.  A  godly  conversation  shelters  and 
cherishes  the  new-born  spirit  of  virtue,  as  the 
flower  does  the  fruit  from  the  cold,  chill  atmo- 
sphere, of  a  heartless  world ;  and  the  beauty  of 
holiness  expanding  in  conversation,  gives  rational 
anticipation  of  noble-minded  principles  ripening 
into  the  richest  fruits  of  good  works.  You  know 
the  tree  as  well  by  the  flower  as  the  fruit,  and 
never  need  you  hope  to  see  the  fig  follow  the 
thistle  flower,  or  grapes  the  wild  bloom  of  the 
thorn  tree.  Honour  God,  then,  with  your  bodies 
and  spirits,  in  your  lives  and  conversations ;  show 
forth  holiness  out  of  a  good  conversation ;  for  the 
king's  daughter  is  all  glorious  within." 

As  we  prefer  giving  the  opinions  of  men  respect- 
ing the  distinguished  of  our  sex,  rather  than  ex- 
pressing our  own,  we  will  end  this  sketch  with 
another  extract  from  Dr.  Morris's  interesting 
work,  which  should  be  read  by  every  American 
woman. 

"  Miss  Mercer  was  a  patriot  woman,  and  lived 
and  suffered,  and  virtually  bled  and  died,  in  the 
service  of  her  country.  Serving  it  in  a  sphere  of 
action  the  most  important,  yet  too  commonly  the 
least  esteemed.  Standing  at  the  very  fountain  of 
influence,  and  casting  in  there  the  l>paling  branch 
which  shall  cause  pure  waters  to  flow  over  the 
wide  domain.  It  is  to  the  mothers  of  her  sons 
that  our  country  looks  for  the  impress  that  is  to 
make  them  her  great  and  her  good  men,  her  trust- 
ed and  her  honoured  sei-vants.  To  such  women 
as  Margaret  Mercer  would  we  trust  the  forming 
of  the  character  of  those  who  are  thus  to  give 
character  to  our  country  when  our  part  in  the 
drama  is  performed,  and  we  pass  for  ever  from 
an  interest  in  its  actings.  May  her  example  stir 
others  up  to  the  like  consecration  of  their  powers. 
It  is  the  female  pass  of  Thermopylae.  The  Salamis 
of  a  woman's  ambition." 

MERIAN,    MARIA   SIBYLLA, 

A  German  artist,  was  born  at  Frankfort  in  1647. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Matthew  Merian,  a  cele- 
brated engraver  and  topographer.  Miss  Merian 
became  a  pupil  of  Abraham  Mingon,  from  whom 
she  learned  great  neatness  of  handling,  and  deli- 
cacy of  colour.  She  painted  from  nature,  reptiles, 
flowers,  and  insects,  which  she  studied  with  the 
most  curious  and  minute  observation.  She  fre- 
quently painted  her  subjects  in  water-colours  on 
vellum,  and  finished  an  astonishing  number  of 

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designs.  She  drew  flies  and  caterpillars  in  all  the 
variety  of  changes  and  forms  in  which  they  suc- 
cessively appear.  She  even  undertook  a  voyage  to 
Surinam  to  paint  those  insects  and  reptiles  which 
were  peculiar  to  that  climate  ;  and,  on  her  return, 
published  two  volumes  of  engravings  after  her 
designs.  Her  works  are  still  referred  to  by  writers 
on  etymology.    She  died  at  Amsterdam,  in  1717. 

METRANA,   ANNA, 

An  Italian  lady,  lived  in  1718,  and  is  mentioned 
by  Orlandi  as  an  eminent  portrait-painter. 


h  vl 


^^^ 


MICHIEL,  RENIER  GIUSTINA, 
Was  born  1755,  in  Venice.  Her  father,  Andrea 
Renier,  was  son  of  the  last  doge,  save  one,  and 
her  mother,  Cecilia  Manin,  was  sister  of  the  last ; 
her  godfather,  Foscarini,  had  been  doge  himself, 
and  was  one  of  the  principal  literati  of  his  day. 
The  princely  rank  and  affluence  of  her  family,  of- 
fered every  possible  advantage  of  education :  from 
the  earliest  childhood  she  displayed  a  fondness  for 
study,  and  a  dislike  for  needlework,  and  such 
lady-like  business.  She  was  passionately  fond  of 
music,  and  devoted  a  great  portion  of  time  to  the 
cultivation  of  that  art,  as  well  as  to  literary  pur- 
suits. At  the  age  of  twenty,  she  married  Marco 
Michiel,  a  gentleman  of  high  rank.  She  accom- 
panied him  to  Rome,  where  his  father  resided  as 
ambassador,  and  there  she  became  acquainted 
with  all  the  most  distinguished  geniuses  of  Italy. 
In  conversing  with  foreigners,  she  felt  her  defi- 
ciency in  the  French  and  English  languages :  to 
these  she  immediately  applied  herself.  Intimacy 
with  professors  of  the  university,  turned  her  atten- 
tion to  natural  science :  she  became  well  acquainted 
with  geometry,  physics,  chemisti-y.  She  studied 
botany,  and  wrote  some  excellent  works  upon  it ; 
but  her  most  elaborate  and  considerable  produc- 
tion, is  the  "  Feste  Veniziane,"  a  work  of  no  little 
research  and  learning.  She  lived  in  an  extended 
circle  of  society,  to  all  of  whom  she  was  endeared 
by  her  amiable  qualities  and  superior  abilities. 
Albrizzi,  who  particularly  describes  her,  represents 
her  conversation  and  social  qualities  in  a  very 
charming  light.     She  was  fond  of  simplicity  in 


dress,  and  detested  afi"ectation  in  manner ;  beyond 
every  thing  she  avoided  the  society  of  tiresome 
and  insipid  persons.  "  For  me,"  said  she,  "  ennui 
is  among  the  worst  evils — I  can  bear  pain  better." 
Speaking  of  a  person  whom  she  had  reason  to 
condemn,  "Now  he  is  unfortmiate ;  justice  and 
humanity  can  ask  no  more — I  forget  his  faults." 
In  one  of  her  letters  she  writes,  "It  belongs  to 
my  character  to  think  well  of  people  as  long  as  it 
is  possible." 

In  her  latter  years  she  became  deaf,  and  had 
recourse  to  an  ear-trumpet.  Her  constitutional 
cheerfulness  turned  this  into  an  advantage.  Wri- 
ting to  a  friend,  she  says,  "  My  deafness  is  an  in- 
estimable advantage  in  company;  for  with  the 
stupid  and  gossiping  I  shun  all  communication ; 
their  nonsense  passes  unheeded — but  I  can  employ 
my  trumpet  with  sensible  people,  and  often  gain 
in  that  way  valuable  knowledge."  Another  other 
opinions  was,  "The  world  improves  people  ac- 
cording to  the  dispositions  they  bring  into  it." 
"  Time  is  a  better  comforter  than  reflection." 

In  1808,  the  French  government  sent  to  the 
municipality  of  Venice  a  writing  of  the  engineer 
Cabot,  entitled  "  Statistic  questions  concerning 
the  city  of  Venice."  The  municipality  imposed 
the  charge  of  answering  this  work  to  two  of  the 
most  distinguished  men  then  living,  the  cele- 
brated bibliopole  Morelli,  and  the  erudite  Jacopo 
Filiasi.  These  applied  to  Madame  Michiel  to  aid 
their  labour ;  and  it  was  while  immersed  in  the 
studies  this  task  involved,  that  the  idea  of  her 
"Feste  Veniziane,"  so  happily  executed,  was 
planned.  She  died  in  1832,  aged  seventy-seven 
years.  A  monument  was  erected  to  her  memory, 
with  an  inscription,  which,  though  eulogistic,  con- 
sidering her  life,  character,  and  learning,  was  not 
superior  to  her  merits. 

MILLER,  LADY, 
Resided  at  Bath-Easton,  near  Bath,  in  England. 
She  published  "  Letters  from  Itaty,"  and  also  a 
volume  of  poems.  She  was  well  known  as  a  lite- 
rary lady,  and  a  patroness  of  literature.  Her 
death  occui-red  in  1781. 

MILTON,    MARY, 

The  first  wife  of  the  poet  Milton,  was  the  oldest 
daughter  of  Richard  Powell,  Esq.,  a  magistrate 
of  Oxfordshire.  In  1643,  at  a  very  early  age,  she 
became  the  wife  of  John  Milton,  a  connexion,  for 
many  reasons,  very  unsuitable.  Mr.  Powell  was 
a  zealous  royalist,  who  practised  the  jovial  hospi- 
tality of  the  country  gentlemen  of  that  period ; 
and  the  transition  from  the  unrestrained  freedom 
of  such  a  home,  to  the  sombre  restraint  of  Milton's 
dull  residence,  in  a  close  and  confined  street  of 
London — a  constraint  no  doubt  increased  by  his 
naturally  reserved  and  abstracted  nature,  and  the 
puritanic  influences  which  surrounded  him  —  so 
wearied  the  young  creature,  that  she  sought  an 
invitation  from  her  father,  and  in  less  than  a 
month  from  her  marriage,  returned  home  on  a 
visit.  Here,  as  the  summer  passed  on,  she  received 
repeated  messages  and  letters  from  her  husband, 
summoning  her  home,  all  of  which  were  disre- 

428 


MI 


MN 


garded.  MiltOn,  incensed  at  her  disobedience, 
viewed  her  conduct  as  a  deliberate  desertion, 
which  broke  the  marriage  contract,  and  determined 
to  punish  it  by  repudiation.  This  matrimonial 
disagreement  gave  rise  to  his  treatises  on  the 
"Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce;  the  Judg- 
ment of  Martin  Bucer  concerning  Divorce ;"  and 
"  Tetrachordon,  or  Expositions  upon  four  chief 
Places  in  Scripture  which  treat  of  Marriage." 
Convinced  by  his  own  arguments,  Milton  began  to 
pay  his  addresses  to  a  lady  of  gi-eat  accomplish- 
ments, which  alarmed  the  parents  of  his  wife, 
and,  no  doubt,  awoke  her  to  a  sense  of  the  impro- 
priety of  her  conduct.  AVhile  on  a  visit  to  a  neigh- 
bour and  kinsman,  he  was  surprised  by  the  sud- 
den entrance  of  his  wife,  who  threw  herself  at  his 
feet,  and  expressed  her  penitence.  After  a  short 
struggle  of  resentment,  he  again  received  her,  and 
sealed  the  reconciliation  by  opening  his  house  to 
her  father  and  brothers,  who  had  been  driven  from 
their  home  by  the  triumph  of  the  republican  arms. 
Mrs.  Milton  died  young,  leaving  three  daugh- 
ters, who  severally  filled  the  office  of  amanuensis 
and  reader  to  their  father,  in  his  dai-kened  old 
age.  Milton's  ill  luck  in  his  first -essay,  did  not 
prevent  his  venturing  twice,  subsequently,  into 
the  marriage  state ;  though  it  has  obviously  left 
its  impress  upon  his  mind,  the  proper  subjection 
of  woman  unto  man,  being  a  subject  to  which  he 
never  fails  to  give  due  weight.  In  his  Paradise 
Lost — which,  strange  to  say,  seems  to  have  fur- 
nished the  popular  conception  of  Adam  and  Eve, 
to  readers  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  rather  than 
their  true  history  in  the  Bible — he  gives  Eve  an 
undue  share  in  the  "fall,"  investing  the  fact  with 
circumstances  that  weigh  heavily  and  unjustly 
upon  her.  The  Scripture  says,  "  She  took  of  the 
fruit  thereof,  and  did  eat ;  and  gave  also  unto  her 
husband  with  her,  and  he  did  eat."  Man's  supe- 
riority to  woman  is  but  poorly  illustrated  in  fol- 
lowing blindly  her  lead.  A  modern  husband  who 
stood  beside  his  wife  in  a  moment  of  imminent 
peril,  would  ill  perform  his  duty  if  he  did  not  ex- 
tend to  her  a  restraining  hand,  or  at  least  warn 
her  of  her  peril. 

MINGOTTI,   CATHARINE, 

A  CELEBR.\TED  Italian  singer,  was  born  at  Na- 
ples, in  1728.  After  the  death  of  her  father,  who 
was  a  German,  Catharine  entered  a  convent,  where 
she  was  instructed  in  music.  When  she  was  four- 
teen she  left  the  convent,  and  some  time  after 
married  Mingotti,  director  of  the  opera  at  Dresden. 
Here  she  was  very  much  admired,  and  sang  at  the 
theatre,  before  the  king.  Her  reputation  soon 
extended  through  Europe,  and  under  the  direction 
of  the  celebrated  Farinelli,  she  visited  most  of  the 
principal  cities  on  the  continent,  and  also  went  to 
London.  She  died  at  Munich,  in  1807.  She  was 
a  highly  educated  and  intellectual  woman. 

MINUTOLI,    LIVIA, 

Daughter  to  Andrea  and  Lucretia  de  Vulcano, 
was  married  to  Don  Louis  de  Silva,  of  the  dukes 
of  Pastrano,  knight  of  the  order  of  St.  James,  and 
commander  of  the  castle  of  Capuano.     When  she 


became  a  widow,  Charles  V. ,  emperor  of  Germany, 
chose  her,  on  account  of  her  virtue  and  good  sense, 
to  conduct  the  education  of  Margaret  of  Austria, 
his  daughter.    She  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

MNISZECH,    MARINA, 

Czarina  of  Muscovy,  was  the  daughter  of  a  Po- 
lish nobleman,  George  Mniszech,  palatine  of  Sando- 
mir.  He  was  ambitious,  but  without  the  ability  to 
conduct  his  ambition,  and  he  deserves  the  appella- 
tion of  an  intriguer  rather  than  a  politician.     It 


has  been  often  seen  how  trivial  incidents  sway  the 
destinies  of  individuals ;  and  a  long  train  of  events, 
romantic  and  horrible,  which  form  the  destiny  of 
Marina,  may  be  traced  to  the  circumstance  of  a 
pardon  granted  by  the  palatine  to  an  old  woman 
condemned  to  death,  who  held  the  social  position 
of  a  witch.  This  personage  being  introduced  into 
the  palace  for  the  exercise  of  her  profession,  cast- 
ing her  eyes  upon  the  extraordinary  beauty  and 
grace  of  the  daughter  of  George,  boldly  predicted 
that  she  would  one  day  occupy  a  throne.  This 
prediction  was  taken  seriously ;  the  child  was 
educated  for  her  future  elevation,  to  which  she 
looked  forward  with  confidence.  A  noble  youth 
called  Zarucki,  with  whom  she  had  been  educated, 
conceived  for  her  a  most  violent  passion ;  but  her 
thoughts  were  bent  upon  ambitious  elevation,  and 
she  received  his  sentiments  with  indifference.  He 
will  appear  at  another  period  of  her  life. 

To  enter  with  understanding  into  the  incidents 
of  her  career,  it  is  necessary  to  give  a  glance  at 
the  history  of  Russia.  Ivan  IV.  was  the  son  of 
the  first  monarch  who  took  the  title  of  Czar.  He 
ascended  the  throne  in  1555.  He  was  a  remark- 
able man,  and  had  he  lived  at  a  later  period,  he 
might  have  acted  the  part  of  Peter :  like  him,  he 
presented  a  strange  mixture  of  talent  and  brutality. 
His  military  and  political  abilities  were  consider- 
able ;  but  he  was  savage  and  unspai-ing,  and  ac- 
knowledged no  law  but  his  own  inclinations.  Ivan 
IV.  left  two  sons,  Fedor  and  Demetrius.  The  first 
was  a  sickly,  weak-minded  young  man ;  and  the 
sagacity  of  his  father,  aware  that  he  was  unfit  to 
govern,  led  him  to  establish  a  regency,  and  place  at 

429 


MN 


MN 


the  head  of  it  a  man  but  too  able,  the  boyard  Bosis 
Godonuff.  Demetrius,  who  was  of  tender  years, 
was  placed  with  his  mother,  Irene,  in  the  city  of 
Uglitz,  on  the  Volga.  Bosis  found  it  an  easy 
matter  to  constitute  himself  the  efficient  head  of 
the  state  ;  but  he  had  uneasy  moments  in  thinking 
of  the  growing  advantages  of  Demetrius,  who  was 
beautiful,  intelligent,  and  adored  by  the  people. 
Bosis  adopted  the  usual  expedient  under  barbarous 
and  despotic  administrations ;  after  several  at- 
tempts, rendered  ineffectual  by  the  vigilance  of 
Irene,  he  procured  assassins,  who  stabbed  the 
young  prince  to  the  heart.  Fedor  dying  naturally 
a  few  months  after  this,  Bosis  became  undisputed 
czar  of  the  country.  Years  rolled  on,  when  ru- 
mours were  heard  that  the  young  Demetrius  was 
living  —  the  murdered  child,  it  was  said,  was  a 
substituted  victim  —  and  that  the  heir  had  been 
brought  up  under  the  name  of  Gregory  OtrepiefiF, 
protected  by  the  family  of  Romanoff.  For  greater 
safety,  he  had  entered  a  monastery.  Hearing 
that  Bosis  had  given  orders  for  his  apprehension, 
Gregory  fled  from  his  monastery,  and  after  various 
adventures,  arrived  in  Poland,  and  sought  an  asy- 
lum with  the  palatine  of  Sandomir. 

At  this  period  the  Jesuits  were  extending  their 
power,  by  every  means,  throughout  the  world; 
and  a  member  of  this  society,  adroit,  vigilant,  un- 
scrupulous, was  not  wanting  in  Poland.  Father 
Gaspar  Sawicki  was  in  attendance  upon  the  prince 
Adam  Wisniowiecki,  when  the  pretender  to  the 
crown  of  Muscovy  entered  the  palace  of  George 
Mniszech.  .This  was  a  conjuncture  in  which  the 
spirit  of  intrigue  could  not  lie  dormant.  The 
young  man  happening  to  fall  sick,  demanded  a 
priest.  Sawicki  had  a  conference  with  him,  and 
communicated  to  the  Polish  grandees  that  this 
was  veritably  the  son  of  Ivan.  Here  was  the  way 
to  a  throne,  so  long  aspired  to  by  Marina,  plainly 
discovered.  The  pretender  had,  by  numerous 
channels,  constant  communications  with  an  exten- 
sive party  who  secretly  intrigued  for  him  in  Rus- 
sia. Matters  were  often  and  freely  discussed ; 
proofs  of  his  identity  were  offered  by  Gregory, 
and  accepted  by  the  easy  faith  of  the  palatine  and 
his  daughter.  A  real  affection  between  the  young 
people  appears  to  have  cemented  the  political 
union  the  Jesuit  and  the  palatine  were  so  anxious 
to  effect.  A  regular  treaty  was  signed ;  Marina 
was  to  espouse  the  prince,  in  the  event  of  his  suc- 
cess ;  he  was  to  cede  to  the  palatine  the  duchy  of 
Novogrod ;  and  the  Romish  religion  was  to  be  in- 
troduced into  Muscovy,  at  whatever  cost.  This  last 
article  was  the  origin  of  Demetrius'  ruin. 

A  large  army  was  soon  organized ;  the  king  of 
Poland,  by  the  powerful  intercession  of  Mniszech, 
entered  into  secret  negotiations,  by  which  he 
pledged  himself  to  support  the  pretender,  whose 
bands  were  increased  by  recruits  from  every  part 
of  the  continent.  The  fame  of  Ivan  was  not  for- 
gotten, his  memory  was  dear  to  his  subjects.  The 
usurper,  like  others  who  have  dared 

"  To  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind," 
was  odious  to  the  people,  and  Demetrius  entered 
Russia  not  without  expectations  of  being  successful 


in  the  contest ;  but  every  thing  was  changed  by  the 
death  of  Bosis,  who,  like  an  every-day  person, 
simplj'  died  in  his  bed.  When  Demetrius  pre- 
sented himself,  no  opposition  of  any  consequence 
was  offered ;  and  his  partizans,  with  added  enthu- 
siasm, bore  him  triumphantly  to  the  throne.  His 
success  was  tarnished  by  the  brutal  treatment  of 
the  widow  and  family  of  Bosis,  who  were  con- 
signed to  the  executioner — the  family  of  GodunoS' 
became  thus  extinct. 

As  soon  as  Demetrius  had  arrived  at  his  eleva- 
tion, he  sent  for  his  affianced  bride.  Marina 
arrived  after  a  triumphal  progress,  and  was  so- 
lemnly crowned  Czai-ina.  The  empress  Irene  had 
recognized  the  young  monarch,  and  declared  him 
her  son.  To  this  day  the  case  is  problemati- 
cal. The  extreme  indifference  of  Bosis  when  he 
first  heard  of  the  claims  of  the  pretended  Deme- 
trius, and  when  it  would  have  been  so  easy  to 
gain  possession  of  his  person,  seems  to  argue 
an  entire  certainty  of  his  insignificance.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  tenderness  manifested  by  Irene, 
who  could  have  no  object,  not  even  that  of  ven- 
geance, since  the  race  of  Bosis  had  perished,  for 
supporting  an  impostor,  is  no  unimportant  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  the  new  czar.  Demetrius  had 
lived  too  long  in  more  civilized  regions  to  accom- 
modate himself  to  the  prejudices  of  the  Musco- 
vites ;  daily  discontents  arose,  even  from  the  most 
futile  causes.  He  would  eat  veal,  which  to  the 
superstitions  of  the  country  was  an  odious  crime ; 
he  would  wear  the  Polish  garb,  another  heinous 
offence.  But  the  most  serious  of  his  errors,  the 
one  which  no  doubt  mainly  contributed  to  his 
downfall,  was  the  furthering  the  schemes  of  the 
Jesuits,  and  departing  from  the  national  religion. 
A  revolution  was  quietly  organized;  on  the  16tli 
of  May,  1607,  the  palace  was  entered  by  a  mob 
of  soldiers,  and  of  the  populace  under  the  Boyard 
Tzwiscky.  Demetrius  fell,  jjierced  by  a  thousand 
weapons ;  and  Marina  with  difficulty  escaped,  ac- 
companied by  her  father.  Basilio  Tzwiski  placed 
himself  on  the  throne  of  his  nation ;  but,  unwil- 
ling to  incur  the  enmity  of  Sigismond,  permitted 
all  the  Poles  to  depart  uninjured.  Marina,  who 
had  come  to  Moscow  guided  by  love,  joy,  ambi- 
tion, left  it  like  a  mendicant,  poor,  exiled,  des- 
pised. She  was,  however,  not  destined  to  revisit 
her  native  country.  Before  she  left  the  confines 
of  Russia,  she  was  met  by  an  adventurer  whom  she 
perfectly  well  knew  to  be  a  Jew  named  Jank^li, 
a  man  in  every  way  repulsive,  morally  and  physi- 
cally; but  she  had  quaffed  the  draught  of  ambi- 
tion, and,  to  regain  the  vain  title  of  queen,  she 
entered  into  a  miserable  plot  with  this  man,  every 
way  and  doubly  an  impostor.  He  was  to  present 
himself  as  Demetrius,  escaped  from  the  blows  of 
the  assassins ;  already  he  had  soldiers,  had  fol- 
lowers ;  it  remained  for  her  to  confirm  his  iden- 
tity, which  she  culpably  did.  The  country  now 
became  a  prey  to  civil  discords,  carried  on  by 
armies  composed  of  ferocious  semi-savages,  and 
conducted  by  no  one  of  talents  or  name  to  mode- 
rate or  terminate  such  terrible  contests.  At  length 
Sigismond  III.  determined  to  interfere  ;  he  assem- 
bled his  forces,  easily  routed  the  disorderly  parti- 

430 


MO 


•  MO 


zans  of  Tzwiski,  and  as  easily  purchased  the  re- 
nunciation of  the  false  Demetrius.  He  brought 
his  son  Ladislaus,  and  seated  him  on  the  throne 
of  Moscow. 

But  though  the  other  claimants  were  set  aside, 
the  ambitious  iMarina  would  not  give  up  so  readily 
the  aim  of  her  life ;  she  dressed  herself  in  the 
garb  of  a  general,  mounted  on  horseback,  put  her- 
self at  the  head  of  all  the  forces  she  could  collect, 
and  manfully  opposed  herself  to  Ladislaus.     A 
powerful  unwearying  will,  sustained  by  such  won- 
derful courage,   obtained  many  adherents.     She 
made  herself  allies  of  the  wandering  Tartars  and 
Cossacs ;  but  the  treachery  of  her  pseudo-husband 
turned  these  into  enemies,  and  after  incredible 
efforts,  she  found  herself  at  last  in  a  dungeon,  in 
the  power  of  her  opponents.     Disdaining  to  sup- 
plicate compassion,  she  resigned  herself  to  her 
fate.     She  said  she  did  not  wish  to  live,  if  she 
could  not  reign.    But  she  had  not  come  to  the  end 
of  her  adventures.     One  day,  the  quiet  of  her 
prison  was  broken  by  a  noise  of  combatants  ;  the 
doors  flew  open.    Oh  Providence !    It  was  Zarucki, 
the  lover  of  her  childhood ;  he  had  become  a  chief 
of  the  Cossacs.    After  liberating  her,  he  offered  to 
conduct  her  into  Poland  to  her  father.     This  ofi'er 
she  refused.     Intoxicated  with  the  ambition  of 
royalty,  she  exerted  her  influence  over  this  devoted 
champion  to  incite  new  and  fruitless  attempts  at 
recovering   a   sovereignty  to  which  she  had  no 
claim.    She  united  herself  to  Zarucki,  over  whose 
mind  she  obtained  complete  dominion ;  his  Cossacs 
followed  her  with  impetuosity,  and  like  a  devas- 
tating torrent  poured  upon  the  east  of  Russia.    It 
was  at  this  epoch  that  the  patriots  Kosmo,  Minin, 
and  the  prince  Pojarski,  formed  a  confederacy  to 
free  their  country  from  the  foreigners,  who  ren- 
dered it  a  scene  of  carnage.     The  first  to  be  en- 
countered  was    Zarucki ;    their    superior   forces 
completely  overpowered  him ;  and  he  was  forced 
to  flee  with  Marina  and  their  infant  son  among 
the  snows  and  wildernesses.     It  would  be  difiicult 
to  describe  the  sufl"erings  they  encountered  ;  for  it 
was  in  the  depth  of  winter  that  their  wanderings 
began.    Their  fate  was  inevitable ;  they  were  tak^n 
by  a  detachment  of  the  Russian  army.     Zarucki 
fell  at  the  feet  of  his  wife,  staining  the  snow  with 
his  blood.     Marina  was  considered  by  these  men  as 
the  firebrand  which  had  brought  destruction  upon 
their  country.  With  revengeful  brutality  they  broke 
the  ice  of  the  river  Jaick  with  axes,  and  plunged 
the  unfortunate  creature  into  its  cold  waters  ! 

MOMORO,    SOPHIE, 

G  KAND-DAUGHTER  of  the  CDgravcr  Fournier,  was 
married,  or  rather  united,  to  the  celebrated  Mo- 
moro.  She  was  chosen  for  her  beauty  to  enact 
the  part  of  the  Goddess  of  Reason,  and  appeared 
on  the  altar  of  one  of  the  Parisian  churches,  in  a 
costume  entirely  transparent,  and  sui-rounded  by 
two  hundred  young  girls,  to  receive  the  homage 
of  the  people,  as  the  representative  of  that  deity 
to  whom  alone  they  had  declared  their  allegiance. 
Her  husband  was  executed  in  1793,  and  she  was 
imprisoned,  but  afterwai-ds  liberated.  The  time 
of  her  death  is  not  known. 


iMONK,    THE   HON.    MRS., 

Was  the  daughter  of  lord  Molesworth,  an  Irish 
nobleman,  and  wife  of  George  Monk,  Esq.  By  her 
own  unassisted  efforts  she  learned  the  Spanish, 
Italian,  and  Latin  languages,  and  the  art  of  poetry. 
Her  poems  were  not  published  till  after  her  death, 
when  they  were  printed  under  the  title  of  "  Ma- 
rinda ;  Poems  and  Translations  on  several  occa- 
sions." These  wi'itings  are  said  to  show  the  true 
spirit  of  poetry,  and  much  delicacy  and  correct- 
ness of  thought  and  expression.  They  were  all 
written  while  occupied  with  the  care  of  a  large 
family,  and  without  any  assistance,  excepting  that 
of  a  good  library.  The  following  is  an  impromptu 
epitaph  on  a  "Lady  of  Pleasure." 

O'er  this  marble  drop  a  tear, 

Here  lies  fair  Rosalind; 
All  mankind  were  pleased  with  her, 

And  she  %vith  all  mankind." 

Mrs.  Monk  was  a  lady  of  exemplary  character, 
and  greatly  beloved  by  all  who  knew  her.  She  died 
at  Bath,  in  1715. 


V 


^•v 


ffl 


r  t 


MOHALBI,    GARAFILIA, 

A  Greek  gii-l,  was  born  in  the  island  of  Ipsara, 
in  1817.  Her  parents  were  rich  and  respectable, 
and  among  the  first  people  in  Ipsara.  When  Gara- 
filia  was  about  seven  years  of  age,  the  place  of 
her  nativity  was  totally  destroyed  by  the  Turks, 
under  the  usual  circumstances  of  horror.  Saved 
by  almost  a  miracle  from  violent  death,  she  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  was  separated  from 
her  grandmother  and  sister,  taken  to  Smyrna,  and 
there  was  ransomed  by  an  American  merchant,  to 
whose  knees  she  clung  for  protection  in  the  street. 
This  gentleman  took  her  home  with  him,  and  be- 
came so  much  engaged  by  her  intelligence  and 
amiableness,  that  he  determined  to  send  her  to  hi.-< 
relations  in  Boston,  in  order  that  she  might  re- 
ceive, at  his  expense,  an  accomplished  education 
in  a  free  and  undistracted  land. 

Garafilia  arrived  in  Boston  in  the  year  1827, 
was  immediately  domesticated  in  the  family  of  her 
liberatoi''s  father,  and  very  soon  found  her  way 
into  all  their  hearts.     She  won  affections  as  by 

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magic.  Her  protector  knew  no  distinction,  in  his 
feelings,  between  her  and  his  own  daughters  —  he 
was  her  father  —  they  were  her  sisters.  She  was 
so  mild  and  gentle,  so  free  from  selfishness,  so  at- 
tentive to  the  wants  of  others,  so  ready  to  prefer 
their  wishes  to  her  own,  so  submissive  and  tracta- 
ble, and  withal  so  bright  and  cheerful ;  the  beauty 
of  her  mind  and  morals  harmonized  so  completely 
with  the  grace  and  truly  Grecian  loveliness  of  her 
person,  that  it  was  impossible  to  know  and  not 
become  strongly  attached  to  her.  Her  manners 
were  much  older  than  her  years,  and  so  considerate 
in  every  respect,  that,  so  far  from  being  a  burthen, 
she  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  a  care  to  her 
adopted  father.  AVithout  stepping  over  the  strictest 
bounds  of  truth,  it  may  be  asserted,  that  the  first 
grief  which  she  brought  into  his  house,  was  when 
she  sickened  and  died. 

Her  constitution  had  never  been  a  strong  one. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  winter  of  1830,  she  exhi- 
bited symptoms  of  a  rapid  decline.  During  her 
illness,  the  singular  submissiveness  of  her  charac- 
ter was  remarkably  developed.  She  uttered  no 
complaLat,  was  gi'ateful  for  the  least  attention, 
and  her  only  anxiety  seemed  to  be  to  avoid  giving 
trouble  to  any  one.  Her  mental  faculties  remained 
clear  to  the  last ;  and,  till  within  a  few  days  of  her 
death,  she  read  daily  in  her  Bible,  which  she  al- 
ways kept  close  by  her  side  or  under  her  jiillow. 
She  died,  March  17th,  1830,  without  a  struggle, 
and  apparently  without  a  pang. 

She  was  only  thirteen  years  old  at  the  time  of 
her  decease,  yet  few  of  her  sex  have  ever  expe- 
rienced such  changes  or  such  thrilling  incidents 
as  had  marked  her  short  span.  But  it  is  not  as  a 
heroine  or  a  martyr  that  she  finds  her  place  in  our 
record.  We  give  her  history  as  an  example  for 
young  girls.  Her  amiable  disposition,  the  lovely 
qualities  of  her  mind  and  heart,  make  her  distin- 
guished. Like  the  rose  of  her  own  island  home, 
the  beauty  of  the  blossom  was  brief;  but  the  vir- 
tues of  her  soul,  her  patience  and  piety,  like  the 
fragrance  of  the  flower,  give  a  lasting  charm  to 
her  character,  and  make  her  memory  a  sweet 
blessing  to  the  young. 

MOLSA,    TARQUINIA, 

Daughter  of  Camillus  Molsa,  knight  of  the 
order  of  St.  James  of  Spain,  and  granddaughter 
of  Francis  Maria  Molsa,  a  celebrated  Italian  poet, 
was  one  of  the  most  accomplished  ladies  in  the 
world,  uniting  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  wit, 
learning,  and  beauty.  Her  father,  observing  her 
genius,  had  her  educated  with  her  brothers,  and 
by  the  best  masters,  in  every  branch  of  literature 
and  science.  Some  of  the  most  distinguished  sci- 
entific men  of  the  time  were  her  instructors  and 
eulogists.  She  was  perfect  mistress  of  Latin, 
Greek,  and  the  ethics  of  Ai-istotle,  Plato,  and  Plu- 
tarch. She  also  understood  Hebrew  and  natural 
philosophy,  and  wrote  her  own  language,  the  Tus- 
can, with  ease  and  spirit.  She  played  on  the  lute 
and  violin,  and  sang  exquisitely. 

Tarquinia  Molsa  was  highly  esteemed  by  Al- 
phonsus  II.,  duke  of  Ferrara,  and  his  whole  court; 
and  the  city  of  Rome,  by  a  decree  of  the  senate, 


in  which  all  her  excellencies  were  set  forth,  ho- 
noured her  with  the  title  of  Singular,  and  bestowed 
on  her,  and  the  whole  family  of  Molsa,  the  rights 
of  a  Roman  citizen,  a  very  unusual  honour  to  be 
conferred  on  a  woman.  This  decree  was  passed 
December  8th,  1600.  The  following  is  a  transla- 
tion of  the  grant  or  patent :  "As  Fabius  Matheus 
Franciscus  Soricius,  knight,  and  Dominicus  Coccia, 
consul,  have  proposed  to  the  senate  to  grant  the 
freedom  of  the  city  of  Rome  to  Tarquinia  Molsa 
of  Modena,  the  daughter  of  Camillus,  the  senate 
and  people  of  Rome  have  thus  decreed :  Though 
it  be  new  and  imcommon  for  the  senate  to  admit 
into  the  number  of  citizens  women,  whose  merits 
and  fame,  being  confined  within  the  limits  of  do- 
mestic virtues,  can  seldom  be  of  public  utility  to 
the  commonwealth :  yet  if  there  be  among  them 
one,  who  surpasses  not  merely  her  own  sex,  but 
even  men,  in  almost  all  the  virtues,  it  is  just  and 
reasonable  that,  by  a  new  example,  new  and  un- 
usual honours  should  be  paid  to  new  and  unusual 
merit.  Since,  therefore,  Tarquinia  Molsa,  a  na- 
tive of  Modena,  a  most  ancient  and  flourishing 
colony  of  the  people  of  Rome,  and  daughter  of 
Camillus  (who,  for  his  merits  and  nobility,  was 
made  knight  of  the  order  of  St.  James,  &c.),  imi- 
tates, and  by  her  virtues  resembles,  those  famous 
Roman  heroines,  wanting  to  complete  her  glory 
but  the  honour  of  a  citizen  of  Rome ;  we,  the 
senate  and  people  of  Rome,  have  decreed  to  pre- 
sent her  with  the  freedom,"  &c. 

Molsa  was  married  to  Paulus  Porrinus,  but 
losing  her  husband  while  still  very  young,  she 
would  never  consent  to  be  married  again.  She 
grieved  so  much  for  his  death,  as  to  be  called  an- 
other Artemisia. 

She  retained  her  personal  charms  to  an  ad- 
vanced period  of  her  life,  confirming  the  opinion 
of  Euripides,  "  That  the  autumn  of  beauty  is  not 
less  pleasing  than  its  spring."  Although  so  courted 
and  extolled,  she  avoided  notice  and  distinction, 
and  retained  to  the  last  her  fondness  for  a  quiet 
and  retired  life. 

MONTAGU,    ELIZABETH, 

Dafghter  of  Matthew  Robinson,  of  Horton, 
Kent,  in  England,  was  a  lady  of  great  natural 
abilities,  which  were  much  improved  under  the 
tuition  of  Dr.  Conyers  Middleton.  About  1742, 
she  married  Edward  Montagu,  of  Allesthorpe, 
Yorkshire,  son  of  Charles,  fifth  son  of  the  first 
earl  of  Sandwich.  By  him  she  had  one  son,  who 
died  in  his  infancy.  She  devoted  herself  to  lite- 
rature, and  formed  a  literary  club,  called  the  Blue 
Stocking  Club,  from  a  little  incident  that  occurred 
there,  and  is  thus  explained  by  Madame  D' Arblay : 

"  These  parties  were  originally  instituted  at 
Bath,  and  owed  their  name  to  an  apology  made 
by  Mr.  Stillingfleet,  in  declining  to  accept  an  in- 
vitation to  a  literary  meeting  at  Mrs.  Vesey's. 
from  not  being,  he  said,  in  the  habit  of  displaj-ing 
a  proper  equipment  for  an  evening  assembly. 
'  Pho  !'  cried  she,  with  her  well-known,  yet  always 
original  simplicity,  while  she  looked  inquisitively 
at  him  and  his  accoutrements,  '  Don't  mind  dress  ! 
come  in  your  blue  stockings  !'    With  which  words, 

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humourously  repeating  them  as  he  entered  the 
apartment  of  the  chosen  coterie,  Mr.  Stillingfleet 
claimed  permission  to  appear,  and  these  words, 
ever  after,  were  fixed  in  playful  stigma  upon  Mrs. 
Vesey's  associations. 

"  While  to  Mrs.  Vesey,  the  Bas  Bleu  Society 
owed  its  origin  and  its  epithet,  the  meetings  that 
took  place  at  Mrs.  Montagu's  were  soon  more  po- 
pularly known  by  that  denomination,  for  though 
they  could  not  be  more  fashionable,  they  were  far 
more  splendid. 

♦'  Mrs.  Montagu  had  built  a  superb  new  house, 
TVrhich  was  magnificently  fitted  up,  and  appeared 
to  be  rather  apj^ropriate  for  princes,  nobles,  and 
courtiers,  than  for  poets,  philosophers,  and  blue- 
stocking votaries.  And  here,  in  fact,  rank  and 
talents  were  so  frequently  brought  together,  that 
what  the  satirist  uttered  scoffingly,  the  author 
pronounced  proudly,  in  setting  aside  the  oi'iginal 
claimant,  to  dub  Mrs.  Montagu  Queen  of  the  Blues. 

"  But,  while  the  same  bas  bleu  appellation  was 
given  to  these  two  houses  of  rendezvous,  neither 
that,  nor  even  the  same  associates,  could  render 
them  similar.  Their  grandeur  or  their  simplicity, 
their  magnitude  or  their  diminutiveness,  were  by 
no  means  the  pi-incipal  cause  of  this  diflFerence ; 
it  was  far  more  attributable  to  the  lady  presidents 
than  to  their  abodes ;  for  though  they  instilled 
not  their  characters  into  their  visitors,  their  cha- 
racters bore  so  large  a  share  in  their  visitors'  re- 
ception and  accommodation,  as  to  influence  mate- 
rially the  turn  of  the  discourse,  and  the  humour 
of  the  parties  at  their  houses, 

"At  Mrs.  Montagu's,  the  semicircle  that  faced 
the  fire  retained,  during  the  whole  evening,  its 
unbroken  form,  with  a  precision  that  made  it  seem 
described  by  a  Brobdignagian  compass.  The  lady 
of  the  castle  commonly  placed  herself  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room,  near  the  commencement  of  the 
curve,  so  as  to  be  courteously  visible  to  all  her 
guests ;  having  the  person  of  the  highest  rank  or 
consequence,  properly,  on  one  side,  and  the  person 
the  most  eminent  for  talents,  sagaciously,  on  the 
other,  or  as  near  to  her  chair  and  her  converse  as 
her  favouring  eye,  and  a  complacent  bow  of  the 
head,  could  invite  him  to  that  distinction. 

"  Her  conversational  powers  were  of  a  truly 
superior  order ;  strong,  just,  clear,  and  often  elo- 
quent. Her  process  in  argument,  notwithstanding 
an  earnest  solicitude  for  pre-eminence,  was  uni- 
formly polite  and  candid.  But  her  reputation  for 
wit  seemed  always  in  her  thoughts,  marring  their 
natural  flow  and  untutored  expression.  No  sudden 
start  of  talent  urged  forth  any  precarious  opinion  ; 
no  vivacious  new  idea  varied  her  logical  course 
of  ratiocination.  Her  smile,  though  most  gene- 
rally benignant,  was  rarely  gay ;  and  her  liveliest 
sallies  had  a  something  of  anxiety  rather  than  of 
hilarity,  till  their  success  was  ascertained  by  ap- 
plause. 

"Her  form  was  stately,  and  her  manners  were 
dignified ;  her  face  retained  strong  remains  of 
beauty  throughout  life ;  and  thpugh  its  native 
cast  was  evidently  that  of  severity,  its  expression 
was  softened  off  in  discourse  by  an  almost  con- 
stant desire  to  please. 
2C 


"  Taken  for  all  in  all,  Mrs.  Montagu  was  rare 
in  her  attainments,  splendid  in  her  conduct,  open 
to  the  calls  of  charity,  forward  to  provide  for  those 
of  indigent  genius,  and  unchangeably  just  and 
firm  in  the  application  of  her  interest,  her  princi- 
ples, and  her  fortune,  to  the  encouragement  of 
loyalty  and  the  support  of  virtue." 

In  1775,  the  death  of  Mr.  Montagu  left  Mrs. 
Montagu  a  widow  with  an  immense  property ;  and 
among  the  earliest  acts  of  her  munificence  was  the 
settling  £100  per  annum  on  her  less  afliuent  friend 
Mrs.  Carter,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  af- 
fectionate intimacy.  Herself  and  her  style  of  liv- 
ing at  this  period  are  described  by  another  of  her 
friends,  who  was  only  then  beginning  her  subse- 
quent career  of  brilliancy  and  utility.  Hannah 
More,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  thus  writes  of  Mrs. 
Montagu,  who  was  then  about  fifty-five  years  of 
age: 

"Mrs.  Montagu  received  me  with  the  most  en- 
couraging kindness ;  she  is  not  only  the  finest 
genius,  but  the  finest  lady  I  ever  saw ;  she  lives 
in  the  highest  style  of  magnificence ;  her  apart- 
ments and  table  are  in  the  most  splendid  taste  ; 
but  what  baubles  are  these  when  speaking  of  a 
Montagu !  Her  form  (for  she  has  no  bodi/)  is 
delicate  even  to  fragility ;  her  countenance  the 
most  animated  in  the  world  ;  the  sprightly  vivacity 
of  fifteen  with  the  judgment  and  experience  of  a 
Nestor.  But  I  fear  she  is  hastening  to  decay  very 
fast ;  her  spirits  are  so  active,  that  they  must  soon 
wear  out  the  little  frail  receptacle  that  holds 
them." 

Fortunately,  in  this,  Hannah  More  did  not  evince 
herself  a  true  prophetess,  for  Mrs.  Montagu's  life 
was  prolonged  for  nearly  thirty  years  after  the 
date  of  this  prediction. 

In  1781,  she  built  her  magnificent  house  in 
Portman  Square,  and  also  continued  her  building 
and  planting  at  her  country  residence,  Sandleford. 
Here  Mrs.  Hannah  More  was  a  frequent  visiter, 
and  has  given  some  spirited  sketches  of  their  mode 
of  living,  in  her  correspondence.  Subsequently, 
Hannah  More  writes  as  follows : — 

"  1784,  Sandleford. 

"I  write  from  the  delightful  abode  of  our  de- 
lightful friend.  There  is  an  irregular  beauty  and 
greatness  in  the  new  buildings,  and  in  the  cathe- 
dral aisles  which  open  to  the  great  gothic  window, 
which  is  exceedingly  agreeable  to  the  imagination. 
It  is  solemn  without  being  sad,  and  gothic  without 
being  gloomy.  Last  night,  by  a  bright  moonlight, 
I  enjoyed  this  singular  scenery  most  feelingly.  It 
shone  in  all  its  glory,  but  I  was  at  a  loss  witli 
what  beings  to  people  it ;  it  was  too  awful  for 
fairies,  and  not  dismal  enough  for  ghosts.  There 
is  a  great  propriety  in  its  belonging  to  the  cham- 
pion of  Shakspeare,  for,  like  him,  it  is  not  only 
beautiful  witliout  the  rules,  but  almost  in  defiance 
of  them. 

"  The  fortnight  spent  with  our  friend  Mrs.  Mon- 
tagu, I  need  not  say  to  you,  was  passed  profitably 
and  pleasantly,  as  one  may  say  of  her,  what  John- 
son said  of  some  one  else,  '  that  she  never  opens 
her  moutli  but  to  say  something.'  " 

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Mrs.  Montagu  published  an  "Essay  on  the 
Writings  and  Genius  of  Shakspeare,"  which  de- 
served and  acquired  great  celebrity.  She  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  Lord  Lyttleton,  and  is  said  to 
have  assisted  him  in  some  of  his  writings.  She 
lost  the  use  of  her  sight  several  years  before  her 
decease,  but  retained  her  mental  faculties  to  the 
last.  She  died  August  25th,  1802,  in  her  eighty- 
second  year,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. The  body  of  her  infant  son,  who  had  been 
dead  nearly  sixty  years,  was,  by  her  own  desire, 
removed  out  of  Yorkshire,  and  placed  in  her  tomb ; 
a  circumstance  displaying  the  maternal  tenderness 
of  her  heart  in  a  touching  manner. 

Mrs.  Montagu  was  a  woman  of  great  talents, 
yet  notwithstanding  her  high  attainments  in  lite- 
rature, benevolence  was  the  most  striking  feature 
in  her  character.  She  was  the  rewarder  of  merit, 
the  friend  of  her  own  sex,  and  the  poor  always 
found  in  her  a  liberal  benefactress.  For  some 
years  before  her  death,  she  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  giving  a  yearly  entertainment,  on  May-day,  to 
the  chimney-sweeps  of  London,  who  mourned  her 
loss  with  great  grief.  Her  published  works  are, 
"Essay  on  the  Genius  and  Writings  of  Shak- 
speare," 1799  ;  "  Four  Volumes  of  Letters,"  1809 
and  1813  ;  "  Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  in  part,"  1760. 


MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY, 

Was  the  oldest  daughter  of  Evelyn,  duke  of 
Kingston,  and  Lady  Mary  Fielding,  daughter  of 
the  earl  of  Denbigh.  She  was  born  at  Thoresby, 
in  Nottinghamshire,  about  the  year  1690.  She 
early  gave  such  evidence  of  genius,  that  her  father 
placed  her  under  the  same  preceptors  as  her  bro- 
ther, and  she  acquired  a  singular  proficiency  in 
classical  studies.  Brought  up  in  great  seclusion, 
she  was  enabled  to  cultivate  her  mind  to  a  degree 
rarely  seen  in  women  of  that  period.  In  1712  she 
became  the  wife  of  Edward  Wortley  Montagu,  and 
continued  to  live  in  retirement  until  her  husband's 
appointment,  on  the  accession  of  George  I.,  to  a 
seat  in  the  treasury,  which  brought  her  to  Lon- 
don. Introduced  at  court,  her  wit  and  beauty 
called  forth  universal  admiration,  and  she  became 
familiarly  acquainted   with    Pope,   Addison,   and 


other  distinguished  vrriters.  In  1716,  Mr.  Wortley 
was  appointed  ambassador  to  the  Porte,  and  Lady 
Mary  accompanied  him.  Here  began  that  corre- 
spondence which  has  procured  her  such  wide- 
spread celebrity,  and  placed  her  among  the  first 
of  female  writers  in  our  tongue  ;  and  here,  too, 
her  bold,  unprejudiced  mind,  led  her  to  that  im- 
portant step  which  has  made  her  one  of  the  great- 
est benefactors  of  mankind.  While  dwelling  at 
Belgrade,  during  the  summer  months.  Lady  Mary 
observed  a  singular  custom  prevalent  among  the 
Turks — that  of  engrafting,  or  as  it  is  now  called, 
inoculating,  with  variolous  matter,  to  produce  a 
mild  form  of  small-pox,  and  stay  the  ravages  of 
that  loathsome  disease.  She  examined  the  pro- 
cess with  philosophical  cui-iosity,  and  becoming 
convinced  of  its  efficacy,  did  not  hesitate  to  apply 
it  to  her  own  son,  a  child  of  three  years  old.  On 
her  return  home,  she  introduced  the  art  into  Eng- 
land, by  means  of  the  medical  attendant  of  the 
embassy ;  but  its  expediency  being  questioned 
among  scientific  men,  an  experiment,  by  order  of 
the  government,  was  made  upon  five  persons  under 
sentence  of  death,  which  proved  highly  successful. 
AVhat  an  arduous  and  thankless  enterprise  Lady 
Mary's  was,  no  one,  at  the  present  day,  can  form 
an  idea.  She  lived  in  an  age  obstinately  opposed 
to  all  innovations  and  improvements,  and  she  says 
herself,  "  That  if  she  had  foreseen  the  vexation, 
the  persecution,  and  even  the  obloquy  which  it 
brought  upon  her,  she  would  never  have  attempted 
it."  The  clamours  raised  against  it  were  beyond 
belief.  The  medical  faculty  rose  up  in  arms,  to  a 
man ;  the  clergy  descanted  from  their  pulpits  on 
the  impiety  of  seeking  to  take  events  out  of  the 
hands  of  Providence ;  thus  exhibiting  more  nar- 
rowness than  the  Turks,  whose  obstinate  faith  in 
predestination  would  have  naturally  led  them  to 
this  conclusion.  Lady  Mary,  however,  soon  gained 
many  supporters  among  the  enlightened  classes, 
headed  by  the  pi-incess  of  Wales,  afterwards 
queen  of  George  II.  ;  and  truth,  as  it  always  does, 
finally  prevailed.  She  gave  much  of  her  time  to 
advice  and  superintendence  in  the  families  where 
inoculation  was  adopted,  constantly  carrying  her 
little  daughter  with  her  into  the  sick  room,  to 
prove  her  security  from  infection. 

The  present  age,  which  has  benefited  so  widely 
by  this  art  and  its  improvements,  can  form  but  a 
faint  estimate  of  the  ravages  of  that  fearful  scourge, 
before  the  introduction  of  inoculation,  when  either 
a  loathsome  disease,  a  painful  death,  or  disfigured 
features,  awaited  nearly  every  being  born.  This 
may  account,  in  some  measure,  for  the  absence 
of  that  active  gratitude  which  services  such  as 
hers  should  have  called  forth.  Had  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  lived  in  the  days  of  heathen  Greece  or 
Rome,  her  name  would  have  been  enrolled  among 
the  deities  who  have  benefited  mankind.  But  in 
Christian  England,  her  native  land,  on  which  she 
bestowed  so  dear  a  blessing,  and  through  it,  to  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  what  has  been  her  recom- 
pense ?  We  read  of  colossal  endowments  by  the 
British  government,  upon  great  generals ;  of  titles 
conferred  and  pensions  granted,  through  several 
generations,  to  those  who  have  served  their  coun- 

434 


MO 


MO 


try ;  of  monuments  erected  by  the  British  people 
to  statesmen,  and  warriors,  and  even  to  weak  and 
vicious  princes ;  but  where  is  the  monument  to 
Lady  INIary  Wortley  Montagu  ?  Where  is  recorded 
the  pension,  the  dignity,  bestowed  upon  her  line, 
as  a  sign  to  future  generations  that  she  was  a 
benefactor  to  the  human  race,  and  that  her  coun- 
try acknowledged  it  ?  In  the  page  of  history,  and 
in  the  annals  of  medicine,  her  name  must  find  its 
place  ;  but  there  alone  is  the  deed  recorded,  which 
beneath  every  roof  in  Christendom,  from  the  pa- 
lace to  the  pauper's  hut,  has  carried  a  blessing ! 

On  her  return  to  England,  Lady  Mary  AVortley 
took  up  her  residence,  at  the  solicitation  of  Pope, 
at  Twickenham ;  but  their  friendship  did  not  con- 
tinue long  after.  Pope,  it  is  asserted,  made  a 
violent  declaration  of  love  to  her,  which  she  treat- 
ing with  ridicule,  so  oflFended  him  that  he  never 
forgave  her.  A  paper  war  ensued  between  them, 
little  creditable  to  either  party.  Lady  Mary  con- 
tinued to  exercise  considerable  influence  in  society 
till  1739,  when  her  health  declining,  she  resolved 
to  pass  the  remainder  of  her  days  in  the  milder 
climate  of  Italy.  She  was  not  accompanied  by 
her  husband,  which  has  given  rise  to  many  sur- 
mises ;  but  as  he  always  corresponded  with  her, 
and  gave  repeated  proofs  of  his  confidence  in  her, 
there  is  no  ground  for  believing  that  there  was 
any  objectionable  reason  for  her  conduct.  Lady 
Mary's  correspondence  during  this  period  of  her 
life,  is  marked  by  the  same  wit,  vivacity,  and  ta- 
lents, as  that  of  her  earlier  years,  and  is  published 
with  her  collected  writings.  The  following  extract 
from  one  of  her  letters  to  her  daughter  will  serve 
to  show  how  she  passed  her  time : 

"  I  generally  rise  at  six,  and  as  soon  as  I  have 
breakfasted,  put  myself  at  the  head  of  my  needle- 
women, and  work  till  nine.  I  then  inspect  my 
dairy,  and  take  a  turn  among  my  poultry,  which 
is  a  very  large  inquiry.  I  have  at  present  two 
hundred  chickens,  besides  turkeys,  geese,  ducks, 
and  peacocks.  All  things  have  hitherto  prospered 
under  my  care  :  my  bees  and  silkworms  are  dou- 
bled. At  eleven  o'clock  I  retire  to  my  books.  I 
dare  not  indulge  myself  in  that  pleasure  above  an 
hour.  At  twelve,  I  constantly  dine,  and  sleep 
after  dinner  till  about  three.  I  then  send  for 
some  of  my  old  priests,  and  either  play  at  picquet 
or  whist,  till  it  is  time  to  go  out.  One  evening  I 
walk  in  my  wood,  where  I  often  sup,  take  the  air 
on  horseback  the  next,  and  go  on  the  waiter  the 
third.  The  fishing  of  this  part  of  the  river  be- 
longs to  me,  and  my  fisherman's  little  boat  (to 
which  I  have  a  green  lutestring  awning)  serves 
me  for  a  barge."  She  adds,  "I  confess  I  some- 
times long  for  a  little  conversation;"  though,  as 
she  observes,  "Quiet  is  all  the  hope  that  can  rea- 
sonably be  expected  at  my  age,  for  my  health  is 
so  often  impaired  that  I  begin  to  be  as  weary  of 
it  as  mending  old  lace :  when  it  is  patched  in  one 
place,  it  breaks  out  in  another." 

This  once  brilliant  court  beauty  was  now  be- 
come so  indiflfercnt  to  her  personal  appearance, 
that,  speaking  of  her  looks,  she  says,  "  I  know 
nothing  of  the  matter,  as  it  is  now  eleven  years 
since  I  have  seen  my  figure  in  a  glass,  and  the 


last  reflection  I  saw  there  was  so  disagreeable, 
that  I  resolved  to  spare  myself  th„-  mortification 
for  the  future." 

After  an  absence  of  twenty-two  years,  Lady 
Mary  returned  to  England,  but  she  did  not  long 
survive  the  removal ;  she  died  in  less  than  a  year 
after,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two.  Of  her  two 
children,  both  of  whom  survived  her,  one  was  the 
eccentric  and  profligate  Edward  Wortley  Montagu, 
who  was  a  source  of  continual  unhappiness  to  her 
through  life;  the  other  became  the  wife  of  the 
marquis  of  Bute,  a  distinguished  nobleman,  and 
was  the  mother  of  a  large  family. 

Lady  Montagu's  letters  were  first  printed,  sur- 
reptitiously, in  1763.  A  more  complete  edition 
of  her  works  was  published,  in  five  volumes,  in 
1803  ;  and  another,  edited  by  her  great-grandson, 
Lord  Wharncliffe,  with  additional  letters  and  in- 
formation, in  1837.  The  letters  from  Constanti- 
nople and  France  have  been  often  reprinted.  An 
eminent  British  critic*  thus  graphically  describes 
her  works : 

"  The  wit  and  talent  of  Lady  Mary  are  visible 
throughout  the  whole  of  her  correspondence,  but 
there  is  often  a  want  of  feminine  softness  and  de- 
licacy. Her  desire  to  convey  scandal,  or  to  paint 
graphically,  leads  her  into  offensive  details,  which 
the  more  decorous  taste  of  the  present  age  can 
hardly  tolerate.  She  described  what  she  saw  and 
heard  without  being  scrupulous ;  and  her  strong 
masculine  understanding,  and  carelessness  as  to 
refinement  in  habits  or  expressions,  render  her 
sometimes  apparently  unamiable  and  unfeeling. 
As  models  of  the  epistolary  style,  easy,  familiar, 
and  elegant,  no  less  than  as  pictures  of  foreign 
scenery  and  manners,  and  fashionable  gossip,  the 
letters  of  Lady  Mary  must,  however,  ever  main- 
tain a  high  place  in  our  national  literature.  They 
are  truly  letters,  not  critical  or  didactic  essays,  en- 
livened by  formal  compliment  and  elaborate  wit, 
like  the  correspondence  of  Pope." 

EXTRACTS    FROM    THE    LETTERS. 

To  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq. — In  prospect  of  Marriage. 

One  part  of  my  character  is  not  so  good,  nor 
t'other  so  bad,  as  you  fancy  it.  Should  we  ever 
live  together,  j'ou  would  be  disappointed  both 
ways ;  you  would  find  an  easy  equality  of  temper 
you  do  not  expect,  and  a  thousand  faults  you  do 
not  imagine.  You  think  if  you  married  me  I 
should  be  passionately  fond  of  you  one  month, 
and  of  somebody  else  the  next.  Neither  would 
happen.  I  can  esteem,  I  can  bo  a  friend ;  but  I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  love.  Expect  all  that 
is  complaisant  and  easy,  but  never  what  is  fond, 
in  me.  You  judge  very  wrong  of  my  heart,  when 
you  suppose  me  capable  of  views  of  interest,  and 
that  anything  could  oblige  me  to  flatter  anybody. 
Was  I  the  most  indigent  creature  in  the  world,  I 
should  answer  you  as  I  do  now,  without  adding 
or  diminishing.  I  am  incapable  of  art,  and  'tis 
because  I  will  not  be  capable  of  it.  Could  I  de- 
ceive one  minute,  I  should  never  regain  my  own 


*  Robert  Chambers. 


435 


MO 


MO 


good  opinion ;  and  who  could  bear  to  live  with  one 
they  despised ! 

If  you  can  resolve  to  live  with  a  companion  that 
will  have  all  the  deference  due  to  your  superiority 
of  good  sense,  and  that  your  proposals  can  be 
agreeable  to  those  on  whom  I  depend,  I  have  no- 
tliing  to  say  against  them. 

As  to  travelling,  'tis  what  I  should  do  with  gi'eat 
pleasure,  and  could  easily  quit  London  upon  your 
account ;  but  a  retirement  in  the  country  is  not 
so  disagreeable  to  me,  as  I  know  a  few  months 
would  make  it  tiresome  to  you.  Where  people 
are  tied  for  life,  'tis  their  mutual  interest  not  to 
grow  weary  of  one  another.  If  I  had  all  the  per- 
sonal charms  that  I  want,  a  face  is  too  slight  a 
foimdation  for  happiness.  You  would  be  soon 
tired  with  seeing  every  day  the  same  thing.  Where 
you  saw  nothing  else,  you  would  have  leisure  to 
remark  all  the  defects ;  which  would  increase  in 
proportion  as  the  novelty  lessened,  which  is  always 
a  great  charm.  I  should  have  the  displeasure  of 
seeing  a  coldness,  which,  though  I  could  not  rea- 
sonably blame  you  for,  being  involuntary,  yet  it 
would  render  me  uneasy ;  and  the  more,  because 
I  know  a  love  may  be  revived,  which  absence,  in- 
constancy, or  even  infidelity,  has  extinguished ; 
but  there  is  no  returning  from  a  degout  given  by 
satiety. 

To  the  Same — On  Matrimonial  Happiness. 

If  we  marry,  our  happiness  must  consist  in 
loving  one  another :  'tis  principally  my  concern  to 
think  of  the  most  probable  method  of  making  that 
love  eternal.  You  object  against  living  in  London ; 
I  am  not  fond  of  it  myself,  and  readily  give  it  up 
to  you,  though  I  am  assured  there  needs  more  art 
to  keep  a  fondness  alive  in  solitude,  where  it  ge- 
nerally preys  upon  itself.  There  is  one  article 
absolutely  necessary  —  to  be  ever  beloved,  one 
must  be  ever  agreeable.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  being  agreeable  without  a  thorough  good  hu- 
mour, a  natural  sweetness  of  temper,  enlivened 
by  cheerfulness.  Whatever  natural  funds  of  gaiety 
one  is  born  with,  'tis  necessary  to  be  entertained 
with  agreeable  objects.  Anybody  capable  of  tast- 
ing pleasure,  when  they  confine  themselves  to  one 
place,  should  take  care  'tis  the  place  in  the  world 
the  most  agreeable.  AVhatever  you  may  now  think 
(now,  perhaps,  you  have  some  fondness  for  me), 
though  your  love  should  continue  in  its  full  farce, 
there  are  hours  when  the  most  beloved  mistress 
would  be  troublesome.  People  are  not  for  ever 
(nor  is  it  in  human  nature  that  they  should  be) 
disposed  to  be  fond ;  you  would  be  glad  to  find  in 
me  the  friend  and  the  companion.  To  be  agreea- 
bly the  last,  it  is  necessary  to  be  gay  and  enter- 
taining. A  perpetual  solitude,  in  a  place  where 
you  see  nothing  to  raise  your  spirits,  at  length 
wears  them  out,  and  conversation  insensibly  falls 
into  dull  and  insipid.  When  I  have  no  more  to 
say  to  you,  you  will  like  me  no  longer.  How 
dreadful  is  that  view !  You  will  reflect,  for  my 
sake  you  have  abandoned  the  conversation  of  a 
friend  that  you  liked,  and  your  situation  in  a 
country  where  all  things  would  have  contributed 
to  make  your  life  pass  in   (the  true  volupte)  a 


smooth  tranquillity.  /  shall  lose  the  vivacity 
which  should  entertain  you,  and  you  will  have  no- 
thing to  i-ecompense  you  for  what  you  have  lost. 
Very  few  people  that  have  settled  entirely  in  the 
country,  but  have  grown  at  length  weary  of  one 
another.  The  lady's  conversation  generally  falls 
into  a  thousand  impertinent  effects  of  idleness ; 
and  the  gentleman  falls  in  love  with  his  dogs  and 
his  horses,  and  out  of  love  with  everything  else. 
I  am  not  now  arguing  in  favour  of  the  town ;  you 
have  answered  me  as  to  that  point.  In  respect 
of  your  health,  'tis  the  first  thing  to  be  considered, 
and  I  shall  never  ask  you  to  do  anything  injurious 
to  that.  But  'tis  my  opinion,  'tis  necessary,  to  be 
happy,  that  we  neither  of  us  think  anyplace  more 
agreeable  than  that  where  we  are. 

To.  Mr.  Pope — Eastern  Manners  and  Language. 
Adrianople,  April  1,  0.  S.,  1717. 

I  no  longer  look  upon  Theociitus  as  a  romantic 
writer ;  he  has  only  given  a  plain  image  of  the 
way  of  life  amongst  the  peasants  of  his  country, 
who,  before  oppression  had  reduced  them  to  want, 
were,  I  suppose,  all  employed  as  the  better  sort 
of  them  are  now.  I  don't  doubt,  had  he  been 
born  a  Briton,  but  his  Idylliums  had  been  filled 
with  descriptions  of  thrashing  and  churning,  both 
which  are  unknown  here,  the  corn  being  all  trod- 
den out  by  oxen ;  the  butter  (I  speak  it  with  sor- 
row) unheard  of. 

I  read  over  your  Homer  here  with  an  infinite 
pleasure,  and  find  several  little  passages  explained 
that  I  did  not  before  entirely  comprehend  the 
beauty  of;  many  of  the  customs,  and  much  of  the 
dress  then  in  fashion,  being  yet  retained.  I  don't 
wonder  to  find  more  remains  here  of  an  age  so 
distant,  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other  coimti'y ; 
the  Turks  not  taking  that  pains  to  introduce  their 
own  manners,  as  has  been  generally  practised  by 
other  nations,  that  imagine  themselves  more  polite. 
It  would  be  too  tedious  to  you  to  point  out  all  the 
passages  that  relate  to  present  customs.  But  I 
can  assure  you  that  the  princesses  and  gi-eat  ladies 
pass  their  time  at  their  looms,  embroidering  veils 
and  robes,  surrounded  by  their  maids,  which  are 
always  very  numerous,  in  the  same  manner  as  we 
find  Andromache  and  Helen  described.  The  de- 
scription of  the  belt  of  Menelaus  exactly  resem- 
bles those  that  are  now  worn  by  the  great  men, 
fastened  before  with  broad  golden  clasps,  and  em- 
broidered round  with  rich  work.  The  snowy  veil 
that  Helen  throws  over  her  face  is  still  fashiona- 
ble ;  and  I  never  see  half-a-dozen  of  old  bashaws 
(as  I  do  very  often)  with  their  reverend  beards, 
sitting  basking  in  the  sun,  but  I  recollect  good 
king  Priam  and  his  counsellors.  Their  manner 
of  dancing  is  certainly  the  same  that  Diana  is  sung 
to  have  danced  on  the  banks  of  Eurotas.  The  great 
lady  still  leads  the  dance,  and  is  followed  by  a  troop 
of  young  girls,  who  imitate  her  steps,  and,  if  she 
sings,  make  up  the  chorus.  The  tunes  are  ex- 
tremely gay  and  lively,  yet  with  something  in  them 
wonderfully  soft.  The  steps  are  varied  according 
to  the  pleasure  of  her  that  leads  the  dance,  but 
always  in  exact  time,  and  infinitely  more  agTcea- 
ble  than  any  of  our  dances,  at  least  in  my  opinion. 

436 


MO 


MO 


I  sometimes  make  one  in  the  train,  but  am  not 
skilful  enougli  to  lead ;  these  are  the  Grecian 
dances,  the  Turkish  being  very  different. 

I  should  have  told  you,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  eastern  manners  give  a  great  light  into  many 
Scripture  passages  that  appear  odd  to  us,  their 
phrases  being  commonly  what  we  should  call  Scrip- 
ture language.  The  vulgar  Turk  is  very  different 
from  what  is  spoken  at  court,  or  amongst  the  peo- 
ple of  figure,  who  always  mix  so  much  Arabic  and 
Persian  in  their  discourse,  that  it  may  very  well 
be  called  another  language.  And  'tis  as  ridiculous 
to  make  use  of  the  expressions  commonly  used,  in 
speaking  to  a  great  man  or  lady,  as  it  would  be  to 
speak  broad  Yorkshire  or  Somersetshire  in  the 
drawing-room.  Besides  this  distinction,  they  have 
what  they  call  the  sublime,  that  is,  a  style  proper 
for  poetry,  and  which  is  the  exact  Scripture  style. 
I  believe  you  will  be  pleased  to  see  a  genuine  ex- 
ample of  this ;  and  I  am  very  glad  I  have  it  in 
my  power  to  satisfy  your  curiosity,  by  sending 
you  a  faithful  copy  of  the  verses  that  Ibrahim 
Pasha,  the  reigning  favourite,  has  made  for  the 
young  pi-incess,  his  contracted  wife,  whom  he  is 
not  yet  permitted  to  visit  without  witnesses,  though 
she  is  gone  home  to  his  house.  He  is  a  man  of 
wit  and  learning ;  and  whether  or  no  he  is  capable 
of  writing  good  verse,  you  may  be  sure  that  on 
such  an  occasion  he  would  not  want  the  assistance 
of  the  best  poets  in  the  empire.  Thus  the  verses 
may  be  looked  upon  as  a  sample  of  their  finest 
poetry;  and  I  don't  doubt  you'll  be  of  my  mind, 
that  it  is  most  wonderfully  resembling  the  Song 
of  Solomon,  which  was  also  addressed  to  a  royal 
bride. 

The  nightingale  now  wanders  in  the  vines : 
Her  passion  is  to  seek  roses. 

I  went  down  to  admire  the  beauty  of  the  vines: 
The  sweetness  of  your  charms  has  ravished  my  soul. 

Your  eyes  are  black  and  lovely, 

But  wild  and  disdainful  as  those  of  a  stag.* 

The  wished  possession  is  delayed  fVom  day  to  day ; 
The  cruel  sultan  Achmet  will  not  permit  me 
To  see  those  cheeks,  more  vermilion  than  roses. 

1  dare  not  snatch  one  of  your  kisses; 

The  sweetness  of  your  charms  has  ravished  my  soul. 

Your  eyes  are  black  and  lovely, 

But  wild  and  disdainful  as  those  of  a  stag. 

The  wretched  Ibrahim  siejhs  in  these  versos: 

One  dart  from  your  eyes  has  pierced  through  my  heart. 

Ah  1  when  will  the  hour  of  possession  arrive  ? 

Must  I  yet  wait  a  long  time? 

The  sweetness  of  your  charms  has  ravished  my  soul. 

Ah,  sultana!  stag-eyed  —  an  angel  amongst  angels! 
I  desire,  and  my  desire  remains  unsatisfied. 
Can  you  take  delight  to  prey  upon  my  heart 

My  cries  pierce  the  heavens ! 

My  eyes  are  without  sleep! 

Turn  to  me,  sultana  —  let  me  gaze  on  thy  beauty. 

Adieu — 1  go  down  to  the  grave. 

If  you  call  me,  I  return. 

My  heart  is  — hot  as  sulphur;  sigh,  and  it  will  flame. 

*  Sir  W.  Jones,  in  the  Preface  to  his  Persian  Grammar, 
objects  to  this  translation.  The  e.vpression  is  merely  analo- 
gous to  the  Boopis  of  Homer. 


Crown  of  my  life!  — fair  light  of  my  eyes! 

My  sultana  !  —  my  princess  I 

I  rub  my  face  against  the  earth  —  I  am  drowned  in  scalding 

tears  —  I  rave  ! 
Have  you  no  compassion  ?    Will  you  not  turn  to  look  upon 

me? 

I  have  taken  abundance  of  pains  to  get  these 
verses  in  a  literal  translation ;  and  if  you  were 
acquainted  with  my  interpreters,  I  might  spare 
myself  the  trouble  of  assuring  you,  that  they 
have  received  no  poetical  touches  from  their 
hands. 

To  Mrs.  S.  C. — Inoculation  for  the  Small-pox. 

Adrianople,  April  1,  0.  S.,  1717. 

Apropos  of  distempers,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a 
thing  that  will  make  you  wish  yourself  here.  The 
small-pox,  so  fatal  and  so  general  amongst  us,  is 
here  entirely  harmless,  by  the  invention  of  ingraft- 
ing, which  is  the  term  they  give  it.  There  is  a  set 
of  old  women  who  make  it  their  business  to  per- 
form the  operation  every  autumn,  in  the  month  of 
September,  when  the  great  heat  is  abated.  Peo- 
ple send  to  one  another  to  know  if  any  of  their 
family  has  a  mind  to  have  the  small-pox ;  they 
make  parties  for  this  purpose,  and  when  they  are 
met  (commonly  fifteen  or  sixteen  together),  the 
old  woman  comes  with  a  nut-shell  full  of  the 
matter  of  the  best  sort  of  small-pox,  and  asks 
what  vein  you  please  to  have  opened.  She  imme- 
diately rips  open  that  you  offer  to  her  with  a  large 
needle  (which  gives  you  no  more  pain  than  a  com- 
mon scratch),  and  puts  into  the  vein  as  much 
matter  as  can  lie  upon  the  head  of  her  needle,  and 
after  that  binds  up  the  little  wound  with  a  hollow 
bit  of  shell ;  and  in  this  manner  opens  four  or  five 
veins.  The  Grecians  have  commonly  the  supersti- 
tion of  opening  one  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 
one  in  each  arm,  and  one  on  the  breast,  to  mark 
the  sign  of  the  cross  ;  but  this  has  a  very  ill  efi'ect, 
all  these  wounds  leaving  little  scars,  and  is  not 
done  by  those  that  are  not  superstitious,  who 
choose  to  have  them  in  the  legs,  or  that  part  of 
the  arm  that  is  concealed.  The  children  or  young 
patients  play  together  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
are  in  perfect  health  to  the  eighth.  Then  the  fever 
begins  to  seize  them,  and  they  keep  their  beds  two 
days,  very  seldom  three.  They  have  very  rarely 
above  twenty  or  thirty  in  their  faces,  which  never 
mark ;  and  in  eight  days'  time,  they  are  as  well 
as  before  their  illness.  Where  they  are  wounded, 
there  remain  ruiming  sores  during  the  distemper, 
which  I  don't  doubt  is  a  great  relief  to  it.  Every 
year  thousands  undergo  this  operation ;  and  the 
French  ambassador  says  pleasantly,  that  they  take 
the  small-pox  here  by  way  of  diversion,  as  they 
take  the  waters  in  other  countries.  There  is  no 
example  of  any  one  that  has  died  in  it ;  and  you 
may  believe  I  am  well  satisfied  of  the  safety  of 
this  experiment,  since  I  intend  to  try  it  on  my 
dear  little  son. 

I  am  patriot  enough  to  take  pains  to  bring  this 
useful  invention  into  fashion  in  England ;  and  I 
should  not  fail  to  write  to  some  of  our  doctors 
very  particularly  about  it,  if  I  knew  any  one  of 
them  that  I  thought  had  virtue  enough  to  destroy 
such  a  considerable  branch  of  their  revenue  for 

437 


MO 


MO 


the  good  of  mankind.  But  that  distemper  is  too 
beneficial  to  them,  not  to  expose  to  all  their  re- 
sentment the  hardy  wight  that  should  undertake 
to  put  an  end  to  it.  Perhaps,  if  I  live  to  return, 
I  may,  however,  have  courage  to  war  with  them. 
Upon  this  occasion,  admire  the  heroism  in  the 
heart  of  your  friend,  &c. 

To  the  Same — Consoling  her  in  Affliction. 

LouvERE,  August  20,  1752. 

My  dear  Child  —  'Tis  impossible  to  tell  you  to 
what  degree  I  share  with  you  in  the  misfortune 
that  has  happened.  I  do  not  doubt  your  own  rea- 
son will  suggest  to  you  all  the  alleviations  that  can 
serve  on  so  sad  an  occasion,  and  will  not  trouble 
you  with  the  commonplace  topics  that  are  used, 
generally  to  no  purpose,  in  letters  of  consolation. 
Disappointments  ought  to  be  less  sensibly  felt  at 
my  age  than  yours  ;  yet  I  own  I  am  so  far  affected 
by  this,  that  I  have  need  of  all  my  philosophy  to 
support  it.  However,  let  me  beg  of  you  not  to 
indulge  a  useless  grief,  to  the  prejudice  of  your 
health,  which  is  so  necessary  to  your  family.  Every- 
thing may  turn  out  better  than  you  expect.  We 
see  so  darkly  into  futurity,  we  never  know  when 
we  have  real  cause  to  rejoice  or  lament.  The 
worst  appearances  have  often  happy  consequences, 
as  the  best  lead  many  times  into  the  greatest  mis- 
fortunes. Human  prudence  is  very  straitly  bound- 
ed. What  is  most  in  our  power,  though  little  so, 
is  the  disposition  of  our  own  minds.  Do  not  give 
way  to  melancholy  ;  seek  amusements  ;  be  willing 
to  be  diverted,  and  insensibly  you  will  become  so. 
Weak  people  only  place  a  merit  in  affliction.  A 
grateful  remembrance,  and  whatever  honour  we 
can  pay  to  their  memory,  is  all  that  is  owing  to 
the  dead.  Tears  and  sorrow  are  no  duties  to  them, 
and  make  us  incapable  of  those  we  owe  to  the 
living. 

I  give  you  thanks  for  your  care  of  my  books.  I 
yet  retain,  and  carefully  cherish,  my  taste  for 
reading.  If  relays  of  eyes  were  to  be  hired  like 
post-horses,  I  would  never  admit  any  but  silent 
companions  ;  they  afford  a  constant  variety  of  en- 
tertainment, which  is  almost  the  only  one  pleasing 
in  the  enjoyment,  and  inoffensive  in  the  conse- 
quence. I  am  sorry  your  sight  will  not  permit 
you  a  great  use  of  it :  the  prattle  of  your  little 
ones,  and  friendship  of  Lord  Bute,  will  supply  the 
place  of  it.  My  dear  child,  endeavour  to  raise 
your  spirits,  and  believe  this  advice  comes  from 
the  tenderness  of  your  most  affectionate  mother. 

To  the  Same — On  Female  Education. 

LouvERE,  Jan.  28,  N.  S.,  1753. 
Dear  Child — You  have  given  me  a  great  deal  of 
satisfaction  by  your  account  of  your  eldest  daugh- 
ter. I  am  particularly  pleased  to  hear  she  is  a 
good  arithmetician  ;  it  is  the  best  proof  of  under- 
standing :  the  knowledge  of  numbers  is  one  of  the 
chief  distinctions  between  us  and  brutes.  If  there 
is  anything  in  blood,  you  may  reasonably  expect 
your  children  should  be  endowed  with  an  uncom- 
mon share  of  good  sense.  Mr.  Wortley's  family 
and  mine  have  both  produced  some  of  the  greatest 
men  that  have  been  born  in  England;  I  mean 


Admiral  Sandwich,  and  my  grandfather,  who  was 
distinguished  by  the  name  of  Wise  William.  I 
have  heard  Lord  Bute's  father  mentioned  as  an 
extraordinary  genius,  though  he  had  not  many 
opportunities  of  showing  it ;  and  his  uncle,  the 
present  Duke  of  Argyll,  has  one  of  the  best  heads 
I  ever  knew.  I  will  therefore  speak  to  you  as 
supposing  Lady  Mary  not  only  capable,  but  de- 
sirous of  learning ;  in  that  case  by  all  means  let 
her  be  indulged  in  it.  You  will  tell  me  I  did  not 
make  it  a  part  of  your  education ;  your  prospect 
was  very  different  from  hers.  As  you  had  much 
in  your  circumstances  to  attract  the  liighest  offers, 
it  seemed  your  business  to  learn  how  to  live  in  the 
world,  as  it  is  hers  to  know  how  to  be  easy  out  of 
it.  It  is  the  common  error  of  builders  and  parents 
to  follow  some  plan  they  think  beautiful  (and  per- 
haps is  so),  without  considering  that  nothing  is 
beautiful  which  is  displaced.  Hence  we  see  so 
many  edifices  raised,  that  the  raisers  can  never 
inhabit,  being  too  large  for  their  fortunes.  Vistas 
are  laid  open  over  barren  heaths,  and  apartments 
contrived  for  a  coolness  very  agreeable  in  Italy, 
but  killing  in  the  north  of  Britain :  thus  every 
woman  endeavours  to  breed  her  daughter  a  fine 
lady,  qualifying  her  for  a  station  in  which  she  will 
never  appear,  and  at  the  same  time  incapacitating 
her  for  that  retirement  to  which  she  is  destined. 
Learning,  if  she  has  a  real  taste  for  it,  will  not 
only  make  her  contented,  but  happy  in  it.  No 
entertainment  is  so  cheap  as  reading,  nor  any  plea- 
sure so  lasting.  She  will  not  want  new  fashions, 
nor  regret  the  loss  of  expensive  diversions,  or 
variety  of  company,  if  she  can  be  amused  with  an 
author  in  her  closet.  To  render  this  amusement 
complete,  she  should  be  permitted  to  learn  the 
languages.  I  have  heard  it  lamented  that  boys 
lose  so  many  years  in  mere  learning  of  words : 
this  is  no  objection  to  a  girl,  whose  time  is  not  so 
precious :  she  cannot  advance  herself  in  any  pro- 
fession, and  has  therefore  more  hours  to  spare ; 
and  as  you  say  her  memory  is  good,  she  will  be 
vei'y  agreeably  employed  this  way.  There  are  two 
cautions  to  be  given  on  this  subject :  first,  not  to 
think  herself  learned  when  she  can  read  Latin,  or 
even  Greek.  Languages  are  more  properly  to  be 
called  vehicles  of  learning  than  learning  itself,  as 
may  be  observed  in  many  schoolmasters,  who, 
though  perhaps  critics  in  grammar,  are  the  most 
ignorant  fellows  upon  earth.  True  knowledge 
consists  in  knowing  things,  not  words.  I  would 
no  further  wish  her  a  linguist  than  to  enable  her 
to  read  books  in  their  originals,  that  are  often 
corrupted,  and  are  always  injured,  by  translations. 
Two  hours'  application  every  morning  will  bring 
this  about  much  sooner  than  you  can  imagine,  and 
she  will  have  leisure  enough  besides  to  run  over 
the  English  poetry,  which  is  a  more  important 
part  of  a  woman's  education  than  it  is  generally 
supposed.  Many  a  young  damsel  has  been  ruined 
by  a  fine  copy  of  verses,  which  she  would  have 
laughed  at  if  she  had  known  it  had  been  stolen 
from  Mr.  Waller.  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  girl, 
I  saved  one  of  my  companions  from  destruction, 
who  communicated  to  me  an  epistle  she  was  quite 
charmed  with.   As  she  had  naturally  a  good  taste, 

438 


MO 


MO 


she  observed  the  lines  were  not  so  smooth  as 
Prior's  or  Pope's,  but  had  more  thought  and  spirit 
than  any  of  theirs.  She  was  wonderfully  delighted 
with  such  a  demonstration  of  her  lover's  sense  and 
passion,  and  not  a  little  pleased  with  her  own 
clMirms,  that  had  force  enough  to  inspire  such 
elegancies.  In  the  midst  of  this  triumph,  I  showed 
her  that  they  were  taken  from  Randolph's  poems, 
and  the  unfortimate  transcriber  was  dismissed 
with  the  scorn  he  deserved.  To  say  truth,  the 
poor  plagiary  was  very  unlucky  to  fall  into  my 
hands ;  that  author  being  no  longer  in  fashion, 
would  have  escaped  any  one  of  less  universal 
reading  than  myself.  You  should  encourage  your 
daughter  to  talk  over  with  you  what  she  reads  ; 
and  as  you  are  very  capable  of  distinguishing, 
take  care  she  does  not  mistake  pert  folly  for  wit 
and  humour,  or  rhyme  for  poetry,  which  are  the 
common  errors  of  young  people,  and  have  a  train 
of  ill  consequences.  The  second  caution  to  be 
given  her  (and  which  is  most  absolutely  necessary), 
is  to  conceal  whatever  learning  she  attains,  with 
as  much  solicitude  as  she  would  hide  crookedness 
or  lameness :  the  parade  of  it  can  only  serve  to 
draw  on  her  the  envy,  and  consequently  the  most 
inveterate  hatred,  of  all  he  and  she  fools,  which 
will  certainly  be  at  least  three  parts  in  four  of  her 
acquaintance.  The  use  of  knowledge  in  our  sex, 
beside  the  amusement  of  solitude,  is  to  moderate 
the  passions,  and  learn  to  be  contented  with  a 
small  expense,  which  are  the  certain  effects  of  a 
studious  life ;  and  it  may  be  preferable  even  to 
that  fame  which  men  have  engrossed  to  them- 
selves, and  will  not  suiFer  us  to  share.  You  will 
tell  me  I  have  not  observed  this  rule  myself ;  but 
you  are  mistaken :  it  is  only  inevitable  accident 
that  has  given  me  any  reputation  that  way.  I 
have  always  carefully  avoided  it,  and  ever  thought 
it  a  misfortune.  The  explanation  of  this  para- 
gi'aph  would  occasion  a  long  digression,  which  I 
will  not  trouble  you  with,  it  being  my  present 
design  only  to  say  what  I  think  useful  for  the 
instruction  of  my  grand-daughter,  which  I  have 
much  at  heart.  K  she  has  the  same  inclination 
(I  should  say  passion)  for  learning  that  I  was  born 
with,  history,  geography,  and  philosophy  will  fur- 
nish her  with  materials  to  pass  away  cheerfully  a 
longer  life  than  is  allotted  to  mortals.  I  believe 
there  are  few  heads  capable  of  making  Sir  Isaac 
Newton's  calculations,  but  the  result  of  them  is 
not  difficult  to  be  understood  by  a  moderate  capa- 
city.    Do  not  fear  this  should  make  her  affect  the 

character  of  Lady ,  or  Lady ,  or  Mrs. 

;   those  women  are  ridiculous,  not  because 

they  have  learning,  but  because  they  have  it  not. 
One  thinks  herself  a  complete  historian,  after 
reading  Echard's  Roman  History ;  another  a  pro- 
found philosopher,  having  got  by  heart  some  of 
Pope's  uninteUiyiblc  essays ;  and  a  third  an  able 
divine,  on  the  strength  of  Whitfield's  sermons; 
thus  you  hear  them  screaming  politics  and  con- 
troversy. 

It  is  a  saying  of  Thucydides,  that  ignorance  is 
bold,  and  knowledge  reserved.  Indeed  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  far  advanced  in  it  without  being 


more  humbled  by  a  conviction  of  liuman  ignorance 
than  elated  by  learning.  At  the  same  time  I  re- 
commend books,  I  neither  exclude  work  nor  draw- 
ing. I  think  it  is  as  scandalous  for  a  woman  not 
to  know  how  to  use  a  needle,  as  for  a  man  not  to 
know  how  to  use  a  sword.  I  was  once  extremely 
fond  of  my  pencil,  and  it  was  a  great  mortification 
to  me  wlien  my  father  turned  off  my  master,  having 
made  a  considerable  progress  for  the  short  time  I 
learned.  My  over-eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  it 
had  brought  a  weakness  in  my  eyes,  that  made  it 
necessary  to  leave  off ;  and  all  the  advantage  I  got 
was  the  improvement  of  my  hand.  I  see  by  hers 
that  practice  will  make  her  a  ready  writer:  she 
may  attain  it  by  serving  you  for  a  secretary,  when 
your  health  or  affairs  make  it  troublesome  to  you 
to  write  yourself;  and  custom  will  ijiake  it  an 
agi'eeable  amusement  to  her.  She  cannot  have  too 
many  for  that  station  of  life  which  will  probably 
be  her  fate.  The  ultimate  end  of  your  education 
was  to  make  you  a  good  wife  (and  I  have  the  com- 
fort to  hear  that  you  are  one) ;  hers  ought  to  be 
to  make  her  happy  in  a  virgin  state.  I  will  not 
say  it  is  happier,  but  it  is  undoubtedly  safer,  than 
any  mai'riage.  In  a  lottery,  where  there  is  (at  the 
lowest  computation)  ten  thousand  blanks  to  a  prize, 
it  is  the  most  prudent  choice  not  to  venture.  I 
have  always  been  so  thoroughly  persuaded  of  this 
truth,  that,  notwithstanding  the  flattering  views  I 
had  for  you  (as  I  never  intended  you  a  sacrifice  to 
my  vanity),  I  thought  I  owed  you  the  justice  to 
lay  before  you  all  the  hazards  attending  matri- 
mony :  you  may  recollect  I  did  so  in  the  strongest 
manner.  Perhaps  you  may  have  more  success  in 
the  instructing  your  daughter;  she  has  so  much 
company  at  home,  she  will  not  need  seeking  it 
abroad,  and  will  more  readily  take  the  notions 
you  think  fit  to  give  her.  As  you  were  alone  in 
my  family,  it  would  have  been  thought  a  great 
cruelty  to  suffer  you  no  companions  of  your  own 
age,  especially  having  so  many  near  relations,  and 
I  do  not  wonder  their  opinions  influenced  yours. 
I  was  not  sorry  to  see  you  not  determined  on  a 
single  life,  knowing  it  was  not  your  father's  inten- 
tion ;  and  contented  myself  with  endeavouring  to 
make  your  home  so  easy,  that  you  might  not  be 
in  haste  to  leave  it. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  this  a  very  long  in- 
significant letter.  I  hope  the  kindness  of  the 
design  will  excuse  it,  being  willing  to  give  you 
every  proof  in  my  power  that  I  am  your  most 
affectionate  mother. 

From  the  Poems  of  Lady  Montagu. 

LINES    WRITTEN    SHORTLY    AFTER    HER    M.\RRIAGE. 

While  thirst  of  praise,  and  vain  desire  of  fame 

In  every  age  is  every  woman's  aim  ; 

With  courtship  pleased,  of  silly  trifles  proud, 

Fond  of  a  train  and  happy  in  a  crowd; 

On  each  proud  fop  bestowing  some  kind  glance, 

Each  conquest  owing  to  some  loose  advance; 

While  vain  coquets  affect  to  be  pursued. 

And  think  they're  virtuous,  if  not  grossly  lewd: 

Let  this  creat  maxim  be  my  virtue's  guide: 

In  part  she  is  to  blame  who  has  been  tried, 

He  comes  too  near  who  comes  to  be  denied. 

439 


MO 


MO 


REPLY   TO    POPE  S    IMITATION    OF   THE    FIRST    SATIRE 
OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

***** 
Thine  is  just  such  an  image  of  his  pen. 
As  thou  thyself  art  of  the  sons  of  men: 
Where  our  own  species  in  burlesque  we  trace, 
A  sign-post  lil<eness  of  the  human  race ; 
That  is  at  once  resemblance  and  disgrace. 

***** 
If  Ac  has  thorns,  they  all  on  roses  grow, 
Thine  like  rude  thistles  and  mean  brambles  show; 
With  this  exception,  that,  though  rank  the  soil, 
Weeds  as  they  are,  they  seem  produced  by  toil. 
Satire  should,  like  a  polished  razor  keen. 
Wound  with  a  touch  that 's  scarcely  felt  or  seen; 
Thine  is  an  oyster-knife,  that  hacks  and  hews; 

***** 
'Tis  the  gross  lust  of  liate,  that  still  annoys 
Without  distinction  as  gross  lust  enjoys: 
Neither  to  folly  nor  to  vice  confined, 
The  object  of  thy  spleen  is  human  kind  : 
It  preys  on  all  who  yield,  or  who  resist, 
To  thee  't  is  provocation  to  exist. 

***** 
Not  even  youth  and  beauty  can  control 
The  universal  rancour  of  thy  soul; 
Charms  that  might  soften  superstition's  rage, 
Might  humble  pride,  and  thaw  the  ice  of  age. 
But  how  should'st  thou  by  beauty's  force  be  moved. 
No  more  for  loving  made  than  to  be  loved? 
It  was  the  equity  of  righteous  Heaven 
That  such  a  soul  to  such  a  form  was  given ; 
And  shows  the  uniformity  of  fate, 
That  one  so  odious  should  be  born  to  hate. 
— When  God  created  thee,  one  would  believe 
He  said  the  same  as  to  the  snake  of  Eve : 
"To  human  race  antipathy  declare, 
'Twixt  them  and  thee  be  everlasting  war." 
But  oh!  the  sequel  of  the  sentence  dread. 
And  while  you  bruise  their  heel,  beware  your  head. 
Nor  think  thy  weakness  shall  be  thy  defence. 
The  female  scold's  protection  in  offence. 
Sure  'tis  as  fair  to  beat  who  cannot  fight 
As  'tis  to  libel  those  who  cannot  write; 
And  if  thou  draw'st  thy  pen  against  the  law, 
Others  a  cudgel  or  a  rod  may  draw. 
If  none  with  vengeance  yet  thy  crimes  pursue. 
Or  give  thy  manifold  affronts  their  due; 
If  limbs  unbroken,  skin  without  a  stain, 
Unwhipt.  nnblanketed,  nnkicked,  unslain. 
That  wretched  little  carcase  you  retain. 
The  reason  is,  not  that  the  world  wants  eyes, 
But  thou  "rt  so  mean,  they  see  and  they  despise 
When  fretted  porcupine,  with  rancorous  will 
From  mounted  back  shoots  many  a  harmless  quill, 
Cool  the  spectators  stand,  and  all  the  while 
Upon  the  angry  little  monster  smile: 
Thus  'tis  with  thee;— while,  impotently  safe. 
You  strike  unwounding,  we  unhurt  can  laugh. 
Who  but  must  laugh,  this  bully  when  he  sees, 
A  puny  insect  shivering  at  a  breeze? 
Or  over-match'd  by  every  blast  of  wind, 
Insulting  and  provoking  all  mankind. 

***** 
Like  the  first,  bold  assassin's,  be  thy  lot, 
Ne'er  be  thy  guilt  forgiven  or  forgot; 
But  as  thou  liat'st,  be  hated  by  mankind. 
And  with  the  emblem  of  thy  crooked  mind 
Marked  on  thy  back,  like  Cain,  by  God's  own  hand, 
Wander  like  him  accursed  through  the  land. 


EXPERIENCE    LATE. 

Wisdom,  slow  product  of  laborious  years. 
The  only  fruit  that  life's  cold  winter  bears; 
Thy  sacred  seeds  in  vain  in  youth  we  lay, 
By  the  fierce  storm  of  passion  torn  away. 

Should  some  remain  in  a  rich  generous  soil. 
They  long  lie  hid,  and  must  bo  rais'd  with  toil; 
Faintly  they  struggle  with  inclement  skies. 
No  sooner  bora  than  the  poor  planter  dies. 


MONTANCLOS,    MARIE   EMILIE 
MAYON,    MADAME   DE, 

Was  bom  at  Aix,  in  1736.  Her  first  husband 
was  Baron  de  Princeu,  and  her  second,  Charle- 
magne Cuvelier  Grandin  de  Montanclos.  Being 
left  a  -widow  a  second  time,  she  devoted  herself  to 
literature.  She  wrote  comedies  in  oue  act,  vaude- 
villes, and  operas,  and  a  periodical  work  called 
"The  Ladies'  Magazine."  She  died  in  1812,  aged 
seventy-six. 

MONTEGUT,    JEANNE   DE   SEGLA, 
MADAME   DE, 

Was  born  at  Toulouse,  in  1709.  She  was  mar- 
ried, at  sixteen,  to  M.  de  Montegut,  treasvu'er- 
general  of  the  district  of  Toulouse.  This  lady 
obtained  three  times  the  prize  at  the  floral  games 
of  Toulouse,  composed  odes,  letters,  poems,  and 
translated  almost  all  the  odes  of  Horace,  in  verse. 
She  understood  Latin,  Italian,  and  English.  Her 
works  were  published  in  Paris,  in  1768. 

MONTENAY,  GEORGETTE  DE, 
Was  still  young  when  her  father,  her  mother, 
and  six  servants  in  tlieir  house,  died  of  the  plagvie. 
She  had  the  good  fortune  to  ecape,  and  Jeanne 
d'Albret,  queen  of  Navarre,  took  her  in  her  ser^^ce 
as  maid  of  honour.  The  reading  the  emblems  of 
Alciat  gave  this  young  lady  the  idea  of  composing 
a  hundred  emblems  on  Chiistian  or  moral  subjects, 
illustrated  by  verses  of  her  own,  which  she  dedi- 
cated to  Jeanne  d' Albert,  and  which  were  printed 
in  1574. 

MONTMORENCY,   CHARLOTTE   MARGARET, 

The  wife  of  Conde,  was  famous  for  her  beauty, 
which  captivated  Henry  IV.  of  France.  To  escape 
the  importunities  of  this  powerful  lover,  her  hus- 
band carried  her  off,  on  their  wedding  night,  to 
Brussels,  where  she  remained  till  Henry's  assassi- 
nation, in  1610.  She  died  in  1650,  aged  fifty- 
seven.     Her  son  was  the  great  Conde. 


MONTESPAN,    ATHENAIS   MORTI- 
MER,   MADAME    DE, 

Was  wife  of  the  Marquis  de  Montespan,  and 
mistress  of  Louis  XIV.    Her  husband  resisted  the 

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intrigue  with  indignation,  but  banishment  from 
Pai'is,  and  fear  of  despotic  power,  soon  reconciled 
him  to  his  disgrace,  and  100,000  crowns  purchased 
his  wife  and  his  silence.  From  1669  to  1675  this 
woman  exercised  uncontrolled  authority,  by  her 
wit  and  beauty,  over  the  monarch  and  people  of 
France ;  till  satiety,  and  the  love  of  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  alienated  the  king's  regard.  Still, 
however,  Madame  jMontespan  continued  for  some 
time  at  court,  deprived  of  her  influence,  but  treated 
with  respect ;  and  she  passed  her  time  between 
her  devotions,  and  drawing  up  memoirs  of  what- 
ever passed  at  court.  She  had  by  the  king  a  son, 
the  duke  of  Maine,  and  two  daughters,  one  of 
whom  married  the  grandson  of  the  great  Cond6, 
and  the  other  the  duke  de  Chartres.  The  last 
years  of  her  life  were  spent  away  from  court,  on 
a  pension  of  a  thousand  louis  a  month.  She  died 
at  Bourbon,  1717,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six.  Her 
reign  was  so  intolerable  and  fatal,  that  the  French 
regarded  it  as  a  judgment  from  heaven. 

Madame  de  Genlis  says  concerning  her,  "  Her 
character  was  false  and  her  understanding  genu- 
ine. Without  sensibility,  but  an  enthusiast,  she 
was  either  passionate  or  indifferent ;  splendour 
seemed  greatness  to  her ;  she  had  deep  designs 
and  trivial  motives ;  at  once  insatiable  and  frivo- 
lous in  her  wishes,  she  desired  to  govern,  not  from 
ambition,  but  from  love  of  display."  The  latter 
part  of  her  life  was  spent  in  expiating  the  sins  of 
her  youth  and  middle  age.  She  wore  bracelets, 
garters,  and  a  belt  with  iron  points ;  her  table 
was  frugal,  and  her  linen  coarse.  She  dreaded 
death  so  much,  that  she  always  slept  with  lights 
burning,  and  surrounded  by  women,  whom  she 
urged  constantly  to  talk,  so  that  if  she  awoke  in 
the  night,  she  would  have  no  time  for  reflection. 
She  never  would  consent  to  relinquish  the  appear- 
ance and  state  of  a  queen,  which  she  had  once 
enjoyed. 


MONTPENSIER,  ANNE  MARIE  LOUISE 

D'ORLEANS,  DUCHESS  DE, 
Daughter  of  Gaston,  duke  d'Orleans,  brother 
to  Louis  XIII.,  was   born  1627.     She   inherited 
boldness,  intrigue,  and  impetuosity  from  her  fa- 


ther ;  and  during  the  civil  wars  of  the  Fronde,  she 
not  only  embraced  the  party  of  the  duke  de  Cond^, 
but  she  made  her  adherents  fire  the  cannon  of  the 
Bastile  on  the  troops  of  Louis  XIV.  This  rash 
step  against  the  authority  of  her  king  and  cousin, 
ruined  her  hopes,  and  after  in  vain  aspiring  to  the 
hand  of  a  sovereign  prince,  she,  in  1669,  married 
the  count  de  Lauzun,  a  man  much  younger  than 
herself.  The  king,  though  he  had  permitted  the 
union,  threw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  lovers, 
and  Lauzun  was  kept  in  prison  for  ten  years ;  but 
after  the  cession  of  Dombes  and  Eu,  of  which  the 
duchess  de  Montpensier  was  the  sovereign,  she 
was  allowed  to  see  her  husband.  But  she  was 
violent  and  jealous,  and  Lauzun  ungrateful  and 
faithless ;  and  she  at  last  forbade  him  to  appear 
in  her  presence,  and  retired  to  a  convent.  She 
wrote  two  romances,  and  some  devotional  books. 
There  is  also  a  collection  of  letters  to  Madame  de 
Motteville,  written  by  Mademoiselle  Montpensier, 
and  her  most  important  work,  the  "  Memoirs,"  a 
farrago  of  curious  anecdotes,  valuable  from  the 
sincei-ity,  good  faith,  and  vivacity  with  which  they 
are  written.  These  "  Memoirs"  have  been  and 
will  be  sought  for  among  the  literary  curiosities 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  though  they  contain 
much  that  is  trifling,  or  rather,  mere  gossip.  She 
was  known  by  the  name  of  Mademoiselle. 

MONTPENSIER,    JACQUELIN 
LONGVIC,    DUCHESS   DE, 

Was  the  youngest  daughter  of  John  de  Longvic, 
lord  of  Guny,  and  was  married,  in  1538,  to  Louis 
de  Bourbon,  the  second  of  the  name,  duke  de 
Montpensier.  She  was  a  lady  of  great  merit,  and 
a  favourite  of  Catharine  de  Medicis ;  and  had  she 
lived,  she  might  have,  by  her  counsels,  prevented 
many  of  the  cruel  deeds  of  this  princess ;  but  she 
died  in  1561.  She  openly  avowed,  in  her  last  ill- 
ness, what  her  husband  had  long  suspected,  that 
she  was  a  Protestant ;  and  two  of  her  daughters 
professed  the  same  faith. 

Thuanus  praises  this  lady  for  her  talents,  pru- 
dence, and  masculine  understanding.  She  was 
intelligent  and  skilful  in  the  affairs  of  government, 
and  always  solicitous  for  the  public  tranquillity. 
It  was  to  her  that  the  archbishop  of  Vienna  ad- 
dressed himself,  when,  foreseeing  the  ruin  of  the 
princes  of  the  blood,  during  the  reign  of  Francis 
II.,  he  told  her  that  if  she  kept  not  her  promise 
of  opposing  the  house  of  Guise,  all  was  lost.  It 
was  by  her  influence  with  Catharine  de  Medicis, 
that  Michael  do  I'Hopital  was  made  chancellor  of 
France.  "Had  this  been  the  only  meritorious 
action  of  her  life,"  says  Bayle,  "it  ought  to  have 
consecrated  her  memory.  No  other  person  could 
have  aiforded,  in  so  dangerous  a  conjuncture,  an 
equal  support  to  the  monarchy.  The  duchess  also 
contributed  to  the  preservation  of  the  life  of  the 
prince  de  Cond^. 

MORATA,    OLYMPIA   FULVIA, 

Was  born  at  Ferrara,   in   1526.     Her  father, 

preceptor  to  the  young  princes  of  Ferrara,  sons 

of  Alphonsus  I.,  observing  her  genius,  took  great 

pains  in  cultivating  it.     Olympia  was  called  to 

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court  for  the  purpose  of  studying  belles-lettres 
with  the  princess  of  Ferrara,  where  she  astonished 
the  Italians  by  declaiming  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
explaining  the  paradoxes  of  Cicero,  and  answering 
any  question  that  was  put  to  her.  Her  father's 
death,  and  the  ill  health  of  her  mother,  withdrew 
her  from  court,  and  she  devoted  herself  to  houser 
hold  affairs,  and  the  education  of  her  three  sis- 
ters and  a  brother.  A  young  German,  named 
Andrew  Grunthler,  who  had  studied  medicine, 
and  taken  his  doctor's  degree  at  Ferrara,  married 
her,  and  took  her,  with  her  little  brother,  to  Ger- 
many. 

They  went  to  Schweinfurt,  in  Franconia,  which 
was  soon  after  besieged  and  burnt,  and  they  barely 
escaped  with  their  lives.  The  hardships  they 
suffered  in  consequence,  caused  Morata's  death  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months.  She  died  in  1555,  in 
the  Protestant  faith,  which  she  had  embraced  on 
her  coming  to  Germany.  Several  of  her  works 
were  burnt  at  Schweinfurt,  but  the  remainder 
were  collected  and  published  at  Basil,  1558,  by 
Cceluis  Secundus  Curio.  They  consist  of  orations, 
dialogues,  letters,  and  translations. 

MORELLA,  JULIANA, 
A  NATiA'E  of  Barcelona,  was  born  in  1595.  Her 
father  being  obliged  to  leave  Spain  for  a  homicide, 
fled  to  Lyons,  where  he  taught  his  daughter  so 
well,  that  at  the  age  of  twelve,  she  publicly  main- 
tained theses  in  philosophy.  In  her  tenth  year, 
she  is  said  to  have  held  a  public  disputation  in 
the  Jesuits'  College  at  Lyons.  She  was  profoundly 
skilled  in  philosophy,  divinity,  music,  jurispru- 
dence, and  philology.  She  entered  into  the  con- 
vent of  St.  Praxedia,  at  Avignon. 


MORE,    HANNAH, 

Distinguished  for  her  talents,  and  the  noble 
manner  in  which  she  exerted  them,  was  the  fourth 
daughter  of  Mr.  Jacob  More ;  she  was  born  Febru- 
ary 2d,  1745,  at  Stapleton,  Gloucestershire.  Mr. 
More  was  a  schoolmaster,  and  gave  his  daughters 
the  rudiments  of  a  classical  education ;  but  he 
was  a  narrow-minded  man,  and  so  fearful  they 
would  become  learned  women,  that  he  tried  by 


precepts  to  counteract  the  effect  of  his  lessons. 
The  elder  daughters  opened,  at  Bristol,  a  board- 
ing-school for  girls,  which  was  for  a  long  time 
very  flourishing,  and  at  this  school  Hannah  ob- 
tained the  best  advantages  of  education  she  evei- 
enjoyed.  How  small  these  were  compared  with 
the  opportunities  of  young  men  !  And  yet  what 
man  of  her  nation  and  time  was  so  influential  for 
good,  or  has  left  such  a  rich  legacy  of  moral  les- 
sons for  the  improvement  of  the  world  as  Hannah 
More  has  done  ?  Her  influence  has  been  wonder- 
ful in  this  our  new  world,  as  well  as  in  her  own 
counti-y  ;  our  mothers  were  aided  by  her  in  teach- 
ing us  in  our  infancy.  "We  have  felt  the  eifect 
of  her  writings  ever  since  we  began  to  reason ;  in 
the  nursery,  in  the  school-room,  and  even  in  col- 
lege halls,"  says  an  enthusiastic  American*  wri- 
ter. "Her  looks,  her  cottage,  her  air  and  man- 
ner, were  all  enquired  after  by  every  youth  who 
read  her  works ;  and  for  ourselves,  we  can  recol- 
lect, that  a  favourite,  pious,  kind,  and  affectionate 
maiden  friend  of  our  childhood,  was  in  the  exube- 
rance of  our  admiration  and  gratitude,  compared 
in  some  infant  attempts  at  verse,  to  Hannah  More  ; 
we  could  go  no  higher." 

In  1761  Hannah  Moi'e  wi'ote  a  pastoral  drama, 
"  The  Search  after  Happiness."  She  was  then 
sixteen  ;  and  though  this  production  was  not  pub- 
lished till  many  years  afterwards,  yet  she  may  be 
said  to  have  then  commenced  her  literary  career, 
which  till  1824,  when  her  last  work,  "  Spirit  of 
Prayer,"  was  issued,  was  steadily  pursued  for 
sixty-three  years.  The  next  important  event  of 
her  life  is  thus  related  by  Mrs.  Elwood : 

"When  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  she  re- 
ceived and  accepted  an  ofi'er  of  marriage  from  a 
Mr.  Turner,  a  gentleman  of  large  fortune,  but 
considerably  her  senior.  Their  acquaintance  had 
commenced  in  consequence  of  some  young  rela- 
tions of  Mr.  Turner's  being  at  the  Misses  More's 
school,  who  generally  spent  their  holidays  at  their 
cousin's  beautiful  residence  at  Belmont,  near  Bris- 
tol, whither  they  were  permitted  to  invite  some 
of  their  young  friends ;  and  Hannah  and  Patty 
More,  being  near  their  own  age,  were  generally 
among  those  invited.  The  affair  was  so  far  ad- 
vanced that  the  wedding-day  was  actually  fixed, 
and  Hannah,  having  given  up  her  share  in  her 
sister's  establishment,  had  gone  to  considerable 
expense  in  making  her  preparations, — when  Mr. 
Turner,  who  appears  to  have  been  of  eccentric 
temper,  was  induced  to  postpone  the  completion 
of  his  engagement;  and  as  this  was  done  more 
than  once,  her  friends  at  length  interfered,  and 
prevailed  on  her  to  relinquish  the  marriage  alto- 
gether, though  tliis  was  against  the  wishes  of  the 
capricious  gentleman. 

To  make  some  amends  for  his  thus  trifling  with 
her  affections,  IMr.  Turner  insisted  upon  being 
allowed  to  settle  an  annuity  upon  her,  which  she 
at  first  rejected,  but  subsequently,  through  the 
medium  of  her  friend,  Dr.  Stonehouse,  who  con- 
sented to  be  the  agent  and  trustee,  she  was  at 
length  prevailed  on  to  allow  a  sum  to  be  settled 


*  Samuel  L.  Knapp,  in  his 


Female  Biography." 
442 


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upon  her,  ■which  should  enable  her  hereafter  to 
devote  herself  to  the  pursuits  of  literature. 

She  had  soon  after  another  opportunity  of  mar- 
rying, which  was  declined,  and  from  this  time  she 
seems  to  have  formed  the  resolution,  to  which  she 
ever  afterwards  adhered,  of  remaining  single." 

In  1774  she  became  acquainted  with  the  gi-eat 
tragedian,  David  Garrick ;  he  and  his  wife  soon 
formed  a  warm  attachment  for  the  young  authoress, 
invited  her  to  their  house  in  London,  and  intro- 
duced her  to  the  literary  and  fashionable  woi-ld. 
She  was  there  presented  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Edmund  Burke,  and  Dr.  Johnson ;  how  highly 
she  prized  the  privilege  of  such  acquaintances 
may  be  gathered  from  her  letters.  She  constantly 
wrote  to  her  sisters  at  Bristol,  describing  in  a  style 
of  easy  elegance  whatever  interested  her  in  London. 

Speaking  of  letter-writing,  she  used  to  say, 
"  When  I  want  wisdom,  sentiment,  or  information, 
I  can  find  them  much  better  in  books.  What  I 
want  in  a  letter  is  the  picture  of  my  friend's  mind, 
ajad  the  common-sense  of  his  life.  I  want  to  know 
what  he  is  saying  and  doing."  She  added,  "  that 
letters  among  near  relations  were  family  newspa- 
pers, meant  to  convey  paragraphs  of  intelligence, 
and  advertisements  of  projects,  and  not  sentimen- 
tal essays." 

Her  first  acquaintance  with  that  much-abused 
class,  the  publishers,  is  thus  narrated  by  Mrs. 
Elwood : 

"Hannah  More  again  visited  London,  in  1775, 
and  in  the  course  of  this  year  the  eulogiums  and 
attentions  she  had  received  induced  her,  as  she 
observed  to  her  sisters,  to  try  her  real  value,  by 
writing  a  small  poem  and  offering  it  to  Cadell. 
The  legendary  tale  of  '  Sir  Eldred  of  the  Bower' 
was,  accordingly,  composed  in  a  fortnight's  time, 
to  which  she  added  '  The  Bleeding  Rock,'  which 
had  been  written  some  years  previously.  Cadell 
offered  her  a  handsome  sum  for  these  poems,  tell- 
ing her  if  he  could  discover  what  Goldsmith  re- 
ceived for  the  '  Deserted  Village,'  he  would  make 
up  the  deficiency,  whatever  it  might  be. 

Thus  commenced  Hannah  jNIore's  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Cadell,  who  was,  by  a  singular  coinci- 
dence, a  native  of  the  same  village  with  herself; 
and  her  connexion  with  his  establishment  was 
carried  on  for  forty  j^ears." 

In  1782  Hannah  More's  "  Sacred  Dramas"  were 
published,  with  a  poem,  entitled  "  Sensibility." 
As  we  prefer  to  present  the  opinions  of  acknow- 
ledged critics  in  literature,  respecting  the  works 
of  the  celebrated  female  writers,  rather  than  our 
own,  whenever  we  think  the  former  give  a  correct 
and  impartial  estimate  of  character  and  talents, 
we  will  here  insert  an  extract  from  the  notice  of 
Hannah  More  in  a  late  and  excellent  publication  :* 

"All  her  works  were  successful,  and  Johnson 
said  he  thought  her  the  best  of  female  versifiers. 
The  poetry  of  Hannah  More  is  now  forgotten,  but 
'  Percy'  is  a  good  play,  and  it  is  clear  that  the 
authoress  might  have  excelled  as  a  dramatic  writer, 
had  she  devoted  herself  to  that  difficult  species  of 
composition.     In  1786  she  published  another  vo- 

*  Chambers'  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature. 


lume  of  verse,  '  Florio,  a  Tale  for  Fine  Gentlemen 
and  Fine  Ladies,'  and  '  The  Bas  Bleu,  or  Conver- 
sation.' The  latter  (which  Jolmson  complimented 
as  a  great  performance)  was  an  elaborate  eidogy 
on  the  Has  Bleu  Club,*  a  literary  assembly  that 
met  at  Mrs.  Montagu's." 

The   following   couplets  have   been  quoted   as 
terse  and  pointed  : 

"  In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find, 
All  think  their  little  set  mankind." 

'•Small  habits  well  pursued  betimes, 
May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes." 

Such  lines  mark  the  good  sense  and  keen  observa- 
tion of  the  writer,  and  these  qualities  Hannah  now 
resolved  to  devote  exclusively  to  high  objects. 
The  gay  life  of  the  fashionable  world  had  lost  its 
charms,  and  having  published  her  '  Bas  Bleu,' 
she  retired  to  a  small  cottage  and  garden  near 
Bristol,  where  her  sisters  kept  a  flourishing  board- 
ing-school. Her  first  prose  publication  was 
'  Thoughts  on  the  Importance  of  the  Manners  of 
the  Great  to  General  Society,'  produced  in  1788. 
This  was  followed,  in  1791,  by  an  'Estimate  of 
the  Religion  of  the  Fashionable  AVorld.'  As  a 
means  of  counteracting  the  political  tracts  and 
exertions  of  the  Jacobins  and  levellers,  Hannah 
More,  in  1794,  wrote  a  number  of  tales,  published 
monthly,  under  the  title  of  '  The  Cheap  Reposi- 
tory,' which  attained  to  a  sale  of  about  a  million 
each  number.  Some  of  the  little  stories  (as  the 
'  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain')  are  well  told,  and 
contain  striking  moral  and  religious  lessons.  With 
the  same  object,  our  authoress  published  a  volume 
called  'Village  Politics.'  Her  other  principal 
works  are — '  Strictures  on  the  Modern  System  of 
Female  Education,'  1799 ;  '  Hints  towards  Form- 
ing the  Character  of  a  Young  Princess,'  1805; 
'  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  comprehending  Ob- 
servations on  Domestic  Habits  and  Manners,  Reli- 
gion and  Morals,'  two  volumes,  1809;  'Practical 
Piety,  or  the  Influence  of  the  Religion  of  the  Heart 
on  the  Conduct  of  Life,'  two  volumes,  1811 ; 
'Christian  Morals,'  two  volumes,  1812;  'Essay 
on  the  Character  and  Writings  of  St.  Paul,'  two 
volumes,  1815;  and  'Moral  Sketches  of  Prevail- 
ing Opinions  and  Manners,  Foreign  and  Domestic, 
with  Reflections  on  Prayer,'  1819.  The  collection 
of  her  works  is  comprised  in  eleven  volumes  octavo. 
The  work  entitled  '  Hints  towards  Forming  the 
Character  of  a  Young  Princess,'  was  written  with 
a  view  to  the  education  of  the  princess  Charlotte, 
on  which  subject  the  advice  and  assistance  of 
Hannah  More  had  been  requested  by  queen  Char- 
lotte. Of  'Coelebs,'  we  are  told  that  ten  editions 
were  sold  in  one  year — a  remarkable  proof  of  the 
popularity  of  the  work.  The  tale  is  admirably 
written,  with  a  fine  vein  of  delicate  irony  and  sar- 
casm, and  some  of  the  characters  are  well  de- 
picted, but,  from  the  nature  of  the  story,  it  pre- 
sents few  incidents  or  embellishments  to  attract 
ordinary  novel-readers.  It  has  not  inaptly  been 
styled  'a  dramatic  sermon.'  Of  the  other  publi- 
cations of  the  authoress,  we  may  say,  with  one  of 

*  See  sketch  of  ElizabetJi  Montagu,  page  432.  , 

443 


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her  critics,  '  it  would  be  idle  in  us  to  dwell  on 
works  so  well  known  as  the  "  Thoughts  on  the 
Manners  of  the  Great,"  the  "Essay  on  the  Reli- 
gion of  the  Fashionable  AVorld,"  and  so  on,  which 
finally  established  Miss  More's  name  as  a  great 
moral  writer,  possessing  a  masterly  command  over 
the  resources  of  our  language,  and  devoting  a 
keen  wit  and  lively  fancy  to  the  best  and  noblest 
of  purposes.'  In  her  latter  days  there  was  per- 
haps a  tincture  of  unnecessary  gloom  or  severity 
in  her  religious  views ;  yet,  when  we  recollect  her 
unfeigned  sincerity  and  practical  benevolence  — 
her  exertions  to  instruct  the  poor  miners  and  cot- 
tagers— and  the  untiring  zeal  with  which  she  la- 
boured, even  amidst  severe  bodily  infirmities,  to 
inculcate  sound  principles  and  intellectual  cultiva- 
tion, from  the  palace  to  the  cottage,  it  is  impossi- 
ble not  to  rank  her  among  the  best  benefactors  of 
mankind. 

The  great  success  of  the  different  works  of  our 
authoress  enabled  her  to  live  in  ease,  and  to  dis- 
pense charities  around  her.  Her  sisters  also  se- 
cured a  competency,  and  they  all  lived  together 
at  Barley  Grove,  a  property  of  some  extent,  which 
they  purchased  and  improved.  '  From  the  day 
that  the  school  was  given  up,  the  existence  of  the 
whole  sisterhood  appears  to  have  flowed  on  in  one 
uniform  current  of  peace  and  contentment,  diver- 
sified only  by  new  appearances  of  Hannah  as  an 
authoress,  and  the  ups  and  downs  which  she  and 
the  others  met  with  in  the  prosecution  of  a  most 
brave  and  humane  experiment  —  namely,  their 
zealous  effort  to  extend  the  blessings  of  education 
and  religion  among  the  inhabitants  of  certain  vil- 
lages situated  in  a  wild  country  some  eight  or  ten 
miles  from  their  abode,  who,  from  a  concurrence 
of  unhappy  local  and  temporary  circumstances, 
had  been  left  in  a  state  of  ignorance  hardly  con- 
ceivable at  the  present  day.'  These  exertions 
were  ultimately  so  successful,  that  the  sisterhood 
had  the  gratification  of  witnessing  a  yearly  festi- 
val celebrated  on  the  hills  of  Cheddar,  where  above 
a  thousand  children,  with  the  members  of  female 
clubs  of  industry  (also  established  by  them),  after 
attending  church  service,  were  regaled  at  the  ex- 
pense of  their  benefactors. 

Hannah  More  died  on  the  7th  of  September, 
1833,  aged  eighty-eight.  She  had  made  about 
£30,000  by  her  wi-itings,  and  she  left,  by  her  will, 
legacies  to  charitable  and  religious  institutions 
amounting  to  £10,000." 

In  1834,  "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence of  Mrs.  Hannah  More,"  by  William  Roberts, 
Esq.,  were  published  in  four  volumes.  In  these 
we  have  a  full  account  by  Hannah  herself  of  her 
London  life,  and  many  interesting  anecdotes." 

From  this  memoir  we  select  the  estimate  of 
Hannah  More's  moral  character: 

'"  Her  love  of  her  country,  and  her  love  of  her 
species,  were  without  any  alloy  of  party  feelings 
or  prejudices.  To  her  sound  and  correct  under- 
standing, liberty  presented  itself  as  including 
among  its  essential  constituents  loyalty,  allegiance, 
security,  and  duty.  Patriotism,  in  this  view  of  it, 
should  be  placed  in  the  front  of  her  character, 
BiDce  it  really  took  the  lead  of  every  other  temporal 


object.  All  the  powers  of  her  mind  were  devoted 
to  the  solid  improvement  of  society.  Her  aims 
were  all  practical ;  and  it  would  be  difficult,  per- 
haps impossible,  to  name  a  writer  who  has  laid 
before  the  public  so  copious  a  variety  of  original 
thoughts  and  reasonings,  without  any  admixture 
of  speculation  or  hypothesis.  To  keep  within  this 
tangible  barrier,  without  contracting  the  range  of 
her  imagination,  or  denying  to  truth  any  advan- 
tage to  which  it  is  fairly  entitled,  of  illustration 
or  entertainment,  is  a  secret  in  the  art  of  compo- 
sition with  which  few,  if  any,  have  been  so  well 
acquainted.  Her  indefatigable  pen  was  ever  at 
work ;  kept  in  motion  by  a  principle  of  incessant 
activity,  never  to  stop  but  with  her  pulse ;  never 
to  need  the  refreshment  of  change  ;  and  never  to 
be  weary  in  well-doing.  Thus  to  do  good  and  to 
distribute  was  no  less  the  work  of  her  head  than 
of  her  hand,  and  the  rich  and  the  great  were 
among  the  objects  of  her  charity.  The  specific 
relief  of  which  they  stood  in  need  she  was  ever 
forward  to  supply ;  and  as  she  had  passed  so  many 
of  her  earliest  years  among  them,  she  knew  well 
their  wants,  and  how  to  administer  to  them.  She 
was  a  woman  of  business  in  all  the  concerns  of 
humanity,  refined  or  common,  special  or  general, 
and  had  a  sort  of  righteous  cunning  in  dealing 
with  different  cases;  exposing  without  irritating, 
reproving  without  discouraging,  probing  without 
wounding ;  always  placing  duty  upon  its  right 
motives,  and  showing  the  perversity  of  error  by 
bringing  it  into  close  comparison  with  the  loveliest 
forms  of  truth  and  godliness." 

As  the  writings  of  this  excellent  woman  are 
widely  known,  and  probably  more  read  in  America 
than  England,  we  shall  give  few  extracts  from  her 
prose  works ;  but  there  was  one  event  of  her  life 
which  should  never  be  forgotten ;  we  allude  to  the 
IDcrsecution  she  met  with  when  she  attempted  to 
instruct  the  poor.  The  brutal  ignorance  and  de- 
gradation Avhich  then,  fifty  years  ago,  (is  it  much 
changed  now  ? )  characterized  the  peasantry  of 
England  were  shocking ;  but  even  these  do  not 
appear  so  utterly  inhuman  as  the  conduct  of  the 
rich  farmers,  and  particularly  that  of  the  clergy- 
men, in  opposing  all  reforms.  Miss  More  says, 
in  a  letter,  writing  of  one  of  her  schools,  "  It  is  a 
parish,  the  largest  in  our  county  or  diocess,  in  a 
state  of  great  depravity  and  ignorance.  The 
opposition  I  have  met  with  in  endeavouring  to 
establish  an  institution  for  the  religious  instruc- 
tion of  these  people  would  excite  your  astonish- 
ment. The  prmcipal  adversary  is  a  farmer  of 
£1000  a-year,  who  says,  the  lower  class  are  fated 
to  be  wicked  and  ignorant,  and  that  as  wise  as  I 
am  I  cannot  alter  what  is  decreed." 

She  surmounted  this  opposition  ;  but  then  began 
the  pei-secutions  instituted  against  her  by  the 
clergy.  These  were  so  vindictive  that  Miss  More 
appealed  to  the  bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  in  whose 
diocese  she  was  labouring  in  this  mission  of  cha- 
rity. We  insert  a  p  )rtion  of  her  letter,  which,  for 
its  masterly  exposition  of  the  subject,  and  firm, 
yet  gentle  tone  of  remonstrance  against  injustice 
to  the  poor,  as  well  as  to  herself,  deserves  to  be 
studied.  We  are  compelled  to  omit  the  greater  part 

441 


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"  When  I  settled  in  this  country  tliirteen  years 
ago,  I  found  the  poor  in  many  of  the  villages  sunk 
in  a  deplorable  state  of  ignorance  and  vice.  There 
were,  I  think,  no  Sunday-schools  in  the  whole  dis- 
trict, except  one  in  my  own  parish,'  which  had 
been  established  by  our  respectable  rector,  and 
another  in  the  adjoining  parish  of  Churchill.  This 
drew  me  to  the  more  neglected  villages,  which, 
being  distant,  made  it  very  laborious.  Not  one 
school  here  did  I  ever  attempt  to  establish  without 
the  hearty  concurrence  of  the  clergyman  of  the 
parish.  My  plan  of  instruction  is  extremely  sim- 
ple and  limited.  They  leai-n,  on  week  days,  such 
coarse  works  as  may  fit  them  for  servants.  I  allow 
of  no  writing  for  the  poor.  My  object  is  not  to 
make  fanatics,  but  to  train  up  the  lower  classes 
in  habits  of  industry  and  piety.  I  knew  no  way 
of  teaching  morals  but  by  teaching  principles ; 
nor  of  inculcating  Christian  principles  without  a 
good  knowledge  of  Sci'ipture.  I  own  I  have 
laboured  this  point  diligently.  My  sisters  and  I 
always  teach  them  ourselves  every  Sunday,  except 
during  our  absence  in  winter.  By  being  out  about 
thirteen  hours,  we  have  generally  contrived  to 
visit  two  schools  the  same  day,  and  carry  them  to 
their  respective  churches.  When  we  had  more 
schools,  we  commonly  visited  them  on  a  Sunday. 
The  only  books  we  use  in  teaching  are  two  little 
tracts  called  '  Questions  for  the  Mendip  Schools' 
(to  be  had  of  Hatchard).  'The  Church  Cate- 
chism' (these  are  framed,  and  half  a  dozen  hung 
up  in  the  room).  The  Catechism,  broken  into 
short  questions,  spelling-books,  psalter,  common 
prayer,  testament,  bible.  The  little  ones  repeat 
'Watts's  Hymns.'  The  Collect  is  learned  every 
Sunday.  They  generally  learn  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  with  many  other  chapters  and  psalms. 
Finding  that  what  the  children  learned  at  school 
they  commonly  lost  at  home  by  the  profaneness 
and  ignorance  of  their  parents,  it  occurred  to  me 
in  some  of  the  larger  parishes  to  invite  the  latter 
to  come  at  six  on  the  Sunday  evening,  for  an  hour, 
to  the  school,  together  with  the  elder  scholars.  A 
plain  printed  sermon  and  a  printed  prayer  is  read 
to  them,  and  a  psalm  is  sung.  I  am  not  bribed  by 
my  taste,  for,  unluckily,  I  do  not  delight  in  music, 
but  observing  that  singing  is  a  help  to  devotion  in 
others,  I  thought  it  right  to  allow  the  practice. 

"For  many  years  I  have  given  away,  annually, 
nearly  two  hundred  bibles,  common  prayer  books, 
and  testaments.  To  teach  the  poor  to  read  with- 
out providing  them  with  safe  books,  has  always 
appeared  to  me  an  improper  measure,  and  this 
consideration  induced  me  to  enter  upon  the  labo- 
rious undertaking  of  the  Cheap  Repository  Tracts. 

"  In  some  parishes,  where  the  poor  are  numer- 
ous, such  as  Cheddar  and  the  distressed  mining 
villages  of  Shipham  and  Rowbarrow,  I  have  insti- 
tuted, with  considerable  expense  to  myself,  friendly 
benefit  societies  for  poor  women,  which  have  proved 
a  great  relief  to  the  sick  and  lying-in,  especially 
in  the  late  seasons  of  scarcity.  AVe  have  in  one 
parish  onlij,  a  saving  of  between  two  and  three 
himdred  pounds  (the  others  in  proportion)  ;  this  I 
have  placed  out  in  the  funds.     The  late  Lady  of 


the  Manor  at  Cheddar,  in  addition  to  her  kindness 
to  my  institutions  there  during  her  life,  left,  at 
her  death,  a  legacy  for  the  club,  and  another  for 
the  school,  as  a  testimony  to  her  opinion  of  the 
utility  of  both.  We  have  two  little  annual  festivi- 
ties for  the  children  and  poor  women  of  these 
clubs,  which  are  always  attended  by  a  large  con- 
course of  gentry  and  clergy. 

"  At  one  of  these  public  meetings,  Mr.  Bere  de- 
clared, that  since  the  institution  of  the  schools  he 
could  now  dine  in  peace ;  for  that  where  he  used 
to  issue  ten  warrants,  he  was  not  now  called  on 
for  two. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  My  schools  were  always  honoured  with  the  full 
sanction  of  the  late  bishop  ;  of  which  I  have  even 
recent  testimonials.  It  does  not  appear  that  any 
one  person  who  has  written  against  them,  except 
Mr.  Bere,  ever  saw  them. 

*  *  *  *      .     •  * 

"I  need  not  inform  your  lordship  why  the  illi- 
terate, when  they  become  religious,  are  more 
liable  to  enthusiasm  than  the  better  informed. 
They  have  also  a  coarse  way  of  expressing  their 
religious  sentiments,  which  often  appears  to  be 
enthusiasm,  when  it  is  only  vulgarity  or  quaint- 
ness.  But  I  am  persuaded  your  lordship  will 
allow  that  this  does  not  furnish  a  reason  why  the 
poor  should  be  left  destitute  of  religious  instruc- 
tion. That  the  knowledge  of  the  bible  should  lay 
men  more  open  to  the  delusions  of  fanaticism  on 
the  one  hand,  or  of  jacobinism  on  the  other,  ap- 
pears so  unlikely,  that  I  should  have  thought  the 
probability  lay  all  on  the  other  side. 

"I  do  not  vindicate  enthusiasm;  I  dread  it. 
But  can  the  possibility  that  a  few  should  become 
enthusiasts  be  justly  pleaded  as  an  argument  for 
giving  them  all  up  to  actual  vice  and  bai-barism  ? 

"  In  one  of  the  principal  i^amj^hlets  against  me, 
it  is  asserted  that  my  writings  ought  to  be  burned 
by  the  hands  of  the  common  hangman.  In  most  of 
them  it  is  affirmed  that  my  principles  and  actions 
are  corrupt  and  mischievous  in  no  common  de- 
gree. If  the  grosser  crimes  alleged  against  me 
be  true,  I  am  not  only  unfit  to  be  allowed  to  teach 
poor  children  to  read,  but  I  am  unfit  to  be  toler- 
ated in  any  class  of  society.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
the  heavier  charges  should  prove  not  to  be  true, 
may  it  not  furnish  a  presumption  that  the  less  are 
equally  unfounded  ?  There  is  scarcely  any  motive 
so  j^ernicious,  nor  any  hypocrisy  so  deep,  to  which 
my  plans  have  not  been  attributed ;  yet  I  have 
neither  improved  my  interest  nor  my  fortune  by 
them.  I  am  not  of  a  sex  to  expect  preferment, 
nor  of  a  temper  to  court  favour ;  nor  was  I  so 
ignorant  of  mankind  as  to  look  for  praise  by  a 
means  so  little  calculated  to  obtain  it ;  though, 
perhaps,  I  did  not  reckon  on  such  a  degree  of 
obloquy.  If  vanity  were  my  motive,  it  has  been 
properly  punished.  If  hypocrisy,  I  am  hastening 
fast  to  answer  for  it  at  a  tribunal,  compared  with 
which  all  human  opinion  weighs  very  light  indeed  ; 
in  view  of  which  the  sacrifice  which  I  have  been 
called  to  make  of  health,  peace,  and  reputation, 
shrinks  into  nothing. 

"And  now,  my  lord,  I  come  to  what  has  been 


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the  ultimate  object  of  this  too  tedious  letter  —  a 
request  to  know  what  is  your  lordship's  pleasure  ? 
I  have  too  high  an  opinion  of  your  wisdom  and 
candour  to  susjiect  the  equity  of  your  determina- 
tion. I  know  too  well  what  I  owe  to  the  station 
you  fill,  to  dispute  your  authority  or  to  oppose 
your  commands.  If  it  be  your  will  that  my  re- 
maining schools  should  be  abolished,  I  may  lament 
your  decision,  but  I  will  obey  it  My  deep  rever- 
ence for  the  laws  and  institutions  of  my  country 
inspires  me  wath  a  proportionate  veneration  for 
all  constituted  authorities,  whether  in  church  or 
state.  If  I  be  not  permitted  to  employ  the  short 
remnant  of  my  life  (which  has  been  nearly  de- 
stroyed by  these  prolonged  attacks)  in  being,  in 
any  small  measure  and  degree,  actively  useful,  I 
will  at  least  set  my  accusers  an  example  of  obe- 
dience to  those  superiors  whom  the  providence  of 
God  has  set  over  me,  and  whom,  next  to  Him,  I 
am  bound  to  obey.* 

KXTRACTS    FROM    "  HINTS    FOR    FORMING    THE    CHA- 
RACTER   OF    A    YOUNG    PRINCESS." 

One  of  the  first  lessons  that  should  be  incul- 
cated on  the  great,  is,  that  God  has  not  sent  us 
into  this  world  to  give  us  consummate  happiness, 
but  to  train  us  to  those  habits  which  lead  to  it. 
High  rank  lays  the  mind  open  to  strong  tempta- 
tions ;  the  highest  rank  to  the  strongest.  The 
seducing  images  of  luxury  and  pleasure,  of  splen- 
dour and  of  homage,  of  power  and  independence, 
are  only  to  be  counteracted  by  a  religious  educa- 
tion. The  world  is  too  generally  entered  upon  as 
a  scene  of  pleasure  instead  of  trial.  The  high- 
born are  taught  to  enjoy  the  world  at  an  age  when 
they  should  be  learning  to  know  it ;  and  to  grasp 
the  prize  when  they  should  be  exercising  them- 
selves for  the  combat.  They  look  for  the  sweets 
of  victory  when  they  should  be  enduring  the  hard- 
ness of  the  conflict.  The  exalted  station  of  the 
young  princess,  by  separating  her  from  miscella- 
neous society,  becomes  her  protection  from  many 
of  its  maxims  and  practices.  From  the  dangers 
of  her  own  peculiar  situation  she  should  be  guard- 
ed, by  being  early  taught  to  consider  power  and 
influence,  not  as  exempting  her  from  the  difficul- 
ties of  life,  or  ensuring  to  her  a  larger  portion  of 
its  pleasures,  but  as  engaging  her  in  a  peculiarly 
extended  sphere  of  duties,  and  infinitely  increas- 
ing the  demands  on  her  fortitude  and  vigilance. 

FROM    "  FLORIO." 

Exhausted  Floiio,  at  the  age 

When  youth  should  rusli  on  glory's  stage, 

When  life  should  open  fresh  and  new, 

And  ardent  hope  her  schemes  pursue: 

Of  youthful  gayety  bereft, 

Had  scarce  an  unhroach'd  pleasure  left; 

He  found  already  to  his  cost 

The  shining  gloss  of  life  was  lost. 

And  pleasure  was  so  coy  a  prude, 

She  fled  the  more,  the  more  pursued ; 

Or  if  o'crtaken  and  caress'd. 

He  loath'd  and  left  her  when  pnsspss'd. 

But  Florio  knew  the  world ;  that  science 

Sets  sense  and  learning  at  defiance; 

♦  Notwithstanding  this  Christian  appeal,  Hannah  More 
was  compelled  to  give  up  her  schools. 


He  thought  the  world  to  him  was  known. 
Whereas  he  only  knew  the  town. 
In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find. 
All  think  their  little  set  —  mankind. 
Though  high  renown  the  youth  had  gain'd, 
No  flagrant  crimes  his  life  had  staiu'd  ; 
Though  known  among  a  certain  set. 
He  did  not  like  to  be  in  debt ; 
He  shudder'd  at  the  dicer's  box, 
Nor  thought  it  very  heterodox 
That  tradesmen  sliould  be  sometimes  paid. 
And  bargains  kept  as  well  as  maile. 
His  growing  credit,  as  a  sinner. 
Was  that  he  liked  to  spoil  a  dinner; 
Made  pleasure  and  made  business  wait, 
And  still  by  system  came  too  late  ; 
Yet  'twas  a  hopeful  indication 
On  which  to  found  a  reputation  : 
Small  habits,  well  pursued,  betimes 
May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes  ; 
And  who  a  juster  claim  preferr'd 
Than  one  who  always  broke  his  word  ? 


FROM    '*  SENSIBILITY." 


Sweet  Sensibility!  thou  keen  delight! 
Unprompted  moral!  sudden  sense  of  right ! 
Perception  exquisite!  fair  Virtue's  seed! 
Thou  quick  precursor  of  the  liberal  deed! 
Thou  hasty  conscience  !  reason's  blushing  morn  ! 
Instinctive  kindness  ere  reflection  's  born  ! 
Prompt  sense  of  equity  !  to  thee  belongs 
The  swift  redress  of  unexamined  wrongs! 
Eager  to  serve,  the  cause  perhaps  untried. 
But  always  apt  to  choose  the  suffering  side! 
To  those  who  know  thee  not,  no  words  can  paint, 
And  those  who  know  thee,  know  all  words  are  faint 

She  does  not  foel  thy  power  who  boasts  thy  flame. 
And  rounds  her  every  period  with  thy  name  ; 
Nor  she  who  vents  her  disproportioned  sighs 
With  pining  Lcsbia  when  her  sparrow  dies; 
Nor  she  who  melts  when  hapless  Skore  expires. 
While  real  misery  unrelieved  retires! 
Who  thinks  feigned  sorrows  all  her  tears  deserve. 
And  vveeps  o'er  IVcrtcr  while  her  children  starve. 

As  words  are  but  the  external  marks  to  tell 
The  fair  ideas  in  the  mind  that  dwell. 
And  only  are  of  things  the  outward  sign. 
And  not  the  things  themselves  they  but  define; 
So  exclamations,  tender  tones,  fond  tears. 
And  all  the  graceful  drapery  Feeling  wears. 
Those  are  her  garb,  not  her,  they  but  express 
Her  form,  her  semblance,  her  appropriate  dress; 
And  these  fair  marks,  reluctant  I  relate. 
These  lovely  symbols  may  be  counterfeit. 

******* 
O  Love  divine!  sole  source  of  charity! 
More  dear  one  genuine  deed  performed  for  thee. 
Than  all  the  periods  Feeling  e'er  could  turn. 
Than  all  thy  touching  page,  perverted  Sterne! 
Not  that  by  deeds  alone  this  love  's  expressed — 
If  so,  the  affluent  only  were  the  blessed; 
One  silent  wish,  one  prayer,  one  soothing  word, 
The  page  of  mercy  shall,  well-pleased,  record; 
One  soulfelt  sigh  by  powerless  pity  given. 
Accepted  incense!  shall  ascend  to  heaven! 

Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things. 
And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs; 
Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  though  but  few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please ; 
O  let  the  uneentlc  spirit  learn  from  hence, 
A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  ofl'ence. 
To  spread  large  bounties  though  we  wish  in  vain, 
Yet  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain  : 
To  bless  mankind  with  tides  of  flowing  wealth, 
With  rank  to  grace  them,  or  to  crown  with  health. 
Our  little  lot  denies;  yet  liberal  still, 
Heaven  gives  its  counterpoise  to  every  ill, 

446 


MO 


MO 


Nor  let  us  murmur  at  our  stinted  powers. 
When  kindness,  love,  and  concord  may  be  ours. 
The  gift  of  minist'ring  to  other's  ease. 
To  all  her  sons  impartial  she  decrees; 
The  gentle  offices  of  patient  love, 
Beyond  all  flattery,  and  all  price  above; 
The  mild  forbearance  at  a  brother's  fault. 
The  angry  word  suppressed,  the  taunting  thought ; 
Subduing  and  subdued,  the  petty  strife 
Which  clouds  the  colour  of  domestic  life; 
The  sober  comfort,  all  the  peace  which  springs 
From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things; 
On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife,  or  frievd. 
The  utmost  sacred  joys  of  home  depend  : 
There,  Sensibility,  thou  best  may'st  reign, 
Home  is  thy  true,  legitimate  domain. 

A  mother's  love. 

A  TENDER  mother  lives 

In  many  lives;  through  many  a  nerve  she  feels; 
From  child  to  child  the  quick  affections  spread. 
For  ever  wandering,  yet  for  ever  fixed. 
Nor  does  division  weaken,  nor  the  force 
Of  constant  operation  e'er  e.vhaust 
Parental  love.     All  other  passions  change 
With  changing  circumstance;  rise  or  fall, 
Dependent  on  their  object;  claim  returns; 
Live  on  reciprocation,  and  expire 
Unfed  by  hope.     A  mother's  fondness  reigns 
Without  a  rival,  and  without  an  end. 


A    GOOD    CONSCIENCE. 

The  ostentatious  virtues  which  still  press 
For  notice  and  for  praise;  the  brilliant  deeds 
Which  live  but  in  the  eye  of  observation, 
These  have  their  meed  at  once.     But  there  "s  a  Joy, 
To  the  fond  votaries  of  Fame  unknown — 
To  hear  the  still  small  voice  of  Conscience  speak 
Its  whispered  plaudit  to  the  silent  soul ! 


FAVOUR    IS    FLEETING. 

Dost  thou  not  know 

That  of  all  fickle  Fortune's  transient  gifts. 
Favour  is  most  deceitful?    'T  is  a  beam. 
Which  darts  uncertain  brightness  for  a  moment! 
The  faint,  precarious,  fickle  shine  of  power. 
Given  without  merit,  by  caprice  withdrawn. 
No  trifle  is  so  small  as  what  obtains, 
Save  that  which  loses  favour;  't  is  a  breath. 
Which  hangs  upon  a  smile  !     A  look,  a  word, 
A  frown,  the  air-built  tower  of  Fortune  shakes, 
And  down  the  unsubstantial  fabric  falls! 


FAITH. 

O  Faith!  thou  wonder-working  principle — 
Eternal  substance  of  our  present  hope. 
Thou  evidence  of  things  invisible  ! 
What  cannot  man  sustain,  by  thee  sustained  ! 


WISDOM. 

Wisdom,  whose  fruits  are  purity  and  peace  ! 
Wisdom  !  that  bright  intelligence,  which  sat 
Supreme,  when  with  his  golden  compasses 
Th'  Eternal  planned  the  fabric  of  the  world. 
Produced  his  fair  idea  into  light, 
And  said  that  all  was  good !    Wisdom,  blest  beam 
The  brightness  of  the  everlasting  light! 
The  spotless  mirror  of  the  power  of  God ! 
The  reflex  image  of  the  all-perfect  Mind! 
A  stream  translucent,  flowing  from  the  source 
Of  glory  infinite  — a  cloudless  light!— 
Defilement  cannot  touch,  nor  sin  pollute 
Her  unstained  purity.    Not  Ophir's  gold. 
Nor  Ethiopia's  gems  can  niatcli  her  price! 
The  ruby  of  the  mine  is  pale  before  her  ; 
And  like  the  oil  Elisha's  bounty  blessed. 
She  is  a  treasure  which  doth  grow  by  use. 


And  multiply  by  spending.    She  contains, 
Within  herself,  the  sum  of  excellence. 

If  riches  are  desired,  wisdom  is  wealth; 
If  prudence,  where  shall  keen  Invention  find 
Artificer  more  cunning?    If  renown, 
In  her  right  hand  it  comes!    If  piety. 
Are  not  her  labours  virtues?     If  the  lore 
Which  sage  Experience  teaches,  lo  !  she  scans 
Antiquity's  dark  truths;  the  past  she  knows. 
Anticipates  the  future;  not  by  arts 
Forbidden,  of  Chaldean  sorcery. 
But  from  the  piercing  ken  of  deep  Foreknowledge. 
From  her  sure  science  of  the  human  heart. 
She  weighs  efl'ects  with  causes,  ends  with  means, 
Resolving  all  into  the  sovereign  will. 

TRUST    IN    GOD. 

Know,  God  is  everywhere: — 
Through  all  the  vast  infinitude  of  space ; 
At  his  command  the  furious  tempests  rise — 
He  tells  the  world  of  waters  where  to  soar; 
And  at  his  bidding  winds  and  waves  are  calm. 
In  Him,  not  in  an  arm  of  flesh,  I  trust; 
In  Him,  whose  promise  never  yet  has  failed, 
I  place  my  confidence. 


MOTHER  ANNA,  or  ANN  OF  SAXONY, 
Was  the  d.aughter  of  Christian  III.,  king  of 
Denmark.  She  was  born  in  the  year  1531,  and 
as  the  only  daughter  of  her  mother,  Dorothea, 
became  the  idol  of  her  heart.  But  the  queen, 
convinced  that  the  best  interest  of  her  child  must 
be  promoted  by  a  course  of  education,  which  was, 
calculated  to  make  her  not  only  fit  to  be  called  a 
princess,  but  also  a  housewife  and  a  Christian, 
confided  her  religious  training  to  the  worthy  chap- 
lain, and  caused  her  to  be  instructed  in  all  domes- 
tic duties,  even  such  as  are  now  called  menial  in 
some  circles  of  society. 

In  1548  she  married  the  elector  August  of  Sax- 
ony, and  became  the  mother  of  fifteen  children, 
eleven  of  whom  she  buried  before  they  had  attained 
a  mature  age.  Soon  after  her  marriage,  she  de- 
voted herself  with  all  her  energy  to  the  mental 
and  moral  improvement  of  her  subjects.  On  all 
occasions  she  set  them  an  example  of  Christian 
faith,  resignation,  and  patience,  often  sacrificing 
her  own  pleasures  and  comforts  to  the  welfare 
and  hnppiness  of  the  people ;  and  so  fully  were 

447 


MO 


MO 


they  aware  of  it,  that  they  called  her  only  the 
mother  of  the  country. 

But  while  she,  uuitedly  with  her  husband,  en- 
deavoured to  raise  the  standard  of  education,  by 
multiplying  schools,  and  that  of  morals,  by  in- 
creasing the  number  of  the  churches,  she  neglected 
not  the  principal  condition  of  the  people.  Waste 
lands  were  cultivated  by  her  directions,  and  on 
one  occasion  she  headed  the  pioneers,  with  a  spade 
in  her  hand,  in  order  to  encourage  them  in  a  task 
which  was  new,  and  apparently  unpromising  to 
them. 

She  devoted  much  of  her  time  to  the  study  of 
chemisti-y,  natural  philosophy,  and  botany ;  and 
endeavoured,  on  all  occasions,  to  make  her  know- 
ledge contribute  to  the  happiness  of  her  people, 
and  the  improvement  of  their  lands.  She  aided 
her  husband  in  welcoming  and  supporting  the 
Dutch  exiled  cloth  and  cotton  weavers,  who  had 
been  driven  from  their  homes  by  religious  perse- 
cution ;  and  they,  in  their  turn,  contributed  to 
perfect  her  own  manufacturers. 

She  accompanied  her  husband  upon  his  travels, 
and  then  they  were  always  provided  with  the  best 
seed  for  raising  fruit,  which  they  distributed 
among  the  people.  She  induced  her  husband  to 
pass  a  law,  that  every  new-married  couple  must 
plant  and  graft  two  fruit  trees  during  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage.  Everywhere  she  esta- 
blished schools,  apothecaries,  and  botanical  gar- 
dens. She  was  also  an  exemplary  housewife,  who 
did  not  consider  it  beneath  her  to  attend  to  the 
smallest  matters  in  housekeeping.  As  a  specimen, 
an  anecdote  is  related  which  illustrates  the  feel- 
ings with  which  servants  too  often  regard  a  mis- 
tress who  "looks  well  to  the  ways  of  her  house- 
hold." The  elector  August  arrived,  one  hot  sum- 
mer's day,  at  a  seat  where  he  knew  his  wife  to  be. 
Thirsty  and  weary,  he  asked  one  of  the  girls,  who 
knew  him  not,  to  give  him  a  cup  of  milk.  The 
girl  gave  him  a  cup  of  skimmed  milk,  and  when 
he  complained  of  the  inferior  quality  of  the  article, 
she  replied,  "  Our  old  curmudgeon  compels  us  to 
save  the  best  article  for  herself,  and  so  you  must 
be  satisfied."  Avigust  related  this  to  his  wife, 
who,  after  she  had  sent  for  the  girl,  reproved  her 
for  thus  speaking  to  a  stranger:  but  the  girl  re- 
plied, "Had  I  known  that  the  fellow  would  be 
such  a  scamp  as  to  tell  on  me,  after  I  gave  him 
my  milk,  I  would  have  held  my  tongue."  August, 
who  stood  behind  a  screen,  stepped  forward  and 
said  laughingly, 

"Then  let  us  bear,  without  a  grudge. 
Both,  the  scamp  and  the  curraudge." 

She  fell  a  victim  to  her  benevolence  and  Chris- 
tian duties,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  plague, 
and  died  on  the  1st  of  October,  1585.  The  lower 
classes  of  Saxony  still  speak  of  her  only  by  the 
name  of  Mother  Anna. 

MOTTE,    REBECCA, 

Daughter  of  Robert  Brewton,  an  English  gen- 
tlemau,  who  had  emigrated  to  South  Carolina, 
was  born  in  1738,  in  Charleston.  When  about 
twenty,  she  married  Mr.  .Jacob  Motte,  who  died 
soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  revolutionarv 


war.  Captain  McPherson,  of  the  British  army, 
who  was  in  command  of  the  garrison  at  Fort 
Motte,  had  taken  possession  of  the  large  new 
house  of  Mrs.  Motte,  and  fortified  it,  so  that  it 
was  almost  impregnable.  Mrs.  Motte  herself  had 
been  obliged  to  remove  to  an  old  farm-house  in 


the  vicinity.  In  order  to  dislodge  the  garrison 
before  succours  could  arrive,  generals  Marion  and 
Lee,  who  were  commanding  the  American  forces 
there,  could  devise  no  means  but  burning  the 
mansion.  This  they  were  very  reluctant  to  do, 
but  Mrs.  Motte  willingly  assented  to  the  proposal, 
and  presented,  herself,  a  bow  and  its  apparatus, 
which  had  been  imported  from  India,  and  was 
prepared  to  carry  combustible  matter.  We  will 
conclude  this  scene  from  the  eloquent  description 
of  Mrs.  Ellet,  to  whose  admirable  work*  we  are 
indebted  for  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Motte,  and  the 
materials  for  this  sketch. 

"Everything  was  now  prepared  for  the  con- 
cluding scene.  The  lines  were  manned,  and  an 
additional  force  stationed  at  the  battery,  to  meet 
a  desperate  assault,  if  such  should  be  made.  The 
American  entrenchments  being  within  arrow-shot, 
McPherson  was  once  more  summoned,  and  again 
more  confidently — for  help  was  at  hand — asserted 
his  determination  to  resist  to  the  last. 

The  scorching  rays  of  the  noon-day  sun  had 
prepared  the  shingle  roof  for  the  conflagration. 
The  return  of  the  flag  was  immediately  followed 
by  the  shooting  of  the  arrows,  to  which  balls  of 
blazing  rosin  and  brimstone  were  attached.  Simms 
tells  us  the  bow  was  put  into  the  hands  of  Nathan 
Savage,  a  private  in  Marion's  brigade.  The  first 
struck,  and  set  fire ;  also  the  second  and  third,  in 
difi'erent  quarters  of  the  roof.  McPherson  imme- 
diately ordered  men  to  repair  to  the  loft  of  the 
hotise,  and  check  the  flames  by  knocking  oflF  the 
shingles  ;  but  they  were  soon  driven  down  by  the 
fire  of  the  six-pounder ;  and  no  other  eff"ort  to  stop 
the  burning  being  practicable,  the  commandant 
himg  oitt  the  white  flag,  and  surrendered  the  gar- 
rison at  discretion. 

*  "  Women  of  the  American  Revolution." 

448 


MO 

If  evei'  a  situation  in  real  life  afforded  a  fit  sub- 
ject for  poetry,  by  filling  the  mind  with  a  sense 
of  moral  grandeur,  it  was  that  of  Mrs.  Motte  con- 
templating the  spectacle  of  her  home  in  flames, 
and  rejoicing  in  the  triumph  secured  to  her  coun- 
trymen—  the  benefit  to  her  native  land,  by  her 
surrender  of  her  own  interest  to  the  public  ser- 
vice. I  have  stood  upon  the  spot,  and  felt  that  it 
was  indeed  classic  ground,  and  consecrated  by 
memories  which  should  thrill  the  heart  of  every 
American.  But  the  beauty  of  such  memories 
would  be  marred  by  the  least  attempt  at  oi-nament ; 
and  the  simple  narrative  of  that  memorable  oc- 
currence has  more  effect  to  stir  the  feelings  than 
could  a  tale  artistically  framed  and  glowing  with 
the  richest  hues  of  imagination. 

After  the  captors  had  taken  possession,  McPher- 
son  and  his  officers  accompanied  them  to  Mrs. 
Motte's  dwelling,  where  they  sat  down  together 
to  a  sumptuous  dinner.  Again,  in  the  softened 
picture,  our  heroine  is  the  principal  figure.  She 
showed  herself  prepared,  not  only  to  give  up  her 
splendid  mansion  to  ensure  victory  to  the  Ameri- 
can arms,  but  to  do  her  part  towards  soothing  the 
agitation  of  the  conflict  just  ended.  Her  dignified, 
courteous,  and  affable  deportment  adorned  the 
hospitality  of  her  table  ;  she  did  the  honours  with 
that  unaffected  politeness  which  wins  esteem  as 
well  as  admiration ;  and  by  her  conversation, 
marked  with  ease,  vivacity  and  good  sense,  and 
the  engaging  kindness  of  her  manners,  endea- 
voured to  obliterate  the  recollection  of  the  loss 
she  had  been  called  upon  to  sustain,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  remove  from  the  minds  of  the  pri- 
soners the  sense  of  their  misfortunes." 

Another  portion  of  her  history  is  important,  as 
illustrating  her  high  sense  of  honour,  her  energy, 
and  patient,  self-denying  perseverance.  Her  hus- 
band, in  consequence  of  the  difficulties  and  dis- 
tresses growing  out  of  our  war  for  independence, 
became  embarrassed  in  his  business ;  and  after 
his  death,  and  termination  of  the  war,  it  was  found 
impossible  to  satisfy  these  claims. 

"  The  widow,  however,  considered  the  honour 
of  her  deceased  husband  involved  in  the  responsi- 
bilities he  had  assumed.  She  determined  to  de- 
vote the  remainder  of  her  life  to  the  honourable 
task  of  paying  the  debts.  Her  friends  and  con- 
nexions, whose  acquaintance  with  her  aflFairs  gave 
weight  to  their  judgment,  warned  her  of  the  ap- 
parent hopelessness  of  such  an  eff"ort.  But,  stead- 
fast in  the  principles  that  governed  all  her  con- 
duct, she  persevered.  Living  in  an  humble  dwell- 
ing, and  relinquishing  many  of  her  habitual  com- 
forts, she  devoted  herself  with  such  zeal,  untiring 
industry,  and  indomitable  resolution,  to  the  at- 
tainment of  her  object,  that  her  success  triumphed 
over  every  difficulty,  and  exceeded  the  expecta- 
tions of  all  who  had  discouraged  her.  She  not 
only  paid  her  husband's  debts  to  the  full,  but  se- 
cured for  her  children  and  descendants  a  handsome 
and  unencumbered  estate.  Such  an  example  of 
perseverance  under  adverse  circumstances,  for  the 
accomplishment  of  a  high  and  noble  purpose,  ex- 
hibits in  yet  brighter  colours  the  heroism  that 
shone  in  her  country's  days  of  peril !" 
2D 


NE 

Mrs.  Motte  died  in  1815,  at  her  plantation  on 
the  Santee. 

MOTTEVILLE,  FRANCES  BERTRAND  BE, 

Was  born  in  Normandy,  in  1615.  Her  wit  and 
agi'eeable  manners  recommended  her  to  Anne  of 
Austria,  regent  of  France,  who  kept  her  constantly 
near  her.  The  jealousy  of  cardinal  Richelieu, 
however,  caused  her  disgrace,  and  she  retired, 
with  her  mother,  to  Normandy,  where  she  married 
Nicolas  Langlois,  lord  de  Motteville,  an  old  man, 
who  died  two  j'cars  after.  On  the  death  of  Riche- 
lieu, Anne  of  Austria  recalled  her  to  court.  Hei-e 
she  employed  herself  in  writing  memoirs  of  Anne 
of  Austria,  giving  an  apparently  correct  accoimt 
of  the  minority  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  interior  of 
a  court.  She  died  at  Paris,  in  1689,  aged  seventy- 
five. 

MURATORI,  TERESA, 
Was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1662.  She  early 
evinced  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  particularly  mu- 
sic and  drawing.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
physician,  and  successively  the  scholar  of  Emilio 
Taruffi,  Lorenzo  Pasinelli,  and  Giovanni  Guiseppe 
dal  Sole.  She  composed  many  works  for  the 
churches  at  Bologna,  the  most  admirable  of  which 
are,  A  Dead  Child  restored  to  life,  The  Disbelief 
of  St.  Thomas,  and  the  Annunciation.  She  died 
in  1708. 

MUSSASA, 

A  WARLIKE  princess,  who  succeeded  her  father 
Dongy,  as  sovereign  of  Congo.  She  dressed  her- 
self as  a  man,  and  often  led  her  soldiers  to  battle 
and  victory,  and  extended  the  bounds  of  her  em- 
pire.    She  flourished  in  the  seventeenth  century. 


N. 
NEALE,    ELIZABETH, 

An  artist  mentioned  only  in  De  Bic's  Goldei; 
Cabinet,  published  in  1662.  He  speaks  of  her  as 
painting  so  well  as  almost  to  rival  the  famous 
Zeghers ;  but  he  does  not  mention  any  of  her 
works,  nor  whether  she  painted  in  oil  or  water 
colours. 

NECKER,  SUZANNE, 

Was  descended,  on  the  maternal  side,  from  an 
ancient  family  in  Provence,  who  had  taken  refuge 
in  Switzerland  on  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes.  ■  She  was  born  at  Grassy,  her  father,  M. 
Curchod,  being  the  evangelical  minister  in  that, 
little  village.  He  was  a  very  learned  man,  and 
trained  his  daughter  with  great  care,  even  giving 
her  the  severe  and  classical  education  usually  be^ 
stowed  only  on  men.  The  young  Suzanne  Curchod 
was  renowned  throughout  the  whole  province  for- 
her  wit,  beauty,  and  intellectual  attainments. 

Gibbon,  the  future  historian,  but  then  an  un- 
known youth  studying  in  Lausanne,  met  Made- 
moiselle Curchod,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  rendering  his  attachment  acceptable  to 

4-iy 


NE 


NE 


both  the  object  of  his  affections  and  her  parents. 
When  he  returned,  however,  to  England,  his  father 
indignantly  refused  to  hear  of  the  proposed  mar- 
riage between  him  and  the  Swiss  minister's  por- 
tionless daughter.  Gibbon  yielded  to  parental 
authority,  and  philosophically  forgot  his  learned 


•mistress.  After  her  father's  death,  which  left  her 
wholly  unprovided  for,  Suzanne  Curchod  retired 
with  her  mother  to  Geneva.  She  thei'e  earned  a 
precarious  subsistence  by  teaching  persons  of  her 
own  sex.  When  her  mother  died,  a  lady  named 
Madame  de  Vermenoux  induced  Mademoiselle 
Curchod  to  come  to  Faris,  in  order  to  teach  Latin 
to  her  son.  It  was  in  this  lady's  house  that  she 
met  Necker.  He  was  then  in  the  employment  of 
Th^lusson,  the  banker,  and  occasionally  visited 
Madame  de  Vermenoux.  Struck  with  the  noble 
character  and  grave  beauty  of  the  young  governess, 
Necker  cultivated  her  acquaintance,  and  ultimately 
made  her  his  wife.  Mutual  poverty  had  delayed 
their  marriage  for  several  years ;  but  it  was  not 
long  ere  Necker  rose  from  his  obscurity.  Madame 
Necker  had  an  ardent  love  of  honourable  distinc- 
:tion,  which  she  imparted  to  her  husband,  and 
which  greatly  served  to  quicken  his  efforts ;  his 
?high  talents  in  financial  matters  were  at  length 
recognised :  he  became  a  wealthy  and  respected 
man.  Shortly  after  her  man-iage,  Madame  Necker 
expressed  the  desire  of  devoting  herself  to  litera- 
ture. Her  husband,  however,  delicately  hinted 
to  her  that  he  should  regret  seeing  her  adopt  such 
a  course.  This  sufficed  to  induce  her  to  relinquish 
her  intention :  she  loved  him  so  entirely,  that, 
without  effort  or  repining,  she  could  make  his  least 
wish  her  law. 

As  Necker  rose  in  the  world,  Madame  Necker's 
influence  increased;  but  it  never  was  an  indivi- 
dual power,  like  that  of  Madame  du  DefFand,  or 
of  the  Mar6chale  de  Luxembourg.  Over  her  hus- 
band, she  always  possessed  great  influence.  Her 
virtues  and  noble  character  had  inspired  him  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  veneration.  He  was  not  wholly 
guided  by  her  counsels,  but  he  respected  her  opi- 
nions as  those  of  a  high-minded  being,  whom  all 
the  surrounding  folly  and  corruption  could  not 


draw  down  from  her  sphere  of  holy  purity.  If 
Madame  Necker  was  loved  and  esteemed  by  her 
husband,  she  may  be  said  to  have  almost  idolized 
him  ;  and  her  passionate  attachment  probably  in- 
creased the  feelings  of  vanity  and  self-importance 
of  which  Necker  has  often  been  accused.  This 
exclusive  devotedness  caused  some  wonder  amongst 
the  friends  of  the  minister  and  his  wife ;  for  sel- 
dom had  these  sceptical  philosophers  witnessed  a 
conjugal  union  so  strict  and  uncompromising,  and 
yet  so  touching  in  its  very  severity. 

When  Necker  became,  in  1776,  Director-General 
of  the  Finances,  his  wife  resolved  that  the  influ- 
ence her  husband's  official  position  gave  her  should 
not  be  employed  in  procuring  unmerited  favours 
for  flatterers  or  parasites.  She  placed  before  her- 
self the  far  more  noble  object  of  alleviating  misfor- 
tune, and  pointing  out  to  her  reforming  husband 
some  of  the  innumei-able  abuses  which  then  existed 
in  every  department  of  the  state.  One  of  her  first 
attempts  was  to  overthrow  the  lottery.  She 
pressed  the  point  on  Necker's  attention ;  but, 
though  he  shared  her  convictions,  he  had  not  the 
power  of  destroying  this  great  evil :  he  did,  how- 
ever, all  he  could  to  moderate  its  excesses.  The 
prisons  and  hospitals  of  Paris  greatly  occupied  the 
attention  of  Madame  Necker  during  the  five  years 
of  her  husband's  power.  Her  devotedness  to  the 
cause  of  humanity  was  admirable,  and  shone  with 
double  lustre  amidst  the  heartless  selfishness  of 
the  surrounding  world.  She  once  happened  to 
learn  that  a  certain  Count  of  Lautrec  had  been 
imprisoned  in  a  dungeon  of  the  fortress  of  Ham 
for  twenty-eight  years !  and  that  the  unhappy 
captive  now  scarcely  seemed  to  belong  to  human 
kind.  A  feeling  of  deep  compassion  seized  her 
heart.  To  liberate  a  state  prisoner  was  more  than 
her  influence  could  command,  but  she  resolved  to 
lighten,  if  possible,  his  load  of  misery.  She  set 
out  for  Ham,  and  sucQeeded  in  obtaining  a  sight 
of  M.  de  Lautrec.  She  found  a  miserable-looking 
man,  lying  listlessly  on  the  straw  of  his  dungeon, 
scarcely  clothed  with  a  few  tattered  rags,  and 
surrounded  by  rats  and  reptiles.  Madame  Necker 
soothed  his  fixed  and  sullen  despair  with  promises 
of  speedy  relief;  nor  did  she  depart  until  she  had 
kept  her  word,  and  seen  M.  de  Lautrec  removed 
to  an  abode  where,  if  still  a  prisoner,  he  might  at 
least  spend  in  peace  the  few  days  left  him  by  the 
tyranny  of  his  oppressors. 

Acts  of  individual  benevolence  were  not,  how- 
ever, the  only  object  of  the  minister's  wife.  Not- 
withstanding the  munificence  of  her  private  chari- 
ties, she  aimed  none  the  less  to  effect  general  good. 
Considerable  ameliorations  were  introduced  by 
her  in  the  condition  of  the  hospitals  of  Paris.  She 
entered,  with  unwearied  patience,  into  the  most 
minute  details  of  their  actual  administration,  and, 
with  admirable  ingenuity,  rectified  errors  or  sug- 
gested improvements.  Her  aim  was  to  effect  a 
greater  amount  of  good  with  the  same  capita!, 
which  she  now  saw  grossly  squandered  and  mis- 
applied. The  reforms  which  she  thus  introduced 
were  both  important  and  severe.  She  sacrificed 
almost  the  whole  of  her  time  to  this  praiseworthy 
task,  and  ultimately  devoted  a  considerable  sum 

450 


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to  found  the  hospital  which  still  bears  her  name. 
Beyond  this,  Madame  Necker  sought  to  exercise 
no  power  over  her  husband,  or  through  his  means. 
She  loved  him  far  too  truly  and  too  well  to  aim  at 
an  influence  which  might  have  degraded  him  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  Necker  was,  however, 
proud  of  his  noble-hearted  wife,  and  never  hesi- 
tated to  confess  how  much  he  was  indebted  to  her 
advice.  When  he  retired  from  office,  in  1781,  and 
published  his  famous  "  Compte  Rendu,"  he  seized 
this  opportunity  of  paying  a  high  and  heartfelt 
homage  to  the  virtues  of  his  wife.  "Whilst  re- 
tracing," he  observes  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
work,  "  a  portion  of  the  charitable  tasks  prescribed 
by  your  majesty,  let  me  be  permitted,  sire,  to  al- 
lude, without  naming  her,  to  a  person  gifted  with 
singular  virtues,  and  who  has  materially  assisted 
me  in  accomplishing  the  designs  of  your  majesty. 
Although  her  name  was  never  uttered  to  you,  in 
all  the  vanities  of  high  office,  it  is  right,  sire,  that 
you  should  be  aware  that  it  is  known  and  fre- 
quently invoked  in  the  most  obscure  asylums  of 
suffering  humanity.  It  is  no  doubt  most  fortunate 
for  a  minister  of  finances  to  find,  in  the  companion 
of  his  life,  the  assistance  he  needs  for  so  many 
details  of  beneficence  and  charity,  which  might 
otherwise  prove  too  much  for  his  strength  and  at- 
tention. Carried  away  by  the  tumults  of  general 
afiairs, — often  obliged  to  sacrifice  the  feelings  of 
the  private  man  to  the  duties  of  the  citizen,  he 
may  well  esteem  himself  happy,  when  the  com- 
plaints of  poverty  and  misery  can  be  confided  to 
an  enlightened  person  who  shares  the  sentiment 
of  his  duties." 

If  Madame  Necker  has  not  left  so  remarkable  a 
name  as  many  women  of  her  time ;  if  her  contem- 
poraries, justly,  perhaps,  found  her  too  cold  and 
formal ;  yet  she  shines,  at  least  in  that  dark  age, 
a  noble  example  of  woman's  virtues  —  devoted 
love,  truth  and  purity.  She  died  in  1794,  calm 
and  resigned  through  the  most  acute  sufferings ; 
her  piety  sustained  her.  The  literary  works  she 
left,  are  chiefly  connected  with  her  charities,  or 
were  called  forth  by  the  events  around  her. 
Among  these  works  are  the  following  :  —  "  Hasty 
Interments,"  "Memorial  on  the  Establishment  of 
Hospitals,"  "Reflections  on  Divorce,"  and  her 
"Miscellanies."  Her  only  child  was  the  cele- 
brated Madame  de  Stael. 


NELLI,    SUOR   PLAUTILLA, 

A  Florentine  lady  of  noble  extraction.  A 
natural  genius  led  her  to  copy  the  works  of  Bar- 
tolomeo  di  St.  Marco,  and  she  became,  in  conse- 
quence, an  excellent  painter.  After  taking  the 
veil  of  St.  Catharine  at  Florence,  she  composed 
the  "Descent  from  the  Cross,"  and  her  pictures 
possess  great  merit.  She  died  in  1588,  aged 
sixty-five. 

NEMOURS,    MARIE   D'  ORLEANS, 

DUCHESS   DE, 
Daughter  of  the  duke  de  Longueville,  was  born 
in  1625.     She  wrote  some  very  agreeable  "  Me- 
moirs of  the  War  of  the  Fronde,"  in  which  she 


delineates  in  a  masterly  manner  the  principal  per- 
sons concerned — describes  transactions  with  great 
fidelity,  and  adds  many  anecdotes.  She  married, 
when  very  young,  the  duke  de  Nemours,  and  died 
in  1707.  By  her  virtues,  her  prudence,  and  her 
sagacity  in  those  trying  and  difficult  times,  her 
endowment  and  taste  for  polite  literature,  she 
reflected  lustre  on  her  rank  and  station.  By  her 
address  and  influence,  she  recalled  her  father, 
who  had  espoused  the  cause  of  the  princes  of  the 
blood,  to  his  allegiance,  and  rescued  him  from  his 
dangerous  position.  Through  all  the  civil  conten- 
tions that  raged  around  her,  the  duchess  preserved 
her  independence  and  neutrality. 

NEUBER,    CAROLINE, 

Was  born  in  the  year  1692,  the  daughter  of  a 
German  lawyer,  Weissenborn.  Her  father  was 
very  strict  with  her,  and  in  her  fifteenth  year  she 
ran  away  with  a  student,  a  Mr.  Neuber,  whom  she 
afterwards  married.  They  soon  after  organized 
a  strolling  troop  of  actors,  with  which  they  per- 
formed at  first  in  Weissenfels. 

Madame  Neuber  felt  her  calling  to  become  the 
regenerator  of  the  German  stage  ;  she  placed  her- 
self at  the  head  of  her  troop,  made  laws  for  it, 
and  introduced  better  morals  among  its  members. 
In  1726,  she  obtained  a  royal  privilege  to  perform 
in  Dresden  and  in  Leipzig ;  she  erected  her  stage 
in  the  latter  place,  and  performed  the  old-fashioned 
tragedies  of  the  German  stage,  such  as  King  Octa- 
vius,  Courtship,  Fate  and  Death,  The  Golden 
Apple,  Nero,  &c.  After  the  death  of  king  Augus- 
tus, 1733,  Madame  Neuber  went  to  Hamburg. 
In  1737,  she  returned  to  Leipzig,  and  assumed 
the  reform  of  the  stage,  in  conjunction  with  the 
celebrated  author  Gottsched. 

The  German  harlequin  was,  after  a  long  struggle, 
banished  from  the  stage,  and  the  A-ictory  celebrated 
by  a  piece  called  The  Victory  of  Reason.  Her 
fame  spread  all  over  the  continent.  In  1740,  she 
was  invited  by  Duke  Biron,  the  favourite  of  Anne 
of  Austi'ia,  to  come  to  Courland,  and  from  thence 
to  Petersburg.  On  her  return  to  Leipzig,  she 
quarrelled  with  her  benefactor,  Gottsched,  and 
constant  and  bitter  recrimination  was  the  result ; 
she  even  went  so  far  as  to  burlesque  the  person 
of  the  professor  on  the  stage.  From  that  time, 
fortune  forsooli  her;  she  was  compelled  to  dis^- 
band  her  troop,  and  died  in  great  poverty,  near 
Dresden,  in  1760. 

NEWCASTLE,    MARGARET   CAVEN- 
DISH,   DUCHESS   OF, 

Youngest  daughter  of  Sir  Charles  Lucas,  was 
born  at   St.  John's,   near  Colchester,   in   Essex, 
towards  the  latter  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  of 
England.     She  lost  her  father  in  infancy,  but  her 
mother  gave  her  daughters  a  careful  education. 
Margaret  early  displayed  a  taste  for  literature,  to 
which  she  devoted  most  of  her  time.     In  1643, 
she   was   chosen   maid    of   honour   to   Henrietta 
Maria,  wife  to  Charles  I.     The  family  of  Lucasf 
being  loyal,  Margaret  accompanied  her  royal  m' 
tress  when  driven  from  England  to  her  nat 
country.     At   Paris,   she   married,   in   1645, 

451 


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marquis  of  Newcastle,  then  a  widower,  and  went 
with  him  to  Rotterdam,  and  afterwards  to  Ant- 
werp, where  they  continued  during  the  remainder 
of  the  exile ;  through  which  time  they  were  often 
in  great  distress,  from  the  failure  of  the  rents 
due  her  husband. 


On  the  accession  of  Charles  II.,  the  marqiiis, 
after  sixteen  years'  absence,  returned  to  England. 
The  marchioness  remained  at  Antwerp  to  settle 
their  affairs  ;  and  having  done  this  successfully, 
she  rejoined  her  husband,  and  the  remainder  of 
her  life  was  spent  in  tranquillity,  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  literature.  She  kept  a  number  of  young 
ladies  in  her  house,  and  some  of  them  slept  near 
her  room,  that  they  might  be  ready  to  rise  at  the 
sound  of  her  bell,  and  commit  to  paper  any  idea 
that  occurred  to  her.  She  produced  no  less  than 
thirteen  folios,  ten  of  which  are  in  print.  She 
says  of  herself,  "  That  it  pleased  God  to  command 
his  servant.  Nature,  to  endow  her  with  a  poetic 
and  philosophical  genius  even  from  her  birth,  for 
she  did  write  some  books  even  in  that  kind  before 
she  was  twelve  years  of  age." 

Her  speculations  must  at  least  have  had  the 
merit  of  originality,  since  she  was  nearly  forty, 
she  tells  us,  before  she  had  read  any  philosophical 
authors.  One  of  her  maxims  was,  never  to  revise 
her  own  works,  "lest  it  should  disturb  her  follow- 
ing conceptions." 

Her  writings,  though  now  almost  forgotten, 
were  received  with  the  most  extravagant  enco- 
miums, from  learned  bodies  and  men  of  eminent 
erudition.  Whatever  may  be  the  foundation  of 
this  lady's  pretension  to  philosophy,  she  certainly 
added  to  acuteness  of  mind,  great  imagination 
and  powers  of  invention ;  but  she  was  deficient  in 
judgment,  correctness,  and  cultivation.  She  com- 
posed plays,  poems,  orations,  and  philosophical 
discourses.  Among  these  were,  "The  World's 
Olio,"  "  Nature's  Picture,  drawn  by  Fancy's  Pen- 
cil to  the  Life,"  "Orations  of  divers  sorts,  accom- 
modated to  divers  places,"  "Plays,"  "Philoso- 
phical and  Physical  Opinions,"  "Observations 
upon  Experimental  Philosophy;"  to  which  is 
added,  "The  Description  of  a  New  World," 
"Philosophical  Letters,"  "Poems  and  Phancies," 


NE 

"CCXI  Sociable  Letters,"  "The  Life  of  the  thrice 
noble,  high,  and  puissant  prince,  William  Caven- 
dish, duke,  marquis,  and  earl  of  Newcastle ;  earl 
of  Ogle,  viscount  IV'lansfield,  and  baron  of  Bolsover, 
of  Ogle,  Bothal,  and  Hepple ;  gentleman  of  his 
majesty's  bed-chamber;  one  of  his  majesty's  most 
honourable  privy-council ;  knight  of  the  most  noble 
order  of  the  Garter ;  his  majesty's  lieutenant  in 
AjT-e  Trent  North;  who  had  the  honour  to  be 
governor  to  our  most  glorious  king  and  gracious 
sovereign  in  his  youth,  when  he  was  prince  of 
Wales  ;  and  soon  after  was  made  captain-general 
of  all  the  provinces  beyond  the  river  of  Trent,  and 
other  parts  of  the  kingdom  of  England,  with 
power,  by  a  special  commission,  to  make  knights. 
Written  by  the  thrice  noble  and  excellent  princess, 
Margaret,  duchess  of  Newcastle,  his  wife." 

This  work,  styled  "the  crown  of  her  labours," 
was  translated  into  Latin,  and  printed  in  1667. 
She  also  wrote  a  great  number  of  plays.  The 
duchess  died  in  1673,  and  was  buried,  January  7th, 
1674,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  She  was  graceful 
in  her  person,  and  humane,  generous,  pious,  and 
industrious,  as  the  multitude  of  her  works  prove. 
She  says  of  herself,  in  one  of  her  last  works,  "  I 
imagine  all  those  who  have  read  my  former  books 
will  say  I  have  writ  enough,  unless  they  were 
better;  but  say  what  you  will,  it  pleaseth  me, 
and,  since  my  delights  are  harmless,  /  u'ill  satisfy 
m;/  humour. 


"  For  had  my  brain  as  many  fancies  in 't 
To  fill  the  world,  I'd  put  them  all  in  print ; 
No  matter  whether  they  be  well  or  ill  e.xprest, 
My  will  is  done,  and  that  please  woman  best." 

Her  prose  writings  are  too  diffuse  for  extracts ; 
we  might  give  pages  to  find  an  idea  worth  trans- 
cribing. Her  merits  and  peculiarities  as  a  poetical 
writer  may  be  seen  in  the  following  selections : 
the  first  from  "  The  Pastime  and  Recreation  of  the 
Queen  of  Fairies  in  Fairy-land,  the  centre  of  the 
earth." 

QUEEN    MAB. 

Queen  Mab  and  all  her  company 

Dance  on  a  pleasant  mole  hill  high, 

To  small  straw  pipes  wherein  great  pleasure 

They  take  and  keep  time,  just  time  and  measure ; 

All  hand  in  hand,  around,  around. 

They  dance  upon  the  fairy-ground  ; 

And  when  she  leaves  her  dancing  hall, 

She  doth  for  her  attendants  call. 

To  wait  upon  her  to  a  bower. 

Where  she  doth  sit  under  a  flower, 

To  shade  her  from  the  moonshine  bright, 

Where  gnats  do  sing  for  her  delight; 

The  whilst  the  bat  doth  fly  about 

To  keep  in  order  all  the  rout. 

A  dewy  waving  leaf's  made  fit 

For  the  queen's  bath,  where  she  doth  sit, 

And  her  white  limbs  in  beauty  show. 

Like  a  new  fallen  flake  of  snow; 

Her  maids  do  put  her  garments  on. 

Made  of  the  pure  light  from  the  sun. 

Which  do  so  many  colours  take. 

As  various  objects  shadows  make. 

MIRTH    AND    MELANCUOLY 

Is  another  of  these  fanciful  personifications. 
The  former  woos  the  poetess  to  dwell  with  her. 
promising   sport    and    pleasure,    and   drawing   a 

45^ 


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gloomy  but  forcible  and  poetical  sketch  of  her 
rival,  Melancholy ; — 

Her  voice  is  low,  and  gives  a  hollow  sound ; 
She  hates  the  light,  and  is  in  darkness  found  ; 
Or  sits  with  blinking  lamps,  or  tapers  small. 
Which  various  shadows  make  against  the  wall. 
She  loves  nought  else  but  noise  which  discord  makes, 
As  croaking  frogs  whose  dwelling  is  in  lakes; 
The  raven's  hoarse,  the  mandrake's  hollow  groan. 
And  shrieking  owls  which  fly  i'  the  night  alone; 
The  tolling  bell,  which  for  the  dead  rings  out ; 
A  mill,  where  rushing  waters  run  about; 
The  roaring  winds,  which  shake  the  cedars  tall, 
Plough  up  the  seas,  and  beat  the  rocks  withal. 
She  loves  to  walk  in  the  still  moonshine  night, 
And  in  a  thick  dark  grove  she  takes  delight: 
In  hollow  caves,  thatch'd  houses,  and  low  cells, 
She  loves  to  live,  and  there  alone  she  dwells. 

Melancholy  thus  describes  her  own  dwelling: — 

I  dwell  in  groves  that  gilt  are  with  the  sun ; 

Sit  on  the  banks  by  which  clear  waters  run ; 

In  summers  hot  down  in  a  shade  I  lie; 

My  music  is  the  buzzing  of  a  fly; 

I  walk  in  meadows,  where  grows  fresh  green  grass; 

In  fields,  where  corn  is  high,  I  often  pass; 

Walk  up  the  hills,  where  round  I  prospects  see, 

Some  brushy  woods,  and  some  all  champaigns  be; 

Returning  back,  I  in  fresh  pastures  go. 

To  hear  how  sheep  do  bleat,  and  cows  do  low ; 

In  winter  cold,  when  nipping  frosts  come  on. 

Then  I  do  live  in  a  small  house  alone ; 

Although  'tis  plain,  yet  cleanly  'tis  within. 

Like  to  a  soul  that 's  pure,  and  clear  from  sin  ; 

And  there  I  dwell  in  quiet  and  still  peace. 

Not  filled  with  cares  how  riches  to  increase  ; 

I  wish  nor  seek  for  vain  and  fruitless  pleasures  ; 

No  riches  are,  but  what  the  mind  intreasures. 

Thus  am  I  solitary,  live  alone. 

Vet  better  lov'd,  the  more  that  I  am  known  ; 

And  though  my  face  illfavour'd  at  first  sight, 

After  acquaintance,  it  will  give  delight. 

Refuse  me  not,  for  I  shall  constant  be; 

Maintain  your  credit  and  your  dignity. 


NEWELL,    HARRIET, 

The  first  American  heroine  of  the  mis-sionary 
enterprise,  was  born  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts, 
October  10th,  1793.  Her  maiden  name  was  At- 
wood.  In  1806,  while  at  school  at  Bradford,  she 
became  deeply  impressed  with  the  importance  of 
religion ;  and,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  she  joined 
the  church.     On  the  9th  of  February,  1812,  Har- 


riet Atwood  married  the  Rev.  Samuel  Newell, 
missionary  to  the  Burman  empire ;  and  in  the 
same  month,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Newell  embarked  with 
their  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Judson,  for  India.  On 
the  arrival  of  the  missionaries  at  Calcutta,  they 
were  ordered  to  leave  by  the  East  India  company; 
and  accordingly  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Newell  embarked 
for  the  Isle  of  France.  Three  weeks  before  reach- 
ing the  island  she  became  the  mother  of  a  child, 
which  died  in  five  days.  On  the  30th  of  Novem- 
ber, seven  weeks  and  four  days  after  her  confine- 
ment, Mrs.  Harriet  Newell,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
expired,  far  from  her  home  and  friends.  She  was 
one  of  the  first  females  who  ever  went  from  this 
country  as  a  missionary ;  and  she  was  the  first 
who  died  a  martyr  to  the  cause  of  Missions.  That 
there  is  a  time,  even  in  the  season  of  youth  and 
the  flush  of  hope,  when  it  is  "  better  to  die  than 
to  live,"  even  to  attain  our  wish  for  this  world, 
Harriet  Newell  is  an  example.  Her  most  earnest 
wish  was  to  do  good  for  the  cause  of  Christ,  and 
be  of  service  in  teaching  his  gospel  to  the  heathen. 
Her  early  death  has,  apparently,  done  this,  better 
and  more  effectually,  than  the  longest  life  and 
most  arduous  labours  of  any  one  of  the  noble  band 
of  American  women  who  have  gone  forth  on  this 
errand  of  love  and  hope.  In  the  language  of  a 
recent  writer  on  this  subject,  "Heroines  of  the 
Missionary  Enterprise,"  Harriet  Newell  was  the 
great  proto-martyr  of  American  missions.  She 
fell,  wounded  by  death,  in  the  very  vestibule  of 
the  sacred  cause.  Her  memory  belongs,  not  to 
the  body  of  men  who  sent  her  forth,  not  to  the 
denomination  to  whose  creed  she  had  subscribed, 
but  to  the  church,  to  the  cause  of  missions.  With 
the  torch  of  Truth  in  her  hand,  she  led  the  way 
down  into  a  valley  of  darkness,  through  which 
many  have  followed.  Her  work  was  short,  her 
toil  soon  ended ;  but  she  fell,  cheering  by  hei* 
dying  words  and  her  high  example,  the  missiona- 
ries of  all  coming  time.  She  was  the  first,  but  not 
the  only  martyr.  Heathen  lands  are  dotted  over 
with  the  graves  of  fallen  Christians ;  missionary 
women  sleep  on  almost  every  shore,  and  the  bones 
of  some  are  whitening  in  the  fathomless  depths 
of  the  ocean. 

Never  will  the  influence  of  the  devoted  woman 
whose  life  and  death  are  here  pourtrayed,  be  esti- 
mated properly,  until  the  light  of  an  eternal  day 
shall  shine  on  all  the  actions  of  men.  We  are  to 
measure  her  glory,  not  by  what  she  sufi"ered,  for 
others  have  sufi"ered  more  than  she  did.  But  we 
must  remember  that  she  went  out  when  the  mis- 
sionary enterprise  was  in  its  infancy, — when  even 
the  best  of  men  looked  upon  it  with  suspicion. 
The  tide  of  opposition  she  dared  to  stem,  and  with 
no  example,  no  predecessor  from  American  shores, 
she  went  out  to  rend  the  veil  of  darkness  which 
gathered  over  all  the  nations  of  the  East. 

Things  have  changed  since  th«n.  Our  mission- 
aries go  forth  with  the  approval  of  all  the  good ; 
and  the  odium  which  once  attended  such  a  life  is 
swept  away.  It  is  to  some  extent  a  popular  thing 
to  be  a  missionary,  although  the  work  is  still  one 
j  of  hardship  and  suS'ering.  It  is  this  fact  which 
I  gathers  such  a  splendour  around  the  name  of 

453 


NO 


OB 


Harriet  Newell,  and  invests  her  short  eventful 
life  with  such  a  charm.  She  went  when  no  foot 
had  trodden  out  the  path,  and  was  the  first  Ame- 
rican missionary  ever  called  to  an  eternal  reward. 
While  she  slumbers  in  her  grave,  her  name  is 
mentioned  with  affection  by  a  missionary  church. 
And  thus  it  should  be.  She  has  set  us  a  glorious 
example ;  she  has  set  an  example  to  the  church  in 
every  land  and  age,  and  her  name  will  be  mingled 
with  the  loved  ones  who  are  falling  year  by  year ; 
and  if  when  the  glad  millennium  comes,  and  the 
earth  is  converted  to  God,  some  crowns  brighter 
than  others  shall  be  seen  amid  the  throng  of  the 
ransomed,  one  of  those  crowns  will  be  found  upon 
the  head  of  Harriet  Newell." 

"  History  is  busy  with  us,"  said  Marie  Antoi- 
nette ;  and  the  hope  that  her  heroic  endurance 
of  ignominy  and  sufl'ering  would  be  recorded,  and 
ensui-e  the  pity  and  admii-ation  of  a  future  age, 
doubtless  nerved  her  to  sustain  the  dignity  of  a 
queen  throughout  the  deep  tragedy  of  her  fate. 

The  noblest  heroism  of  a  woman  is  never  thus 
self-conscious.  The  greatest  souls,  those  who 
elevate  humanity  and  leave  a  track  of  light — "  as 
stars  go  down" — when  passing  away  from  earth, 
never  look  back  for  the  brightness.  A  woman 
with  such  a  soul  is  absorbed  in  her  love  for  others, 
and  in  her  duty  towards  God.  She  does  what  she 
can,  feeling  constantly  how  small  is  the  mite  she 
gives ;  and  the  worth  which  it  is  afterwards  disco- 
vered to  bear  would,  probably,  astonish  the  giver 
far  more  than  it  does  the  world. 

Harriet  Newell  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty, 
leaving  a  journal  and  a  few  letters,  the  record  of 
her  religious  feelings  and  the  events  of  her  short 
missionary  life.  These  fragments  have  been  pub- 
lished, making  a  little  book.  Such  is  her  contri- 
bution to  literature  ;  yet  this  small  work  has  been 
and  is  now  of  more  importance  to  the  intellectual 
progress  of  the  world  than  all  the  works  of  Ma- 
dame de  Stael.  The  writings  of  Harriet  Newell, 
translated  into  several  tongues,  and  published  in 
many  editions,  have  reached  the  heart  of  society, 
and  assisted  to  build  up  the  throne  of  woman's 
power,  even  the  moral  influence  of  her  sex  over 
men ;  and  their  intellect  can  never  reach  its  high- 
est elevation  but  through  the  medium  of  moral 
cultivation. 

NORDEN-FLEICHT,    CHEDERIG 
CHARLOTTE    DE, 

A  N.\TivE  of  Stockholm,  Sweden,  celebrated 
among  her  countrymen  for  her  poems.  Besides 
an  ingenious  "Apology  for  AVomen,"  a  poem,  she 
wrote  "  The  Passage  of  the  Belts,"  two  straits  in 
the  Baltic,  over  which,  when  frozen,  king  Charles 
Gustavus  marched  his  army  in  1658.  She  died, 
June  29th,  1793,  aged  forty-four. 

NORTON,   LADY   FRANCES 

Was  descended  from  the  Frekes  of  Doi-setshire, 
England,  and  married  Sir  George  Norton,  of  So- 
mersetshire, by  whom  she  had  three  children.  On 
the  death  of  her  daughter,  who  had  married  Sir 
Richard  Gethin,  she  wrote  "  The  Applause  of 
Yirtue,"  and  "  Jlcmcnto  Mori,  or  Meditations  on 


Death."  She  took  for  her  second  husband  Colonel 
Ambrose  Norton,  and  for  her  third  Mr.  Jones,  and 
died  in  1720,  aged  about  seventy. 


0. 


OBERLIN,    MADELINE   SALOME, 

Distinguished  for  her  intelligence,  piety,  and 
the  perfect  unison  of  soul  which  she  enjoyed  with 
her  husband,  the  good  and  great  John  Frederic 
Oberlin,  was  born  at  Strasburg,  in  France.  Her 
father,  M.  Witter,  a  man  of  property,  who  had 
married  a  relative  of  the  Oberlin  family,  gave 
his  daughter  an  excellent  education.  John  James 
Oberlin  was  the  pastor  of  Waldbach,  a  small  vil- 
lage in  the  Ban  de  la  Roche,  or  Valley  of  Stones, 
a  lonely,  sterile  place,  in  the  north-eastern  part 
of  France.  Here  he  devoted  himself  to  the  duties 
of  his  holy  office,  doing  good  to  all  around  him. 
Under  his  care  and  instruction,  the  poor  ignorant 
peasantry  became  pious,  industrious,  and  happy. 
In  all  his  actions  he  followed  what  he  believed  to 
be  a  divine  influence,  or  the  leadings  of  provi- 
dence ;  and  his  courtship  and  marriage  were 
guided  by  his  religious  feelings.  Oberlin's  sister 
resided  with  him  at  Waldbach,  and  managed  his 
house.  Madeleine  AVitter  came  to  visit  Sophia 
Oberlin.  Miss  Witter  was  amiable,  and  her  mind 
had  been  highly  cultivated  ;  but  she  was  fond  of 
fashion  and  display.  Twice  had  Frederic  Oberlin 
declined  to  marry  young  ladies  who  had  been 
commended  to  him,  because  he  had  felt  an  inward 
admonition  that  neither  of  these  was  for  him. 
But  now,  when  Madeleine  came  before  him,  the 
impression  was  difi"erent.  Two  days  prior  to  her 
intended  departure,  a  voice  seemed  to  whisper 
distinctly,  "Take  her  for  thy  partner!"  "It  is 
impossible,"  thought  he  ;  "  our  dispositions  do 
not  agree."  Still  the  secret  voice  whispered, 
"  Take  her  for  thy  partner !"  He  slept  little  that 
night ;  and  in  his  morning  prayer,  he  earnestly 
entreated  God  to  give  him  a  sign  whether  this 
event  was  in  accordance  with  the  Divine  will ; 
solemnly  declaring  that  if  Madeleine  acceded  to 
the  proposition  with  great  readiness,  he  should 
consider  the  voice  he  had  heard  as  a  leading  of 
Providence. 

He  found  his  cousin  in  the  garden,  and  imme- 
diately began  the  conversation  by  saying,  "You 
are  about  to  leave  us,  my  dear  friend.  I  have 
received  an  intimation  that  you  are  destined  to  be 
the  partner  of  my  life.  Before  you  go,  will  you 
give  me  your  candid  opinion  whether  you  can  re- 
solve upon  this  step  ?" 

With  blushing  frankness,  Madeleine  placed  her 
hand  within  his  ;  and  then  he  knew  that  she  would 
be  his  wife. 

They  were  married  on  the  6th  of  July,  1768. 
Miss  Witter  had  always  resolved  not  to  marry  a 
clergyman ;  but  she  was  devotedly  attached  to  her 
excellent  husband,  and  cordially  assisted  in  all  his 
plans.  No  dissatisfaction  at  her  humble  lot,  no 
complaints  of  the  arduous  duties  belonging  to  their 
peculiar  situation,  marred  their  mutual  happiness. 

4di 


OB 


ON 


They  were  far  removed  from  the  vain  excitements 
and  tinsel  splendour  of  the  world ;  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  rude,  illiterate  peasantry;  and 
every  step  in  improvement  was  contested  by  igno- 
rance and  prejudice ;  but  they  wei-e  near  each 
other,  and  both  were  near  to  God. 

The  following  prayer,  written  soon  after  their 
union,  shows  what  spirit  pervaded  their  peaceful 
dwelling. 

Prayer  of  Obcrlin  and  his  Wife,  for  the  Blessing  a7id 
Grace  of  God. 

"Holy  Spirit!  descend  into  our  hearts;  assist 
us  to  pray  with  fervour  from  our  inmost  souls. 
Permit  thy  children,  Oh,  gracious  Father,  to  pre- 
sent themselves  before  thee,  in  order  to  ask  of 
thee  what  is  necessary  for  them.  May  we  love 
each  other  only  in  thee,  and  in  our  Saviour  Jesus 
Christ,  as  being  members  of  his  body.  Enable  us 
at  all  times,  to  look  solely  to  thee,  to  walk  before 
thee,  and  to  be  united  together  in  thee ;  that  thus 
we  may  grow  daily,  in  the  spiritual  life. 

"  Grant  that  we  may  be  faithful  in  the  exercise 
of  our  duties,  that  we  may  stimulate  each  other 
therein,  warning  each  other  of  our  faults,  and 
seeking  together  for  pardon  in  the  blood  of  Jesus 
Christ.  When  we  pray  together,  (and  may  we 
pray  much  and  frequently,)  be  thou,  0  Lord  Jesus, 
with  us  ;  kindle  our  fervour,  0  Heavenly  Father, 
and  grant  us,  for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ,  what- 
ever thy  Holy  Spirit  shall  teach  us  to  ask. 

"  Seeing  that  in  this  life,  thou  hast  jilaced  the 
members  of  our  household  under  our  authority, 
give  us  wisdom  and  strength  to  guide  them  in  a 
manner  conformable  to  thy  will.  May  we  always 
set  them  a  good  example,  following  that  of  Abra- 
ham, who  commanded  his  children  and  his  house- 
hold after  him,  to  keep  tlie  way  of  the  Lord,  in 
doing  what  is  right.  If  thou  givest  us  children, 
and  preservest  them  to  us,  0  grant  us  grace  to 
bring  them  up  to  thy  service,  to  teach  them  early 
to  know,  to  fear,  and  to  love  thee,  and  to  pray  to 
that  God  who  has  made  a  covenant  with  them, 
that,  conformably  to  the  engagement  which  will 
be  undertaken  for  them  at  their  baptism,  they 
may  remain  faithful  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
0  Heavenly  Father,  may  we  inculcate  thy  word, 
according  to  thy  will,  all  our  lives,  with  gentle- 
ness, love  and  patience,  both  at  their  rising  up 
and  lying  down,  at  home  and  abroad,  and  under 
all  circumstances ;  and  do  thou  render  it  meet  for 
the  children  to  whom  thou  hast  given  life  only  as 
a  means  of  coming  to  thee. 

"  And  when  we  go  together  to  the  Holy  Supper, 
0  ever  give  us  renewed  grace,  renewed  strength, 
and  renewed  courage,  for  continuing  to  walk  in 
the  path  to  heaven ;  and,  as  we  can  only  approach 
thy  table  four  times  in  the  year,  grant  that  in 
faith  we  may  much  more  frequently  be  there,  yes, 
every  day  and  every  hour ;  that  we  may  always 
keep  death  in  view,  and  always  be  prepared  for 
it ;  and  if  we  may  be  permitted  to  solicit  it  of 
thee,  0  grant  that  we  may  not  long  be  separated 
from  each  other,  but  that  the  death  of  the  one 
may  be  speedily,  and  very  speedily,  followed  by 
that  of  tlic  other. 


"  Hear,  0  gracious  Father,  in  the  name  of  Jesus 
Christ,  thy  well-beloved  son.  And,  0  merciful 
Redeemer,  may  we  both  love  thee  with  ardent 
devotion,  always  walking  and  holding  communion 
with  thee,  not  placing  our  confidence  in  our  own 
righteousness  and  in  our  own  works,  but  only  in 
thy  blood  and  in  thy  merits.  Be  with  us ;  pre- 
serve us  faithful ;  and  grant.  Lord  Jesus,  that  we 
may  soon  see  thee.  Holy  Spirit,  dwell  always  iu 
our  hearts :  teach  us  to  lift  our  thoughts  continu- 
ally to  our  gracious  Father ;  impart  to  us  thy 
strength,  or  thy  consolation,  as  our  wants  may  be. 
And  to  thee,  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  be 
praise,  honour,  and  glory,  for  ever  and  ever. 
Amen." 

For  sixteen  years  Mrs.  Obei-lin  was  a  beloved 
friend  and  useful  assistant  to  her  husband.  In 
their  tastes  and  pursuits,  in  their  opinions  and 
feelings,  they  became  entirely  one.  She  managed 
his  household  discreetly,  educated  their  children 
judiciously,  and  entered  into  all  his  benevolent 
plans  with  earnestness  and  prudence. 

She  died  suddenly,  in  January,  1784,  a  few 
weeks  after  the  birth  of  her  ninth  and  last  child. 
Her  death  was  deeply  mourned  in  the  Ban  de  la 
Roche,  for  her  assistance  and  sympathy  had  al- 
ways been  freely  offered  to  the  poor  and  the 
aiflicted. 

Oberlin  survived  his  wife  forty-two  years  ;  but 
never  separated  himself  from  her  memory.  He 
devoted  several  hours  every  day  to  thoughts  of 
her;  and  held,  as  he  thought,  communion  with 
her  soul.  Thus  holy  and  eternal  may  be  the  true 
love  of  husband  and  wife. 

OLDFIELD,   ANNE, 

A  CELEBRATED  English  actress,  was  born  in 
Pail-Mall  in  1683.  Her  father,  an  ofiicer  in  the 
army,  left  her  poor ;  but  the  sweetness  of  her 
voice,  and  her  inclination  for  the  stage  noticed  by 
Farquhar,  the  comic  writer,  decided  her  destiny. 
She  became  the  mistress  of  Mr.  Maynwaring,  and 
after  his  death,  of  General  Churchill.  But,  not- 
withstanding these  derelictions,  she  was  humane 
and  benevolent  in  the  highest  degree,  and  a  real 
friend  to  the  indigent  Savage,  on  whom  she  be- 
stowed an  annuity,  although  he  had  not  the  most 
remote  claim  upon  her  beyond  his  poverty  and  his 
genius.  She  died  in  1730,  and  was  buried  in 
AVestminster  Abbey  with  great  pomp.  She  left 
two  sons,  one  by  each  of  the  gentlemen  with  whom 
she  lived,  and  to  whom  she  behaved  with  the  duty, 
fidelity,  and  attachment  of  a  wife. 

O'NEILL,    MISS, 

Was  born  in  Ireland,  about  1791.  Her  father 
was  the  stage-manager  of  the  Drogheda  theatre ; 
and  she  was  introduced  on  the  boards  at  an  early 
age.  When  quite  young  she  went  to  Dublin,  where 
her  personation  of  Juliet,  in  Shakspeare's  play  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  established  her  reputation.  She 
was  engaged  at  one  of  the  principal  Loudon  thea- 
tres ;  and  she  soon  became  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar actresses  of  the  day.  At  the  time  of  her  leaving 
the  stage,  on  her  marriage  with  W.  Bccher,  Esq.,. 
M.  P.,  she  was  iu  the  receipt  of  £12,000  a-j-ear; 

455 


OP 


OP 


the  whole  profits  of  which  she  is  said  to  have  dis- 
tributed among  her  numerous  relations. 

OPIE,    AMELIA, 

Was  born  in  Norwich,  England,  in  1771.  Her 
father  was  Dr.  Alderson,  a  distinguished  physician. 
She  evinced  her  talents  at  a  very  early  age,  but 
published  very  little  before  her  marriage,  which 
took  place  in  1798,  when  she  espoused  Mr.  Opie, 
the  celebrated  portrait-painter.  In  1801,  she 
wrote  "  The  Father  and  Daughter,"  which  went 
through  many  editions,  and  is  still  popular.  In 
1802,  she  wrote  a  volume  of  poems ;  and  after- 
wards, "Adeline  ISIowbray,  or  the  Mother  and 
Daughter,"  "Simple  Tales,"  "Dangers  of  Co- 
quetry," and  "  Warrior's  Return,  and  other 
Poems."  Her  husband  died  in  1808;  after  which, 
she  published  his  lectures,  with  a  memoir  of  his 
life,  and  a  novel  called  "  Temper,  or  Domestic 
Scenes."  Mrs.  Opie  was  a  pleasing  poetess;  many 
of  her  songs  attained  great  popularity,  though 
now  nearly  forgotten.  She  joined  the  Quakers  or 
Friends,  and  withdrew  partially  from  society,  after 
1826 ;  but  visiting  Paris,  she  was  induced  to  fix 
her  residence  in  that  gay  city.  Miss  Sedgwick, 
in  her  "Letters  from  Abroad,"  published  in 
1841,  thus  notices  Mi"s.  Opie,  whom  she  met  in 
Paris : — 

"I  owed  Mrs.  Opie  a  grudge  for  having  made 
me  in  my  youth  cry  my  eyes  out  over  her  stories ; 
but  her  fair,,  cheerful  face  forced  me  to  forget  it. 
She  long  ago  forswore  the  world  and  its  vanities, 
and  adopted  the  Quaker  faith  and  costume ;  but 
I  fancied  that  her  elaborate  simplicity,  and  the 
fashionable  little  train  to  her  pretty  satin  gown, 
indicated  how  much  easier  it  is  to  adopt  a  theory 
than  to  change  one's  habits." 

In  1828,  Mrs.  Opie  published  a  moral  treatise, 
entitled  "  Detraction  Disjjlayed,"  in  order  to  ex- 
pose that  "most  common  of  all  vices,"  which  she 
says  justly  is  found  "  in  every  class  or  rank  in 
society,  from  the  peer  to  the  peasant,  from  the 
master  to  the  valet,  from  the  mistress  to  the  maid, 
from  the  most  learned  to  the  most  ignorant,  from 
the  man  of  genius  to  the  meanest  capacity."  The 
tales  of  this  lady  have  been  thrown  into  the  shade 
by  the  brilliant  fictions  of  Scott,  the  stronger  moral 
delineations  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  the  generally 
masculine  character  of  our  more  modern  literature. 
She  is,  like  Mackenzie,  too  uniformly  pathetic  and 
tender.  "  She  can  do  nothing  well,"  says  Jeffrey, 
"that  requires  to  be  done  with  formality,  and 
therefore  has  not  succeeded  in  copying  either  the 
concentrated  force  of  weighty  and  deliberate  rea- 
son, or  the  severe  and  solemn  dignity  of  majestic 
virtue.  To  make  amends,  however,  she  represents 
admii'ably  every  thing  that  is  amiable,  generous, 
and  gentle."  Perhaps  we  should  add  to  this  the 
power  of  exciting  and  harrowing  up  the  feelings 
in  no  ordinary  degree.  Some  of  her  short  tales 
are  full  of  gloomy  and  terrific  painting,  alternately 
resembling  those  of  Godwin  and  Mrs.  RadclifiFe. 
Mrs.  Opie  died  in  1849. 

The  following  extract  from  "A  Wife's  Duty," 
gives  a  good  ide^  of  her  style  and  manner  of 
story-telling,  which  is  the  true  title  of  her  prose 


productions.     Seymour  and  Helen  Pendarves  had 
married  for  love. 

TWO    TEARS    OF    WEDDED    LIFE. 

The  first  twelve  months  of  my  wedded  life  (the 
wife  tells  the  story)  were  halcyon  days  ;  and  the 
first  months  of  marriage  are  not  often  such — per- 
haps they  never  are  — except  where  the  wedded 
couple  are  so  young  that  they  are  not  trammelled 
in  habits  which  are  likely  to  interfere  with  a  spirit 
of  accommodation ;  nor  even  then,  probably,  un- 
less the  temper  is  good,  and  yielding  on  both 
sides.  It  usually  takes  some  time  for  the  husband 
and  wife  to  know  each  other's  humours  and  habits, 
and  to  find  what  surrender  of  their  own  they  can 
make  with  the  least  reluctance  for  their  mutual 
good.  But  we  had  youth,  and  (I  speak  it  not  as 
a  boast)  we  had  good  tempei-,  also.  Seymotir, 
you  know,  was  proverbially  good-natured ;  and  I, 
though  an  only  child,  had  not  had  my  naturally 
happy  temper  ruined  by  injudicious  indulgence. 

You  know  that  Seymour  and  I  went  to  Paris, 
and  thence  to  Marseilles,  not  very  long  after  we 
married,  and  returned  in  six  months  to  complete 
the  alterations  which  we  had  ordered  to  be  made 
in  our  house,  under  the  superintendence  of  my 
mother. 

We  found  the  alterations  really  deserving  the 
name  of  improvements,  and  Seymour  enthusiastic- 
ally exclaimed,  "0,  Helen!  never,  never  will  we 
leave  this  enchanting  place.  Here  let  us  live,  my 
beloved,  and  be  the  world  to  each  other." 

My  heart  readily  assented  to  this  delightful  pro- 
position, but  even  then  my  judgment  revolted  at  it. 

I  felt,  I  knew  that  Pendarves  loved,  and  was 
formed  for  society.  I  was  sure,  that  by  beginning 
our  wedded  life  with  total  seclusion,  we  should 
only  prepare  the  way  for  utter  distaste  to  it;  and, 
concealing  my  own  inclinations,  I  told  him  I  must 
stipulate  for  three  months  of  London  every  spring. 
My  husband  started  with  surprise  and  mortifica- 
tion at  this  un-romantic  reply  to  his  sentimental 
proposal,  nor  could  he  at  all  accede  to  it ;  but  he 
complained  of  my  passioti  for  London  to  my  mother, 
while  the  country,  with  me  for  his  companion,  was 
quite  sufiBcient  for  his  happiness. 

"  These  are  early  times  yet,"  replied  my  mother, 
coldly ;  and  Seymour  was  not  satisfied  with  the 
mother  or  the  daughter. 

"  Seymour,"  said  I,  one  day,  "since  you  have 
declared  against  keeping  any  more  terms,  and  will 
therefore  not  read  much  law  till  you  become  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  tell  me  how  you  mean  to 
emjjloy  your  time?" 

"AVhy,  i)i  the  first  place,"  said  he,  "I  shall  read 
or  write.  But  my  first  employment  shall  be  to 
teach  you  Spanish.  I  cannot  endure  to  think  that 
De  Walden  taught  you  Italian,  Helen." 

"  But  you  taught  me  to  love,  you  know;  there- 
fore you  ought  to  forgive  it." 

"  No  ;  I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  helped  to  com- 
plete your  education." 

"Well,  but  I  cannot  be  learning  Spanish  all 
day." 

"  No ;  so  perhaps  I  shall  set  about  writing  a 
great  work." 

466 


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OR 


"  The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  propose,  though 
not  exactly  a  gi-eat  work.  What  think  you  of  a 
life  of  poor  Chatterton,  with  critical  remarks  on 
his  poems  ?" 

"  Excellent !  I  will  do  it." 

And  now  having  given  him  a  pursuit,  I  ventured 
to  indulge  some  reasonable  hopes  that  home  and 
the  country  might  prove  as  delightful  to  him  as 
he  fancied  they  would  be ;  and  what  with  study- 
ing Spanish,  with  building  a  green-house,  with 
occasional  waiting,  with  getting  together  materials 
for  this  life,  and  writing  the  preface,  time  fled  on 
very  rapid  pinions ;  and  after  we  had  been  mar- 
ried two  years,  and  May  arrived  a  second  time, 
Seymour  triumphantly  exclaimed — 

"There,  Helen!  I  believe  that  you  distrusted 
my  love  for  the  country ;  but  have  I  once  expressed 
or  felt  a  wish  to  go  to  London  ?" 

"  The  Ides  of  March  are  come,  but  not  gone," 
I  replied ;  "  and,  surely,  if  I  wish  to  go,  you  will 
not  deny  me." 

"  No,  Helen,  certainly  not,"  said  he,  in  a  tone 
of  mortification,  "  if  I  am  no  longer  all-sufficient 
for  your  happiness." 

Alas !  in  the  ingenuousness  of  my  nature,  I  gave 
way  when  he  said  this  to  the  tenderness  of  my 
heart,  and  assured  him  that  my  happiness  de- 
pended wholly  on  the  enjoyment  of  his  society ; 
and  I  fear  it  is  too  true  that  men  soon  learn  to 
slight  what  they  are  sure  of  possessing.  Had  I 
been  an  artful  woman,  and  could  I  have  conde- 
scended to  make  him  doubtful  of  the  extent  of  my 
love,  by  a  few  woman's  subterfuges;  could  I  have 
feigned  a  desire  to  return  to  the  world,  instead  of 
owning,  as  I  did,  that  all  my  enjoyment  was  com- 
prised in  home  and  him,  I  do  think  that  I  might 
have  been,  for  a  much  longer  period,  the  happiest 
of  wives;  but  then  I  should  have  been,  in  my  own 
eyes,  despicable  as  a  woman ;  and  I  was  always 
tenacious  of  my  own  esteem. 

May  was  come,  but  not  gone,  when  I  found  my 
husband  was  continually  reading  to  me,  after 
having  read  to  himself,  the  accounts  in  the  papers 
of  the  gaieties  of  London. 

(And  so  to  London  they  went.) 

From  Mrs.  Opie's  Poems.  ' 

THE    ORPHAN    BOY's    TALE. 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale; 
Ah!  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, 

'Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  iny  brave  father's  hope  and  joy ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

Poor  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I, 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came. 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 
To  force  me  home,  my  mother  sought, 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy ; 
For  with  my  father's  life  'twas  bought. 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud. 
My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears  ; 

"  Rejoice  !  rejoice !"  still  cried  the  crowd  ; 
My  mother  answered  with  her  tears. 


"  Why  are  you  crying  thus,"  said  I, 

"  While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joy  ?" 

She  kissed  me  —  and  with  such  a  sigh  I 
She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

'•What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?"  I  cried. 

As  in  her  face  I  look'd,  and  smiled  ; 
My  mother  through  her  tears  replied, 

"  You  'II  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  child !" 
And  now  they've  toU'd  my  mother's  knell. 

And  I'm  no  more  a  parent's  joy  ; 
O,  lady,  1  have  learn'd  too  well 

What  'tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Oh !  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide — 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep!— ha  !— this  to  me  ? 

Y'ou  'II  give  nie  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents  !  look,  and  see. 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

SONG. 

Go,  youth  belov'd,  in  distant  glades. 
New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find  ; 

Yet  sometimes  deign,  'midst  fairer  maiils. 
To  think  on  her  thou  leavest  behind. 

Thy  love,  thy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share. 
Must  never  be  my  happy  lot ; 

But  thou  mayest  grant  this  humble  prayer. 
Forget  me  not.  Forget  me  not ! 

Yet  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 

Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be, 
Heed  not  the  wish  I  now  express. 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  of  me. 
But  oh  !  if  grief  thy  steps  attend, 

If  want,  or  sickness  be  thy  lot. 
And  thou  require  a  soothing  frie.nd. 

Forget  nie  not,  Forget  me  not! 

SONG. 

1  know  you  false,  I  know  you  vain. 
Yet  still  I  cannot  break  my  chain  ; 
Though  with  those  lijis  so  sweetly  smiling. 
Those  eyes  so  bright  and  so  beguiling, 
On  every  youth  by  turns  you  smile, 
And  every  youth  by  turns  beguile. 
Yet  still  enchant  and  still  deceive  me, 
Do  all  things,  fatal  fair,  but  leave  me. 

Still  let  me  in  those  sparkling  eyes 

Trace  all  your  feelings  as  they  rise; 

Still  from  those  lips  in  crimson  swelling. 

Which  seem  of  soft  delights  the  dwelling, 

Catch  tones  of  sweetness  which  the  soul 

In  fetters  ever  need  control — 

Nor  let  my  starts  of  passion  grieve  thee, 

'T  were  death  to  stay,  't  were  death  to  leave  thee. 

ORLANDINE,  EMILIA  OF  SIENA, 
Floueished  in  1726.  One  of  her  sonnets  is 
very  celebrated — "Love  is  a  Great  Folly."  It 
would  seem  that  the  poetess  felt,  in  the  depths  of 
her  soul,  this  bitter  truth.  She  has  left  many 
poems,  full  of  energy  and  sentiment,  which  are 
dispersed  in  various  collections. 

ORLEANS,  ELIZABETH  CHARLOTTE, 
DUCHESS  OF, 
Only  daughter  of  the  elector  Charles  Louis  of 
the  Palatinate,  was  born  at  Heidelberg,  in  1662. 
She  Avas  a  princess  of  distinguished  talents  and  cha- 
racter, and  lived  for  half  a  century  in  the  court  of 
Louis  XIV.  without  changing  her  German  habits  or 
manners.  She  was  carefully  educated  at  the  court 
of  her  aunt,  afterwards  the  electress  Sophia  of 

457 


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OS 


Hanover,  and  when  nineteen,  married  duke  Philip 
of  Orleans,  from  reasons  of  state  policy.  She  was 
without  personal  charms,  but  her  understanding 
was  strong,  and  she  was  celebrated  for  her  wit. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  was  her  implacable  enemy; 
but  Louis  XIV.  was  attracted  by  her  frankness, 
integrity,  and  vivacity.  She  often  attended  him 
to  the  chase.  She  has  described  herself  and  her 
situation  with  much  life  and  humour  in  her 
"German  Letters."  The  most  valuable  of  these 
are  contained  in  the  "Life  and  Character  of  the 
Duchess  Elizabeth  Charlotte  of  Orleans,"  by  Pro- 
fessor Schlitze,  published  at  Leipzic,  in  1820. 
Her  second  son  was  made  regent,  after  Louis 
XIV.'s  death.     Her  own  death  occurred  in  1722. 


OSGOOD,  FRANCES  SARGENT, 

One  of  the  most  gifted  daughters  of  song  Ame- 
rica has  produced,  was  born  in  Boston,  Massa- 
chusetts, about  the  year  1812.  Her  father,  Mr. 
Joseph  Locke,  was  a  merchant,  and  her  mother  a 
■woman  of  cultivated  taste ;  both  parents  encou- 
raged and  aided  the  education  of  their  children. 
They  were  a  talented  family;  but  no  other  one 
had  the  genius  with  which  Frances  was  endowed. 
Her  poetical  faculty  was  an  endowment  of  nature, 
not  an  acquired  art ;  nor  in  our  research  through 
the  annals  of  female  genius  have  we  found  another 
instance,  among  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  of  the  true 
improvisatrice,  such  as  Mrs.  Osgood  certainly  was. 

Mrs.  Hemans  studied  her  art  passionately,  and 
profited  greatly  by  her  learning ;  Miss  Landon 
had  motives,  encouragements  and  facilities,  which 
carried  her  onward  in  her  literary  career.  But 
Mrs.  Osgood  never  required  study  or  encourage- 
ment; she  poured  out  her  strains  as  the  birds 
carol,  because  her  heart  was  filled  with  song,  and 
must  have  utterance.  Her  first  specimens  of 
poetry  were  almost  as  perfect,  in  what  are  called 
the  rules  of  the  art,  as  her  later  productions. 
Rhyme,  and  the  harmonies  of  language,  came  to 
her  as  intuitively  as  the  warm  emotions  of  her 
heart,  or  the  bright  fancies  of  her  imagination. 

Her  first  printed  productions  appeared  in  the 
"  .luvenile  Miscellany,"  a  little  work,  but  an  ex- 
cellent one  for  the  young,  edited  by  Mrs.  Jlaria 


L.  Child.  In  1831,  Miss  Locke,  who  had  chosen 
"Florence"  as  her  nom  de  plume,  began  to  write 
for  the  "  Ladies'  Magazine,"*  the  first  periodical 
established  in  America  for  ladies,  and  then  under 
the  care  of  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale,  the  present  editor 
of  the  "  Lady's  Book." 

In  1835,  Miss  Locke  married  Mr.  S.  S.  Osgood, 
a  painter  by  profession,  who  has  since  reached  a 
high  rank  as  an  artist ;  he  was  also  a  man  of  lite- 
rary taste,  who  appreciated  the  genius  and  lovely 
qualities  of  his  gifted  wife.  The  young  couple 
went  to  London  soon  after  their  marriage,  where 
Mr.  Osgood  succeeded  well,  and  Mrs.  Osgood  made 
many  friends,  and  her  talents  became  known  by  her 
contributions  to  several  of  the  English  periodicals. 
While  there,  she  published  a  small  volume,  "  The 
Casket  of  Fate,"  which  was  much  admired;  and 
she  was  persuaded  to  collect  her  poems,  under  the 
title  of  "  A  AVreath  of  Wild  Flowers  from  New 
England."  This  volume  was  published  in  London, 
1838,  and  was  favourably  noticed  by  several  of 
the  leading  journals  in  that  metropolis. 

In  1840,  after  an  absence  of  more  than  four 
years,  Mr.  Osgood  returned  to  Boston  with  hjs 
wife  and  their  little  daughter  Ellen,  (the  i^et  of 
many  poems,)  and  opened  a  studio  in  that  city. 
Mrs.  Osgood  devoted  her  leisure  to  literary  pur- 
suits, and  prepared  several  woi'ks  —  "  The  Poetry 
of  Flowers  and  Flowers  of  Poetry,"  and  "  The 
Floral  Offering,"  besides  contributing  to  nearly 
all  the  literary  magazines  and  the  annuals  of  every 
season.     She  often  wrote  in  prose,  because  prose 
was  required.     Many  of  her  sketches  and  stories 
are  charming,  from  their  playful  vivacity  and  fan- 
ciful descriptions ;  yet  the  poetical  spirit  always 
predominating,  shows  that  she  would  gladly  have 
rhymed   the   article,    had    she    been    permitted. 
Poetry  was,  in  truth,  her  native  language ;  on  the 
wing  of  versification  she  moved  gracefully  as  a 
bird,  and  always  in  a  region  of  light  and  love. 
This  healthy,  hopeful,  happy  spirit,  is  the  distin- 
guishing characteristic  of  her  productions.     Dark 
fancies  never  haunted  her  pure  mind ;  misanthropy 
never  laid  its  cold,  withering  hand  on  her  heart ; 
nor  is  there  a  single  manifestation  of  bitter  memo- 
ries and  disappointed  feelings  in  her  poems.    This 
buoyancy  of  disposition  was  her  American  heritage ; 
and  we  agree  with  a  discriminating  writer,  f  that, 
"  Of  all  American  female  authors,  Mrs.  Osgood 
is  the  most  truly  feminine  in  her  delineation  of 
the  affections.     Without  rising  ever  to  the  dignity 
of  passion,  she  portrays  the  more  tender  and  deli- 
cate lights  and  shadows  of  woman's  heart,  with  an 
instinctive   fidelity.      We    might    instance    some 
charming  improvisations  in  a  peculiar  vein  of  sub- 
dued and  half-capricious  gayety,  which  can  hardly 
be    surpassed.     In   all   her   social  relations,  the 
readiness  with  which  her  buoyant  and  vivacious 
nature  ran  into  verse,  was  made  a  source  of  end- 
less amusement  and  pleasure.     Many  of  her  most 
sprightly  and  graceful  poems  were  produced  in 
this  manner,  with  no  other  object  than  the  tem- 

*  In  1837  the  "  Ladies'  Magazine"  was  united  with  the 
"Lady's  Book,"  which  is  now  the  oldest  literary  periodical 
in  the  United  States. 

t  In  the  New  York  Tribune. 

458 


OS 


OS 


porary  gratification  of  her  friends,  and  then  thrown 
aside  and  forgotten." 

That  with  such  a  cheerful,  kind,  affectionate 
genius,  as  well  as  heart,  Mrs.  Osgood  should  have 
been  tenderly  beloved  by  her  own  family  and  fa- 
miliar friends,  would  be  expected ;  but  she  had 
made  thousands  of  friends  who  never  looked  on 
her  pleasant  face ;  and  when  the  tidings  of  her 
death  went  forth,  she  was  mourned  as  a  light 
withdrawn  from  many  a  home  where  her  rhymed 
lessons  had  added  a  charm  to  household  affections, 
and  made  more  beautiful  the  lot  of  woman.  Mrs. 
Osgood  had  resided  for  several  years  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  and  there  she  died,  May  12th,  1850, 
of  pulmonary  consumption,  enduring  her  wasting 
disease  with  sweet  patience,  even  playful  cheer- 
fulness. The  last  stanza  she  wrote,  or  rather 
rhymed,  alluded  to  the  near  approach  of  her  fate  : 

"  I'm  going  through  th'  Eternal  Gates 
Ere  June's  svveet  roses  blow; 
Death's  lovely  angel  leads  me  there, 
And  it  is  sweet  to  go." 

She  died  a  few  days  after,  being  yet  young  for 
one  who  had  written  so  much — hardly  thirtj'-eight. 
Two  of  her  three  daughters  survive  her  irreparable 
loss :  her  husband  returned  from  California  to 
watch  over  her  last  months  of  sickness,  but  he 
could  not  save  her.  She  was  a  devoted  wife  and 
mother,  as  lovely  in  her  daily  life  as  in  her  poems. 
The  paper  we  have  already  quoted  gives  this  true 
summary  of  her  literary  character : 

"  As  a  writer,  Mrs.  Osgood  enjoyed,  while  liv- 
ing, the  full  measure  of  her  fame.  The  character- 
istic beauties  of  her  poems  were  very  generally 
appreciated,  while  the  careless  freedom  of  her 
words  were  so  interwoven  with  subtle  and  exqui- 
site cadences  of  sound,  that  the  critical  reader 
forgot  her  want  of  constructive  power.  AVe  do 
not  think  that  more  severe  study  would  have  en- 
abled her  to  accomplish  better  or  more  lasting 
things.  Her  nature  found  its  appropriate  expres- 
sion, and  any  reaching  after  the  higher  forms  of 
poetry  would  have  checked  that  child-like  spirit 
which  was  its  greatest  charm.  Some  of  our  pre- 
sent female  writers  may  be  awarded  loftier  ho- 
nours, but  no  one,  we  think,  will  win  a  wider 
circle  of  friends,  or  leave  behind  a  more  cherished 
memory." 

In  1849,  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Osgood,  superbly 
illustrated,  in  one  volume,  were  published  in 
Philadelphia. 

In  order  to  mark  the  progress  of  Mrs.  Osgood's 
mind,  we  give,  first,  some  poems  of  her  girlhood, 
then  of  her  motherhood,  and  last,  a  few  of  those 
which  are  more  purely  imaginative ;  the  same 
grace  of  expression  and  delicacy  of  moral  feeling 
pervades  all  she  ever  wrote. 

First  Part. 

MAY-DAT    IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 

Can  this  be  May  ?  Can  this  be  May  ? 

We  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day  ! 

We  roamed  the  wood — we  climbed  the  hill — 

We  rested  by  the  rushing  rill — 

And  lest  they  had  forgot  the  day, 

We  told  them  it  was  Jlay,  dear  May ! 


We  called  the  sweet,  wild  blooms  by  name- 

We  shouted,  and  no  answer  came ! 

From  smiling  field,  or  solemn  hill— 

From  rugged  rock,  or  rushing  rill— 

We  only  bade  the  petty  pets 

Just  breathe  from  out  their  hiding-places  ; 

We  told  the  little,  light  coquettes 

They  needn't  show  their  bashful  faces, — 

"  One  sigh,"  we  said.  "  one  fragrant  sigh. 

We'll  soon  discover  where  you  lie!" 

The  roguish  things  were  still  as  death  — 

They  wouldn't  even  breathe  a  breath. 

Alas!  there's  none  so  deaf,  1  fear, 

As  those  who  do  not  choose  to  hear! 

We  wandered  to  an  open  place. 

And  sought  the  sunny  buttercup, 

That,  so  delighted,  in  your  face 

Just  like  a  pleasant  smile  looks  up. 

We  peeped  into  a  shady  spot. 

To  find  the  blue  "Forget-me-not!"' 

At  last  a  far-ofl"  voice  we  heard, 

A  voice  as  of  a  fountain-fall. 

That  softer  than  a  singing-bird. 

Did  answer  to  our  merry  call ! 

So  wildly  sweet  the  breezes  brought 

That  tone  in  every  pause  of  ours, 

That  we,  delighted,  fondly  thought 

It  must  be  talking  of  the  flowers! 

We  knew  the  violets  loved  to  hide 

The  cool  and  lulling  wave  beside: — 

With  song,  and  laugh,  and  bounding  feet. 

And  wild  hair  wandering  on  the  wind. 

We  swift  pursued  the  murmurs  sweet ; 

But  not  a  blossom  could  we  find ; — 

The  cowslip,  crocus,  columbine. 

The  violet,  and  the  snowdrop  fine, 

The  orchis  "neath  the  hawthorn  tree, 

The  blue-bell  and  anemone. 

The  wild-rose,  eglantine,  and  daisy, 

Where  are  they  all  ? — they  must  be  lazy ! 

Perhaps  they're  playing  "Hide  and  seek" — 

Oh,  naughty  flowers!  why  don't  you  speak? 

We  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day, — 

They  surely  cannot  know  't  is  May ! 

You  have  not  found  a  flower  to-day!  — 
What's  that  upon  your  cheek,  I  pray? 
A  blossom  pure,  and  sweet,  and  wild. 
And  worth  all  Nature's  blooming  wealth; 
Not  all  in  vain  your  search,  my  child! — 
You've  found  at  least  the  rose  of  health  ! 
The  golden  buttercup,  you  say. 
That  like  a  smile  illumes  the  way, 
Is  nowhere  to  be  seen  to-day. 
Fair  child!  upon  that  beaming  face 
A  softer,  lovelier  smile  I  trace; 
A  treasure,  as  the  sunshine  bright, — 
A  glow  of  love  and  wild  delight ! 
Then  pine  no  more  for  Nature's  toy — 
You've  found  at  least  the  flower  of  joy. 
Yes!  in  a  heart  so  young,  and  gay, 
And  kind  as  yours,  'tis  always  May! 
For  gentle  feelings,  love,  are  flowers 
That  bloom  thro'  life's  most  clouded  hours ! 
Ah!  cherish  them,  my  happy  child. 
And  check  the  weeds  that  wander  wild ! 
And  while  their  stainless  wealth  is  given, 
In  incense  sweet,  to  earth  and  heaven, 
No  longer  will  you  need  to  say — 
"Can  this  be  May?   Can  this  be  May?" 


STANZAS. 

When  the  warm  Mossed  spirit  that  lightens  the  sky 
Hath  darkened  his  glory,  and  furled  up  his  wing, 

And  Nature  forgets  the  sweet  smile,  that  her  eye 
W^as  wont  on  that  radiant  spirit  to  fling, — 

I  turn  from  the  world  without,  calm  and  content,^ 
And  find  in  my  own  heart  a  day-dream  as  bright ; 

And  dearer,  far  dearer  than  that  which  is  lent 
To  illumine  creation  with  glory  and  ligiit. 

469 


OS 


OS 


There's  a  thought  in  that  heart  it  can  never  forget- 
There  's  a  ray  in  that  heart  that  will  lighten  my  doom  ; 

'i'hrough  many  a  sorrow  they  linger  there  yet, 
And,  holy  and  beautiful,  smile  through  the  gloom. 

r.nt  they  say  that  the  garland  Affection  is  wreathing, 
Will  fade  ere  the  morrow  has  wakened  its  bloom — 

They  say  the  wild  blossoms  where  young  Hope  is  breathing. 
Their  beauty,  their  fragrance  are  all  fur  the  tomb. 

They  tell  me  the  vision  of  Bliss  that  is  "glinting," 
My  heart's  star  of  promise  in  gloom  will  decline; 

And  the  far  scene  that  Fancy,  the  fairy,  is  tinting, 
Will  lose  all  its  sunny  glow  ere  it  is  mine. 

Oh !  if  Love  and  Life  be  but  a  fairy  illusion, 

And  the  cold  future  bright  but  in  Fancy's  young  eye, 

Still,  still  let  me  live  in  the  dreamy  illusion, 
And,  true  and  unchanging,  hope  on  till  I  die  ! 

LINES 

On  a  picture  of  a  young  girl  weighing  Cupid  and  a  butter- 
fly:— the  winged  boy  rises,  as  he  should,  and  the  motto 
beneath  is,  "  Love  is  the  lightest." 

"LOVE    THE    LIGHTEST." 

Silly  maiden  !  weigh  them  not ; 

Butterflies  are  earthbj  things: 
Thou  forget'st  their  lowly  lot. 

Gazing  on  their  glittering  wings. 

Find  a  star-beam  from  the  sky — 
Find  a  glow-worm  in  the  grass — 

Will  the  earth-lamp  rise  on  high? 
Will  that  heaven-ray  downward  pass  ? 

Love — ethereal,  holy  love. 

Light,  perchance,  and  proud,  and  free. 
Maiden— see  !  it  soars  above 

Worldly  pride  and  vanity  ! 

Drooping  to  its  native  earth. 

Sinks  the  gilded  insect-fly  : 
Love,  of  holier,  heavenlier  birth. 

Rises  towards  his  home  on  high. 

Maiden,  throw  the  scales  away  ! 

Never  iDcigh,  poor  Love  again: 
Even  the  doubt  has  dimmed  the  ray 

On  his  pinions  with  its  stain  ! 

See!  he  lifts  his  wondering  eye, 

Half  reproachfully  to  thee— 
"  Measured  with  a  butterfly  .'" 

I'd  try  my  wings,  if  I  were  he. 

THE    STAR    OF   PKOMISE. 

When  kneeling  sages  saw  of  yore 

Their  orb  of  promise  rise  for  them, 
How  Learning's  lamp  grew  dim,  before 

The  heaven-born  Star  of  Bethlehem, — 
How  faltered  Wisdom's  haughty  tone, 

When,  led  by  God's  exulting  choir, 
His  radiant  herald  glided  on. 

The  darkling  heathen's  beacon-fire  I 

When  sweet,  from  many  an  angel  voice. 

While  rung  the  viewless  harps  of  heaven. 
He  heard  the  song  of  love—"  Rejoice, 

For  peace  on  earth  and  sins  forgiven !" 
The  Chaldean  flung  his  scroll  aside. 

The  Arab  left  his  desert-tent— 
Their  hope,  their  trust — that  silver  guide — 

Till  low  at  Mary's  feet  they  benti 

Ay  !  Asia's  wisest  knelt  around, 

Forgetting  Fame's  too  earthly  dream. 
While,  bright  upon  the  hallowed  ground. 

Their  golden  gifts— a  mockery— gleam. 
There  vainly  too,  their  censers  breathed; 

Oh!  what  were  incense— gems — to  Him, 
Around  whose  brow  a  glory  wreathed, 

That  made  their  sun-god's  splendour  dim  ! 


To  Him  o'er  whose  blest  spirit  came 

The  fragrance  of  celestial  flowers. 
And  light  from  countless  wings  of  flame 

That  flashed  thro'  heaven's  resplendent  bovvers! 
To  "kneeling  Faith's"  devoted  eye. 

It  shines — that  "  star  of  promise,"  no2c. 
Fair,  as  when,  far  in  Asia's  sky. 

It  lit  her  sage's  lifted  brow ! 

No  sparkling  treasure  wc  may  bring. 

No  "gift  of  gold,"  nor  jewel-stone  : 
The  censer's  sweets  we  may  not  fling. 

For  incense  round  our  Saviour's  throne  : 
But  when,  o'er  sorrow's  clouded  view. 

That  planet  rises  to  our  prayer. 
We,  where  it  leads,  may  follow  too. 

And  lay  a  contrite  spirit  there  ! 

Second  Part. 

THE    BABY    OF    SIX    MONTHS    OLD    BLOWING    BACK 
THE    WIND. 

The  breeze  was  high,  and  blew  her  sun-brown  tresses 

About  her  snowy  brow  and  violet  eyes  ; 

And  she— my  Ellen — brave  and  sweetly  wise. 
In  gay  defiance  of  its  rough  caresses, 
With  rosy,  pouting  mouth,  essayed  at  length 
To  blow  the  rude  wind  back,  that  mocked  her  baby-strength. 

Ah  !  thus  when  Fortune's  storms  assail  thy  soul. 
Yield  not,  nor  shrink!  but  bear  thee  bravely  still 
Against  their  fury  !   With  thine  own  sweet  will 
And  childlike  faith,  oppose  their  fierce  control. 
So  shalt  thou  bloom  at  last,  my  treasur'd  flower. 
Unharmed   by   tempest-shock,   in    Heaven's  calm    summer 
bovver ! 

Ellen's  first  tooth. 

Vour  mouth  is  a  rose-bud. 

And  in  it  a  pearl 
Lies  smiling  and  snowy. 

My  own  little  girl ! 
Oh !  pure  pearl  of  promise  ! 

It  is  thy  first  tooth- 
How  closely  thou  shuttest 

The  rose-bud,  forsooth ! 
But  let  me  peep  in  it. 

The  fair  thing  to  view — 
Nay!  only  a  minute- 
Dear  Ellen  !   now  do  ! 
You  won't?  little  miser. 

To  hide  the  gem  so! 
Some  day  you'll  be  wiser. 

And  show  them,  I  know! 
How  dear  is  the  pleasure— 

My  fears  for  thee  past — 
To  know  the  white  treasure 

Has  budded  at  last ! 
Fair  child  !  may  each  hour 

A  rose-blossom  be. 
And  hide  in  its  flower 

Some  jewel  for  thee  ! 

THE    LITTLE    SLUMBERER. 

The  child  was  weary,  and  had  flung  herself 
In  beautiful  abandonment,  to  rest, 
Low  on  the  gorgeous  carpeting,  whose  hues 
Contrasted  richly  with  her  snow-white  robe  : 
One  dimpled  arm  lay  curving  o'er  the  head. 
Half  buried  in  its  glossy,  golden  curls, 
Moist  and  disordered  by  her  graceful  play : 
The  other  pressed  beneath  her  cheek,  did  make 
With  small  round  fingers  dimples  in  the  rose, — 
Where  lashes  soft  as  floss  were  darkly  drooping, — 
Her  red  lips  parted  slightly,  while  the  breath, 
Pure  as  a  blossom's  sigh,  came  sweet  and  still ; 
Loosely  the  robe  from  one  white  shoulder  fell ; 
And  so  she  lay,  and  slumbered  'mid  the  hues. 
The  orient  richness  of  the  downy  carpet,— 
Like  a  young  flower,  drooping  its  dewy  head, 
And  shutting  its  soft  petals  on  the  breast 
Of  summer-mantled  earth. 

460 


OS 


OS 


THE   CHILD   PLATING   WITH   A   WATCH. 

Art  thou  playing  with  Time  in  thy  sweet  baby-glee  ? 
Will  he  pause  on  his  pinions  to  frolic  with  thee? 
Oh,  show  him  those  shadowless,  innocent  eyes, 
That  smile  of  bewildereii  and  beaming  surprise  ; 
Let  him  look  on  that  cheek  where  thy  rich  hair  repnsos. 
Where  dimples  are  playing  "  bopeep"  with  the  roses: 
His  wrinkled  brow  press  with  light  kisses  and  warm, 
And  clasp  his  rough  neck  with  thy  soft  wreathing  arm. 
Perhaps  thy  bewitching  and  infantine  sweetness 
IMay  win  hira,  for  once,  to  delay  in  his  tleetness— 
To  pause,  ere  he  rifle,  relentless  in  flight, 
A  blossom  so  glowing  of  bloom  and  of  light : 
Then,  then  would  I  keep  thee,  my  beautiful  child. 
With  thy  blue  eyes  unshadowed,  thy  blush  undefiled — 
With  thy  innocence  only  to  guard  thee  from  ill, 
In  life's  sunny  dawning,  a  lily-bud  still! 
Laugh  on,  my  own  Ellen  !  that  voice,  which  to  me 
Gives  a  warning  so  solemn,  makes  music  for  thee; 
And  while  1  at  those  sounds  feel  the  idler's  annoy. 
Thou  hear'st  but  the  tick  of  the  pretty  gold  toy  ; 
Thou  seest  but  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  churl — 
May  his  frown  never  awe  thee,  my  own  baby-girl. 
And  oh,  may  his  step,  as  he  wanders  with  thee. 
Light  and  soft  as  thine  own  little  fairy  tread  bel 
While  still  in  all  seasons,  in  storms  and  fair  weather. 
May  Time  and  my  Ellen  be  playmates  together. 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven."' 

And  yet  we  check  and  chide 
The  airy  angels  as  they  float  about  us. 
With  rules  of  so-called  wisdom,  till  they  grow 
The  same  tame  slaves  to  custom  and  the  world. 
And  day  by  day  the  fresh  frank  soul  that  looked 
Out  of  those  wistful  eyes,  and  smiling  played 
With  the  wild  roses  of  that  changing  cheek, 
And  modulated  all  those  earnest  tones, 
And  danced  in  those  light  foot-falls  to  a  tune 
Heart-heard  by  them,  inaudible  to  us. 
Folds  closer  its  pure  wings,  whereon  the  hues 
They  caught  in  heaven  already  pale  and  pine. 
And  shrirrks  amazed  and  scared  back  from  our  gaze 
And  so  the  evil  grows.    The  graceful  flower 
May  have  its  own  sweet  way  in  bud  and  bloom  — 
May  drink,  and  dare  with  upturned  gaze  the  light, 
Or  nestle  'neath  the  guardian  leaf,  or  wave 
Its  fragrant  bells  to  every  roving  breeze. 
Or  wreathe  with  blushing  grace  the  fragile  spray 
In  bashful  loveliness.    The  wild  wood-bird 
May  plume  at  will  his  wings,  and  soar  or  sing; 
The  mountain  brook  may  wind  where'er  it  woulil, 
Dash  in  wild  music  down  the  deep  ravine. 
Or,  rippling  drowsily  in  forest  haunts. 
Bream  of  the  floating  cloud,  the  waving  flower, 
And  murmur  to  itself  sweet  lulling  words 
In  broken  tones  so  like  the  faltering  speech 
(Jf  early  childhood:  but  our  human  flowers. 
Our  soul-birds,  caged  and  pining— they  must  sin',' 
And  grow,  not  as  their  own  but  our  caprice 
Suggests,  and  so  the  blossom  and  the  lay 
Are  but  half  bloom  and  music  at  the  best. 
And  if  by  chance  some  brave  and  buoyant  soul. 
More  bold  or  less  forgetful  of  the  lessons 
God  taught  them  first,  disdain  the  rule — the  bar — 
And,  wildly  beautiful,  rebellious  rise. 
How  the  hard  world,  half  startled  from  itself. 
Frowns  the  bright  wanderer  down,  or  turns  away 
And  leaves  her  lonely  in  her  upward  path. 
Thank  God !  to  such  his  smile  is  not  denied. 


Third  Part. 

TO      MY      PEN. 

Dost  know,  my  little  vagrant  pen. 
That  wanderest  lightly  down  the  paper, 

Without  a  thought  how  critic  men 
May  carp  at  every  careless  caper  ? 


Dost  know,  twice  twenty  thousand  eyes, 

If  publishers  report  them  truly. 
Each  month  may  mark  the  sportive  lies 

That  track,  oh  shame  !  thy  steps  unruly  ? 

Now  list  to  me,  iny  fairy  pen, 
And  con  the  lessons  gravely  over; 

Be  never  wild  or  false  again. 
But  "  mind  your  Ps  and  (is,"  you  rover ! 

While  tripping  gayly  to  and  fro. 
Let  not  a  thought  escape  you  lightly, 

But  challenge  all  before  they  go. 
And  see  them  fairly  robed  and  rightly. 

You  know  that  words  but  dress  the  frame. 
And  thought 's  the  soul  of  verse,  my  fairy  ! 

80  drape  not  spirits  dull  and  tame, 
In  gorgeous  robes  or  garments  airy. 

I  would  not  have  my  pen  pursue 
The  "  beaten  track" — a  slave  for  ever; 

No!  roam  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do, 
In  author-land,  by  rock  and  river. 

Be  like  the  sunbeam's  burning  v>'ing, 
Be  like  the  wand  in  Cinderella — 

And  if  you  touch  a  common  thing. 
Ah,  change  to  gold  the  pumpkin  yellow  ! 

.May  grace  come  fluttering  round  your  steps. 
Whene'er,  my  bird,  you  light  on  paper, 

And  music  murmur  at  your  lips. 
And  truth  restrain  each  truant  caper. 

Let  hope  paint  pictures  in  your  way. 
And  love  his  seraph-lesson  teach  you; 

And  rather  calm  with  reason  stray. 
Than  dance  with  folly  —  I  beseech  you  ! 

In  Faith's  pure  fountain  lave  your  wing. 
And  quaff  from  feeling's  glowing  chalice ; 

But  touch  not  falsehood's  fatal  spring. 
And  shun  the  poisoned  weeds  of  malice. 

Firm  be  the  web  you  lightly  spin, 
From  leaf  to  leaf,  though  frail  in  seeming. 

While  Fancy's  fairy  dew-gems  win 
The  sunbeam  Truth  to  keep  them  gleaming. 

And  shrink  not  thou  when  tyrant  wrong 
O'er  humble  suffering  dares  deride  thee: 

With  lightning  step  and  clarion  song. 
Go!  take  the  field,  with  Heaven  beside  thee. 

Be  tuned  to  tenderest  music,  when 
Of  sin  and  shame  thou'rt  sadly  singing; 

But  diamond  be  thy  point,  my  pen. 
When  folly's  bells  are  round  thee  ringing  ! 

And  so,  where'er  you  stay  your  flight. 
To  plume  your  wing  or  dance  your  measure. 

May  gems  and  flowers  your  pathway  light. 
For  those  who  track  your  tread,  my  treasure  I 

But  what  is  this?  you've  tripped  about. 
While  I  the  mentor  grave  was  playing; 

.'\nd  here  you've  written  boldly  out 
The  very  words  that  I  was  saying! 

And  here,  as  usual,  on  you've  flown 
From  right  to  left  —  flown  fast  and  faster, 

Till  even  while  you  wrote  it  down. 
You  've  missed  the  task  you  ought  to  master. 


THE    SOrL  S    LAMENT   FOR   HOME. 

As  'plains  the  homesick  ocean-shell 

Far  from  its  own  remembered  sea. 
Repeating,  like  a  fairy  spell 

Of  love,  the  charmed  melody 
It  learned  within  that  whispering  wave. 

Whose  wondrous  and  mysterious  tone 
Still  wildly  haunts  its  winding  cave 

Of  pearl,  with  softest  music-moan — 

461 


OS 

So  asks  my  homesick  soul  below, 

For  something  loved,  yet  undefined  ; 
So  mourns  to  mingle  with  the  flow 

Of  music,  from  the  Eternal  Mind; 
So  murmurs,  with  its  cliilillike  sigh. 

The  melody  it  learned  above. 
To  which  no  echo  may  reply, 

Save  from  thy  voice,  Celestial  Love ! 

NEW  England's  mountain  child. 

Wliere  foams  the  fall  —  a  tameless  storm — 
Through  Nature's  wild  and  rich  arcade. 

Which  forest  trees,  entwining,  form. 
There  trips  the  mountain  maid. 

She  binds  not  her  luxuriant  hair 
With  dazzling  gem  or  costly  plume, 

But  gayly  wreathes  a  rosebud  there. 
To  match  her  maiden  bloom. 

She  clasps  no  golden  zone  of  pride 
Her  fair  and  simple  robe  around; 

By  flowing  riband,  lightly  tied, 
Its  graceful  folds  are  bound. 

And  thus  attired  — a  sportive  thing. 

Pure,  loving,  guileless,  bright,  and  wild- 
Proud  Fashion  !  match  me  in  your  ring, 
New  England's  mountain  child  ! 

She  scorns  to  sell  her  rich,  warm  heart 
For  paltry  gold  or  haughty  rank. 

But  gives  her  love,  untaught  by  art. 
Confiding,  free,  and  frank. 

And,  once  bestowed,  no  fortune  change 
That  high  and  generous  faith  can  alter  ; 

Through  grief  and  pain,  too  pure  to  range, 
She  will  not  fly  or  falter. 

Her  foot  will  bound  as  light  and  free 

In  lowly  hut  as  palace  hall; 
Her  sunny  smile  as  warm  will  be. 

For  love  to  her  is  all. 

Hast  seen  where  in  our  woodland  gloom 
The  rich  magnolia  proudly  smiled  ? — 

So  brightly  doth  she  bud  and  bloom, 
New  England's  mountain  child! 

MUSIC. 

The  Father  spake  !     In  grand  reverberations 
Through  space  rolled  on  the  mighty  music-tide, 

While  to  its  low,  majestic  modulations. 
The  clouds  of  chaos  slowly  swept  aside. 

The  Father  spake  —  a  dream,  that  had  been  lying 
Hushed  from  eternity  in  silence  there, 

Heard  tlie  pure  melody  and  low  replying. 
Grew  to  that  music  in  the  wondering  air — 

Grew  to  that  music  —  slowly,  grandly  waking. 
Till  bathed  in  beauty  —  it  became  a  world  ! 

Led  by  his  voice,  its  spheric  pathway  taking. 
While  glorious  clouds  their  wings  around  it  furled. 

Nor  yet  has  ceased  that  sound— his  love  revealing. 
Though,  in  response,  a  universe  moves  by! 

Throughout  eternity,  its  echo  pealing— 
World  after  world  awakes  in  glad  reply.' 

And  wheresoever,  in  his  rich  creation, 
Sweet  music  breathes — in  wave,  or  bird,  or  soul  — 

'Tis  but  the  faint  and  far  reverberation 
Of  that  great  tune  to  which  the  planets  roll! 

GARDEN  GOSSIP, 

ACCOUNTING  FOR  THE  COOLNESS   BETWEEN  THE  LILY 

AND  VIOLET. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  the  honeybee  said, 
'J'o  a  violet  drooping  her  dewladon  head ; 
"  The  lily  's  in  love  1  for  she  listened  last  ni^ht, 
While  her  sisters  all  slept  in  the  holy  moonlight. 
To  a  zephyr  that  just  had  been  rocking  the  rose. 
Where,  hidden,  1  hearkened  in  seeming  repose. 


OS 

"I  would  not  betray  her  to  any  but  you, 
But  the  secret  is  safe  with  a  spirit  so  true- 
It  will  rest  in  your  bosom  in  silence  profound  " 
The  violet  bent  her  blue  eye  to  the  ground  : 
A  tear  and  a  smile  in  her  loving  look  lay. 
While  the  light-winged  gossip  went  whirring  away. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  the  honeybee  said, 

.\nd  the  young  lily  lifted  her  beautiful  head— 

"The  violet  thinks,  with  her  timid  blue  eye. 

To  pass  for  a  blossom  enchantingly  shy; 

But  for  all  her  sweet  manners,  so  modest  and  pure. 

She  gossips  with  every  gay  bird  that  sings  to  her. 

"  Now  let  me  advise  you,  sweet  flower,  as  a  friend. 
Oh,  ne'er  to  such  beings  your  confidence  lend  ; 
It  grieves  me  to  see  one,  all  guileless  like  you. 
Thus  wronging  a  spirit  so  trustful  and  true  : 
But  not  for  the  world,  love,  my  secret  betray !" 
And  the  little  light  gossip  went  buzzing  away. 

A  blush  in  the  lily's  cheek  trembled  and  fled  ; 
"  I  'm  sorry  he  told  me,"  she  tenderly  said  ; 
'  If  I  may  n't  trust  the  violet,  pure  as  she  seems, 
I  must  fold  in  my  own  heart  my  beautiful  dreams.'" 
Was  the  mischief  well  managed  ?  fair  lady  is  't  true  ? 
Did  the  light  garden  gossip  take  legsons  of  you ! 

THE  UNEXPECTED  DECLARATION. 

"Azure-eyed  Eloise,  beauty  is  thine. 
Passion  kneels  to  thee,  and  calls  thee  divine  ; 
Minstrels  awaken  the  lute  with  thy  name; 
Poets  have  gladdened  the  world  with  thy  fame ; 
Painters,  half  holy,  thy  loved  image  keep; 
Beautiful  Eloise,  why  do  you  weep?" 
Still  bows  the  lady  her  light  tresses  low- 
Fast  the  warm  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow. 

"Sunny-haired  Eloise,  wealth  is  thine  own  ; 
Rich  is  thy  silken  robe  —  bright  is  thy  zone ; 
Proudly  the  jewel  illumines  thy  way; 
Clear  rubies  rival  thy  ruddy  lip's  play; 
Diamonds  like  star-drops  thy  silken  braids  deck  ; 
Pearls  waste  their  snow  on  thy  lovelier  neck; 
Lu.xury  softens  thy  pillow  for  sleep  ; 
Angels  watch  over  it:  why  do  you  weep  ?" 
Bows  the  fair  lady  her  light  tresses  low- 
Faster  the  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow 

"Gifted  and  worshipped  one,  genius  and  grace 
Play  in  each  motion,  and  beam  in  thy  face; 
When  from  thy  rosy  lip  rises  the  song, 
Hearts  that  adore  thee  the  echo  prolong ; 
Ne'er  in  the  festival  shone  an  eye  brighter. 
Ne'er  in  the  mazy  dance  fell  a  foot  lighter. 
One  only  spirit  thou  'st  failed  to  bring  down  ■ 
E.yquisite  Eloise,  why  do  you  frown  ?" 
Swift  o'er  her  forehead  a  dark  shadow  stole. 
Sent  from  the  tempest  of  pride  in  her  soul. 

"Touched  by  thy  sweetness,  in  love  with  thy  grace. 
Charmed  by  the  magic  of  mind  in  thy  face. 
Bewitched  by  thy  beauty,  e'en  his  haughty  strength. 
The  strength  of  the  stoic,  is  conquered  at  length  : 
Lo!  at  thy  feet  —  see  him  kneeling  the  while — 
Eloise,  Eloise,  why  do  you  smile?" 
The  hand  was  withdrawn  from  her  happy  blue  eyes. 
She  gazed  on  her  lover  with  laughing  surprise ; 
While  the  dimple  and  blush,  stealing  soft  lo  her  cheek. 
Told  the  tale  that  her  tongue  was  too  timid  to  speak. 


BEAUTY  S    PRAYER. 

Round  great  Jove  his  lightning  shone. 
Rolled  the  universe  before  him. 

Stars,  for  gems,  lit  up  his  throne, 
Clouds,  for  banners,  floated  o'er  him. 

With  her  tresses  all  untied. 

Touched  with  gleams  of  golden  glory. 
Beauty  came,  and  blushed,  and  sighed. 

While  she  told  her  piteous  story. 

•462 


OS 


OS 


"  Hear  !  oh,  J{ipitei- 1  thy  child  : 

Right  my  wrong,  if  thou  dost  love  me  ! 

Beast  and  bird,  and  savage  wild. 
All  are  placed  in  power  above  me. 

"  Each  his  weapon  thou  hast  given. 
Each  the  strength  and  skill  to  wield  it. 

Why  bestow  —  Supreme  in  heaven! 
Bloom  on  me  with  naught  to  shield  it? 

"Even  the  rose  — the  wild- wood  rose, 
Fair  and  frail  as  I,  thy  daughter. 

Safely  yields  to  soft  repose. 
With  her  lifeguard  thorns  about  her." 

As  she  spake  in  music  wild, 
Tears  within  her  blue  eyes  glistened, 

Yet  her  red  lip  dimpling  smiled, 
For  the  god  benignly  listened. 

"  Child  of  Heaven  !"  he  kindly  said, 
"Try  the  weapons  Nature  gave  thee; 

And  if  danger  near  thee  tread, 
Proudly  trust  to  them  to  save  thee. 

"Lance  and  talon,  thorn  and  spear: 
Thou  art  armed  with  triple  power. 

In  that  blush,  and  smile  and  tear! 
Fearless  go,  my  fragile  flower. 

"  Yet  dost  thou,  with  all  thy  charms, 
Still  for  something  more  beseech  me  ? — 

Skill  to  use  thy  magic  arms? 
Ask  of  Love  — and  Love  will  teach  thee  !" 


SONG. 

Should  all  who  throng,  with  gift  and  song. 
And  for  my  favour  bend  the  knee. 

Forsake  the  shrine  they  deem  divine, 
I  would  not  stoop  my  soul  to  thee  ! 

The  lips,  that  breathe  the  burning  vow. 
By  falsehood  base  unstained  must  be ; 

The  heart,  to  which  mine  own  shall  bow, 
Must  worship  Honour  more  than  me. 

The  monarch  of  a  world  wert  thou. 
And  I  a  slave  on  bended  knee. 

Though  tyrant  chains  my  form  might  bow. 
My  soul  should  never  stoop  to  thee ! 

Until  its  hour  shall  come,  my  heart 
I  will  possess,  serene  and  free  ; 

Though  snared  to  ruin  by  thine  art, 
'T  would  sooner  break  than  bend  to  thee  I 


TO    THE    SPIRIT    OF    TOETRY. 

Leave  me  not  yet!    Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely. 

Thou  dear  idol  of  my  pining  heart! 
Thou  art  the  friend  — the  beautiful  —  the  only. 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart. 
Thou,  that  dost  veil  the  frailest  fluvver  with  glory. 

Spirit  of  light,  and  loveliness,  and  truth! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story, 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth; 
Thou,  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit. 

Through  which  naught  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude. 
Resume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  Heaven  and  thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good 
Leave  me  not  now!   Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely. 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  luart! 
Thou  art  the  friend  —  the  tenderest  —  tiie  only, 

With  whom,  of  all,  't  would  be  despair  to  part. 

Thou  that  cam'st  to  me  in  my  dreaming  childhood. 
Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare. 

Peopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood 
With  airy  beings.  f.iiiit  yet  strangely  fair; 

Telling  me  all  the  seaborn  breeze  was  saying. 
While  it  went  whispering  thro'  the  willing  leaves, 


Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripple  of  the  river. 

Till  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  song, 
A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet,  impassioned  plaint  of  love  and  vi'rong — 
Leave  me  not  yet !    Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely. 

Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path  ! 
Leave  not  the  life  that  borrows  from  thee  only 

All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath. 

Thou,  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me. 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul. 
Didst  wreathe  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me, 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  grief's  control : 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate  and  holy. 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me. 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly. 

Which  1  have  lavished  upon  thine  and  thee; 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning. 

To  echo  from  thy  voice,  slay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown  —  alas !  for  thee  there 's  no  returning 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wood,  and  hill. 
Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded. 

Has  withcr'd  spring's  sweet  bloom  within  my  heart  . 
Ah,  no!  the  rose  of  love  is  yet  unfaded, 

Though  hope  and  joy,  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 

Well  do  1  know  that  1  have  wronged  thine  altar 

With  the  light  offerings  of  an  idler's  mind. 
And  thus,  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter. 

Leave  me  not,  spirit !  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind  : 
Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  Nature, 

Blind  to  the  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers: 
Leave  me  not,  heavenly  yet  human  teai:l)!?r, 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  our.". 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way. 
To  lighten  to  my  sonl  the  cares  of  duty. 

And  bless  with  radiant  dreams  the  darkened  day  . 
To  charm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel. 

Lest  I,  too,  join  the  aimless,  false,  and  vain; 
Let  me  not  lower  to  the  soulless  level 

Of  those  Vi'hom  now  I  pity  and  disdain. 


A    WEED. 

When  from  our  northern  woods  pale  summer,  flying. 
Breathes  her  last  fragrant  sigh  —  her  low  farewell — 

While  her  sad  wild  flowers'  dewy  eyes,  in  dying. 
Plead  for  her  stay,  in  every  nook  and  dell, 

A  heart,  that  loved  too  tenderly  and  truly. 
Will  break  at  last  —  and  in  some  dim,  sweet  shade. 

They  'II  smooth  the  sod  o'er  her  you  prized  unduly. 
And  leave  her  to  the  rest  for  which  she  prayed. 

Ah!  trustfully,  not  mournfully,  they'll  leave  her. 
Assured  that  deep  repose  is  welcomed  well ; 

The  pure,  glad  breeze  can  whisper  naught  to  grieve  her 
The  brook's  low  voice  no  wrongful  tale  can  tell. 

They  'II  hide  her  where  no  false  one's  footstep,  stealing. 
Can  mar  the  chastened  meekness  of  her  sleep: 

Only  to  Love  and  Grief  her  grave  revealing, 

And  they  will  hush  their  chiding  then  —  to  weep  ! 

And  some  — for  though  too  oft  she  erred,  too  blindly. 
She  was  beloved,  how  fondly  and  how  well  ! — 

Some  few,  with  faltering  feet,  will  linger  kindly. 
And  plant  dear  flowers  within  that  silent  dell. 

I  know  whose  fragile  hand  will  bring  the  bloom 
Best  loved  by  both  —the  violet  — to  that  bower; 

And  one  will  bid  white  lilies  bless  the  gloom; 

And  one,  perchance,  will  plant  the  passion-flower! 

Then  do  thou  come,  when  all  the  rest  have  parted— 
Thou,  who  alone  dost  know  her  soul's  deep  gloom, 

And  wreathe  above  the  lost,  the  broken-hearted. 
Some  idle  weed  — that  knew  not  how  to  bloom. 

4G3 


OS 


OS 


SILENT    LOVE. 

Ah!  let  our  love  be  still  a  folded  flower, 
A  pure,  moss  rosebud,  blushing  to  be  seen, 

H(>arding  its  balm  and  beauty  for  that  hour 
Wlieu  souls  may  meet  without  the  clay  between ! 

Let  not  a  breath  of  passion  dare  to  blow 
Its  tender,  timid,  clinging  leaves  apart; 

Let  not  the  sunbeam,  with  too  ardent  glow, 
Profane  the  dewy  freshness  at  its  heart ! 

Ah!  keep  it  folded  like  a  sacred  thing— 
With  tears  and  smiles  its  bloom  and  fragrance  nurse; 

Still  let  the  modest  veil  around  it  cling, 
No»  with  rude  touch  its  pleading  sweetness  curse. 

Be  thou  content,  as  I,  to  kvow,  not  see. 
The  glowing  life,  the  treasured  wealth  within — 

To  feel  our  spirit  flower  still  fresh  and  free, 

And  guard  its  blush,  its  smile,  from  shame  and  sin  ' 

Ah,  keep  it  holy!  once  the  veil  withdrawn — 
Once  the  rose  blooms  —  its  balmy  soul  will  fly. 

As  fled  of  old  in  sadness,  yet  in  scorn, 
Th'  awakened  god  from  Psyche's  daring  eye  : 

CAPKICE. 

Reprove  mo  not  that  still  1  change 

With  every  changing  hour. 
For  glorious  Nature  gives  me  leave 

In  wave,  and  cloud,  and  flower. 

And  you  and  all  the  world  would  do— 

If  all  but  dared  — the  same; 
True  to  myself— if  false  to  you, 

Why  should  I  reck  your  blame. 

Then  cease  your  carping,  cousin  mine. 

Your  vain  reproaches  cease; 
1  revel  in  my  right  divine — 

I  glory  in  caprice! 

Yon  soft,  light  cloud,  at  morning  honr. 

Looked  dark  and  full  of  tears : 
At  noon  it  seemed  a  rosy  flower — 

Now,  gorgeous  gold  appears. 

So  yield  I  to  the  deepening  light 

That  dawns  around  my  way : 
Because  you  linger  with  the  night. 

Shall  I  my  noon  delay? 

No!  cease  your  carping,  cousin  mine — 

Your  cold  reproaches  cease; 
The  chariot  of  the  cloud  be  mine — 

Take  thou  the  reins,  Caprice ! 

'Tis  true  you  played  on  Feeling's  lyre 

A  pleasant  tune  or  two. 
And  oft  beneath  your  minstrel  fire 

The  hours  in  music  flew; 

IJut  when  a  hand  more  skilled  to  sweep 

The  harp,  its  soul  allures. 
Shall  it  in  sullen  silence  sleep 

Because  not  touched  by  yours  ? 

Oh,  there  are  rapturous  tones  in  mine 
That  mutely  pray  release ; 

They  wait  the  master-hand  divine- 
So  tune  the  chords.  Caprice  ! 

Go  —  strive  the  sea-wave  to  control; 

Or,  woiildst  thou  keep  me  thine, 
Be  thou  all  being  to  my  soul. 

And  fill  each  want  divine  : 


Be  less  —  thou  art  no  love  of  mine. 

So  leave  my  love  in  peace ; 
'Tis  helpless  woman's  right  divine — 

Her  only  right  —  caprice! 

And  I  will  mount  her  opal  car. 
And  draw  the  rainbow  reins. 

And  gayly  go  from  star  to  star, 
Till  not  a  ray  remains; 

And  we  will  find  all  fairy  flowers 

That  are  to  mortals  given, 
And  wreathe  the  radiant,  changing  Iiours, 

With  those  "sweet  hints"  of  heaven. 

Her  humming-birds  are  harnessed  there — 
Oh!  leave  their  wings  in  peace; 

Like  "  flying  gems"'  they  glance  in  air — 
We  'II  chase  the  light.  Caprice ! 


ASPIKATIONS. 

1  waste  no  more  in  idle  dreams 

My  life,  my  soul  away; 
I  wake  to  know  my  better  self— 

I  wake  to  watch  and  pray. 
Thought,  feeling,  time,  on  idols  vain, 

I  've  lavished  all  too  long  : 
Henceforth  to  holier  purposes 

I  pledge  myself,  my  song  I 

Oh!  still  within  the  iniier  veil. 

Upon  the  spirit's  shrine. 
Still  unprofaned  by  evil,  burns 

The  one  pure  spark  divine, 
Which  God  has  kindled  in  us  all, 

And  be  it  mine  to  tend 
Henceforth,  with  vestal  thought  and  c:<r(". 

The  light  that  lamp  may  lend. 

1  shut  inine  eyes  in  grief  and  shame 

Upon  the  dreary  past — 
My  heart,  my  soul  poured  recklessly 

On  dreams  that  could  not  last : 
My  bark  was  drifted  down  the  stream. 

At  will  of  wind  or  wave — 
An  idle,'  light,  and  fragile  thing, 

That  few  had  cared  to  save. 

Henceforth  the  tiller  Truth  shall  hold, 

And  steer  as  Conscience  tells. 
And  1  will  brave  the  storms  of  Fate, 

Though  wild  the  ocean  swells. 
I  know  my  soul  is  strong  and  high. 

If  once  I  give  it  sway: 
I  feel  a  glorious  power  within. 

Though  light  I  seem  and  gay. 

Oh,  laggard  Soul !  unclose  thine  eyes — 

No  more  in  luxury  soft 
Of  joy  ideal  waste  thyself: 

Awake,  and  soar  aloft ! 
Unfurl  this  hour  those  falcon  winfs 

Which  thou  dost  fold  too  long ; 
Raise  to  the  skies  thy  lightning  gaze. 

And  sing  thy  loftiest  song ! 


LABOUK. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us . 

Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us , 

Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Uninterniitting.  goes  up  into  Heaven  1 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing; 
More  and  more  richly  the  Roseheart  keeps  glowing. 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 


Play  every  string  in  Love's  sweet  lyre- 
Set  all  its  music  flowing; 

Be  air.  and  dew,  and  light,  and  fire. 
To  keep  the  soul-flower  growing  ■ 


"  Labour  is  worship!"— the  robin  is  singing: 
"  Labour  is  worship !"— the  wild  bee  is  ringing: 
/listen  !  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing. 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart. 

464 


OS 


PA 


Prnm  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower  ; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft  breathing  flower; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower; 
Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labour  is  life !— 'T  is  the  still  water  faileth ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assailelh  I 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labour  is  glory  ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens : 

Play  tlie  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in  tune  ! 

Labour  is  rest — from  tlie  sorrows  that  greet  us  ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  tliat  meet  us. 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-syrens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work— and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow  ; 
Work— thou  shall  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Wo's  weeping  willow  ! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will! 

Labour  is  health— Lo  !  the  husbandman  reaping, 
How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-current  leaping  I 
How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride  sweeping, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
Labour  is  wealth — in  the  sea  the  pearl  growelh  ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  floweth, 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth ; 

Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop  not  though  shame,  sin  and  anguish  are  round  thee ! 
Bravely  fling  oft'  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee  ' 
Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee: 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness— a  clod  ! 
Work — for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly: 
Labour !— all  labour  is  noble  and  holy : 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 


OSTERWYK,    MARIA   VAN, 

A  Dutch  artist,  gave  such  early  proofs  of  her 
genius,  that  her  father  was  induced  to  place  her 
under  the  direction  of  John  David  de  Heem,  at 
Utrecht.  She  studied  nature  attentively,  and  im- 
proved so  much  by  her  master's  precepts,  that,  in 
a  short  time,  her  works  rivalled  his.  Her  favourite 
subjects  were  ilowers  and  still-life,  which  she 
painted  in  a  delicate  manner,  and  with  great  free- 
dom of  hand.  She  had  so  much  skill  as  to  adapt 
her  touch  to  the  different  objects  she  imitated. 
She  grouped  her  flowers  with  taste,  and  imitated 
their  freshness  and  bloom  admirably.  Louis  XIV. 
was  exceedingly  pleased  with  her  performances, 
and  honoured  one  with  a  place  in  his  cabinet ;  as 
also  did  the  emperor  and  empress  of  Germany, 
who  sent  to  this  artist,  their  own  miniatures  set 
in  diamonds,  as  a  mark  of  their  esteem.  King 
William  III.  gave  her  nine  hundred  florins  for  one 
picture,  and  she  was  much  more  highly  rewarded 
for  another  by  the  king  of  Poland.  As  she  spent 
;i  great  deal  of  tim'i  over  her  works,  she  could 
finish  but  few  comparatively,  which  has  rendered 
her  paintings  extremely  scarce  and  valuable. 


P. 

PAKINGTON,    LADY   DOROTHY, 
D.vuGHTER  of  Lord  Coventry,  and  wife  of  Sir 
•John  Pakington,  was  eminent  for   her  learning 
and  piety,  and  ranked  among  her  friends  several 
2E 


celebrated  divines.  "  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man" 
was  ascribed  to  her  at  first,  though  the  mistake 
has  been  discovered.  Her  acknowledged  works 
are,  "  The  Gentlemen's  Calling,"  "  The  Ladies' 
Calling,"  "The  Government  of  the  Tongue,"  "The 
Christian's  Birthright,"  and  "  The  Causes  of  the 
Decay  of  Christian  Piety."  Her  theological  works 
are  strictly  orthodox,  and  evince  ardent  piety  of 
feeling.  She  was,  at  the  time  of  her  decease,  en- 
gaged in  a  work  entitled  "  The  Government  of  the 
Thoughts,"  which  was  praised,  in  high  terms,  by 
Dr.  Fell ;  but  this  work  she  did  not  finish.  Lady 
Pakington  had  received  a  learned  education,  which 
was  not  at  that  time  uncommon  to  give  to  women 
of  high  rank  ;  that  she  used  her  talents  and  learn- 
ing wisely  and  well,  we  have  this  testimony  in  the 
writings  of  Dr.  Fell.  He  says  of  her,  "Lady 
Pakington  was  wise,  humble,  temperate,  chaste, 
patient,  chai-itable,  and  devout ;  she  lived  a  whole 
age  of  great  austerities,  and  maintained  in  the 
midst  of  them  an  undisturbed  serenity."  She 
died  May  10th,  1G79. 

PALADINI,  ARCHANGELA, 
An  Italian  historical  painter,  was  born  at  Pisa, 
in  1599,  and  died  in  1622,  aged  twenty-three. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Filippo  Paladini,  an  emi- 
nent artist  of  that  city,  who  instructed  her  in  the 
art.  She  attained  great  excellence  in  portrait- 
painting,  and  also  excelled  in  embroidery  and 
music,  and  sang  exquisitely.  These  uncommon 
talents,  united  with  an  agreeable  person,  procured 
her  the  friendship  of  Maria  Magdalena,  arch- 
duchess of  Austria,  who  lived  at  Florence,  and  in 
whose  court  this  artist  spent  the  last  years  of  her 
life. 

PANZACCHIA,    MARIA   ELENA, 

Was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1668,  of  a  noble  fa- 
mily. She  learned  design  under  Emilio  Taruffi, 
and  in  a  few  years  acquired  great  readiness  in 
composition,  correctness  of  outline,  and  a  lovely 
tint  of  colouring.  Besides  history,  she  also  ex- 
celled in  painting  landscapes ;  and  by  the  beauty 
of  her  situations  and  distances,  allured  and  enter- 
tained the  eye  of  every  beholder.  The  figures 
which  she  inserted  had  abundance  of  grace ;  she 
designed  them  with  becoming  attitudes,  and  gave 
them  a  lively  and  natural  expression.  Her  merit 
was  incontestably  acknowledged,  and  her  wo'"ks 
were  so  much  prized  as  to  be  exceedingly'  scarce, 
few  being  found  out  of  Bologna.  She  died  in 
1709. 

PAOLINI,  MASSIMI  PETRONELLA, 

Of  Tagliacozzo,  a  province  of  Aquila,  was  bom 
in  16G3.  She  passed  her  life  principally  at  Rome, 
and  dedicated  it  to  the  cultivation  of  letters.  She 
wrote  in  prose  and  in  verse  with  equal  facility 
and  elegance.  She  has  been  eulogized  by  Cres- 
cembini,  by  Muratori,  and  by  Salvini,  and  was  a 
member  of  the  Arcadia,  under  the  name  of  Fidelma 
Partenide.  She  died  1726.  Her  remaining  works 
are  two  dramas,  "  Tomici,"  and  "  La  Donna  Illus- 
tre."  She  produced  beside  many  canzonetts  and 
sonnets,  and  poems  in  various  collections. 

465 


PA 


PA 


PARADIES,  MARIA  THERESA, 
Born  at  Vienna,  1753,  equally  as  remarkable 
for  her  life  as  for  her  distinguished  musical  talent. 
At  the  early  age  of  four  years  and  eight  months, 
she  was,  by  a  rheumatic  apoplexy,  totally  deprived 
of  her  eyesight.  When  seven  years  old,  she  was 
taught  on  the  piano  and  in  singing ;  and  three 
years  after,  she  sang  the  Stabat  Mater  of  Perga- 
lesi,  in  the  church  of  St.  Augustin,  at  Vienna, 
accompanying  herself  on  the  organ.  The  empress, 
Maria  Theresa,  who  was  present  at  the  perform- 
ance, gave  her  immediately  an  annuity  of  two 
hundred  ilorins.  Soon  the  young  musician  ad- 
vanced so  far,  as  to  play  sixty  concertas  with  the 
greatest  accuracy.  In  the  year  1784,  she  set  out 
on  a  musical  journey,  and  wherever  she  appeared, 
but  especially  in  London,  (1785,)  she  excited,  by 
her  rare  endowments,  as  well  as  by  her  misfor- 
tune, admiration  and  interest.  She  often  moved 
her  audience  to  tears  by  a  cantate,  the  words  of 
which  were  written  by  the  blind  poet  Pfeflfel,  in 
which  her  own  fate  was  depicted.  Her  memory 
was  astonishing ;  she  dictated  all  her  compositions 
note  by  note.  She  was  also  well  versed  in  other 
sciences,  as  geography,  arithmetic.  In  company, 
she  was  cheerful,  entertaining,  witty,  and  highly 
interesting.  During  the  latter  part  of  her  life  she 
presided  over  an  excellent  musical  institution  in 
Vienna. 

PARTHENAY,  ANNE  DE, 

A  LADY  of  great  genius  and  learning,  who  lived 
in  the  sixteenth  century.  She  married  Anthony 
de  Pons,  count  of  Marennes,  and  was  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  the  court  of  Ferrara.  She 
Avas  a  Calvinist. 

Her  mother  was  Michelli  de  Sorbonne,  a  lady 
of  Bretagne,  a  woman  of  uncommon  talents,  lady 
of  honour  to  Anne  of  Bretagne,  wife  to  Louis  XII., 
by  whom  she  was  appointed  governess  to  her 
daughter,  Renata,  duchess  of  Ferrara.  Anne, 
under  the  superintendence  of  her  mother,  received 
a  learned  education,  and  made  great  progress  in 
the  knowledge  of  the  languages,  and  in  theology, 
and  was  also  skilled  in  music.  She  had  so  great 
an  influence  over  her  husband,  that  while  she  lived 
he  was  distinguished  as  a  lover  of  truth  and  vir- 
tue, and  instructed  himself,  his  officers  and  sub- 
jects at  Pons,  in  the  Scriptures ;  but  after  her 
death,  he  married  one  of  the  pleasure-loving  ladies 
of  the  court,  and  became,  from  that  time,  an 
enemy  and  persecutor  of  the  truth. 

PARTHENAY,   CATHARINE    DE, 

Niece  to  Anne  de  Parthenay,  and  daughter  and 
heiress  of  John  de  Parthenay,  lord  of  Soubise, 
inherited  her  father's  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
Calvinism.  She  published  some  poems  in  1572, 
when  she  was  only  eighteen;  and  is  thought  to 
be  the  author  of  an  "Apology  for  Henry  IV.,"  a 
concealed  but  keen  satire,  which  is  considered  an 
able  production.  She  also  wrote  tragedies  and 
comedies  ;  her  tragedy  of  "  Holofernes"  was  acted 
in  Rochelle,  in  1574.  In  1568,  when  only  four- 
teen, she  was  married  to  Charles  de  Quellence, 


baron  de  Pont,  in  Brittany,  who,  upon  this  mai*- 
riage,  took  the  name  of  Soubise.  He  fell  a  sacri- 
fice to  his  religion,  in  the  general  massacre  of  the 
Protestants,  at  Paris,  on  St.  Bartholomew's  day, 
1571. 

In  1575,  his  widow  married  Renatus,  viscount 
Rohan ;  who  dying  in  1586,  when  she  was  only 
thirty-two,  she  resolved  not  to  marry  again,  but 
to  devote  herself  to  her  children.  Her  eldest  son 
was  the  celebrated  duke  de  Rohan,  who  main- 
tained the  Protestant  cause  with  so  much  vigour 
during  the  civil  wars  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII. 
Her  second  son  was  the  duke  de  Soubise.  She 
had  also  three  daughters;  Henriette,  who  died 
unmarried ;  and  Catharine,  who  married  a  duke 
de  Deux-ponts,  1605.  It  was  this  lady  who  made 
the  memorable  reply  to  Henry  IV.,  when,  at- 
tracted by  her  beauty,  he  declared  a  passion  for 
her;  "I  am  too  poor,  sirS,  to  be  your  wife,  and 
too  nobly  born  to  be  your  mistress."  The  third 
daughter  was  Anne,  who  never  married,  but  lived 
with  her  mother,  and  bore  with  her  all  the  cala- 
mities of  the  siege  of  Rochelle.  The  mother  was 
then  in  her  seventy-fifth  year,  and  they  were  re- 
duced, for  three  months,  to  living  on  horse-flesh 
and  four  ounces  of  bread  a  day  ;  yet  she  wrote  to 
her  son,  "not  to  let  the  consideration  of  their 
extremity,  prevail  on  him  to  do  anything  to  the 
injury  of  his  party,  how  great  soever  their  suffer- 
ings might  be."  She  and  her  daughter  refused 
to  be  included  in  the  articles  of  capitulation,  and 
were  conveyed  prisoners  to  the  castle  of  Niort, 
where  she  died  in  1631,  aged  seventy-seven. 

PEARSON,    MARGARET, 

Was  an  English  lady,  daughter  of  Samuel  Pat- 
terson, an  eminent  book-auctioneer.  She  disco- 
vered early  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts ;  and  on  marry- 
ing Mr.  Pearson,  a  painter  on  glass,  she  devoted 
herself  to  that  branch  of  the  art,  in  which  she 
attained  peculiar  excellence.  Among  other  fine 
specimens  of  her  .skill  were  two  sets  of  the  car- 
toons of  Raphael,  one  of  which  was  purchased  by 
the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  and  the  other  by  Sir 
Gregory  Page  Turner.     She  died  in  1823. 

PENNINGTON,    LADY, 

Wife  of  Sir  Joseph  Pennington,  was  separated, 
by  family  misunderstandings,  from  her  children, 
for  whose  benefit  she  wrote  "  An  Unfortunate  Mo- 
ther's Advice  to  her  Absent  Daughters,"  a  work 
of  great  merit.     She  died  in  1783. 

PETIGNY,    MARIA-LOUISE,    ROSE 
LEVESQUE, 

Was  born  at  Paris  in  1768.  Her  father,  Charles 
Peter  Levfesque,  was  a  well-known  French  writer 
on  history  and  general  literature,  and  became  a 
member  of  the  National  Institute.  His  daughter, 
educated  by  him,  displayed  a  genius  for  poetry ; 
her  "  Idylles"  and  fugitive  pieces  were  highly 
praised  by  Palesot  and  Florian.  Gessner  called 
her  his  "petite  fille."  She  married  M.  Petigny, 
of  Saint-Romain.  The  time  of  her  death  is  not 
mentioned.  The  following  piece  is  fanciful  and 
pretty:  — 

4fifi 


PE 


PH 


LE    PAPILLON. 

Que  ton  sort  est  digne  d'envie, 
Paiiillon  heureux  et  I^gerl 
Le  desir  seul  regie  ta  vie, 
Et  comme  lui  tu  peux  changer. 

La  fleur  qui  recoit  ton  homniage 
Te  cede  son  plus  doux  tr6sor, 
Et  jamais  un  dur  esclavage 
N'arrete  ton  joyeux  essor. 

Je  sais  qu'une  lueur  troinpeuse 
T'attire  souvent  a  la  inort ; 
Q,ue  ton  imprudence  ainoureuse 
Des  le  soir  va  finir  ton  sort. 

Mais  sans  crainte,  sans  prevoyauce, 
Tu  vis  jusqu'au  dernier  soupir, 
Et,  dans  ton  heureuse  ignorance, 
Sans  le  savoir,  tu  vas  mourir. 

PERCY,   ELIZABETH, 

Was  the  only  child  and  heir  of  Jocelyn  Percy, 
last  Earl  of  Northumberland.  Her  mother  was 
Elizabeth  Wriothesly,  the  sister  of  Lady  Rachel 
Russel.  Upon  the  death  of  her  husband,  she 
man-ied  Mr.  Montague ;  and  the  young  Elizabeth 
was  given  in  charge  to  her  paternal  grandmother, 
but  with  the  pledge  that  she  was  not  to  contract 
any  marriage  without  the  consent  of  her  mother, 
who  entered  into  a  similar  engagement  with  the 
grandmother.  Notwithstanding  these  promises,  at 
the  age  of  eleven,  Elizabeth  Percy  was,  in  1679, 
made  the  wife  of  Henry  Cavendish,  Earl  of  Ogle, 
only  son  of  the  last  Cavendish,  Duke  of  Newcastle, 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  mother.  The  youth- 
ful husband  died  the  following  year,  leaving  her 
again  an  object  of  intrigue  and  speculation.  She 
had  scarcely  been  a  widow  a  twelvemonth,  when 
she  was  again,  through  the  management  of  her 
grandmother,  married  to  Thomas  Thj'nne,  Esq., 
of  Longleat,  remarkable  for  his  large  fortune. 
Though  still  a  child  in  the  nursery,  the  little 
beauty  had  learned  to  have  a  will  of  her  own ; 
and  while  she  was  made  the  tool  of  others,  con- 
ceived so  violent  a  dislike  to  her  future  husband, 
that  she  made  her  escape  to  Holland.  Young  as 
she  was,  the  fame  of  her  beauty,  as  well  as  her 
great  wealth,  attracted  universal  attention.  Ad- 
miration and  cupidity  combined,  caused  a  plan  to 
be  laid  to  set  her  free  from  the  trammels  that 
bound  her,  and  leave  her  at  liberty  to  make  a  new 
choice.  The  celebrated  Count  Koningsmark,  whose 
beauty  and  daring  had  made  him  the  theme  of  con- 
versation and  scandal  from  one  end  of  Europe  to 
the  other,  cast  his  eyes  on  the  fair  Elizabeth,  and 
marked  her  for  his  own.  He  hired  three  bravos, 
and  to  these  he  gave  commission  to  assassinate 
Mr.  Thynne.  This  audacious  project  they  boldly 
carried  into  execution.  "While  their  victim  was 
driving  through  Pali-Mall,  they  stopped  his  horses, 
and  fired  at  him  through  the  carriage-window. 
The  first  shot  was  fatal ;  five  balls  entered  his 
body,  and  he  expired  in  a  few  hours.  The  heiress, 
now  a  second  time  a  widow,  though  still  little 
more  than  fifteen,  was  again  disposed  of;  her 
third  husband  being  Charles  Seymour,  commonly 
called  the  proud  Duke  of  Somerset,  of  whom  the 
tale  is  told  of  his  repressing  the  familiarity  of  his 


second  wife.  Lady  Charlotte  Finch,  when  she 
tapped  him  upon  the  shoulder  with  her  fan, 
"  Madam,"  he  said,  turning  haughtily  round  to 
the  presuming  beauty,  with  a  frowning  brow, 
"my  first  wife  was  a  Percy,  and  she  never  took 
such  a  liberty."  The  Duke  of  Somerset  was,  at 
the  period  of  his  marriage,  just  twenty,  hand- 
some, commanding  in  his  person,  and  with  many 
good  qualities.  Nothing  appears  to  have  inter- 
rupted this  marriage,  or  its  subsequent  harmony. 
The  period  of  the  Duchess  of  Somerset's  death  is 
unrecorded.  The  Duke's  marriage  with  his  second 
wife  took  place  in  1726.  The  Duchess  of  Somer- 
set was  Groom  of  the  Stole  to  Queen  Anne.  She 
succeeded  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  in  that 
office,  and  was  henceforward  an  object  of  dislike 
and  vituperation  to  that  power-loving  duchess, 
who  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  the  quality 
so  commended  by  Doctor  Johnson,  being  "  a  good 
hater." 

PHILIPS,  CATHARINE, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Fowler,  a  merchant 
of  London,  and  was  born  there  in  1631.  She  was 
educated  at  a  boarding-school  in  Hackney,  where 
she  distinguished  herself  by  her  poetical  talents. 
She  married  James  Philips,  Esq.,  of  the  Priory  of 
Cardigan ;  and  afterwards  went  with  the  viscountess 
of  Dungannon  into  Ireland.  She  translated  from 
the  French,  Corneille's  tragedy  of  Pompey,  which 
was  acted  several  times  in  1663  and  1664.  She 
died  in  London  of  the  small-pox,  in  1664,  to  the 
regret  of  all ;  "  having  not  left,"  says  Langbaine, 
"  any  of  her  sex  her  equal  in  poetry."  Cowley 
wrote  an  ode  on  her  death ;  and  Dr.  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor addressed  to  her  his  "  Measures  and  Offices 
of  Friendship."  She  wrote  under  the  name  of 
Orinda ;  and,  in  1667,  her  works  were  printed  as 
"  Poems  by  the  most  deservedly  admired  Mrs. 
Catharine  Philips,  the  matchless  Orinda.  To 
which  is  added  several  translations  from  the 
French,  with  her  portrait." 

AGAINST    PLEASURE AN    ODE. 

There  's  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  here, 

'Tis  all  a  perfect  cheat. 
Which  does  but  shine  and  disappear, 

Whose  charm  is  but  deceit ; 
The  empty  bribe  of  yielding  souls. 
Which  first  betrays  and  then  controls. 

'Tis  true,  it  looks  at  distance  fair; 

But  if  we  do  approach, 
The  fruit  of  Sodom  will  impair. 

And  perish  at  a  touch; 
It  being  than  in  fancy  less. 
And  we  expect  more  than  possess. 

For  by  our  pleasures  we  are  cloyed 

And  so  desire  is  done  ; 
Or  else,  like  rivers,  they  make  wide 

The  channels  where  they  run  ; 
And  either  way  true  bliss  destroys, 
Making  us  narrow,  or  our  joys. 

We  covet  pleasure  easily. 

But  ne'er  true  bliss  possess; 
For  many  things  must  make  it  be. 

But  one  may  make  it  less; 
Nay,  were  our  state  as  we  could  choose  i» 
'T  would  be  consumed  by  fear  to  lose  it. 

4t)7 


PI 


PI 


What  art  thou,  then,  thou  winged  air, 
More  weak  and  swift  than  fame  ! 

Whose  next  successor  is  despair, 
And  its  attendant  shame. 

Th'  experienced  prince  then  reason  had, 

Who  said  of  Pleasure  —  "It  is  mad." 


A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 

How  sacred  and  how  innocent 

A  country  life  appears. 
How  free  from  tumult,  discontent, 

From  flattery  or  fears ! 

This  was  the  first  and  happiest  life. 
When  man  enjoyed  himself, 

Till  pride  exchanged  peace  for  strife. 
And  happiness  for  pelf 

'T  was  here  the  poets  were  inspired. 
Here  taught  the  multitude; 

The  brave  they  here  with  honour  fired. 
And  civilized  the  rude. 

That  golden  age  did  entertain 

No  passion  but  of  love  : 
The  thoughts  of  ruling  and  of  gain 

Did  ne'er  their  fancies  move. 

Them  that  do  covet  only  rest, 

A  cottage  will  suffice ; 
It  is  not  brave  to  be  possessed 

Of  earth,  but  to  despise. 

Opinion  is  the  rate  of  things, 
From  hence  our  peace  doth  flow ; 

I  have  a  better  fate  than  kings. 
Because  I  think  it  so. 

When  all  the  stormy  world  doth  roar. 

How  unconcerned  am  I! 
1  cannot  fear  to  tumble  lower. 

Who  never  could  be  high. 

Secure  in  these  unenvied  walls, 

I  think  not  on  the  slate. 
And  pity  no  man's  ease  that  falls 

From  his  ambition's  height. 

Silence  and  innocence  are  safe; 

A  heart  that 's  nobly  true, 
At  all  these  little  arts  can  laugh. 

That  do  the  world  subdue ! 


PICHLER,    CAROLINE, 

Was  born  in  Vienna,  in  1769.  This  very  pro- 
lific and  elegant  writer  has  left  an  autobiography, 
under  the  title  of  "  Review  of  my  Life ;"  from  this 
source  have  been  gleaned  the  facts  which  form 
this  sketch.  As  a  specimen  of  her  turn  of  thought, 
and  style,  the  introductory  remarks  to  her  "  Re- 
view," &c.,  are  translated. 

"  A  hundred  times  has  life  been  compared  to  a 
journey,  a  pilgrimage,  and  the  comparison  sus- 
tained poetically,  and  sometimes  unpoetically. 
Without  pursuing  this  allegory  in  its  details,  I 
may  be  allowed  to  adopt  the  idea  of  man  as  a  tra- 
veller, who  often,  from  weariness,  stops  a  day  to 
recruit,  or  from  the  desire  to  pause  on  some  beau- 
tiful spot,  lingers  an  hour.  At  such  stages  he 
naturally  turns  back  his  thoughts  to  the  places  he 
has  passed  through  ;  the  persons  he  has  encoun- 
tered ;  the  days  of  pleasure,  and  also  the  incon- 
veniences, the  storms,  the  difficulties,  which  have 
varied  his  route.  Certain  epochs  arrive  in  life 
answering  to  these  stages  of  the  traveller,  when  it 


seems  natural  and  salutary  to  throw  a  glance  back 
upon  the  path  we  have  traversed,  and  take  an  ac- 
count of  the  schoolings  of  our  minds,  and  the  con- 
duct we  have  pursued.  The  fiftieth  year  appears 
to  be  such  an  anniversary,  when  it  is  time  to  turn 
the  thoughts  backwards,  and  review  the  circum- 
stances gone  by.  With  heartfelt  enjoyment  the 
matron  goes  back  to  the  days  when  she  as  a  maid- 
en, as  a  bride,  as  a  young  wife,  has,  with  God's 
blessing,  tasted  so  much  good.  With  tender  re- 
gret she  reverently  recalls  many  lost  and  distant 
affections,  and  thanks  Providence  even  for  those 
dark  hours,  which,  like  the  shades  in  a  picture, 
rather  heighten  the  bright  tints  of  her  life's  pic- 
ture— clouds  that  have  taught  her  to  estimate  the 
sunshine.  What  she  has  done  and  felt  as  a  daugh- 
ter, wife,  and  mother,  can  only  interest  the  circle 
whose  affection  draws  them  close  around  her ;  but 
an  account  of  the  progress  of  her  career  as  an 
author  may  be  not  uninteresting  to  the  reading 
public,  and  may,  without  impropriety,  be  adjoined 
to  this  last  collected  edition  of  her  works." 


Her  mother  was  the  orphan  of  an  officer  who 
died  in  the  service  of  the  empress  Maria  Theresa, 
who  took  very  gracious  notice  of  the  yoimg  lady, 
gave  her  a  good  education,  and  retained  her  near 
her  person  as  a  reader,  until  she  was  very  re- 
spectably and  happily  married  to  an  aulick  coun- 
sellor. After  their  marriage,  their  tastes  being 
congenial,  they  drew  round  them  a  circle  of  mu- 
sical and  literary  celebrities ;  and  their  position 
at  court  being  an  elevated  one,  their  house  became 
the  centre  of  the  best  society,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  Caroline,  from  her  babyhood,  breathed  an 
atmosphere  of  literature  ;  she  was  accustomed  to 
hear  the  first  men  in  science  and  in  politics  discuss 
interesting  subjects,  and  converse  upon  elevated 
topics.  Among  many  German  professors  and 
poets  whose  names  are  less  familiar  to  the  English 
reader,  MaflFei  and  Metastasio  may  be  mentioned 
as  intimates  of  this  family.  When  it  became  time 
to  give  their  son  a  Latin  master,  the  parents  of 
Caroline  were  assailed  by  the  savants  who  visited 
their  house,  with  the  assurance  that  the  little  girl 
must  share  in  this  advantage — they  had  perceived 

468 


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the  intelligence  of  her  mind,  and  -were  desirous  of 
cultivating  it.  The  discussion  ended  by  these 
gentlemen  offering  to  teach  her  themselves,  and 
the  most  eminent  men  of  Vienna  vied  with  one 
another  in  awakening  the  intellect  and  training 
the  understanding  of  this  fortunate  young  lady. 
After  studying  the  classic  tongues,  she  acquired 
the  French,  Italian,  and  English.  Even  in  orna- 
mental accomplishments  she  enjoyed  very  extraor- 
dinary advantages ;  for  the  great  Mozart,  who 
visited  them  frequently,  though  he  gave  lessons 
to  nobody,  condescended,  from  friendship,  to  ad- 
vise and  improve  Caroline.  Her  brother  appears 
to  have  partaken  of  the  family  taste  for  literature, 
though  his  sister's  superiority  has  alone  redeemed 
him  from  oblivion.  He  associated  himself  in  a 
literary  club  of  young  men,  who  amused  them- 
selves with  producing  a  sort  of  miscellany,  made 
up  of  political  essays,  poems,  tales,  or  whatever 
was  convenient.  To  this  Caroline  contributed 
anonymously,  and  derived  great  benefit  from  the 
exercise  in  composition  which  it  demanded.  It 
was  through  this  association  that  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  her  husband,  one  of  its  members. 
She  was  married  in  1796,  and  lived  for  forty  years 
in  the  enjoyment  of  a  happy  union.  It  was  her 
husband  who  induced  her  to  come  before  the  pub- 
lic as  a  writer :  he  was  proud  of  her  abilities,  and 
argued  with  her  that  her  productions  might  be  of 
service  to  her  own  sex.  In  1800,  she  appeared  in 
the  republic  of  letters,  and  was  received  with 
much  applause.  Klopstock  and  Lavater  both 
wrote  her  complimentary  and  encouraging  letters. 
She  describes  her  celebrated  novel  "  Agathocles" 
to  have  been  written  after  her  perusal  of  Gibbon's 
"  Decline  and  Fall,"  the  sophistry  and  unfairness 
of  which,  with  respect  to  Christianity,  roused  her 
indignation,  and  urged  her  to  attempt  a  work  in 
which  a  true  picture  of  the  early  Christians  should 
be  pourtrayed  according  to  really  authentic  ac- 
counts. 

The  disasters  which  attended  the  house  of  Aus- 
tria at  this  period  affected  her  powerfully.  Ani- 
mated with  feelings  of  loyalty  and  patriotism,  she 
determined  to  undertake  a  tragedy,  which  should 
breathe  the  German  spirit  of  resistance  to  foreign 
invasion.  "  Heinrich  von  Hohenstaufen"  appeared 
in  1812.  It  was  received  with  warm  enthusiasm, 
and  procured  for  the  author  the  acquaintance  of 
several  literary  ladies — Madame  von  Baumberg, 
Madame  Weisenthurn,  and  some  others.  Madame 
Pichler  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter,  to  whom 
she  was  tenderly  devoted,  and  who  rewarded  her 
maternal  cares  by  her  goodness  and  filial  piety. 
Carolme  Pichler  died  in  1843. 

As  some  of  her  best  works  we  mention  her 
"  Agathocles,"  "  The  Siege  of  Vienna,"  "  Dignity 
of  Woman,"  and  "The  Rivals."  Her  works  re- 
commend themselves,  by  warm  feeling,  pure  mo- 
rals, and  well-digested  thoughts,  as  well  as  by  a 
perfect  style,  and  vivid  descriptive  powers.  We 
would  particularly  mention  "Agathocles,"  which 
is  considered  the  most  important  on  accomit  of 
the  matter,  its  subject  being  the  struggles  of  new- 
born Christianity  against  the  religion  of  Piome  ajid 
Greece. 


PIENNE,    JOAN    DE    HALLUIN, 

Maid  of  honour  to  Catharine  de  Medicis,  was 
passionately  beloved  by  Francis  de  Montmorenci, 
eldest  son  of  the  constable,  Ann  de  Montmorenci. 
He  engaged  himself  to  her,  but  his  parents  opposed 
it,  as  they  wished  him  to  marry  the  widow  of  the 
duke  de  Castro,  Henry's  natural  daughter.  They 
sent  to  pope  Paul  IV.,  to  obtain  a  dissolution  of 
the  engagement,  which  he  would  not  grant,  as  he 
wished  the  duchess  de  Castro  to  marry  a  nephew 
of  his.  Henry  II.  then  published  an  edict  declar- 
ing clandestine  marriages  null  and  void,  and  or- 
dered the  lady  de  Pienne  to  be  shut  up  in  a  mo- 
nastery, and  Francis  de  Montmorenci  married  the 
duchess.  The  lady  de  Pienne  was  married  some 
time  after,  to  a  man  inferior  in  rank  to  her  first 
lover. 

PILKINGTON,    LETITIA, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Van  Lewen,  a  Dutch 
gentleman,  who  settled  in  Dublin,  where  she  was 
born,  in  1712.  She  wrote  verses  when  very  young, 
and  this,  with  her  vivacity,  brought  her  many 
admirers.  She  married  the  Rev.  Matthew  Pil- 
kington ;  but,  she  says,  that  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage he  became  jealous  of  her  abilities,  and  her 
poetical  talents.  However,  it  is  said,  that  she 
gave  him  other  and  strong  grounds  for  jealousy; 
so  that,  after  her  father's  death,  having  no  farther 
expectation  of  a  fortune  by  her,  Mr.  Pilkington 
took  advantage  of  her  imprudence  to  obtain  a 
separation  from  hei*. 

She  then  came  to  London,  where,  through  Col- 
ley  Gibber's  exertions,  she  was  for  some  time  sup- 
ported by  contributions  from  the  great;  but  at 
length  these  succours  failed,  and  she  was  thrown 
into  pi'ison.  After  remaining  there  nine  weeks, 
she  was  released  by  Gibber,  who  had  solicited 
charity  for  her ;  and,  weary  of  dependence,  she 
resolved  to  employ  her  remaining  five  guineas  in 
trade ;  and,  taking  a  shop  in  St.  James'  street, 
she  furnished  it  with  pamphlets  and  prints.  She 
seems  to  have  succeeded  very  well  in  this  occupa- 
tion ;  but  she  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy  her  com- 
petence, for  she  went  to  Dublin,  and  died  there, 
in  her  thirty-ninth  year. 

She  wrote  besides  poems,  her  own  memoirs,  a 
comedy  called  "  The  Turkish  Coirrt,  or  London 
Apprentice,"  and  a  tragedy  called  "  The  Roman 
Father." 

PINCKNEY,    MARIA. 

This  lady  (in  every  sense  of  the  venerated  title) 
was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Gen.  Charles  Cotes- 
worth  Pinckney,  of  South  Carolina ;  her  mother, 
a  sister  of  the  Hon.  Arthur  Middleton,  of  Middle- 
ton  Place,  South  Carolina,  another  of  the  signers 
of  American  independence.  Education,  together 
with  excellent  natural  abilities,  combined  to  form 
Miss  Pinckney's  very  superior  character;  while 
the  promptings  of  a  truly  benevolent  heart  always 
directed  her  hand  to  relieve  the  necessitous,  and 
in  every  instance,  to  promote  the  comfort  and 
welfare  of  others,  making  generous  allowance  for 
all  human  frailty.     Warm  were  her  friendships, 

469 


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and  never  did  a  shadow  of  caprice  disturb  their 
harmony,  or  mar  the  happiness  of  domestic  life. 
Religiously  and  morally,  she  was  a  bright  example 
unto  death.  Miss  Pinckney  was  peculiarly  im- 
pressed with  love  of  country,  but  more  especially 
her  native  state ;  she  therefore  deeply  felt  and 
weighed  every  movement  derogatory,  in  her  opi- 
nion, to  its  interests ;  so  that,  when  South  Caro- 
lina exhibited  nullification  principles,  she  took  a 
strong  and  leading  stand  in  favour  of  those  prin- 
ciples, presenting  to  the  public  a  very  energetic 
and  well-written  work  upon  the  subject.  Its  point 
was  so  full  of  eifect  as  to  cause  an  eminent  states- 
man at  AVashington  to  exclaim,  "  That  the  nullifi- 
cation party  of  South  Carolina  was  consolidated 
by  the  nib  of  a  lady'' s  pen." 

Perhaps  Miss  Pinckney  might  have  fairly  taken 
for  the  motto  of  her  publication — viewing  the  partial 
imposition  of  certain  taxation  in  the  light  in  which 
the  party  and  herself  beheld  it — her  father's  never- 
to-be-forgotten,  patriotic  sentiment,  in  reply  to 
the  unjust  demand  made  upon  the  United  States 
by  France — "  Millions  for  defence,  but  not  a  cent 
for  tribute."  Miss  Pinckney  died  a  few  years 
ago. 

PINELLA,  ANTONIA, 
Was  born  at  Bologna,  and  obtained  the  know- 
ledge which  she  possessed  of  the  art  of  painting 
from  Lodovico  Caracci,  to  whose  style  she  ad- 
hered. Her  principal  works  are  in  the  different 
churches  of  her  native  city.  She  died  there,  in 
1640. 

PIOZZI,  or  THRALE,  ESTHER  LYNCH, 
Distinguished  for  her  intimacy  with  Dr.  John- 
son, was  the  daughter  of  John  Salusbury,  Esq., 
of  Bodvel,  in  Carnarvonshire,  England,  where  she 
was  born,  in  1739.  In  1763,  she  married  Henry 
Thrale,  an  opulent  brewer  in  Southwark.  Her 
beauty,  vivacity  and  intelligence,  made  her  house 
the  resort  of  nearly  all  the  literati  of  her  time, 
and  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  was  almost  domesticated 
with  them.  The  following  is  Mrs.  Thrale's  own 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  they  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  author  of  the  "Rambler:" 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  this  extraordinary 
man  was  in  the  year  1764,  when  Mr.  Murphy,  who 
had  long  been  the  friend  and  confidential  intimate 
of  Mr.  Thrale,  pei'suaded  him  to  wish  for  John- 
son's conversation,  extolling  it  in  terms  which  that 
of  no  other  person  could  have  deserved,  till  we 
were  only  in  doubt  how  to  obtain  his  company, 
and  find  an  excuse  for  the  invitation.  The  cele- 
brity of  Mr.  Woodhouse,  a  shoemaker,  whose  verses 
were  at  that  time  the  subject  of  common  discourse, 
soon  afforded  a  pretence,  and  Mr.  Murphy  brought 
Johnson  to  meet  him,  giving  me  general  cautions 
not  to  be  surprised  at  his  figure,  dress,  or  beha- 
viour. What  I  recollect  best  of  the  day's  talk  was 
liis  earnestly  recommending  Addison's  works  to 
Mr.  Woodhouse  as  a  model  for  imitation.  '  Give 
nights  and  days,  sir,'  said  he,  '  to  the  study  of 
Addison,  if  you  mean  either  to  be  a  good  writer, 
or,  what  is  more  worth,  an  honest  man.'  When  I 
saw  something  like  the  same  expression  in  his 


criticism  on  that  author,  lately  published,  I  put 
him  in  mind  of  his  past  injunctions  to  the  young 
poet,  to  which  he  replied,  '  That  he  wished  the 
shoemaker  might  have  remembered  them  as  well.' 
Mr.  Johnson  liked  his  new  acquaintance  so  much, 
however,  that,  from  that  time,  he  dined  with  us 
on  every  Thursday  through  the  winter,  and,  in 
the  autumn  of  the  next  year,  he  followed  us  to 
Brighthelmstone,  whence  we  were  gone  before  his 
arrival ;  so  that  he  was  disappointed  and  enraged, 
and  wrote  us  a  letter  expressive  of  anger,  which 
we  were  desirous  to  pacify,  and  to  obtain  his  com- 
pany again  if  possible.  Mr.  Murphy  brought  him 
back  to  us  again  very  kindly,  and  from  that  time 
his  visits  grew  more  frequent,  till,  in  the  year 
1766,  his  health,  which  he  had  always  complained 
of,  grew  so  exceedingly  bad,  that  he  could  not  stir 
out  of  his  room  in  the  court  he  inhabited  for  many 
weeks  together  —  I  think  months.  *         * 

"  Mr.  Thrale's  attentions  and  my  own  now  be- 
came so  acceptable  to  him,  that  he  often  lamented 
to  us  the  horrible  condition  of  his  mind,  which  he 
said  was  nearly  distracted.  -x-         *         * 

"  Mr.  Thrale  went  away  soon  after,  leaving  me 
with  him,  and  bidding  me  prevail  on  him  to  quit 
his  close  habitation  in  the  court,  and  come  to  us 
at  Streatham,  where  I  undertook  the  care  of  his 
health,  and  had  the  honour  and  happiness  of  con- 
tributing to  its  restoration." 

Dr.  Johnson  appears  to  have  enacted  the  mentor 
as  well  as  the  friend  at  Streatham,  perhaps  rather 
oftener  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  his  lively 
hostess,  who  has,  however,  with  perfect  candour, 
mentioned  some  instances  of  his  reproofs,  in  her 
amusing  anecdotes  of  his  life,  even  when  the  story 
told  against  herself.  On  one  occasion,  on  her  ob- 
serving to  a  friend  that  she  did  not  like  goose, — 
"  One  smells  it  so  while  it  is  roasting,"  said  she. 

"  But  you,  madam,"  rej)lied  the  doctor,  "have 
been  at  all  times  a  fortunate  woman,  having 
always  had  youi'  hunger  so  forestalled  by  indul- 
gence, that  you  never  experienced  the  delight  of 
smelling  your  dinner  beforehand." 

On  another  occasion,  during  a  very  hot  and  dry 
summer,  when  she  was  naturally  but  thoughtlessly 
wishing  for  rain,  to  lay  the  dust,  as  they  drove 
along  the  Surrey  roads.  "  I  cannot  bear,"  replied 
he,  with  some  asperity,  and  an  altered  look,  "when 
I  know  how  many  poor  families  will  perish  next 
winter  for  want  of  that  bread  which  the  present 
drought  will  deny  them,  to  hear  ladies  sighing  for 
rain,  only  that  their  complexions  may  not  suffei' 
from  the  heat,  or  their  clothes  be  incommoded  by 
the  dust.  For  shame !  leave  off  such  foppish 
lamentations,  and  study  to  relieve  those  whose 
distresses  are  real." 

Mr.  Thrale  died  in  1781,  and  his  widow  retired 
with  her  four  daughters  to  Bath.  In  1784,  she 
married  Gabriel  Piozzi,  an  Italian  music-master ; 
and  this  caused  a  complete  rupture  between  her 
and  Johnson,  who  had  tried  in  vain  to  dissuade 
her  from  this  step.  After  Johnson's  death,  Mrs. 
Piozzi  published,  in  1786,  a  volume,  entitled 
"Anecdotes  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  during  the 
last  Twenty  Years  of  his  Life."  Many  things  in 
this  work  gave  great  offence  to  Boswell  and  other 

470 


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friends  of  Johnson.  But  Mrs.  Piozzi,  notwith- 
standing, soon  published  another  work,  called 
"  Letters  to  and  from  Johnson." 

But  though  seemingly  devoted  to  literature  and 
society,  she  never  neglected  her  children.  In  a 
letter  to  Miss  Burney  she  says,  "  I  have  read  to 
them  the  Bible  from  beginning  to  end,  the  Roman 
and  English  histories,  Milton,  Shakspeare,  Pope, 
and  Young's  works  from  head  to  heel ;  Warton 
and  Johnson's  Criticisms  on  the  Poets  ;  besides  a 
complete  system  of  dramatic  writing  ;  and  classical 
— I  mean  the  English  classics — they  are  most  per- 
fectly acquainted  with.  Such  works  of  Voltaire, 
too,  as  were  not  dangerous,  we  have  worked  at ; 
lloUin  des  Belles  Lettres,  and  a  hundred  more." 

A  friend,  who,  in  an  agreeable  little  work, 
called  "Piozziana,"  has  recorded  several  interest- 
ing anecdotes  of  the  latter  days  of  this  celebrated 
lady,  has  given  the  following  account  of  Mrs. 
Piozzi,  quite  late  in  life : 

"She  was  short,  and,  though  well-proportioned, 
broad,  and  deep-chested.  Her  hands  were  mus- 
cular and  almost  coarse,  but  her  wi'iting  was,  even 
in  her  eightieth  year,  exquisitely  beautiful ;  and 
one  day,  while  conversing  with  her  on  the  subject 
of  education,  she  observed  that  '  All  misses  now- 
a-days  write  so  like  each  other,  that  it  is  pro- 
voking;' adding,  'I  love  to  see  individuality  of 
character,  and  abhor  sameness,  especially  in  what 
is  feeble  and  flimsy.'  Then  spreading  her  hand, 
she  said,  '  I  believe  I  owe  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  my  good  writing  to  the  shape  of  this  hand,  for 
my  uncle.  Sir  Robert  Cotton,  thought  it  too  manly 
to  be  employed  in  writing  like  a  boarding-school 
girl ;  and  so  I  came  by  my  vigorous,  black  manu- 
script.' " 

From  this  "Pozziana"  we  will  give  a  few  anec- 
dotes, which  paint  the  character  of  Mrs.  Piozzi 
better  than  would  an  elaborate  description. 

At  Bath,  she  sat  to  Roche  for  her  portrait,  re- 
quiring him  to  make  the  painting  in  all  respects 
a  likeness ;  to  take  care  to  show  her  face  deei^ly 
rouged,  which  it  always  was  ;  and  to  introduce  a 
trivial  deformity  of  the  lower  jaw  on  the  left  side, 
where  she  had  been  severely  hurt  by  her  horse 
treading  on  her,  as  she  lay  prostrate,  after  being 
thrown  in  Hyde  Park.  This  miniature  her  friend 
states  to  be,  "in  the  essential  of  resemblance, 
perfect;  as  all  who  recollect  the  original,  her  very 
erect  carriage,  and  most  expressive  face,  could 
attest." 

When  looking  at  "her  little  self,"  as  she  called 
the  picture,  she  would  speak  drolly  of  what  she 
once  was,  as  if  talking  of  some  one  else.  One 
day,  turning  to  her  friend,  she  said,  "No;  I 
never  was  handsome,  I  had  always  too  many 
strong  points  in  my  face  for  beauty." 

"I  ventured  to  express  a  doubt  of  this,"  con- 
tinues the  narrative,  "and  said  tliat  Dr.  Johnson 
was  certainly  an  admirer  of  her  personal  charms. 
She  replied,  she  believed  his  devotion  was  at  least 
as  warm  towards  the  table  and  the  table-talk  at 
Streatham.  I  was  tempted  to  observe  that  I 
thought,  as  I  still  do,  that  Johnson's  anger  on  the 
event  of  her  second  marriage  was  excited  by  some 


feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that  I  suspected  he 
had  formed  hopes  of  attaching  her  to  himself.     It 
would  be  disingenuous  on  my  part  to  attempt  to 
repeat  her  answer;  I  forget  it;  but  the  impression  . 
on  my  mind  is,  that  she  did  not  contradict  me." 

On  her  friend's  telling  her,  he  wondered  she 
should  so  far  sacrifice  to  fashion,  as  to  take  the 
trouble  of  wearing  rouge,  which  she  carefully  put 
on  her  cheeks  every  day  before  she  went  out,  and 
generally  before  she  would  admit  a  visitor,  her 
answer  was,  "  that  her  practice  of  painting  did 
not  proceed  from  any  silly  comijliance  with  Bath 
fashion,  or  any  fashion ;  still  less,  if  possible,  from 
the  desire  of  appearing  younger  than  she  was ; 
but  from  this  circumstance,  that  in  early  life  she 
had  worn  rouge,  as  other  young  persons  did  in 
her  day,  as  a  part  of  dress ;  and  after  continuing 
the  habit  for  some  years,  she  discovered  that  it 
had  introduced  a  dead  yellow  into  her  complexion, 
quite  unlike  that  of  her  natural  skin,  and  that  she 
wished  to  conceal  the  deformity." 

In  defiance  of  the  prevailing  weaknesses  among 
old  people,  that  of  supposing  every  thing  worse 
now  than  it  was  formerly,  she  always  maintained 
that  "nothing  but  ignorance  or  forgetfulness  of 
what  our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  gene- 
rally did  and  suffered,  not  politically,  but  in  mat- 
ters of  di'ess,  behaviour,  &c.,  could  incline  any  one 
to  entertain  a  doubt  as  to  the  fact  of  modern  im- 
provement in  most  of  the  essentials  of  life.  This," 
she  would  say,  "was  especially  true  with  regard 
to  our  habiliments ;"  and  she  used  to  expatiate 
very  agi-eeably,  not  only  on  the  absurdities  of  the 
habits  usually  worn  in  her  early  days,  but  on  the 
consequent  embarrassment  in  which  the  artists 
of  the  age  were  involved. 

"  Mrs.  Piozzi's  nature  was  one  of  kindness," 
observes  her  friend;  "  she  derived  pleasure  from 
endeavoui'ing  to  please ;  and  if  she  perceived  a 
moderate  good  quality  in  another,  she  generally 
magnified  it  into  an  excellence ;  whilst  she  ap- 
peared blind  to  faults  and  foibles  which  could  not 
have  escaped  the  scrutiny  of  one  possessing  only 
half  her  penetration.  But,  as  I  have  said,  her 
disposition  was  friendly.  It  was  so  ;  and  to  such 
an  extent,  that  during  several  years  of  familiar 
acquaintance  with  her,  although  I  can  recite  many 
instances,  I  might  say,  hundreds,  of  her  having 
spoken  of  the  characters  of  others,  I  never  heard 
one  word  of  vituperation  from  her  lips,  of  any 
person  who  was  the  subject  of  discussion,  except 
once  when  Baretti's  name  was  mentioned.  Of 
him,  she  said  that  he  was  a  bad  man ;  but  on  my 
hinting  a  wish  for  particulars,  after  so  heavy  a 
charge,  she  seemed  unwilling  to  explain  herself, 
and  spoke  of  him  no  more." 

She  preserved,  tinimpaired  to  the  last,  her 
strength  and  her  faculties  of  body  and  mind. 
When  past  eighty,  she  would  describe  minute  fea- 
tures in  a  distant  landscape,  or  touches  in  a  paint- 
ing, which  even  short-sighted  young  persons  failed 
to  discover  till  pointed  out  to  them. 

When  her  friends  were  fearful  of  her  over-ex- 
citing herself,  she  would  say,  "  This  sort  of  thing 
is  greatly  in  the  mind,  and  I  am  almost  tempted 

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to  say  the  same  of  growing  old  at  all,  especially 
as  it  regards  those  of  the  usual  concomitants  of 
age,  viz.,  laziness,  defective  sight,  and  ill-temper: 
sluggishness  of  soul  and  acrimony  of  disposition, 
commonly  begin  before  the  encroachments  of  in- 
firmity ;  they  creep  upon  us  insidiously,  and  it  is 
the  business  of  a  rational  being  to  watch  these 
beginnings,  and  counteract  them." 

On  the  27th  of  January,  1820,  Mrs.  Piozzi  gave 
a  sumptuous  entertainment  at  the  Town  Assembly 
Rooms,  Bath,  to  between  seven  and  eight  hundred 
friends,  whom,  assisted  by  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Salusbury,  she  received  with  a  degree  of  ease, 
cheerfulness,  and  polite  hospitality,  peculiarly  her 
own.  This  fete,  given  upon  the  completion  of  her 
eightieth  year,  was  opened  by  herself  in  person 
dancing  with  Sir  John  Salusbury,  with  extraordi- 
nary elasticity  and  dignity,  and  she  subsequently 
presided  at  a  sumptuous  banquet,  supported  by  a 
British  Admiral  of  the  highest  rank  on  each  side, 
"  with  her  usual  gracious  and  queen-like  deport- 
ment." 

A  friend  calling  on  her  one  day  by  appointment, 
she  showed  him  a  number  of  what  are  termed 
pocket-books,  and  said  she  was  sorely  embai-rassed 
on  a  point  on  which  she  requested  his  advice. 

"You  see  in  this  collection,"  said  she,  "a  diary 
of  mine  of  more  than  fifty  years  of  my  life :  I  have 
scarcely  omitted  any  thing  which  occurred  to  me 
during  the  time  I  have  mentioned ;  my  books  con- 
tain the  conversation  of  every  person  of  almost 
every  class  with  whom  I  have  held  intercourse ; 
my  remarks  on  what  was  said ;  downright  facts, 
and  scandalous  on  dits ;  personal  portraits,  and 
anecdotes  of  the  character  concerned,  criticisms 
on  the  publications  and  authors  of  the  day,  &c. 
Now  I  am  approaching  the  grave,  and  agitated  by 
doubts  as  to  what  I  should  do — whether  burn  my 
manuscripts,  or  leave  them  to  posterity?  Thus 
far,  my  decision  is  to  destroy  my  papers  ;  shall  I, 
or  shall  I  not  ?" 

The  advice  given  was  by  no  means  to  do  an  act 
which,  when  done,  could  not  be  amended — to  keep 
the  papers  from  prying  eyes,  and  to  trust  them  to 
the  discretion  of  survivors.  "Whereupon,  she  re- 
placed the  numerous  volumes  in  her  cabinet,  ob- 
serving, that  "  for  the  present  they  were  rescued 
from  destruction." 

If  this  diary  has  not  been  destroyed,  there 
would,  doubtless,  be  found  portions  of  it  well 
worth  publishing.  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Mrs. 
Piozzi,  that  "  she  was,  if  not  the  wisest  woman  in 
the  world,  undoubtedly  one  of  the  wittiest." 

Mrs.  Piozzi  died  May  2d,  1821,  aged  eighty-one 
years.  Her  last  words  were,  "I  die  in  the  trust 
and  in  the  fear  of  God."  Her  remains  were  con- 
veyed to  North  Wales,  and  interred  in  the  burial- 
place  of  the  Salusbury  family.  The  following  are 
her  published  works :  —  "  Anecdotes  -of  Dr.  John- 
son's Life;"  "Travels,"  two  volumes;  "Letters  to 
and  from  the  late  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,"  two 
volumes;  "British  Synonymy,"  two  volumes; 
"  Retrospection,  or  Review  of  the  Most  Striking 
and  Important  Events  which  the  last  Eighteen 
Hundi-ed  Years  have  Presented,"  &c.,  two  vo- 
lumes. 


Her  first  printed  piece  has  been  considered  by 
many  critics  her  best.     We  subjoin  it. 


THE    THREE    WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willinj  still  to  quit  the  ground; 
'Tvvas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 
When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages. 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail. 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbour  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And  looking  grave  —  "  You  must,"  says  he, 
"  duit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me.' 
"With  you!  and  quit  my  Susan's  side? 
With  you !"  the  hapless  husband  cried ; 
"Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepared: 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  1  have  not  heard. 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger; 
So  death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look. 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 
"  Neighbour,"  he  said,  "  farewell !  no  morq 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour: 
And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station. 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have. 
Before  you  're  sunmioned  to  the  grave ; 
Willing  for  once  I'll  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve; 
In  hopes  you  '11  have  no  more  to  say ; 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way. 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented. 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell. 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse. 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold. 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing-  old. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near: 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew. 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few. 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase. 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road. 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood. 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"So  soon  returned!"  old  Dodson  cries. 
"So  soon  d'ye  call  it?"  Death  replies: 
"Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in  jest! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

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"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoined  ; 
"To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind: 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 
And  your  authority  —  is't  regal? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand. 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
Beside,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 
1  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries' Death,  "  that  at  the  best, 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least; 
1  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable: 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length; 
1  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength  !" 

"  Hold."  says  the  farmer,  "  not  so  fast ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

"  And  no  great  wonder."  Death  replies : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes ; 
And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends. 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  '■  so  it  might, 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  'tis  true  ; 
But  still  there 's  comfort  left  for  you : 
Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse : 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 

•'  There 's  none,"  cries  he  ;  "  and  if  there  were, 
I  'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear," 

"Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 
These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind. 
You  've  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warnings; 
So  come  along,  no  more  we  11  part :" 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  Old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate  —so  ends  my  tale. 

PIPELET,    CONSTANCE    MARIE    DE 
THEIS, 

Was  born  at  Nantes  in  1768,  of  a  distinguished 
family.  She  married,  in  1789,  M.  Pipelet,  an 
eminent  surgeon  in  Paris ;  and,  after  his  death, 
she  married,  in  1802,  the  Prince  de  Salm-Dyck. 
Madame  Pipelet  devoted  herself,  when  very  young, 
to  the  study  of  literature  and  the  arts ;  and  her 
poems  are  quite  numerous,  and  almost  invariably 
excellent.  She  also  wrote  an  opera,  entitled 
"Sappho;"  a  drama,  several  romances,  and  other 
prose  works ;  and  belonged  to  several  academies. 
Madame  Pipelet  maintained  the  theory  of  the 
original  equality  of  the  sexes ;  and  one  of  her 
most  elaborate  poems  is  devoted  to  this  subject. 
We  give  a  few  extracts  from  this. 

EPiTKE    ACX    FEMMES. 

Si  la  nature  a  fait  deux  sexes  diff6rens, 
Elle  a  chang6  la  forme  et  non  les  elemens. 
Memo  loi,  meme  erreur,  meme  ivresse  les  guide  . 
L'un  et  I'autre  propose,  execute  ou  decide  : 
Les  charges,  les  devoirs,  entre  em  deux  divises, 
Par  un  ordre  immuable  y  restent  balances. 
Tous  deux  pensent  r^gner,  et  tons  deux  obeissent : 
Ensemble  ils  sont  heureux;  separtis,  ils  languissent: 
Tour  a  tour  l'un  de  I'autre,  enfin,  guide  et  soutien, 
Meme  en  se  donnant  tout,  ils  ne  se  doivent  rien. 

****** 
Sciences,  po6sie,  arts  qu'ils  nous  interdisent, 
Sources  de  voluptes  qui  les  immortalisent, 
Venez,  et  faites  voir  a  la  posterite 
tiu'il  est  aussi  pour  nous  une  immortalit6 ! 
Mais  deja  mille  voix  ont  blame  notre  audace: 
On  s'etoune,  on  murraure,  on  s'agite,  on  menace. 


On  veut  nous  arracher  la  plume  et  les  pinceaux; 
Chacun  a  contre  nous  sa  chanson,  ses  bons  mots. 
L'un,  ignorant  et  sot,  vient  avec  ironie 
Nous  citer  de  Moliere  un  vers  qu'il  estropie ; 
L'autre,  vain  par  systeme  et  jaloux  par  m6tier, 
Dit  d'un  air  dedaigneux  :  Elle  a  son  teiniurier. 
Des  jeunes  gens,  a  peine  echappes  du  college, 
Discutent  hardiment  nos  droits,  leur  privilege  ; 
Et  leurs  arrets,  dictiis  par  la  fatuity, 
La  mode,  I'ignorance  et  la  futilite, 
R6p6tes  en  echos  par  ces  juges  imberbes, 
Apres  deux  ou  trois  jours  sont  passi^s  en  proverbes. 
En  vain  Thomme  de  bien  (car  il  en  est  toujours). 
En  vain  Vhomme  de  bien  vient  a  notre  secours, 
Leur  prouve  de  nos  cceurs  la  force,  le  courage, 
Leur  montre  nos  lauriers  conserves  d'age  en  age, 
Leur  dit  qu'on  peut  unir  graces,  talens,  vertus. 
Que  Minerve  6toit  femme  aussi  bien  que  V6nus: 
Rien  ne  peut  ramener  cette  foule  en  delire  : 
L'honnete  homme  se  tait,  nous  regarde  et  soupire. 

PISCOPIA,    CORNARO  ELENE, 

Was  born  at  Venice,  1646.  This  lady  was  re- 
markable for  her  learning.  Her  erudition  was 
very  highly  appreciated  by  the  scholars  of  that 
age,  and  there  are  many  records  of  great  praise 
being  offered  her  by  distinguished  men.  She  un- 
derstood Greek,  Latin,  Hebrew,  Spanish,  French, 
and  Arabic.  She  was  a  professor  of  philosophy, 
mathematics,  theology,  and  astronomy.  She  was 
presented  with  the  wreath  and  dignity  of  laureate, 
in  the  Duomo  of  Padua,  in  1678.  To  these  grave 
acquirements  she  added  skill  in  music  and  poetry, 
with  a  talent  for  improvisation.  Early  in  child- 
hood she  announced  a  determination  against  mat- 
rimony, in  which  she  persevered,  though  greatly 
opposed  by  her  parents,  who  were  desirous  and 
urgent  that  she  should  form  some  illustrious  con- 
nexion ;  but  the  duties  of  the  married  life  she 
thought  would  be  incompatible  with  her  engross- 
ing love  for  study.  She  possessed  sincere  piety, 
a  little  too  much  tinctured  with  ascetic  supersti- 
tion as  regarded  herself,  but  drawing  forth  most 
benevolent  and  kindly  dispositions  towards  her 
relations,  dependants,  and  the  indigent  populace. 
For  the  most  part  of  her  life  she  was  a  patient 
martyr  to  acute  disease,  and  died  in  1684. 

Her  works  which  remain  are,  "Eulogiums  on 
several  illustrious  Italians,"  written  in  Latin, 
Latin  epistles,  academical  discourses  in  the  ver- 
nacular tongue,  a  translation  from  the  Spanish  of 
Lounspergio,  besides  a  volume  of  poems. 

PIX,  MARY, 
By  birth  Mary  Griffith,  was  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  and  was  born  in  Yorkshire,  in  the 
reign  of  William  III.  of  England.  She  was  a  con- 
temporary of  Mrs.  Manley  and  j\Irs.  Cockburne, 
and  was  satirized  with  them  in  a  little  dramatic 
piece,  called  the  "Female  Wits."  She  was  the 
author  of  a  number  of  plays,  published  between 
1696  and  1705. 

PIZZOLI,    MARIA   LUIGIA, 

Was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1817,  the  only  off- 
spring of  Luigi  Pizzoli,  a  gentleman  of  that  city. 
Her  parents  perceiving  early  indications  of  un- 
common abilities,  gave  her  every  means  of  instruc- 
tion within  tlieir  reach ;  these  she  improved  to 
such  advantage  that  she  soon  became  quite  noted 

473 


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for  the  extent  of  her  information,  and  the  variety 
of  her  accomplishments.  The  most  learned  men 
in  the  society  she  frequented,  would  appeal  to  her 
in  any  "historic  doubts,"  and  so  clear  was  her 
knowledge  on  such  points,  and  so  accurate  her 
memory  in  dates,  that  she  never  was  at  fault  in 
deciding  the  question.  But  far  from  assuming 
any  unseemly  arrogance,  her  manners  were  distin- 
guished by  an  amiable  simplicity.  Her  predomi- 
nant passion  was  music ;  her  father  gave  her  as  a 
master  Pilotti,  an  excellent  professor  of  counter- 
point ;  he  was,  in  a  short  time,  so  struck  with  the 
talents  of  his  scholar,  that  drawing  her  father 
aside,  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  your  daughter  is  a  genius ; 
the  love  I  bear  to  my  art  makes  me  entreat  you 
to  allow  me  to  instruct  her  in  counterpoint ;  her 
success  is  infallible."  This  business  undertaken, 
Luigia  applied  herself  with  the  tenacity  that  is 
inspired  by  the  passionate  love  of  the  science.  As 
a  pianist  she  soon  ranked  among  the  first;  but  a 
much  higher  praise  awaited  her  as  a  composer. 
In  1836  the  newspaper  of  Bologna  published  the 
following  paragraph : 

"  The  very  beautiful  symphony  written  by  the 
young  amateur  Luigia  Pizzoli,  was  executed  by 
our  orchestra,  and  received  most  favourably.  It 
is  calculated  to  please  all  persons  of  taste,  for 
combined  with  much  learning,  and  studied  elabo- 
rations, we  find  that  gracious  melody  the  Italian 
ear  demands." 

Soon  after  this  she  was  invited  by  the  musical 
academy  of  Bologna,  to  accompany  the  greatest 
harpist  of  Italy  at  a  musical  festival.  She  made 
her  first  appearance,  not  only  as  a  perfoi-mer,  but 
as  a  composer ;  for  besides  accompanying  the 
harp  in  a  most  admirable  manner,  she  played  a 
sonata  for  four  hands,  composed  by  herself ;  the 
well-known  Corticelli  took  the  bass.  The  follow- 
ing day  the  papers  abounded  with  panegyrics  on 
this  young  lady.  In  the  midst  of  her  rising  fame, 
consumption,  with  which  she  had  once  been  threat- 
ened, came  to  tear  this  beloved  and  charming  girl 
from  the  arms  of  her  parents.  Her  last  illness 
presented  a  model  of  Christian  piety  and  resigna- 
tion, together  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness,  and 
tender  efforts  to  soften  the  blow  to  her  wretched 
father  and  mother.  In  her  dying  state,  she  was 
still  an  artist ;  her  last  wishes  and  acts  were  to 
encourage  and  improve  the  art  she  so  loved.  She 
obtained  from  her  father  permission  to  endow  a 
perpetual  foundation  for  a  yearly  prize,  to  be 
given  by  the  Philharmonic  Society  of  Bologna,  to 
any  of  the  young  students,  not  excluding  women, 
who  shall  produce  the  best  fugue ;  the  decision  to 
rest  with  the  presiding  professors  of  counterpoint. 

Three  days  after,  the  10th  of  January,  1838, 
Luigia  expired.  The  number  of  her  works,  in  so 
short  a  period,  is  a  reproach  to  those  who  live 
long,  and  accomplish  nothing.  An  edition  of  these 
was  printed  at  Milan,  in  1840.  After  her  death, 
her  symphony  was  executed  by  the  professors  of 
that  city. 

PLUMPTRE,    ARABELLA, 

Niece  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Plumptre,  for  many  years 
president  of  Queen's  College,  Cambridge,  wrote  a 


number  of  books  for  the  young,  which  were  well 
received.  Among  these  were,  "  The  Mountain  Cot- 
tage," a  tale  ;  "The  Foresters,"  a  drama;  "Do- 
mestic Stories  from  various  Authors;"  "The 
Guardian  Angel,"  a  tale,  translated  from  the  Ger- 
man of  Kotzebue ;  "  Montgomery,  or  Scenes  in 
Wales,"  two  volumes ;  "  Stories  for  Children,"  &c. 

PLUNKETT,    MRS., 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Gunning,  an  English 
winter,  acquired  considerable  celebrity  as  an  inge- 
nious novelist.  She  published  "  The  Packet," 
four  volumes  ;  "Lord  Fitzhenry,"  three  volumes  ; 
"  The  Orphans  of  Snowden,"  three  volumes ;  "  The 
Gipsy  Countess,"  four  volumes;  "The  Exiles  of 
Erin,"  three  volumes;  "Dangers  through  Life," 
three  volumes  ;  "  The  Farmer's  Boy,"  four  vo- 
lumes ;  "  Malvina,"  three  volumes  ;  "  Family  Sto- 
ries for  Young  Persons,"  two  volumes;  "The 
Village  Library  for  the  Use  of  Yoimg  Persons," 
three  volumes;  and  "Memoirs  of  a  Man  of  Fa- 
shion." 


POCAHONTAS, 

The  daughter  of  Powhatan,  a  celebrated  Indian 
chief  of  Virginia,  was  born  about  the  year  1594. 
According  to  a  custom  common  among  the  In- 
dians, of  bestowing  upon  their  children  several 
symbolic  names,  she  was  sometimes  called  Ma- 
toaka.  When  the  well-known  and  adventurous 
Captain  John  Smith  came  to  this  continent,  for 
the  purpose  of  promoting  its  settlement  by  the 
English,  while  exploring  the  James  river,  he  was 
taken  prisoner  by  some  of  the  warriors  of  the 
tribes  under  Powhatan,  and  brought  before  this 
powerful  chief  to  be  disposed  of.  The  fame  and 
exploits  of  Smith  had  reached  Powhatan,  and  he 
was  considered  too  dangerous  an  enemy  to  be 
permitted  to  live.  A  council  was  called,  and  his 
fate  decided ;  he  was  condemned  to  be  bound  and 
placed  upon  the  earth,  with  his  head  upon  a  stone, 
and  his  brains  beaten  out  with  clubs.  Pocahon- 
tas, though  but  a  child  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years, 
was  present  at  this  council,  and  heard  the  sen- 
tence ;  but  when  it  was  about  to  be  executed, 
yielding  to  the  generous  impulses  of  her  nature, 

474 


PO 


PO 


she  flung  herself  upon  the  body  of  Smith,  beneath 
her  father's  uplifted  club,  and  protected  his  life 
at  the  risk  of  her  own.  Touched  by  this  act  of 
heroism,  the  savages  released  their  prisoner,  and 
he  became  an  inmate  of  the  wigwam  of  Powhatan, 
who  soon  after  gave  him  his  liberty. 

About  two  years  later,  the  Indians,  alarmed  at 
the  extraordinary  feats  of  Smith,  and  fearing  his 
increasing  influence,  began  to  prepare  for  hostili- 
ties, and  laid  a  plan  for  entrapping  him.  AVhen 
on  the  eve  of  effecting  their  object,  while  Smith 
was  on  a  visit  to  Pbwhatan  for  the  purpose  of 
procuring  provisions,  he  was  preserved  from  this 
fate  by  the  watchful  care  of  Pocahontas,  who  ven- 
tured through  the  woods  more  than  nine  miles,  at 
midnight,  to  apprise  him  of  his  danger.  For  this 
service.  Smith  offered  her  some  trinkets,  which, 
to  one  of  her  age,  sex,  and  nation,  must  have  been 
strongly  tempting ;  but  she  refused  to  accept  any 
thing,  or  to  partake  of  any  refreshment,  and  hur- 
riedly retraced  her  steps,  that  she  might  not  be 
missed  by  her  father  or  his  wives. 

For  three  or  four  years  after  this,  Pocahontas 
continued  to  assist  the  settlers  in  their  distresses, 
and  to  shield  them  from  the  effects  of  her  father's 
animosity.  Although  a  great  favourite  with  her 
father,  he  was  so  incensed  against  her  for  favom-- 
ing  the  whites,  that  he  sent  her  away  to  a  chief 
of  a  neighbouring  tribe,  Jopazaws,  chief  of  Po- 
towmac,  for  safe  keeping;  or,  as  some  suppose, 
to  avert  the  anger  of  her  own  tribe,  who  might  be 
t«mpted  to  revenge  themselves  upon  her  for  her 
friendship  to  the  English.  Here  she  remained 
some  time,  when  Captain  Argall,  who  ascended 
the  Potomac  on  a  trading  expedition,  tempted  the 
chief  by  the  offer  of  a  large  copper  kettle,  of  which 
he  had  become  enamoured,  as  the  biggest  trinket 
lie  had  ever  seen,  to  deliver  her  to  him  as  a  pri- 
Boner ;  Ai'gall  believing,  that  by  having  her  in  his 
possession  as  a  hostage,  he  could  bring  Powhatan 
to  terms  of  peace.  But  Powhatan  refused  to  ran- 
som his  daughter  upon  the  terms  proposed ;  he 
offered  five  hundred  bushels  of  corn  for  her,  but 
it  was  not  accepted. 

Pocahontas  was  well  treated  while  a  prisoner, 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Rolfe,  a  pious  young  man,  and  a 
brave  officer,  who  had  undertaken  to  instruct  her 
in  English,  became  attached  to  her,  and  offered 
her  his  hand.  The  offer  was  communicated  to 
Powhatan,  who  gave  his  consent  to  the  union,  and 
she  was  married  to  Rolfe,  after  the  form  of  the 
church  of  England,  in  presence  of  her  uncle  and 
two  brothers.  This  event  relieved  the  colony  from 
the  enmity  of  Powhatan,  and  preserved  peace  for 
many  years  between  them. 

In  the  year  1616,  Pocahontas  accompanied  her 
husband  to  England,  where  she  was  presented  at 
court,  and  became  an  object  of  curiosity  and  in- 
terest to  iill  classes ;  her  title  of  princess  causing 
her  to  receive  much  attention.  Though  the  period 
of  her  conversion  is  disputed,  it  is  generally  be- 
lieved that  she  was  baptized  during  this  visit  to 
England,  when  she  received  the  name  of  Rebecca. 
In  London,  she  was  visited  by  captain  Smith, 
whom,  for  some  unknown  purpose,  she  had  been 
taught  to  believe  was  dead.  When  she  first  beheld 


him,  she  was  overcome  with  emotion  ;  and  turning 
from  him,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Many  sur- 
mises have  been  hazarded  upon  the  emotion  exhi- 
bited by  Pocahontas  in  this  interview.  The  solu- 
tion of  the  mystery,  however,  is  obvious ;  the 
dusky  maiden  had  no  doubt  learned  to  love  the 
gallant  soldier  whom  she  had  so  deeply  benefited  ; 
and  upon  his  abandonment  of  the  country,  both 
the  colonists  and  her  own  people,  aware  of  her 
feelings,  and  having  some  alliance  in  view  for  her 
to  the  fm-thering  of  their  own  interests,  had  im- 
posed upon  her  the  tale  of  his  death.  Admitting 
this  to  be  the  case,  what  could  be  more  natural 
than  her  conduct,  and  what  more  touching  than 
the  picture  which  this  interview  presents  to  the 
imagination  ? 

Captain  Smith  wrote  a  memorial  to  the  queen 
in  her  behalf,  setting  forth  the  services  which  the 
Indian  princess  had  rendered  to  himself  and  the 
colony,  which  secured  her  the  friendship  of  the 
queen.  Pocahontas  survived  but  little  more  than 
a  year  after  her  arrival  .in  England.  She  died 
in  1617,  at  Gravesend,  when  about  to  embark  for 
her  native  land,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  or  three. 
She  left  one  son,  who  was  educated  in  England  by 
his  uncle,  and  afterwards  returned  to  Virginia, 
where  he  became  a  wealthy  and  distingiiished 
character,  from  whom  has  descended  several  well- 
known  families  of  tliat  state. 

Pocahontas  has  been  the  heroine  of  fiction  and 
of  song ;  but  the  simple  truth  of  her  story  is  more 
interesting  than  any  ideal  description.  She  is 
another  proof  to  the  many  already  recorded  in 
this  work,  of  the  intuitive  moral  sense  of  woman, 
and  the  importance  of  her  aid  in  cai'rying  forward 
the  progress  of  human  improvement. 

Pocahontas  was  the  first  heathen  who  became 
converted  to  Christianity  by  the  English  settlers ; 
the  religion  of  the  Gospel  seemed  congenial  to  her 
nature  ;  she  was  like  a  guardian  angel  to  the  white 
strangers  who  had  come  to  the  land  of  the  red 
men ;  by  her  the  races  were  united  ;  thus  proving 
the  tmity  of  the  human  family  through  the  spi- 
ritual nature  of  the  woman ;  ever,  in  its  highest 
development,  seeking  the  good  and  at  "enmity" 
with  the  evil ;  the  preserver,  the  inspirer,  the  ex- 
emplar of  the  noblest  virtues  of  humanity. 

POICTIERS,  DIANA  DE,  DUCHESS 
OF   VALENTINOIS, 

Was  born  March  31st,  1500.  When  her  father, 
the  count  of  St.  Vallier,  was  condemned  to  lose 
his  head  for  favouring  the  escape  of  the  constable 
Bourbon,  Diana  obtained  his  pardon  by  throwing 
herself  at  the  feet  of  Francis  I.  St.  Vallier  was, 
however,  sentenced  to  perpetual  confinement ;  and 
the  horror  he  experienced  at  this  fate  brought  on 
a  fever,  of  which  he  died. 

Diana  de  Poictiers  married,  in  1521,  Louis  de 
Breze,  grand-marshal  of  Normandy ;  by  him  she 
had  two  daughters,  whom  she  married  very  advan- 
tageously. She  must  have  been  at  least  thirty- 
five  years  of  age,  when  the  duke  of  Orleans,  after- 
wards Henry  II.  of  France,  at  the  age  of  seventeen 
became  deeply  attached  to  her ;  and  she  maintain- 
ed her  ascendency  over  him  till  his  death,  in  1559. 

475 


PO 


PO 


Henry  seemed  to  delight  in  giving  testimonies  of 
his  attachment,  both  in  public  and  private.  The 
palaces,  public  edifices,  and  his  own  armour,  were 
all  ornamented  with  "  the  moon,  bow  and  arrows," 
the  emblems  and  device  of  his  mistress.  Her  in- 
fluence, both  personal  and  political,  was  carried 
to  an  unbounded  extent.  She  may  be  said  to  have 
divided  the  crown  with  her  lover,  of  whose  council 
she  was  the  directing  principal,  and  of  whose  at- 
tachment she  was  the  sole  object.  The  young 
queen,  Catharine  de  Medicis,  not  inferior  in  ge- 
nius, taste,  and  beautj^  to  Diana,  was  obliged  to 
act  a  subordinate  part. 

Diana  was  made  duchess  de  Valentinois  in  1549. 
In  1552,  she  nursed  the  queen  in  a  dangerous 
iUness,  notwithstanding  their  bitter  feeling  towards 
each  other.  She  preferred  the  interest  of  the  state 
to  the  aggrandizement  of  her  family ;  and  she 
loved  the  gloi-y  of  her  king.  Her  charities  were 
immense  ;  and  every  man  distinguished  for  genius 
was  sure  of  her  support.  Yet  she  did  not  always 
make  a  good  use  of  her  power ;  for  she  persuaded 
Henry  to  break  the  truce  with  Spain,  which  was 
the  source  of  many  evils  to  France.  She  did  this 
at  the  instigation  of  the  cardinal  of  Lorraine  ;  but 
he,  with  the  rest  of  the  Guises,  no  sooner  saw  the 
result,  than  they  leagued  with  Catharine  de  Me- 
dicis to  ruin  Diana,  if  she  would  consent  to  the 
marriage  of  their  niece,  Mary,  queen  of  Scotland, 
to  the  dauphin.  This  was  done,  and  the  duchess 
remained  without  support ;  but  she  did  not  lose 
her  firmness ;  the  king  promised  to  inform  her  of 
all  the  plots  of  her  enemies ;  but  he  died  soon 
after  of  a  wound  he  received  in  a  tournament, 
where  he  had  worn  her  colours,  black  and  white, 
as  usual. 

Catharine  sent  her  an  order  to  deliver  up  the 
royal  jewels,  and  retire  to  one  of  her  castles.  "  Is 
the  king  dead?"  asked  she.  "  No,  Madame,"  re- 
plied the  messenger,  "  but  he  cannot  live  till 
night."  "  Then,"  said  Diana,  "  I  have  as  yet  no 
master.  When  he  shall  be  no  more,  should  I  be 
so  unfortunate  as  to  survive  him  long,  I  shall  be 
too  wretched  to  be  sensible  of  their  malice." 

Catharine,  however,  was  persuaded  not  to  per- 
secute the  duchess,  who,  in  return  for  being 
allowed  to  retain  the  superb  gifts  of  the  king, 
presented  her  with  a  magnificent  palace.  Diana 
retired  to  Anet,  a  palace  built  for  her  by  Henry 
II. ;  but  was  recalled,  in  1561,  by  Catharine,  to 
detach  the  constable  de  Montmorency  from  his 
nephews,  the  Chatillons,  which  service  her  great 
influence  over  him  enabled  her  to  perform. 

She  died  in  1566,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  re- 
taining her  beauty  to  the  last. 

Miss  Pardoe,  in  her  History  of  Francis  I.,  thus 
describes  Diana :  —  "  Her  features  were  regular 
and  classical ;  her  complexion  faultless  ;  her  hair 
of  a  rich  purple-black,  which  took  a  golden  tint 
in  the  sunshine ;  while  her  teeth,  her  ankles,  her 
hands  and  arms,  and  her  bust,  were  each  in  their 
turn  the  theme  of  the  court  poets.  That  the  ex- 
traordinary and  almost  fabulous  duration  of  her 
beauty  was  in  a  great  degree  due  to  the  precau- 
tions which  she  adopted,  there  can  be  little  doubt, 
for  she  spared  no  effort  to  secure  it ;  she  was  jea- 


lously careful  of  her  health,  and  in  the  most  severe 
weather  bathed  in  cold  water ;  she  sufi'ered  no 
cosmetic  to  approach  her,  denouncing  every  com- 
pound of  the  kind  as  worthy  only  of  those  to  whom 
nature  had  been  so  niggardly  as  to  compel  them 
to  complete  her  imperfect  work ;  she  rose  every 
morning  at  six  o'clock,  and  had  no  sooner  left  her 
chamber  than  she  sprang  into  the  saddle ;  and 
after  having  galloped  a  league  or  two,  returned  to 
bed,  where  she  remained  until  midday  engaged  in 
reading.  The  system  appears  a  singular  one,  but 
in  her  case  it  undoubtedly  proved  successful,  as, 
after  having  enslaved  the  duke  d'Orleans  in  her 
thirty-fifth  year,  she  still  reigned  in  absolute  so- 
vereignty over  the  heart  of  the  king  of  France 
when  she  had  nearly  reached  the  age  of  sixty !  It 
is  certain,  however,  that  the  magnificent  Diana 
owed  no  small  portion  of  this  extraordinary  and 
unprecedented  constancy  to  the  charms  of  her 
mind  and  the  brilliancy  of  her  intellect." 

"  Six  months  before  her  death,"  says  Brantome, 
"  I  saw  her  so  handsome,  that  no  heart  of  adamant 
could  have  been  insensible  to  her  charms,  though 
she  had  some  time  before  broken  one  of  her  limbs 
upon  the  paved  stones  of  Orleans.  She  had  been 
riding  on  horseback,  and  kept  her  seat  as  dex- 
terously and  well  as  she  had  ever  done.  One 
would  have  thought  that  the  pain  of  such  an  acci- 
dent would  have  made  some  alteration  in  her  lovely 
face ;  but  this  was  not  the  case ;  she  was  as  beau- 
tiful, graceful,  and  handsome  in  every  respect,  as 
she  had  ever  been." 

She  was  the  only  mistress  whose  medal  was 
struck.  This  was  done  by  the  city  of  Lyons,  where 
the  duchess  was  much  beloved.  On  one  side  was 
her  eSigy,  with  this  inscription :  Diana,  Dux  Va- 
lentinorum  Clarissima  ;  and  on  the  reverse.  Omnium 
Victorum  Vici:  "  I  have  conquered  the  conqueror 
of  all ;"  alluding  to  Henry  II.  The  king  had  an- 
other medal  struck  in  1552,  where  she  is  repre- 
sented as  Diana,  with  these  words :  JVomen  ad 
Astra.  The  H.'s  and  D.'s  cyphered  in  the  Louvre, 
are  still  greater  proofs  of  the  passion  of  the  prince. 
She  told  Henry,  when  he  wished  to  acknowledge  a 
daughter  he  had  by  her,  "  I  was  born  of  a  family, 
the  old  counts  of  Poictiers,  which  entitled  me  to 
have  legitimate  children  by  you  ;  I  have  been  your 
mistress,  because  I  loved  you ;  but  I  will  not  sufi"er 
any  arret  to  declare  me  so."  This  reply  proves 
her  sense  of  the  superior  dignity  of  virtue  over 
vice.  She  would  not  glory  in  her  shame ;  she  felt 
she  had  degraded  the  race  from  which  she  sprang. 

POLLEY,    MARGARET, 

Was  one  of  those  who  sufi'ered  martrydom  for 
their  religious  opinions  in  the  reign  of  Mary, 
queen  of  England.  She  was  burned  at  Tunbridge, 
July,  1555. 

POMPADOUR,  JEANNE  ANTOINETTE 
POLISSON,  MARCHIONESS  DE, 
The  celebrated  mistress  of  Louis  XV.,  was  the 
illegitimate  daughter  of  a  financier,  and  early  dis- 
tinguished for  her  beauty  and  talents.  She  was 
married  to  a  M.  d'Etioles,  when  she  attracted  the 
king's  notice,  and  becoming  his  mistress,  was  cre- 

476 


PO 


PO 


ated  marchioness  de  Pompadour,  in  1745.  She 
had  great  influence  over  the  king,  and  she  em- 
ployed it  at  first  in  patronizing  arts  and  literatui'e. 
But  when  her  charms  began  to  fade,  she  turned 
her  attention  to  state  affairs,  and  produced  many 
of  those   evils  which  afterwards   contributed  to 


bring  on  the  revolution  of  1792.  She  was  the 
chief  instigator  of  the  war  between  France  and 
Prussia,  to  cause  which,  Maria  Theresa  of  Austria 
wrote  her  a  letter  with  her  own  hand.  Madame 
de  Pompadour  died  in  1764,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
four,  little  regretted,  even  by  the  king. 

POOL,  RACHEL  VAN, 
Was  born  at  Amsterdam,  in  1664.  Her  father 
was  the  famous  professor  of  anatomy,  Ruysch, 
and  her  instructor  in  the  art  of  painting  was  Wil- 
liam Van  Aelst,  whom  she  soon  equalled  in  the 
representation  of  flowers  and  fruit.  She  studied 
nature  so  closely,  and  imitated  her  so  well,  that 
she  was  thought  almost  a  prodigy,  and  allowed  to 
be  the  most  able  artist  of  her  time  in  that  line. 
Her  choice  of  subjects  was  judicious  ;  her  manner 
of  painting  them  exquisite ;  and  she  contrasted 
them  in  all  her  compositions  with  unusual  beauty 
and  delicacy ;  and  they  appeared  so  natural,  that 
every  plant,  flower,  or  insect,  would  deceive  the 
eye  with  the  semblance  of  reality.  Her  reputa- 
tion extended  all  over  Europe,  and  she  was  ap- 
pointed painter  to  the  elector  palatine,  who,  as  a 
testimony  of  respect,  sent  her  a  complete  set  of 
silver  for  her  toilette,  consisting  of  twenty-eight 
pieces,  and  six  candlesticks.  He  also  engrossed 
the  greater  part  of  her  works,  paying  for  them 
with  princely  generosity.  In  early  life  she  mar- 
ried Juria  Van  Pool,  an  eminent  portrait-painter, 
with  whom  she  lived  very  happily.  She  continued 
to  paint  to  the  last  period  of  a  long  life ;  and  her 
pictures,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  were  as  neatly  and 
carefully  worked  as  when  she  was  thirty.  Her 
paintings  are  uncommonly  rare,  being  treasured 
up  as  curiosities  in  Holland  and  Germany.  She 
died  at  Amsterdam,  in  1750,  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
six.  She  was  as  highly  esteemed  for  her  character 
as  her  talents.     Her  genius  developed  itself  very 


early,  and  she  had  become  somewhat  celebrated 
for  it  before  she  received  any  instruction. 

POPE,    MARIA, 

An  actress,  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Campion, 
a  respectable  merchant  of  Waterford,  Ireland. 
The  family  being  left  in  reduced  circumstances 
by  Mr.  Campion's  death,  Maria  went  on  the  stage, 
and  soon,  as  a  ti-agic  actress,  attained  great  emi- 
nence, especially  by  her  personation  of  Juliet. 
In  1798,  she  married  Mr.  Pope,  the  actor. 

POPELINIERE,    MADAME   DE, 

Was  the  daughter  of  an  actress.  Her  mother 
educated  her  for  the  stage  ;  but  M.  de  Popelinifere, 
an  opulent  financier,  fascinated  by  her  beauty  and 
elegant  wit,  made  her  his  mistress.  Mademoiselle 
Daucour  represented  herself  to  Madame  de  Tencin 
as  having  been  seduced  by  her  lover,  and  so  inte- 
rested her  protectress,  that  she  mentioned  her 
case  to  the  prime  minister.  The  act  of  openly 
keeping  a  mistress  was  a  luxury  as  yet  scarcely 
authorized  among  the  bourgeoisie :  vice  was  still 
considered  the  privilege  of  the  noble  and  great. 
Fleury  exacted  that  M.  de  Popelinifere  should 
marry  Mademoiselle  Daucour,  on  pain  of  a  with- 
drawal of  the  lease  which  he  held  from  the  king, 
of  farmer-general.  M.  de  Popelinifere  complied, 
but  he  never  forgave  his  mistress  the  means  she 
had  taken  to  secure  the  rank  of  his  wife.  Madame 
de  Popelinifere  soon  became  one  of  the  most  ad- 
mired women  of  the  Parisian  world.  She  adapted 
herself  to  her  new  position  with  singular  ease  and 
tact.  Men  of  the  world  mingled  with  singers, 
musicians,  painters,  and  poets,  in  her  drawing- 
room.  Her  wit  and  taste  became  celebrated ;  the 
latter  quality  was  especially  displayed  in  the  judg- 
ments which  she  passed  on  all  works  of  art  or 
literature  submitted  to  her ;  she  was  soon  thought 
infallible  in  such  matters.  The  success  of  Madame 
de  Popelinifere  was  short-lived.  She  engaged  in 
an  intrigue  with  the  duke  of  Richelieu,  which  her 
husband  discovered.  He  made  her  a  handsome 
allowance,  but  would  no  longer  suffer  her  to  reside 
under  his  roof.  Madame  de  Popelinifere  was  thus 
excluded  for  ever  from  that  elegant  society  qver 
which  she  had  ruled  with  so  much  grace.  A 
painful  illness  cut  her  ofl"  in  the  flower  of  her 
youth. 

PORTER,  ANNA  MARIA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  officer,  who  died 
soon  after  her  birth,  leaving  a  widow  and  several 
children,  with  but  a  small  patrimony  for  their 
support.  Mrs.  Porter  took  her  family  to  Scotland 
soon  after,  and  there,  with  her  only  and  elder 
sister,  Jane,  and  their  brother.  Sir  Robert  Ker 
Porter,  she  received  the  rudiments  of  her  educa- 
tion. Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  a  student  at  college, 
was  intimate  with  the  family,  and,  we  are  told, 
"  was  very  fond  of  cither  teasing  the  little  female 
student  when  very  gravely  engaged  with  her  book, 
or  more  often  fondling  her  on  his  knees,  and  tell- 
ing her  stories  of  witches  and  warlocks,  till  both 
forgot  their  former  playful  merriment  in  the  mar- 
vellous interest  of  the  tale."    Mrs.  Porter  removed 

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to  Ireland,  and  subsequently  to  London,  chiefly 
with  a  view  to  tlie  education  of  her  children. 

Anna  Maria  became  an  authoress  at  the  age  of 
twelve.  Her  first  work  was  called  "Artless  Tales," 
and  was  published  in  1793.  "Don  Sebastian,  or 
the  House  of  Braganza,"  is  considered  her  best 
novel.  Some  of  her  others  are,  "  The  Lake  of 
Killarney,"  "A  Sailor's  Friendship  and  a  Soldier's 
Love,"  "The  Hungarian  Brothers,"  "Ballad  Ro- 
mances, and  other  Poems,"  "  The  Recluse  of 
Norway,"  "The  Knight  of  St.  John,"  "Roche 
Blanche,"  and  "  Honour  O'Hara."  Miss  Porter 
died  at  Bristol,  while  on  a  visit  to  her  brother.  Dr. 
Porter,  on  the  21st  of  June,  1832,  aged  fifty-two. 

The  number  of  her  novels  is  really  astonishing, 
more  than  fifty  volumes  were  the  product  of  her 
pen.  In  all  her  works.  Miss  Anna  JNIaria  Porter 
portrays  the  domestic  affections,  and  the  charms 
of  benevolence  and  virtue,  with  that  warmth  and 
earnestness  which  interests  the  feelings ;  but  in 
"Don  Sebastian"  we  have  an  interesting  plot,  and 
characters  finely  discriminated  and  drawn.  The 
author  has,  therefore,  shown  a  higher  order  of 
genius  in  this  novel  than  in  her  others,  because 
she  has  displayed  more  constructive  power. 


PORTER,   JANE, 

AVas  sister  of  the  preceding,  and  the  oldest  of 
the  two,  though  she  did  not  commence  her  career 
of  authorship  so  early,  nor  did  she  write  such  a 
multitude  of  novels  as  her  sister,  yet  she  has  suc- 
ceeded in  making  a  deeper  impression  of  her  genius 
on  the  age.  She  was  the  first  who  introduced  that 
beautiful  kind  of  fiction,  the  historical  romance, 
which  has  now  become  so  popular.  Her  "  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw"  was  published  in  1803,  and  "  The 
Scottish  Chiefs"  in  1810;  both  were  highly  popu- 
lar, but  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw"  had  unprecedented 
success.  It  was  translated  into  most  of  the  Con- 
tinental languages,  and  Poland  was  loud  in  its 
praise.  Kosciusko  sent  the  author  a  ring,  con- 
taining his  portrait.  General  Gardiner,  the  Bri- 
tish minister  at  Warsaw,  could  not  believe  that 
any  other  than  an  eye-witness  had  written  the 
story,  so  accurate  were  the  descriptions,  although 
Miss  Porter  had  not  then  been  in  Poland.     She 


was  honoured  publicly  by  having  the  title  of  Cha- 
noiness  of  the  Polish  order  of  St.  Joachim  con- 
ferred upon  her  after  the  publication  of  "Thad- 
deus of  Warsaw." 

In  regard  to  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs,"  that  this 
romance  was  the  model  of  the  historical  class,  is 
beyond  doubt ;  Sir  Walter  Scott  acknowledged  that 
this  work  was  the  parent  in  his  mind  of  the  Wa- 
verly  Novels.  In  a  letter,  written  by  Miss  Porter 
about  three  months  previous  to  her  death,  she 
thus  alludes  to  these  works : — 

"I  own  I  feel  myself  a  kind  of  sibyl  in  these 
things ;  it  being  full  fifty  years  ago  since  my 
'  Scottish  Chiefs'  and  '  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw'  came 
into  the  then  untrodden  field.  And  what  a  splen- 
did race  of  the  like  chroniclers  of  generous  deed? 
have  followed,  brightening  the  track  as  they  have 
advanced !  The  author  of  '  Waverley,'  and  all  hip 
soul-stirring  '  Tales  of  my  Landlord,'  &c.  Then 
comes  Mr.  James,  with  his  historical  romances  on 
British  and  French  subjects,  so  admirably  uniting 
the  exquisite  fiction  with  the  fact,  that  the  whole 
seems  equally  verity.  But  my  feeble  hand"  (Miss 
Porter  was  ailing  when  she  wrote  the  letter)  "will 
not  obey  my  wish  to  add  more  to  this  host  of 
worthies.  I  can  only  find  power  to  say  with  my 
trembling  pen,  that  I  cannot  but  esteem  them  as 
a  respected  link  with  my  past  days  of  lively  inte- 
rest in  all  that  might  promote  the  virtue  and  true 
honour  of  my  contemporaries  from  youth  to  age." 

Miss  Porter's  last  work  was  "  The  Pastor's  Fire- 
side;" and  she  also  wrote,  in  conjunction  with  her 
sister,  "Tales  round  a  Winter's  Hearth."  She 
contributed  to  many  periodicals;  and  her  "Bio- 
graphical Sketch  of  Colonel  Denham,  the  African 
Traveller,"  in  the  "Naval  and  Military  Journal," 
was  much  admired.  The  genius  of  both  these 
ladies  was  similar  in  kind ;  they  described  scenery 
vividly,  and  in  appeals  to  the  tender  and  heroic 
passions,  were  eflfective  and  successful ;  but  their 
works  want  the  permanent  interest  of  real  life, 
variety  of  character,  and  dialogue. 

The  career  of  Miss  Porter  was  not  marked 
by  any  striking  event ;  she  won  her  celebrity  by 
her  genius,  and  the  excellence  of  her  character 
brightens  the  picture,  and  makes  her  fame  a  bless- 
ing to  her  sex.  Miss  Porter  died  May  24th,  1850, 
at  the  residence  of  her  brother.  Dr.  Porter,  (the 
last  survivor  of  the  family,)  in  Bristol.  She  was 
nearly  seventy-four  years  of  age.  The  following 
is  a  vivid  description  of  the  first  meeting  between 
William  Wallace  and  Helen  Mar : — 

FEOJI    "THE    SCOTTISH    CHIEFS." 

They  proceeded  in  silence  through  the  curvings 
of  the  dell,  till  it  opened  into  a  most  hazardous 
path  along  the  top  of  a  far  extending  cliif  which 
overhung  and  clasped  in  the  western  side  of  a 
deep  loch.  As  they  mounted  the  pending  wall  of 
this  immense  amphitheatre,  Helen  watched  the 
sublime  uprise  of  the  king  of  light  issuing  from 
behind  the  opposite  citadel  of  rocks,  and  borne 
aloft  on  a  throne  of  clouds  that  streaked  the  whole 
horizon  with  floating  gold.  The  herbage  on  the 
cliffs  glittered  with  liquid  emeralds  as  his  beams 
kissed  their  summits ;  and  the  lake  beneath  spar- 

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kled  like  a  sea  of  molten  diamonds.  All  nature 
seemed  to  rejoice  at  the  presence  of  this  magnifi- 
cent emblem  of  the  Most  High.  Her  heart  swelled 
with  devotion,  and  a  prompt  thanksgiving  to  God 
breathed  from  her  lips. 

Such,  thought  she,  0  Sun,  art  thou ! — The  re- 
splendent image  of  the  Giver  of  All  Good.  Thy 
cheering  beams,  like  His  All-cheering  Spirit,  per- 
vades the  very  soul,  and  drives  thence  the  despond- 
ency of  cold  and  darkness.  But,  bright  as  thou 
art,  how  does  the  similitude  fade  before  god- 
like man,  the  true  image  of  his  Maker !  how  far 
do  his  protecting  arms  extend  over  the  desolate ; 
how  mighty  is  the  power  of  his  benevolence  to 
dispense  succour,  and  to  administer  consolation ! 

As  she  thus  mused,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  noble 
mien  of  the  knight,  who,  wrapped  in  his  dark 
mantle  of  mingled  greens,  his  spear  in  his  hand, 
led  the  way  with  a  graceful  but  rapid  step  along 
the  shelving  declivity.  Turning  suddenly  to  the 
left,  he  struck  into  a  broad  defile  between  the  pro- 
digious craggy  mountains,  whose  brown  cheeks 
trickled  with  ten  thousand  rills  from  the  recent 
rains,  seemed  to  weep  over  the  deep  gloom  of  the 
valley  beneath.  Scattered  fragments  of  rocks 
from  the  cliflFs  above  covered  with  their  huge  and 
almost  impassable  masses  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  Not  an  herb  was  to  be  seen ;  all  was 
black,  barren,  and  terrific.  On  entering  this  hor- 
rid pass,  where  no  trace  of  human  footstep  was 
to  be  seen,  Helen  would  have  shuddered  had  she 
not  placed  implicit  confidence  in  her  conductor. 

As  they  advanced,  the  vale  gradually  narrowed, 
and  at  last  shut  them  in  between  two  beetling 
rocks,  that  seemed  just  separated  a-top  to  admit 
a  few  rays  of  the  sun.  A  small  river  flowed  at 
the  bottom,  amid  which  the  bases  of  the  moun- 
tains showed  their  union  by  the  malignity  of  many 
a  rugged  cliff  projecting  upwards  in  a  variety  of 
strange  and  hideous  forms.  Among  this  chaos  of 
nature,  the  men  who  carried  Helen  with  diiSculty 
found  a  safe  footing.  However,  after  frequent 
stops  and  unremitted  caution,  they  at  last  extri- 
cated themselves  from  the  most  intricate  path, 
and  more  lightly  followed  their  chief  into  a  less 
gloomy  part  of  this  valley  of  stones.  The  knight 
stopped,  and  approaching  the  bier,  told  Helen 
they  had  arrived  at  the  end  of  their  journey. 

"In  the  heart  of  that  cliflF,"  said  he,  "is  the 
hermit's  cell ;  a  desolate  shelter,  but  a  safe  one. 
Old  age  and  poverty  yield  no  temptations  to  the 
enemies  of  Scotland." 

As  he  spoke,  the  venerable  man,  who  had  heard 
voices  beneath,  appeared  on  the  rock ;  and  while 
his  tall  and  majestic  figure,  clad  in  grey,  moved 
forward,  and  his  long  silver  beard  flowed  from  his 
saintly  countenance,  and  streamed  upon  the  air, 
he  seemed  the  bard  of  Morven,  issuing  from  his 
cave  of  shells  to  bid  a  hero's  welcome  to  the  young 
and  warlike  Oscar. 

"  Bless  thee,  my  son,"  cried  he,  as  he  descended, 
"what  good  or  evil  accident  hath  returned  thee 
so  soon  to  these  solitudes  ?" 

The  knight  briefly  replied,  "After  I  left  you 
yester-night,  and  had  again  gained  the  heights 
over  Hay's  cottage,  I  was  leading  my  men  along 


their  brow,  when  I  heard  a  woman  scream.  I 
listened  for  a  moment ;  the  shrieks  were  redoubled. 
The  sound  proceeded  from  the  other  side  of  the 
chasm ;  I  remembered  having  in  the  morning  seen 
a  felled  tree  over  it,  and  now  rushing  across,  by 
Heaven's  assistance  freed  this  lady  from  a  ravish- 
er;  and  I  bi'ing  her  to  you  for  protection." 

Helen  stepped  ofl"  the  bier ;  the  hermit  took  her 
by  the  hand,  and  graciously  promised  her  every 
service  in  his  power.  He  then  preceded  the  knight, 
whose  firmer  arm  supported  her  up  the  rock,  to 
the  outer  apartment  of  the  cell. 

A  holy  awe  struck  her  as  she  entered  this  place, 
dedicated  wholly  to  God.  A  stone  altar  stood 
before  her,  supporting  a  wooden  crucifix,  and  a 
superb  illuminated  missal  which  lay  open  upon  it. 
In  a  basin  cut  in  a  rock,  was  the  consecrated 
water,  with  which  every  night  and  morn  this  pious 
man,  in  emblem  of  the  purifying  blood  of  Christ, 
(the  Living  Fountain  of  Salvation,)  was  accus- 
tomed, with  mingled  tears  of  penitence,  to  wash 
away  the  sins  of  the  day.  Helen  bowed  and 
crossed  herself  as  she  entered.  And  the  hermit 
observing  her  devotion,  blessed  her,  and  bade  her 
welcome  to  the  abode  of  peace. 

"Here,  daughter,"  said  he,  "has  one  son  of 
persecuted  Scotland  found  a  refuge.  There  is 
nought  alluring  in  these  wilds  to  attract  the 
spoiler.  The  green  herb  is  all  the  food  they  af- 
ford, and  the  limpid  water  the  best  beverage." 

"Ah!"  returned  Helen,  with  grateful  anima- 
tion, "  I  would  to  heaven  that  all  who  love  the 
freedom  of  Scotland  were  now  within  this  glen ! 
The  herb  and  the  stream  would  be  to  them  the 
sweetest  luxiu'ies,  when  tasted  in  liberty  and  hope. 
My  father,  his  friend"  —  she  stopped,  suddenly 
recollecting  that  she  had  almost  betrayed  the  se- 
crecy she  meant  to  maintain,  and  looking  down, 
remained  in  confused  silence.  The  knight  gazed 
on  her,  and  much  wished  to  penetrate  what  she 
concealed  ;  but  delicacy  forbade  him  to  urge  her 
again.  He  spoke  not ;  but  the  hermit  being  igno- 
rant of  her  reluctance  to  reveal  her  family,  re- 
sumed. 

"  I  do  not  express  wonder,  gentle  lady,  that  you 
spake  in  terms  which  tell  me  that  even  your  sex 
feels  the  galling  chains  of  Edward.  Who  is  there 
in  Scotland  that  does  not?  The  whole  country 
groans  beneath  the  weight  of  his  oppressions;  and 
the  cfuelty  of  his  agents  makes  its  rivulets  run 
with  blood.  Six  months  ago  I  was  abbot  of  Scone  ; 
and  because  I  refused  to  betray  my  trust,  and  re- 
sign the  archives  of  the  kingdom,  lodged  there  by 
our  devout  king  David,  Edward,  the  rebel  anointed- 
of-the-Lord,  the  profaner  of  the  sanctuary,  sent 
his  emissaries  to  sack  the  convent;  to  tear  the 
holy  pillar  of  Jacob  from  its  shi'ine,  and  to  wrest 
from  my  grasp  records  I  refused  to  deliver.  All 
was  done  as  the  usurper  commanded.  I  and  my 
brethren  were  turned  out  upon  the  waste.  We 
retired  to  the  monastery  of  Cambus-Kenneth :  but 
there  the  tyrant  found  us.  Cressingham,  his 
treasurer,  having  seized  on  other  religious  houses, 
determined  to  make  the  plunder  of  this  convent 
swell  the  hoards  of  his  spoil.  In  the  dead  of  night 
his  men  attacked  it:   the  brethren  fled,  but  not 

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until  the  ferocious  wolves,  though  glutted  with 
useless  slaughter,  had  slain  several,  even  at  the 
very  foot  of  the  altar.  All  being  dispersed,  I  knew 
not  whither  to  go.  But  determined  to  fly  far  from 
the  tracks  of  men,  I  took  my  course  over  the  hills, 
discovered  this  valley  of  stones  ;  and  finding  it  fit 
for  my  purpose,  have  for  two  months  lived  alone 
in  this  wilderness." 

"Unhappy  Scotland!"  ejaculated  Helen.  Her 
eyes  had  followed  the  chief,  who  during  this  nar- 
rative leaned  against  the  open  entrance  of  the 
cave.  His  eyes  were  cast  upwards  with  an  ex- 
pression that  made  her  heart  vibrate  with  the  ex- 
clamation which  had  just  escaped  her.  The  knight 
turned  towards  her,  and  approached.  "You  hear 
from  the  lips  of  my  venerable  friend,"  said  he, 
"a  direful  story;  happy  then  am  I,  gentle  lady, 
that  you  and  he  have  a  shelter,  though  a  rough 
one.  The  hours  wear  away,  and  I  must  tear  my- 
self from  this  tranquillity  to  scenes  better  befitting 
a  younger  son  of  the  country  he  deplores.  To 
you,  my  good  father,"  continued  he,  addressing 
the  hermit  in  a  lowered  voice,  "I  commit  this 
sacred  charge ;  Heaven  sent  me  to  be  her  tempo- 
rary guardian ;  and  since  she  allows  me  to  serve 
her  no  farther,  I  confide  her  to  you." 

Helen  felt  unable  to  answer.  But  the  Abbot 
spoke :   "  Then  am  I  not  to  see  you  any  more  ?" 

"  That  is  as  heaven  wills,"  replied  he  ;  "  but  as 
it  is  not  likely  on  this  side  the  grave,  my  best 
pledge  of  friendship  is  this  lady.  To  you  she  may 
reveal  what  she  has  withheld  from  me ;  but  in 
either  case  she  is  secure  in  your  goodness." 

"  Rely  on  my  faith,  my  son  ;  and  may  the  Al- 
mighty's shield  hang  on  your  steps!" 

The  knight  kissed  the  reverend  man's  hand ; 
and  turning  to  Helen,  "Farewell,  sweet  lady!" 
said  he.  She  trembled  at  the  words,  and  hardly 
conscious  of  what  she  did,  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  He  took  it,  and  drew  it  towards  his  lips, 
but  checking  himself,  he  only  pressed  it ;  and  in  a 
mournful  voice  added —  "  In  your  prayers,  some- 
times remember  the  most  desolate  of  men  !" 

A  mist  seemed  to  pass  over  the  eyes  of  lady 
Helen.  She  felt  as  if  on  the  point  of  losing  some- 
thing most  precious  to  her.  "  My  prayers  for  my 
preserver  and  my  father's,"  hardly  articulated 
she,  "  shall  ever  be  mingled.  And,  if  ever  it  be 
safe  to  remember  me  —  should  heaven  indeed  arm 
the  patriots  hand — then  my  fatlier  may  be^proud 
to  know  and  thank  the  brave  deliverer  of  his 
child." 

The  knight  paused,  and  looked  with  animation 
upon  her.  "  Then  your  father  is  in  arms,  and 
against  the  tyrant !  Tell  me  where  ?  and  you  see 
before  you  a  man  wlio,  with  his  followers,  is  ready 
to  join  him,  and  lay  down  his  life  in  the  just 
cause!" 

At  this  vehement  declaration,  lady  Helen's  full 
heart  gave  way,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  He 
drew  towards  lier,  and  in  a  moderated  voice  con- 
tinued— "  My  men,  though  few,  are  brave;  they 
are  devoted  to  tlieir  country,  and  are  willing  for 
her  sake  to  follow  me  unto  victory  or  death.  As  I 
am  a  knight,  I  am  sworn  to  defend  the  cause  of 
right ;  and  where  shall  I  so  justly  find  it  as  on  the 


side  of  bleeding,  wasted  Scotland  ?  How  shall  I 
so  well  begin  my  career,  as  in  the  defence  of  her 
injured  sons  ?  Speak,  gentle  lady !  trust  me  with 
your  noble  father's  name,  and  he  shall  not  have 
cause  to  blame  the  confidence  you  repose  in  a 
true,  though  wandering  Scot!" 

"  My  father,"  replied  Helen,  weeping  afresh, 
"is  not  where  your  generous  services  can  reach 
him.  Two  brave  chiefs,  one  a  kinsman  of  my  own, 
and  the  other  his  friend,  are  now  colleagued  to 
free  him.  If  they  fail,  my  whole  house  falls  in 
blood ;  and  to  add  another  victim  to  the  destiny 
which  in  that  case  will  overwhelm  me,  the  thought 
is  beyond  my  strength."  Faint  with  agitation  and 
the  fears  which  now  awakened,  struck  her  with 
consternation,  she  stopped;  and  then  added  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  "Farewell." 

"  Not  till  you  hear  me  further,"  replied  he.  "  I 
repeat,  I  have  now  a  scanty  number  of  followers  ; 
but  I  leave  these  mountains  to  gather  more.  Tell 
me  then  where  I  may  join  these  chiefs  you  speak 
of;  give  me  a  pledge  to  them  that  I  come  from 
you ;  and,  whoever  may  be  your  father,  be  he  but 
a  true  Scot,  I  will  compass  his  release  or  die  in 
the  attempt.  ' 

"  Alas  !  generous  stranger,"  cried  she,  "  to  what 
would  you  persuade  me  ?  You  have  kindred,  you 
say  I  What  right  have  I  to  dispose  of  a  life  that 
must  be  so  dear  to  them  ?  Alas,  you  know  not 
the  peril  that  you  ask  !" 

"  Nothing  is  perilous  to  me,"  replied  he,  with  a 
heroic  smile,  "  that  is  to  serve  my  country.  I 
have  no  interest,  no  joy  but  in  her.  Give  me, 
then,  the  only  happiness  of  which  I  am  capable, 
and  send  me  to  serve  her  by  freeing  one  of  her 
defenders." 

Helen  hesitated.  The  tumult  of  her  mind  dried 
her  tears. 

She  looked  up  with  all  these  inward  agitations 
painted  on  her  cheeks.  His  beaming  eyes  were 
full  of  patriotic  ardour,  while  his  fine  countenance, 
composed  into  a  heavenly  calmness  by  the  sublime 
sentiments  of  unselfish  bravery  which  occupied  his 
soul,  made  him  ajjpear  to  her,  not  as  a  man,  but 
as  a  god. 

"  Fear  not,  lady,"  said  the  hermit,  "that  you 
plunge  your  deliverer  into  any  extraordinary  dan- 
ger, by  involving  him  in  what  you  might  call  a 
rebellion  against  the  usurper.  He  is  already  out- 
lawed by  Edward's  representative  ;  and  knowing 
that,  fear  not  to  confide  your  father's  fate  to 
him." 

"  He  too,  outlawed !"  exclaimed  she;  "wretched 
indeed  is  my  country  when  her  noblest  spirits  are 
denied  the  right  to  live !  Unhappy  are  her  chil- 
dren, when  every  step  they  take  to  regain  what 
has  been  torn  from  them  only  involves  them  in 
deeper  ruin!" 

"  No  country  is  wretched,  sweet  lady,"  returned 
the  knight,  "till  by  a  dastardly  acquiescence  it 
consents  to  its  own  slavery.  Bonds  and  death  are 
the  utmost  of  our  enemy's  malice ;  the  one  is  be- 
yond their  power  to  inflict,  when  a  man  is  deter- 
mined to  die  or  live  free  ;  and  for  the  other,  whicli 
of  us  will  think  that  ruin  which  leads  us  into  the 
blessed  freedom  of  paradise  ?" 

480 


PO 


RA 


Helen  looked  on  the  chief  as  she  used  to  look 
on  her  cousin,  when  expressions  of  virtuous  en- 
thusiasm burst  from  his  lips ;  but  now  it  was 
rather  with  the  gaze  of  admiring  awe,  than  the 
exultation  of  one  youthful  mind  sympathizing 
with  another.  "  You  would  teach  confidence  to 
despair  herself,"  returned  she;  "again  I  hope, 
for  God  does  not  create  in  vain !  You  shall  know 
my  father ;  but  first,  generous  stranger,  let  me 
apprise  you  of  every  danger  with  which  that  know- 
ledge is  surrounded.  He  is  hemmed  in  by  ene- 
mies. Alas,  how  closely  are  they  connected  with 
him !  Not  the  English  only  are  leagued  against 
him,  but  the  most  powerful  of  his  own  country- 
men join  in  the  confederation.  My  unhappy  self 
is  the  victim  of  a  horrid  coalition  between  a 
Southron  chief  and  two  rebel  Scots ;  rebels  to 
their  country !  for  they  sold  my  father  to  capti- 
vity and  perhaps  death ;  and  I,  wretched  I,  was 
the  price.  To  free  him,  the  noblest  of  Scottish 
knights  is  now  engaged ;  but  such  hosts  impede 
him,  that  hope  hardly  dares  hover  over  his  tre- 
mendous path." 

"  Then,"  cried  the  stranger,  "  send  me  to  him. 
Let  my  arm  be  second  to  his  in  the  great  achieve- 
ment. My  heart  yearns  to  meet  a  brother  in  arms 
who  feels  for  Scotland  what  I  do  ;  and  with  such  a 
coadjutor  as  you  speak  of,  I  dare  promise  your 
father  liberty,  and  that  the  power  of  England 
shall  be  shaken." 

Helen's  heart  beat  violently  at  these  words.  "  I 
would  not  refuse  the  union  of  two  such  minds  ;  go 
then  to  the  remotest  point  in  Cartlane  craigs.  But 
alas!  how  can  I  direct  you?"  cried  she,  hastily 
interrupting  herself ;  "  the  passes  are  beset  with 
English ;  and  heaven  knows  whether  at  this  mo- 
ment the  brave  Wallace  survives  to  be  again  the 
deliverer  of  my  father!" 

PORTSMOUTH,  LOUISE  DE  QUE- 
ROUALLE,  DUCHESS  OF, 

One  of  the  mistresses  of  Charles  II.  of  England, 
was  of  a  noble  family  in  Lower  Brittany,  and  ac- 
companied the  duchess  of  Orleans  from  France, 
when  she  went  to  visit  the  court  of  her  brother  in 
1670.  Louise  was  at  this  time  about  twenty-five, 
and  very  beautiful.  Her  appearance,  agreeable 
manners,  and  her  wit,  soon  fascinated  Charles ; 
and  she  remained  with  him,  ostensibly  as  his  mis- 
tress, but  in  reality  as  a  spy  on  his  factions  in  the 
French  interests.  There  is  no  disgraceful  action 
in  the  last  years  of  her  royal  lover,  in  which  she 
does  not  appear  as  a  principal  mover.  She  was 
raised  to  the  highest  honours  of  the  land  by 
Charles,  while  the  French  king  also  bestowed  on 
her  the  duchy  of  Aubign6  in  France.  Her  pen- 
sions and  profits  were  enormous.  In  1675,  her 
young  son  was  created  duke  of  Richmond  and 
Lennox.  Her  influence  over  the  heart  and  politics 
of  Charles  continiied  unshaken  to  the  last.  On 
his  death,  in  1685,  the  duchess  went  to  Paris, 
where  her  extravagance  finally  ruined  her,  and 
she  had  to  depend  for  subsistence  on  a  pension 
from  the  French  government.  She  died  at  Au- 
bign(5  in  France,  1794,  in  her  ninetieth  year;  a 
2F 


long  life  of  sin  and  shame,  in  which  not  an  act  is 
recorded  that  excites  our  pity  or  admiration. 

POZZO,    ISABELLA   DAL, 

Was  a  native  of  Turin,  where,  in  the  church  of 
St.  Francesco,  is  a  picture  painted  by  her,  repre- 
senting the  Virgin  and  Cliild,  with  several  Saints. 
The  date  of  this  piece  is  1666  and  it  is  highly 
esteemed. 

PRIE,    N.    DE    BERTELOT,    MAR- 
CHIONESS  DE, 

Was  mistress  to  the  duke  of  Bourbon,  kinsman 
and  prime  minister  to  Louis  XV.  The  passions 
of  this  prince  were  stronger  than  his  judgment ; 
they  had  rendered  him  the  slave  of  his  beautiful 
mistress,  who  governed  in  his  name.  Madame  de 
Prie's  ambition  had  first  induced  her  to  endeavour 
to  fascinate  the  regent ;  but  on  learning  that  he 
allowed  his  mistresses  no  political  influence,  slie 
directed  all  her  powers  of  seduction  towards  the 
duke  of  Bourbon.  Jealous  of  the  influence  of 
Fleury,  bishop  of  Frejus,  over  his  pupil,  the  young 
Louis  XV.,  she  induced  her  lover  to  remove  him 
from  the  court.  Louis  fell  into  a  deep  melancholy 
when  he  discovered  that  his  beloved  preceptor  was 
gone  ;  but  upon  being  reminded  by  a  courtier  that 
he  could  recall  him,  the  king  took  the  hint,  and 
Fleury  returned  from  exile.  Prompted  by  his  per- 
sonal fears,  as  well  as  by  a  sense  of  duty,  Fleury 
exposed  to  his  pupil  the  conduct  of  the  duke  of 
Bourbon  and  his  mistress,  and  they  were  sent  to 
different  places  of  exile.  Madame  de  Prie  sur- 
vived her  exile  only  one  week.  She  died  in  1727, 
according  to  Voltaire  of  ennui ;  according  to  other 
accounts  of  poison,  administered  by  her  own  hand. 

PRITCHARD,    HANNAH, 

An  eminent  English  actress,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Vaughan,  was  born  about  1711.  She  went  on 
the  London  stage  when  very  young,  and  excelled 
in  both  tragedy  and  comedy,  especially  the  latter. 
She  died  in  1768. 


R. 

RADCLIFFE,    ANN, 

A  CELEBRATED  romance  writer,  whose  genius 
and  amiability  adds  lustre  to  the  glory  of  her  sex, 
was  born  in  London,  July  9th,  1764.  She  was  the 
only  child  of  respectable  parents,  William  and 
Ann  Wood  ;  and  in  her  twenty-third  year  married 
Mr.  William  Radcliff'e,  who  was  brought  up  to  the 
bar,  but  subsequently  became  proprietor  and  editor 
of  the  English  Chronicle.  The  peculiar  bent  of 
the  genius  of  Mrs.  RadcliflFe  was  not  manifested 
till  after  her  marriage ;  though  she  had,  from 
childhood,  displayed  extraordinary  powers  of 
mind.  That  her  husband  encouraged  and  pro- 
moted her  literary  pursuits  is  probable,  indeed 
certain ;  with  her  love  of  home  and  delicacy  of 
moral  sentiment,  she  would  never  have  pressed 
onward  in  a  career  of  public  authorsliip  which  he 

481 


RA 


RA 


.lid  not  approve.  Her  first,  "  The  Castles  of 
Athlin  and  Dunbayne,"  was  published  in  1789, 
two  years  after  her  marriage.  This  romance  did 
not  indicate  very  high  talent;  but  "The  Sicilian 
Romance,"  published  the  following  year,  showed 
a  decided  development  of  intellectual  power.  It 
excited  deep  interest,  attracting  by  its  romantic 
and  numerous  adventures,  and  its  beautiful  de- 
scriptions of  scenery.  The  "  Romance  of  the  Fo- 
rest" appeared  in  1791  ;  and  "  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho"  in  1794.  This  was  the  most  popular  of 
her  performances,  and  is  generally  considered  her 
best.     "The  Italian"  was  published  in  1797. 

In  examining  these  varied  productions,  all  writ- 
ten in  the  course  of  ten  years,  we  are  struck  with 
the  evident  progress  of  her  mind,  and  the  gradual 
mastery  her  will  obtained  over  the  resources  of 
her  imagination.  She  had  invented  a  new  style 
of  romance,  equally  distinct  from  the  old  tales  of 
chivalry  and  magic,  and  from  modern  representa- 
tions of  credible  incidents  and  living  manners. 
Her  works  exhibit,  in  part,  the  charms  of  each 
species  of  composition,  interweaving  the  miracu- 
lous with  the  probable  in  consistent  narrative,  and 
breathing  a  tenderness  and  beauty  peculiarly  her 
own.  She  occupies  that  middle  region  between 
the  mighty  dreams  of  the  heroic  ages  and  the 
realities  of  her  own,  which  remained  to  be  pos- 
sessed, filled  it  with  glorious  imagery,  and  raised 
it  to  the  sublimity  of  Fancy's  creative  power  by 
the  awe  of  the  supernatural,  which  she,  beyond 
any  writer  of  romances,  knew  how  to  inspire. 

One  of  her  biographers  had  well  observed,  that 
"her  works,  in  order  to  produce  their  greatest 
impression,  should  be  read  first,  not  in  childhood, 
for  which  they  are  too  substantial ;  nor  at  mature 
age,  for  which  they  may  seem  too  visionary ;  but 
at  that  delightful  period  of  youth,  when  the  soft 
twilight  of  the  imagination  harmonizes  with  the 
luxurious  and  uncertain  light  cast  on  their  won- 
ders. By  those  who  come  at  such  an  age  to  their 
perusal,  they  will  never  be  forgotten." 

In  the  summer  of  1794,  she  made  a  tour,  in 
company  with  her  husband,  through  Holland  and 
the  western  frontier  of  Germany,  returning  down 
the  Rhine.  This  was  the  first  and  only  occasion 
on  which  she  quitted  England,  though  the  vivid- 
ness of  her  descriptions  of  Italy,  Switzerland,  and 
the  south  of  France,  in  wliich  her  scenes  are  prin- 
cipally laid,  induced  a  general  belief  that  she  had 
.visited  those  countries.  After  their  return  from 
the  continent,  she  made  a  tour  to  the  English 
lakes,  and  published  her  notes  in  a  quarto  volume, 
which  met  with  a  favourable  reception. 

The  great  and  almost  universal  popularity  of 
her  writings,  never  inflated  the  vanity  of  Mrs. 
Radclifi'e ;  her  private  life  seems  to  have  been 
peculiarly  calm  and  sequestered.  Declining  the 
personal  notorietj^  that  usually  attaches  in  the 
■society  of  London  to  literary  merit,  she  sought 
her  chief  pleasur'es  and  occupations  in  the  bosom 
of  her  family.  After  the  publication  of  her  last 
novel,  "  The  Italian,"  in  1797,  she  retired  from 
the  world  of  letters,  and  for  the  remainder  of  her 
life  persisted  in  refusing  to  write,  or  at  any  rate 
to  publish  another.     The  report  that  she  was  de- 


ranged, in  consequence  of  an  excited  imagination, 
was  founded  simply  on  her  love  of  home  and 
quietude.  She  was  beautiful  in  her  person,  and 
much  beloved  by  those  who  were  favoured  by  her 
intimacy.  Educated  in  the  principles  of  the 
church  of  England,  she  was  pious  and  sincere  in 
her  attachment  to  the  services  of  religion.  During 
the  last  twelve  years  of  her  life,  she  suffered  much 
from  a  spasmodic  asthma,  whicli  gradually  under- 
mined her  health.  She  died  February  7th,  1823, 
aged  fifty-eight. 

The  poetic  richness  of  Mrs.  RadclifiFe's  genius 
has  been  acknowledged  by  many  literary  names 
of  eminence.  In  her  own  time,  the  author  of 
"  The  Pursuits  of  Literature,"  a  critic  usually  very 
sparing  of  praise,  gave  her  the  very  highest  tri- 
bute of  admiration,  pronouncing  her  a  jjoetess  the 
Florentine  muses  would  have  honoured ;  and  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  in  quoting  this  eulogium,  confirms  it 
with  his  own  opinion.  Lord  Byron,  speaking  of 
his  early  poetical  associations  with  Venice,  puts 
her  in  the  same  line  with  the  most  illustrious 
bards — 

"  And  Otway,  RadcUffc,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me." 

But  Lord  Byron  paid  her  a  still  higher  compli- 
ment than  this  ;  he  adopted  some  of  her  images, 
and  incorporated  them  in  Childe  Harold ;  and  in 
that  beautiful  poem,  the  passages  inspired  by  Mrs. 
Radclifi'e  are  not  the  least  to  be  admired.  AVho- 
ever  will  read  the  account  of  Emily's  arrival  at 
Venice,  and  then  will  turn  to  the  opening  of  the 
fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  will  see  how  tlie 
romance  has  "stamped"  its  impressions  on  the 
author  of  the  "Romaunt." 

Let  us  cite  from  the  very  first  stanza  : 
"  I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise. 
As  from  the  stroke  of  an  enchanter's  wand." 

Now  from  the  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  :" 
"Its  terraces,  crowned  with  aiiy  yet  majestic  fabrics,  ap- 
peared as  if  they  had  been  called  up  from  the  ocean  by  the 
wand  of  an  enchanter." 

STANZA    TWEXTY-SETEX. 

"  The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night- 
Sunset  divides  the  day  with  her;  a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains:" 

***** 

Byron's  exquisite  description  is  too  well  known 
to  need  the  entire  transcription ;  but  after  his  ad- 
mirable picture  of  "contending  day  and  night," 

he  says : 

"Gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose. 
Which  streams   upon   her  stream,  and   glassed   williin   it 
glows — 
****** 
Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  wliich,  from  afar. 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  stars, 
Their  magical  variety  difliise. 
And  now  they  change;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains.    Parting  day — "  &:c.  &c. 

"The  sun  sinking  in  the  west,  tinted  the  waves  and  lofty 
mountains  of  Friuli,  which  skirt  the  northern  shores  of  the 
Adriatic,  with  a  saffron  glow,  while  on  the  marble  porticos 
and  colonnades  o(f  St.  Mark  were  thrown  the  rich  lights  and 
shades  of  evening." 

****** 

482 


RA 


RA 


"  The  sliadow  of  the  earth  stole  gradually  over  the  waves, 
and  then  up  the  towering  sides  of  the  mountains,  till  it  ex- 
tinguished even  the  last  upward  beams  that  had  lingered  on 
their  summits,  and  the  melancholy  purple  of  evening  drew 
over  them  like  a  thin  veil.  How  deep,  how  beautiful  was 
the  tranquillity  that  wrapped  the  scene  !  All  nature  seemed 
lo  repose  !" — Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  chap.  15. 

The  poetical  thought  of  a  landscape  seen  by  the 
dying  day  and  rising  eve,  was  due  to  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe,  the  localities  being  the  same  with  those  of 
Byron.  Unquestionably  his  picture  is  more  rich 
in  imagery,  more  glowing  and  more  detailed,  and 
has  the  added  charm  of  rhythm ;  but  Mrs.  Radcliffe 
suggested  the  train  of  fancy,  and  her  passage  may 
be  aWoyj^d.  pretty  well  for  a  looman. 

DESCRIPTION    OF    THE    CASTLE    OF    UDOLPHO. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  the  road  wound 
into  a  deep  valley.  Mountains,  whose  shaggy 
steeps  appeared  to  be  inaccessible,  almost  sur- 
rounded it.  To  the  east  a  vista  opened,  and  exhi- 
bited the  Apennines  in  their  darkest  horrors  ;  and 
the  long  perspective  of  retiring  summits  rising 
over  each  other,  their  ridges  clothed  with  pines, 
exhibited  a  stronger  image  of  grandeur  than  any 
that  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just  sunk 
below  the  top  of  the  mountains  she  was  descend- 
ing, whose  long  shadow  stretched  atliwart  the 
valley ;  but  his  sloping  rays,  shooting  through  an 
opening  of  the  cliffs,  touched  with  a  yellow  gleam 
the  summits  of  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the  op- 
posite steeps,  and  streamed  in  full  splendour  upon 
the  towers  and  battlements  of  a  castle  that  spread 
its  extensive  ramparts  along  the  brow  of  a  preci- 
pice above.  The  splendour  of  these  illumined 
objects  was  heightened  by  the  contrasted  shade 
which  involved  the  valley  below. 

"  There,"  said  Montoni.  speaking  for  the  iirst 
time  in  several  hours,  "is  Udolpho." 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the 
castle,  which  she  understood  to  be  Montoni's  ;  for, 
though  it  was  now  lighted  up  by  the  setting  sun, 
the  Gothic  greatness  of  its  features,  and  its  moul- 
dering walls  of  dark  grey  stone,  rendered  it  a 
gloomy  and  sublime  object.  As  she  gazed,  the 
light  died  away  on  its  walls,  leaving  a  melancholy 
purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper  and  deeper  as 
the  thin  vapour  crept  up  the  mountain,  while  the 
battlements  above  were  still  tipped  with  splendour. 
From  these,  too,  the  rays  soon  faded,  and  the 
whole  edifice  was  invested  with  the  solemn  duski- 
ness of  evening.  Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it 
seemed  to  stand  the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and 
to  frown  defiance  on  all  who  dared  to  invade  its 
solitary  reign.  As  the  twilight  deepened,  its  fea- 
tures became  more  awful  in  obscurity,  and  Emily 
continued  to  gaze  till  its  clustering  towers  were 
alone  seen  rising  over  the  tops  of  the  woods,  be- 
neath whose  thick  shade  the  carriages  soon  after 
began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  «f  these  tall  woods 
awakened  terrific  images  in  her  mind,  and  she 
almost  expected  to  see  banditti  start  up  from  un- 
der the  trees.  At  length  the  carriages  emerged 
upon  a  heathy  rock,  and  soon  after  reached  the 
castle  gates,  where  the  deep  tone  of  the  portal 
bell,  which  was  struck  upon  to  give  notice  of  their 


arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions  that  had 
assailed  Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the  servant 
within  should  come  to  open  the  gates,  she  anxiovisly 
surveyed  the  edifice ;  but  the  gloom  that  overspread 
it  allowed  her  to  distinguish  little  more  than  a 
part  of  its  outline,  with  the  massy  walls  of  the 
ramparts,  and  to  know  that  it  was  vast,  ancient, 
and  dreary.  From  the  parts  she  saw,  she  judged 
of  the  heavy  strength  and  extent  of  the  whole. 
The  gateway  before  her,  leading  into  the  courts, 
was  of  gigantic  size,  and  was  defended  by  two 
round  towers,  crowned  by  overhanging  turrets, 
embattled,  where,  instead  of  banners,  now  waved 
long  grass  and  wild  plants  that  had  taken  root 
among  the  mouldering  stones,  and  which  seemed 
to  sigh,  as  the  breeze  rolled  past,  over  the  desola- 
tion around  them.  The  towers  were  united  by  a 
curtain,  pierced  and  embattled  also,  below  which 
appeared  the  pointed  arch  of  a  huge  portcullis 
surmounting  the  gates  ;  from  these  the  walls  of 
the  ramparts  extended  to  other  towers,  overlooking 
the  precipice,  whose  shattered  outline,  appearing 
on  a  gleam  that  lingered  in  the  west,  told  of  the 
ravages  of  war.  Beyond  these  all  was  lost  in  the 
obscurity  of  evening. 

From  "  The  Italian." 

ENGLISH    TRAVELLERS    VISIT    A    NEAPOLITAN 

CHURCH. 

AVithin  the  shade  of  the  portico,  a  person  with 
folded  arms,  and  eyes  directed  towards  the  ground, 
was  pacing  behind  the  pillars  the  whole  extent  of 
the  pavement,  and  was  apparently  so  engaged  by 
his  own  thoughts  as  not  to  observe  that  strangers 
were  approaching.  He  turned,  however,  suddenly, 
as  if  startled  by  the  sound  of  steps,  and  then, 
without  farther  pausing,  glided  to  a  door  that 
opened  into  the  church,  and  disappeared. 

There  was  something  too  extraordinary  in  the 
figure  of  this  man,  and  too  singular  in  his  conduct, 
to  pass  unnoticed  by  the  visitors.  He  was  of  a  tall 
thin  figure,  bending  forward  from  the  shoulders  ; 
of  a  sallow  complexion  and  harsh  features ;  and 
had  an  eye  which,  as  it  looked  up  from  the  cloak 
that  muflled  the  lower  part  of  his  countenance, 
was  expressive  of  uncommon  ferocity. 

The  travellers,  on  entering  the  church,  looked 
round  for  the  stranger  who  had  passed  thither 
before  them,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  and 
through  all  the  shade  of  the  long  aisles  only  one 
other  person  appeared.  This  was  a  friar  of  the 
adjoining  convent,  who  sometimes  pointed  out  to 
strangers  the  objects  in  the  church  which  were 
most  worthy  of  attention,  and  who  now,  with  this 
design,  approached  the  party  that  had  just  en- 
tered. 

"When  the  party  had  viewed  the  difi'erent  shrines, 
and  whatever  had  been  judged  worthy  of  observa- 
tion, and  were  returning  through  an  obscure  aisle 
towards  the  portico,  they  perceived  the  person 
who  had  appeared  upon  the  steps  passing  towards 
a  confessional  on  the  left ;  and  as  he  entered  it, 
one  of  the  party  pointed  him  out  to  the  friar,  and 
enquired  who  he  was.  The  friar,  turning  to  look 
after  him,  did  not  immediately  reply ;  but  on  the 
question  being  repeated,  he  inclined  his  head  as 

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in  a  kind  of  obeisance,  and  calmly  replied,  "  He 
is  an  assassin." 

"An  assassin!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  English- 
men ;   "  an  assassin,  and  at  liberty  ?" 

An  Italian  gentleman  who  was  of  the  party 
smiled  at  the  astonishment  of  his  friend. 

"  He  has  sought  sanctuary  here,"  replied  the 
friar;  "  within  these  walls  he  may  not  be  hurt." 

"Do  your  altars,  then,  protect  a  murderer?" 
said  the  Englishman. 

"  He  could  find  shelter  nowhere  else,"  answered 
the  friar  meekly. 

***** 

"But  observe  yonder  confessional,"  added  the 
Italian,  "  that  beyond  the  pillars  on  the  left  of  the 
aisle,  below  a  painted  window.  Have  j'ou  disco- 
vered it  ?  The  colours  of  the  glass  throw,  instead 
of  a  light,  a  shade  over  that  part  of  the  church, 
which  pei'haps  prevents  your  distinguishing  what 
I  mean." 

The  Englishman  looked  whither  his  friend  point- 
ed, and  obsei-ved  a  confessional  of  oak,  or  some 
very  dark  wood,  adjoining  the  wall,  and  remarked 
also  that  it  was  the  same  which  the  assassin  had 
just  entered.  It  consisted  of  three  compartments, 
covered  with  a  black  canopj'.  In  the  central  divi- 
sion was  the  chair  of  the  confessor,  elevated  by 
several  steps  above  the  pavement  of  the  church ; 
and  on  either  hand  was  a  small  closet  or  box,  with 
steps  leading  up  to  a  grated  partition,  at  which 
the  penitent  might  kneel,  and,  concealed  from  ob- 
servation, pour  into  the  ear  of  the  confessor  the 
consciousness  of  crimes  that  lay  heavy  at  his  heart. 

"  You  observe  it?"  said  the  Italian. 

"I  do,"  replied  the  Englishman;  "it  is  the 
same  which  the  assassin  had  passed  into,  and  I 
think  it  one  of  the  most  gloomy  spots  I  ever  be- 
held ;  the  view  of  it  is  enough  to  strike  a  criminal 
with  despair." 

"  We  in  Italy  are  not  so  apt  to  despair,"  replied 
the  Italian,  smilingly. 

"  AVell,  but  what  of  this  confessional  ?"  inquired 
the  Englishman.      "  The  assassin  entered  it." 

"  He  has  no  relation  with  what  I  am  about  to 
mention,"  said  the  Italian;  "but  I  wish  you  to 
mark  the  place,  because  some  very  extraordinary 
circumstances  belong  to  it." 

"What  are  they?"  said  the  Englishman. 

"It  is  now  several  years  since  the  confession 
which  is  connected  with  them  was  made  at  that 
very  confessional,"  added  the  Italian;  "the  view 
of  it,  and  the  sight  of  the  assassin,  with  your  sur- 
prise at  the  liberty  which  is  allowed  him,  led  me 
to  a  recollection  of  the  story.  When  you  return 
to  the  hotel  I  will  communicate  it  to  you,  if  you 
have  no  pleasanter  mode  of  engaging  your  time." 

"After  I  have  taken  another  view  of  this  so- 
lemn edifice,"  replied  the  Englishman,  "and  par- 
ticularly of  the  confessional  you  have  pointed  to 
my  notice." 

AVhile  the  Englishman  glanced  his  eye  over  the 
high  roofs  and  along  the  solemn  perspectives  of 
the  Santa  del  Pianto,  he  perceived  the  figure  of 
the  assassin  stealing  from  the  confessional  across 
the  choir,  and,  shocked  on  again  beholding  him, 
he  turned  his  eyes  and  hastily  quitted  the  church. 


The  friends  then  separated,  and  the  Englishman 
soon  after  returning  to  his  hotel,  received  the  vo- 
lume.    He  read  as  follows. 

After  such  an  introduction,  who  could  fail  to 
continue  the  perusal  of  the  story  ?  Scott  has  said 
that  one  of  the  fine  scenes  in  "  The  Italian,"  where 
Schedoni  the  monk  (an  admirably-drawn  charac- 
ter) is  "in  the  act  of  raising  his  arm  to  murder 
his  sleeping  victim,  and  discovers  her  to  be  his 
own  child,  is  of  a  new,  grand,  and  powerful  cha- 
racter ;  and  the  horrors  of  the  wretch  who,  on  the 
brink  of  murder,  has  just  escaped  from  committing 
a  crime  of  yet  more  exaggerated  horror,  constitute 
the  strongest  painting  which  has  been  produced 
by  Mrs.  Radcliff'e's  pencil,  and  form  a  crisis  well 
fitted  to  be  actually  embodied  on  canvass  by  some 
great  master."  This  has  been  done  by  an  Ameri- 
can artist,  the  late  Washington  Allston.  The  pic- 
ture is  one  of  great  merit,  eflTect,  and  beauty. 

RAMBOUILLET,  CATHARINE   DE  VIVONNE, 
MARCHIONESS   DE, 

Was  the  wife  of  Charles  d'Angennes,  marquis 
de  Rambouillet.  She  was  virtuous  and  intellec- 
tual, and  her  house  the  resort  of  all  men  of  learn- 
ing. There  the  great  Corneille  read  his  tragedies, 
and  there  Bossuet,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  displayed 
those  oratorical  talents  for  which  he  afterwards 
became  so  celebrated.  She  lived  in  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

RAMSAY,    MARTHA   LAURENS, 

Was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  November  3d, 
1759.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Henry  Laurens, 
whose  ancestors  were  Huguenots.  She  spent  ten 
years  in  England  and  France,  during  the  latter 
part  of  which  time  she  resided  at  Paris  with  her 
father,  who  was  acting  there  as  minister  pleni- 
potentiary from  this  country.  While  there,  her 
father  gave  her  five  hundred  guineas,  the  greater 
part  of  which  she  employed  in  pm-chasing  French 
Testaments  for  distribution,  and  in  establishing  a 
school.  She  returned  to  Charleston  in  1785,  and 
in  1787  married  Dr.  David  Ramsay.  Mrs.  Ram- 
say was  a  woman  of  piety,  learning,  and  great 
benevolence.  She  assisted  her  husband  in  his 
literary  pursuits,  fitted  her  sons  for  college,  and 
performed  all  her  domestic  duties  in  the  most 
exemplary  manner,  showing  herself  a  pattern  for 
her  sex,  and  proving  how  salutary  the  enlightened 
moral  influence  of  woman  may  become.  She  died 
in  June,  1811,  aged  fifty-one. 

From  her  published  correspondence,  we  give  a 
few 

LETTERS  TO  HER  SON  AT  COLLEGE. 

June  1.3,  1810. 
An  open,  candid  disposition  endears  a  young 
person  much  to  his  friends,  and  must  make  him 
very  comfortable  to  himself.  That  sort  of  reserve 
which  arises  from  a  consciousness  of  having  wasted 
the  time  which  ought  to  have  been  devoted  to 
study ;  and  being  consequently  unprepared  for  an- 
swering any  questions  proposed  ;  or  from  a  sullen, 
unyielding  temper,  which  shrinks  from  investiga- 

484 


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tion,  except  wheu,  proceeding  from  tutors  and 
masters,  it  cannot  be  avoided,  is  a  reserve  so  un- 
lovely that  I  witness  it  with  pain,  and  I  do  most 
earnestly  beseech  you  to  strive  against  such  a 
temper,  which,  if  unresisted  and  unsubdued,  will 
show  itself  on  a  thousand  occasions  besides  that 
specified  above.  Even  an  incorrect  answer,  if 
given  in  an  amiable  tone  of  voice,  indicating  a  de- 
sire to  be  set  right  if  found  in  error,  is  preferable 
to  silence,  or  to  an  unwilling  reply,  even  if  a  cor- 
rect one.  God  has  given  you  an  excellent  under- 
standing. Oh,  make  use  of  it  for  wise  purposes ; 
acknowledge  it  as  his  gift ;  and  let  it  regulate 
your  conduct,  and  harmonize  your  passions.  Be 
industrious ;  be  amiable.  Every  act  of  self-denial 
will  bring  its  own  reward  with  it,  and  make  the 
next  step  in  duty  and  in  virtue  easier  and  more 
pleasant  than  the  former. 


TO    THE    SAME. 

July  ]8,  1810, 

From  the  tenor  of  your  last  letter,  it  may  be 
fairly  inferred  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  the 
strictness  of  a  collegiate  course ;  and  if  you  should 
not  go  through  a  collegiate  course,  what  then  ? 
Can  3"ou  go  through  any  virtuous  course  without 
economy,  industry,  and  self-denial  ?  Can  you  fit 
yourself  for  usefulness  on  earth,  or  happiness  in 
heaven,  in  any  other  way  than  doing  your  duty  in 
the  station  in  which  God  has  placed  you  ?  And 
if  your  chief  ambition  is,  without  caring  whether 
you  are  as  wise  or  good,  to  wish  at  least  to  be 
richer  than  your  father  and  mother,  will  not  a 
diligent  attention  to  collegiate  studies  and  duties 
be  the  readiest  method  to  fit  you  for  such  emi- 
nence, in  whatever  profession  you  choose,  as  shall 
enable  you  to  attain  this  golden  treasure?  I  as- 
sure you,  many  young  men  with  less  means  than 
j'ou  have,  or  are  likely  to  have,  (for  nothing  really 
necessary  or  comfortable,  I  trust  in  Providence, 
shall  be  wanting  to  you,)  have  felt  it  a  great  pri- 
vilege to  go  through  a  collegiate  course,  and  have 
afterward  come  to  be  eminent,  respectable,  and 
wealthy. 

I  would  never  wish  my  judgment  to  be  warped 
by  my  feelings,  especially  by  offended  feelings,  to 
do  any  tiling  harsh.  I  would  rather  even  have  it 
blinded  by  such  affection  for  my  dear  children,  as 
would  make  my  tenderness  overstep,  perhaps,  the 
exact  bound  of  maternal  prudence ;  both  extremes 
would  be  best  avoided.  "Give  me  thine  heart, 
my  son,"  is  the  language  of  Scripture;  and  where 
there  is  any  heart  worth  giving  or  worth  having, 
I  believe  it  is  seldom  refused  to  the  autliors  of  our 
being,  the  protectors  of  our  infancy ;  to  the  father, 
whose  fond  ambition  it  is  to  see  his  son  distin- 
guished in  life ;  the  mother,  who,  with  a  throbbing 
heart  and  moistened  eye,  is  continually  addressing 
the  throne  of  heaven  for  the  welfare  of  her  dear 
child  ;  and  to  the  sisters,  ever  ready  to  reciprocate 
the  tender  chai-ities  of  domestic  endearment,  and 
ever  cheerfully  sacrificing  something  of  their  own 
convenience  for  the  advancement  of  their  brothers. 
I  pray  God  to  bless  you,  and  to  give  you  grace  to 
make  a  good  use  of  an  understanding,  which  I  am 


sure  you  possess,  to  give  a  right  bias  to  energies 
and  sensibilities,  which,  wrongly  directed,  will 
make  you  foolish  and  miserable.  With  sincere 
prayers  for  your  improvement  in  wisdom  and  vir- 
tue, wishing  you  an  affectionate  heart  and  indus- 
trious habits,  I  remain  your  faithful  friend,  your 
tender  mother. 


FROM  SEVERAL  LETTERS  TO  THE  SAME. 

Your  vacation  is  now  at  no  great  distance.  I 
hope  you  are  not  trifling  away  this  prime  of  your 
days,  content  with  such  attainments  as  will  excuse 
you  from  censure ;  but  emulous  of  ranking  with 
the  most  studious,  most  prudent,  and  most  vir- 
tuous of  your  companions.  I  wish  I  could  inspire 
you  with  a  laudable  ambition,  and  with  feelings 
that  would  make  you  avoid  any  unnecessary  inter- 
course with  the  bucks,  the  fops,  the  idlers  of  col- 
lege ;  and  think  that  the  true  intention  of  going 
to  a  seminary  of  learning  is  to  attain  science,  and 
fit  you  hereafter  to  rank  among  men  of  literary 
and  public  consequence. 

***** 

Could  you  know  my  anxiety  about  you,  inde- 
pendently of  nobler  motives,  I  think  even  a  spirit 
of  compassion  for  an  afflicted  friend  would  make 
you  conduct  j'ourself  wisely.  In  the  course  of  a 
life,  not  yet  very  long,  I  have  seen  many  young 
persons,  with  every  j^ossible  advantage  for  culti- 
vating their  talents,  improving  their  minds,  and 
becoming  estimable  members  of  society,  lost  to 
themselves,  a  disgrace  to  their  friends,  plagues  to 
society,  or  mere  cyphers  in  it,  from  indolence,  a 
slight  manner  of  pursuing  their  studies,  smoking, 
drinking,  an  excessive  love  of  finery,  of  trifling 
company,  or  some  similar  evil  indulged  in,  be- 
tween the  age  of  fifteen  and  twenty.  Oh,  how  I 
shvidder,  and  what  a  death-like  faintness  and  op- 
pression seizes  my  poor  heart,  at  the  thoughts  of 
how  I  stand  in  the  persons  of  sons  exposed  to 
such  a  calamity !  AVith  bended  knees  and  stream- 
ing eyes,  I  pray  my  God  send  me  help,  and  ward 
off  such  a  stroke.  I  have  also  seen  those  who, 
with  very  scanty  means,  and  almost  under  every 
possible  disadvantage,  have,  under  the  smiles  of 
heaven,  been  friends,  money,  advice  to  themselves, 
and  have  risen  to  shine  as  lights  in  the  world. 
Others,  again,  I  have  seen,  who,  not  having  to 
struggle  like  these  last,  constantly  against  wind 
and  tide,  and  supported  only  by  their  own  efforts, 
but  situated  like  yourself  under  happier  circum- 
stances, have  repaid  the  labours  of  a  fatliei',  and 
the  tender  exertions  of  a  mother,  by  doing  their 
part  well,  and  returning  home  from  their  different 
seminaries  of  education,  just  such  as  their  parents 
could  wish.  Oh,  my  God,  grant  that  this  may  be 
the  case  with  us. 

***** 

Your  time  for  improvement  will  be  quickly  past ; 
if  it  is  not  improved,  you  will  find  yourself  grown 
up  with  the  pride  of  what  you  call  a  gentleman ; 
you  will  have  no  patrimony  to  lean  upon ;  your 
natural  talents  will  be  of  comparatively  little  con- 
sequence to  you,  and  you  will  have  no  talents  so 
cultivated,  and  ready  to  be  brought  into  action,  as 

485 


RE 


RE 


to  make  you  capable  of  building  up  a  fortune  for 
yourself;  and  of  all  tlie  mean  objects  in  creation, 
a  lazy,  poor,  proud  gentleman,  especially  if  lie  is 
a  dressy  fellow,  is  the  meanest ;  and  j-et  this  is 
generally  the  character  of  young  men  of  good 
family  and  slender  fortunes,  unless  thej-  take  an 
early  turn  to  learning  and  science. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  could  wish  to  write  you  many  little  local  and 
domestic  matters  of  news  or  amusements,  but 
terrified  as  I  am  by  hearing  nothing  from  you — 
nothing  from  you,  and  interpreting  this,  no  news 
from  a  cherished  son,  as  bad  news  —  my  mind  is 
quite  out  of  tune  for  any  thing  of  the  lighter  kind. 
I  was  so  much  attached  to  my  father,  and  to  the 
uncle  and  aunt  who  brought  me  up,  that  I  lived 
in  the  habit  of  the  greatest  intimacy  with  them ; 
your  sisters  can  hardly  enjoy  a  girlish  note,  or  a 
party  of  pleasure,  unless  mamma  shares  in  it  or 
knows  all  about  it ;  and  this  is  so  generally  the 
case  with  virtuous  and  affectionate  children,  that 
wherever  there  is  silence,  I  dread  lest  there  should 
be  also  mystery.  I  shall  rejoice  to  find  it  other- 
wise in  your  case ;  and  longing  to  hear  from  you, 
and  committing  the  guidance  of  your  youthful 
steps  to  that  God  to  whom  I  pray  for  you  by  day 
and  by  night. 

RANCOURT,   SOPHIE, 

An  eminent  French  actress,  the  daughter  of  an 
actor,  was  born  at  Nancy,  1756.  She  appeared 
at  Paris  in  1772,  and  soon  accjuired  great  celebrity 
in  her  profession.  She  was  imprisoned  during 
the  French  revolution,  in  1793,  for  six  months. 
After  Napoleon's  accession  to  power,  he  took  her 
under  his  protection.  She  died  January  15th 
1815. 

RAVIRA,  FELETTO  ELEONORA,  OF 

C  A  S  A  L  E , 

Was  the  wife  of  George  Feletto,  counsellor  of 
Villa  and  lord  of  ]\Ielazzo.  She  was  very  much 
praised  by  contemporary  authors,  and  has  left 
many  small  poems,  remarkably  well  written.  She 
flourished  in  1559;  but  no  dates  of  the  events  of 
her  life  are  to  be  obtained. 

READ,    CATHARINE, 

Was  an  English  lady,  who  distinguished  herself 
by  portrait-painting,  both  in  oil  and  crayons.  One 
of  her  first  and  best  performances,  was  the  like- 
ness of  Queen  Charlotte,  painted  immediately  after 
her  arrival  in  England.  Another  remarkable  por- 
trait of  her  painting,  was  that  of  the  female  histo- 
rian, Mrs.  Macaulay,  represented  in  the  character 
of  a  Roman  matron,  weeping  over  the  lost  liberties 
of  her  country.  About  1770,  Miss  Read  went  to 
the  East  Indies,  where  she  resided  some  years ; 
but  on  her  retuni,  still  continued  to  exercise  her 
profession  to  extreme  old  age.  She  died  about 
1786. 

RECAMIER,    JEANNE   FRANgOISE   JULIE 
ADELAIDE  BERNARAL, 
Was  born  at  Lyons  in  1778,  and  was  probably 
the  most  beautiful  and  graceful  woman  of  her  day. 


She  married  in  1795,  M.  Recamier,  a  man  of  large 
fortune  Her  house,  at  that  time,  was  resorted  to 
by  all  the  marked  characters  of  Europe ;  and  her 
drawing-room  celebrity  is  perhaps  the  first  of  the 
age.  Her  father  was  imprisoned  for  some  trea- 
sonable dealings  with  the  Chouans,  in  his  capacity 
of  administrator  of  the  ports.  Madame  Recamier 
solicited  his  pardon  from  Napoleon,  who  granted 
his  acquittal,  but  refused  to  reinstate  him.  This 
fascinating  woman  was  accustomed  to  obtain  every- 
thing she  asked  for,  and  she  never  could  forgive 
Bonaparte  for  resisting  her,  though  on  a  point 
where,  what  her  party  termed  his  severity,  seemed 
reasonable  and  necessary.  Her  friends  deny  this 
statement,  and  declare  that  she  never  demanded 
more  than  her  father's  liberty;  and  that  the  real 
origin  of  the  animosity  manifested  by  her  to  the 
hero  was  an  ill-conditioned  jealousy  on  his  part, 
which  made  him  vexed  at  all  admiration  bestowed 
on  othei's,  even  when  a  pretty  woman  was  its  ob- 
ject. Madame  Recamier  was  fondly  attached  to 
the  celebrated  Madame  de  Stael,  and  courageously 
proved  her  friendship  by  going  to  Coppet  at  a 
time  when  it  was  intimated  to  her  that  this  mea- 
sure would  prevent  her  returning  to  Paris ;  as 
Napoleon  included  the  friends  of  Madame  de  Stael 
among  his  own  enemies.  It  was  at  Coppet  that 
prince  Augustus  of  Prussia,  brother  of  the  late 
king,  became  violently  enamoured  of  the  beautiful 
Frenchwoman ;  he  even  attempted  to  persuade 
her  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  M.  Recamier,  that 
she  might  become  his  princess.  Her  religious 
principles  would  not  allow  her  to  listen  with  ap- 
proval to  this  proposal.  After  leaving  Coppet, 
Madame  Recamier  resided  at  Lyons  two  years.  As 
she  determined  to  take  no  steps  for  the  repeal  of 
her  exile,  she  decided  upon  a  journey  to  Italy. 
There,  as  ever3'where  else,  she  was  received  with 
universal  and  lively  admiration.  Painters  copied 
her  loveliness ;  Canova  has  perpetuated  her  fea- 
tures in  marble.  Madame  Recamier's  sentence 
of  banishment  was  never  reversed.  She  returned 
to  Paris  with  the  Bourbons.  After  the  death  of 
INladame  de  Stael  she  took  up  her  residence  at  the 
abbaye  aux  Bois,  where,  though  out  of  the  tumult 
of  dissipated  society,  she  enjoyed  the  intimate 
friendship  and  constant  visits  of  an  extended  circle 
of  literary  and  otherwise  distinguislied  persons. 
Among  these  may  be  mentioned  Chateaubriand 
and  Guizot.  For  some  years  before  her  death  she 
became  blind,  an  afiiiction  which  she  bore  with 
the  most  gracious  serenity ;  never  complaining  of 
it,  except  as  it  prevented  her  attentions  to  her 
friends.  She  died  on  the  10th  of  May,  1849,  of 
the  cholera.  Her  distinguishing  traits  were  an 
extreme  sweetness  of  disposition  and  tenderness 
of  heart,  which  obtained  her  the  afi"ection  of  all 
about  her.  It  should  be  noted  that  she  was  quite 
unspoiled  by  the  homage  that  was  always  paid  to 
her  extraordinary  beauty. 

REEVE,    CLARA, 

A  NOVELIST,  born  in  1738,  at  Ipswich,  was  the 

daughter  of  a  clergyman,  who  gave  her  a  good 

education.     Her  first  work  was  a  translation  of 

Barclay's   "Argenis,"    published   in    1772.     Her 

48G 


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subsequent  productions  are,  "  The  Old  English 
Baron  ;"  "  The  Two  Mentors ;"  "  The  Progress  of 
Romance;"  "The  Exile;"  and  "Memoirs  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Clarendon."  Her  novels  are  all  marked 
by  good  sense  and  pure  morality,  and  were  well 
received  at  the  time  they  were  written,  especially 
"  The  Old  English  Baron,"  on  which  her  fame  now 
almost  exclusively  rests. 

Mr.  Chambers  asserts  that  an  early  admiration 
of  "  The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  induced  Miss  Reeve 
to  imitate  it  in  her  "Gothic  Story."  He  adds  — 
'•  In  some  respect.?  the  lady  has  the  advantage  of 
Walpole ;  her  supernatural  machinery  is  better 
managed,  so  as  to  produce  a  mysteriousness  and 
eflFect ;  but  her  style  has  not  the  point  or  elegance 
of  her  prototype."  Passing  strange  it  would  have 
been,  had  this  retired  country  maiden,  who  had 
only  an  imperfect  education,  the  few  works  and 
opportunities  of  knowledge  accessible  to  a  woman 
in  a  provincial  town,  equalled  Horace  Walpole  in 
the  art  of  composition,  which  he  had  studied  and 
practised  with  all  appliances  and  means  men  of 
station  and  wealth  can  command,  from  his  youth 
till  he  was  nearly  fifty,  before  he  produced  "  The 
Castle  of  Otranto."  That  she  has  not  failed,  but 
rather  excelled  him,  where  genius  only  was  con- 
cerned, is  sufficient  to  ensure  her  fame.  She  was 
much  respected  and  beloved,  and  led  a  very  retired 
quiet  life.     She  died  in  1803. 

REISKE,  ERNESTINE  CHRISTINE, 
Whose  maiden  name  was  Miiller,  was  the  wife 
of  Johann  Jacob  Reiske.  She  was  born,  April  2d, 
173.5,  at  Kumberg,  a  small  town  near  AVittemberg, 
in  Prussian  Saxony.  In  1755,  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  Reiske  at  Leipzic,  where  she  was 
making  a  visit.  Her  beauty,  modesty,  goodness, 
and  love  of  literature,  attracted  the  eminent  scho- 
lar, and,  although  he  was  twenty  years  her  senior, 
they  became  very  much  attached  to  each  other ; 
but,  owing  to  the  war  then  raging  in  Saxony,  they 
were  not  married  till  1704.  In  order  to  help  her 
husband  in  his  literary  labours,  Christine  acquired 
under  his  instructions  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
Latin  and  Greek,  which  rendered  her  of  the  great- 
est assistance  to  him.  She  copied  and  collated  his 
manuscripts,  arranged  the  various  readings  that 
he  had  collected,  and  read  and  corrected  the  proof- 
sheets  of  his  works.  Her  attachment  for  him  and 
her  respect  for  his  memory  are  strongly  shown  in 
the  supplement  to  his  autobiography,  which  she 
completed  from  the  1st  of  January,  1770,  till  his 
death  on  the  14th  of  August,  1774.  The  gratitude 
of  Reiske,  and  the  ardour  of  his  affection,  are  not 
less  strongly  expressed,  both  in  the  autobiography 
just  mentioned  and  in  the  prefaces  to  some  of  his 
works.  'After  the  death  of  Reiske,  his  wife  pub- 
lished several  works  that  he  had  left  unfinished,  and 
also  two  works  of  her  own,  one  called  "Hellas," 
in  1778;  and  the  other,  entitled  "  Zur  Moral:  aus 
dem  Griechischen  ubersatzt  von  E.  C.  Reiske;"  a 
work  containing  translations  from  the  Greek  to  the 
German.  After  her  husband's  death  she  lived  suc- 
cessively at  Leipzic,  Dresden,  and  Brunswick  ;  and 
died  at  Kamberg,  July  27th,  1798,  aged  sixty-three. 


RENARD,    CECILE. 

The  history  of  this  young  girl  exhibits  the 
moral  phenomenon  of  the  apathy  to  all  that  human 
nature  usually  shrinks  from,  which  may  be  pro- 
duced by  living  in  the  constant  atmosphere  of 
danger  and  dismay.  Her  fate  and  conduct  some- 
what, at  first  sight,  resemble  those  of  Charlotte 
Corday ;  but  upon  examination,  nothing  can  be 
more  different.  Charlotte  Corday,  enthusiastic, 
animated,  energetic,  set  about  her  purpose  in  the 
most  sanguine  hopes  of  sacrificing  herself  for  her 
country ;  while  the  aimless  act  of  Cecile  seemed 
produced  by  disgust  of  life,  and  despair  of  im- 
provement in  public  aflairs.  She  was  born  at 
Paris,  the  daughter  of  a  stationer.  She  and  her 
eldest  brother  occupied  themselves  in  the  business 
of  the  shop,  while  the  two  others  were  enlisted  in 
the  army.  Without  possessing  remarkable  beauty, 
her  appearance  was  very  striking  and  agreeable. 
She  was  twenty  years  of  age  when  she  stepiped 
out  of  the  obscurity  of  private  life,  and  brought 
herself  into  the  history  of  Robespierre.  It  has 
been  said  that  her  hatred  to  the  latter  arose  from 
his  causing  the  execution  of  a  young  man  to  whom  ■ 
she  was  attached ;  this  is  an  anecdote  that  wants 
confirmation,  and  it  is  impossible  to  admit  it  as  a 
fact.  The  truth  is,  she  was  educated  in  an  aver- 
sion to  the  terrible  order  of  things  then  prevalent ; 
her  imagination  was  struck  with  the  torrents  of 
blood,  the  frightful  shocks,  that  daily  occurred ; 
and  her  family,  attached  to  the  royalist  party, 
made  its  losses,  and  the  horrors  of  the  existing 
government,  a  constant  theme  of  their  private 
conversations.  Her  fancy  became  morbid,  her 
reason  perverted,  until  she  considered  life  an  in- 
sufferable burden ;  and  she  resolved  to  free  her- 
self from  it,  in  a  way  that  should  manifest  her 
opinions.  AV'ith  this  object,  on  the  23d  of  May, 
1794,  she  went  to  the  house  of  Robespierre,  car- 
rying a  bundle.  AVhen  they  told  her  he  was  out, 
she  declared  he  neglected  his  duties,  and  that  for 
her  part  she  would  give  all  she  possessed  to  have 
a  king.  This,  in  those  days,  was  enough  to  have 
cost  her  a  hundred  lives,  if  she  had  had  them. 
She  was  taken  to  the  comite,  and  asked  what  she 
wanted  with  Robespierre?  "  I  wanted  to  see  how 
a  tyrant  looks."  Why  she  wanted  a  king?  "  Be- 
cause we  have  five  hundred  tyrants,  and  I  prefer 
one  king."  Why  she  cari-ied  a  bundle?  "Be- 
cause, as  I  expected  to  go  to  prison,  I  wanted  a 
change  of  clothes."  Two  knives  were  found  in 
her  bundle — she  was  asked  if  she  intended  to  as- 
sassinate Robespierre?  She  said,  "No;  that  she 
always  carried  a  knife,  and  in  this  case  had  taken 
the  second  by  mistake;  but  that  they  might  think 
as  they  pleased  about  it."  •  Being  asked  who  were 
her  accomplices,  she  denied  having  any,  or  the 
existence  of  any  plot.  An  old  aunt  of  Cecile,  an 
ex-nun,  together  with  her  father  and  brothers, 
were  involved  in  her  condemnation.  Cecile, 
dragged  to  the  scaffold,  never  wavered  an  instant 
in  her  firmness ;  this  girl  of  twenty  met  death 
with  the  resolution  and  unmoved  demeanour  of  a 
stoic. 


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RENEE  DE  FRANCE,  DUCHESS  OF 
FERRARA, 

Born  at  Blois,  in  1510,  was  the  daughter  of 
Louis  XII.  and  Anne  of  Brittany.  She  was  mar- 
ried, in  1527,  to  Hercules  II.  of  Este,  duke  of 
Ferrai-a.  She  was  a  princess  of  great  capacity 
and  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  much  interested  in 
the  religious  controversies  of  the  times.  Calvin, 
wlio  went  in  disguise  from  France  to  Italy  to  see 
her,  brouglit  lier  over  to  his  opinions,  and  her 
court  at  Ferrara  became  the  refuge  of  all  those 
suspected  of  heresy.  Her  conduct  so  displeased 
the  court  of  France,  that  the  king,  Henry  II.,  sent 
the  following  instructions  to  the  duke  of  Ferrara ; 

"  If  the  duchess  persists  in  her  errors,  she  must 
be  separated  from  all  conversation ;  her  children 
must  be  taken  from  her ;  and  all  her  domestics, 
who  are  greatly  suspected  of  heresy,  must  be  pro- 
secuted. With  regard  to  the  princess  herself,  the 
king  refers  to  the  prudence  of  her  husband." 

Her  four  children  were,  therefore,  successively 
taken  from  her  and  brought  into  France,  to  be 
educated  in  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  After  the 
duke's  death,  in  1559,  the  princess  returned  to 
France,  to  reside  in  her  castle  of  Montargis.  The 
duke  of  Guise  having  summoned  her  to  deliver  up 
some  Protestants  who  had  taken  refuge  with  her, 
she  replied,  "  That  she  would  not  deliver  them, 
and  that  if  he  should  attack  the  castle,  she  would 
be  the  first  to  place  herself  in  the  breach,  to  see 
if  he  would  dare  to  kill  a  king's  daughter."  She 
was  obliged  to  send  away  four  hundred  and  sixty 
persons,  to  whom  she  had  given  asylum ;  she 
parted  from  them  in  tears,  after  providing  for  the 
expenses  of  their  journey.  This  princess  died  at 
Montargis,  in  1575.  She  was  slightly  deformed 
in  her  person,  but  elegant  manners,  and  graceful 
eloquence,  more  than  compensated  for  this  disad- 
vantage. 

RICCOBONI,    MARIE   LABORAS- 
M  E  Z  I E  R  E  S , 

Was  born  at  Paris,  in  1714.  She  married  Luigi 
Riccoboni,  an  actor,  and  also  an  author  of  several 
successful  comedies,  and  of  various  works  on  the 
literature  of  the  drama.  He  was  considered  the 
first  among  the  Italian  comedians,  but  he  retired 
from  the  stage,  owing  to  religious  scruples.  His 
wife  contributed,  by  her  taste  and  her  advice,  to 
the  success  of  his  productions.  Before  Madame 
Riccoboni,  the  novels  of  the  abb6  Prevost  enjoyed 
a  great  reputation ;  doubtless  these  gave  the  im- 
pulse to  this  lady  when  she  timidly  presented  to 
the  public  works  of  the  same  description,  but 
which  were  destined  entirely  to  eclipse  the  tedious 
commonplaces  and  unnatural  incidents  which  make 
up  the  "Dean  of  Coleraine,"  the  "Adventures  of 
a  INIan  of  Quality,"  &c. 

Madame  Riccoboni  has  written  quite  a  numerous 
collection  of  fictitious  histories,  the  least  interest- 
ing of  which  would  not  suffer  in  comparison  with 
any  of  the  contemporary  novels ;  the  best  is 
usually  considered  to  be  "Juliette  de  Catesby;" 
it  is  written  with  grace  and  vivacity,  the  thoughts 
are  true  and  well  expressed,  and  the  details  natu- 


ral and  interesting.  She  also  translated  Fielding's 
"  Amelia,"  and  made  a  continuation  of  Marivaux's 
"  Mariano,"  with  a  most  successful  imitation  of 
the  style  and  manners  of  that  author.  Madame 
Riccoboni  died  in  poverty,  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
eight,  in  1762.  AVith  her  abilities,  her  worth, 
and  her  amiable  disposition,  she  deserved  a  hap- 
pier fate. 

RICH,    FRANCES, 

Youngest  daughter  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  was 
born  in  December,  1G38.  She  was  probably  hand- 
some, as  she  received  many  splendid  offers  of 
marriage;  among  others,  one  from  Charles  II. 
himself,  then  in  exile.  Cromwell  refused,  saying 
that  "  Charles  would  never  forgive  the  death  of 
his  father."  The  duke  d'Enghien,  eldest  son  of 
the  prince  de  Conde,  was  another  suitor  of  Fran- 
ces Cromwell.  On  the  11th  of  November,  1657, 
she  married  Robert  Rich,  grandson  and  heir  to 
Robert,  earl  of  AVarwick,  the  protector  settling 
£15,000  on  his  daughter.  Mr.  Rich  died  three 
months  after  the  marriage,  and  some  time  after, 
Mrs.  Rich  married  Sir  John  Russel,  by  whom  she 
had  several  children.  She  died  Jan.  27th,  1721, 
at  the  age  of  eighty-four. 

RICHMOND,  DUCHESS  OF, 
A  BEAUTIFUL  and  noble  lady,  who  lived  during 
the  reign  of  James  I.,  was  the  daughter  of  the 
earl  of  Binden.  Her  two  grandfathers,  the  duke 
of  Norfolk  and  duke  of  Buckingham,  had  both  lost 
their  lives  for  aspiring  to  the  throne.  She  fell  in 
love  with  a  vintner,  of  the  name  of  Prannel,  and 
married  him.  He  died  in  a  few  years  after  their 
marriage,  leaving  her  a  beautiful  and  wealthy 
widow.  She  was  next  engaged  to  Sir  George 
Rodney,  but  dismissing  him  for  the  earl  of  Hert- 
ford, Sir  George  committed  suicide.  This,  how- 
ever, had  little  effect  upon  her.  Her  conduct  was 
marked  with  great  levity,  and  she  was  suspected 
of  several  intrigues.  After  the  death  of  the  earl, 
slie  married  the  duke  of  Richmond ;  and  after  his 
death  she  aspired  but  unsuccessfully,  to  the  hand 
of  James  I. 

RIEDESEL,  FREDERICA,  BARONESS  DE, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Masson,  the  Prussian  mi- 
nister of  state,  and  was  born  in  Bi'andenburgh,  in 
1746.  In  1763,  she  married  lieutenant-colonel 
Baron  de  Riedesel,  who  was  appointed,  in  1777, 
to  the  command  of  the  Brunswick  forces  in  the 
British  service  in  America,  and  his  wife  accompa- 
nied him  to  this  country  with  her  three  young 
children.  She  was  with  that  part  of  the  army 
commanded  by  General  Burgoj'ue,  during  all  their 
disasters,  till  the  defeat  at  Saratoga,  exposed  often 
to  privations  and  dangers  from  which  many  of  the 
soldiers  would  have  shrunk.  After  the  capitula- 
tion of  Burgoyne,  Riedesel,  who  was  taken  pri- 
soner, was  sent  to  Cambridge,  and  afterwards  to 
Virginia,  but  in  1779,  was  allowed  to  go  to  New 
York.  His  wife  accompanied  him  in  all  his 
wanderings.  In  1780,  General  Riedesel  was 
exchanged;  in  1781,  they  went  to  Canada;  and 
in   1783,   they  returned  to  Germany,  where  the 

488 


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husband  died,  in  1800.  After  this  event,  the  ba- 
roness resided  in  Berlin,  where  she  died,  in  1808. 
She  founded  there  an  asylum  for  military  orphans, 
and  an  alms-house  for  the  poor  in  Brunswick. 

ROCHE,  MARIE  SOPHIE  DE  LA, 

A  VERY  talented  German  authoress,  was  born  on 
the  6th  of  December,  1731,  at  Kaufbeuren.  Her 
father.  Von  Gutermann,  a  very  learned  physician, 
educated  her  with  great  care.  When  she  was  only 
five,  Sophie  had  read  the  Bible  through.  Von 
Gutermann  removed  from  Kaufbeuren  to  Augs- 
burg, where  he  was  appointed  town-physician,  and 
dean  of  the  medical  faculty,  when  his  daughter 
was  sixteen.  Here  she  had  a  better  opportunity 
to  cultivate  her  mind,  in  which  attempt  she  re- 
ceived great  assistance  from  Dr.  Biancani,  of  Bo- 
logna, physician  to  the  prime  bishop  of  Augsburg. 
He  became  very  much  attached  to,  and  wished  to 
marry  her;  but  the  father  of  Sophie  opposed  the 
match,  on  account  of  the  ditference  of  religious 
opinions,  Biancani  being  a  Roman  Catholic  and 
Von  Gutermann  a  Lutheran.  This  disappointment 
so  aii'ected  Sophie,  that  she  wished  to  enter  a 
convent,  but  was  prevented  by  her  father.  From 
this  time,  she  devoted  herself  to  study  and  read- 
ing, and  soon  after,  witli  her  two  sisters  and  her 
brother,  she  went  to  Riberach,  to  reside  with  her 
grandfather,  a  senator  in  that  city.  After  his 
death,  she  removed  to  the  house  of  AVieland,  a 
relation  of  hers,  then  curate  of  St.  Maria  Magda- 
lena,  but  afterwards  senior  of  the  ministry. 

Here  Sophie  became  acquainted  with  young 
Wieland,  who  drew  her  attention  to  German  lite- 
rature. A  strong  attachment  sprung  up  between 
them,  and  they  became  engaged.  He  went  to 
Switzerland,  to  obtain  some  employment  that 
might  enable  them  to  marry,  and  was  obliged  to 
remain  there  eight  years.  Dui-ing  this  long  ab- 
sence, misunderstandings,  arising  from  the  noblest 
motives,  estranged  them;  and  when,  in  17G0,  Wie- 
land returned  to  Riberach  to  assume  his  new  office 
of  counsellor,  he  found  Sophie  the  wife  of  M.  de 
la  Roche,  counsellor  of  state,  in  Maine,  and  super- 
intendent of  the  estates  of  Count  Stadion.  The 
friendship  of  Wieland  and  Sophie  was  resumed, 
and  continued  luiinterrupted  till  their  death,  a 
period  of  more  than  iifty  years.  She  also  con- 
tinued her  studies  with  unabated  zeal. 

La  Roche,  after  the  death  of  Count  Stadion, 
removed  to  Coblentz,  where  he  lived  for  ten  years 
as  counsellor  of  state.  From  some  unknown  cause, 
perhaps  some  letters  on  monkery,  of  which  La 
Roche  was  said  to  be  the  author,  he  fell  into  dis- 
grace ;  and  from  that  time  they  lived  a  very  re- 
tired life,  first  at  Speier,  afterwards  at  Offenbach, 
where  M.«de  la  Roche  died,  in  1789.  In  1791, 
Madame  de  la  Roche  lost  a  son,  Francis,  whose 
death  caused  her  the  deepest  sorrow.  She  her- 
self survived  till  1807. 

Sophie  was  a  tender  and  an  affectionate  wife  and 
mother,  and  a  warm  philanthropist.  She  vsrote  a 
number  of  works,  which  showed  her  to  be  a  wo- 
man of  intellect,  knowledge,  and  experience.  Her 
favourite  studies  were  philosophy  and  the  abstruse 
sciences.    In  writing,  however,  she  succeeded  best 


RO 

in  romances,  in  which  she  showed  gi-eat  powers 
of  imagination  and  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 
Her  principal  works  are,  "  History  of  the  Lady  of 
Sternberg,"  to  which  Wieland  wrote  a  preface; 
"Letters  of  Rosalie,"  "My  Writing-Desk,"  "Po- 
mona," "Rosalie  and  Cleeberg,"  "Letters  to 
Lina,"  "Letters  on  Mannheim,"  " History  of  Miss 
Leni,"  "Apparitions  on  Lake  Oneida,"  "Moral 
Stories,"  "New  Stories,"  "Fanny  and  Julia," 
"The  Beautiful  Picture  of  Resignation,"  "Love 
Cottages,"  "Autumn  Days;"  the  last  work  she 
published,  is  called  "  Melusina's  Summer-Night." 
She  then  shut  up  her  desk,  that  she  might  not 
survive  herself  as  an  authoress.  Wieland  also 
wrote  a  preface  to  this  work ;  having  introduced 
her  in  the  commencement  of  her  literary  career, 
he  accompanied  her  to  the  close. 

ROCHES,    MESDAMES   DES, 

Were  two  celebrated  ladies  of  Poitiers,  in 
France,  who  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
elder  was  named  Madeleine  Neveu,  wife  of  Andr^ 
Fradonet,  seigneur  Des  Roches,  and  her  daughter, 
Catharine.  They  were  very  learned,  wise,  and 
virtuous.  Madame  des  Roches  became  a  widow 
fifteen  years  after  her  marriage,  and  devoted  her- 
self entirely  to  the  education  of  her  daughter,  in 
whom  she  found  a  very  dear  friend,  and  a  rival 
who  excelled  her.  They  devoted  themselves  prin- 
cipally to  writing  poetry ;  and  their  verses  show 
their  great  attachment  to  each  other,  and  also 
that  they  met  with  many  sorrows.  Catharine  was 
so  attached  to  her  mother,  that  she  would  never 
marry,  although  she  had  many  worthy  suitors. 
They  express,  in  their  writings,  a  strong  desire 
not  to  survive  each  other ;  and  their  wish  was 
gratified  ;  for  they  died  the  same  day,  of  a  plague 
that  ravaged  Poitiers,  in  1587.  Madame  des 
Roches  was  born  in  1531. 

ROHAN,  ANNE  DE, 
Daughteb  of  Catharine"  de  Parthenai,  heiress 
of  the  house  of  Soubise,  was  born  in  1562,  and 
acquired,  like  her  mother,  a  high  reputation  in 
the  literary  world.  She  would  have  been  one  of 
the  greatest  poetesses  of  her  age,  but  her  devoted 
piety  turned  her  talent  into  another  channel.  She 
died  unmarried,  in  1646.  She  was  a  Protestant, 
and  was  celebrated  for  her  courage,  as  well  as  her 
learning. 

ROHAN,    FRANCES   DE,    LADY   DE 

LA  GARNACHE, 
Was  daughter  to  Renatus  de  Rohan  and  Isa- 
bella d'Albret,  daughter  of  John  d'Albret,  king  of 
Navarre,  and  was,  consequently,  cousin-german 
to  Joan  d'Albret,  mother  to  Henry  IV.  She  was 
betrothed  to  the  duke  de  Nemours,  by  whom  she 
had  a  son ;  but  he  becoming  tired  of  her,  obtained 
from  the  pope  a  dissolution  of  his  engagement,  as 
the  lady  de  E.ohan  had  declared  herself  a  Protest- 
ant, and  married  the  widow  of  the  duke  of  Guise. 
The  lady  de  la  Garnache,  or  the  duchess  de  Lou- 
donnois,  as  she  was  sometimes  called,  maintained 
herself  dexterously  in  her  estate  during  the  civil 
wars. 

489 


RO 


RO 


ROHAN,    MARIE   ELEONORE   DE, 

Celebrated  for  her  piety  and  talents,  Tvas  the 
daughter  of  Hercule  de  Rohan-Gu6meni,  duke  de 
Montbazon.  She  was  born  in  1628,  and  educated 
in  a  convent.  Of  high  birth  and  fortune,  beautiful 
and  accomplished,  Eleonore,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
notwithstanding  the  tears  of  her  father,  and  the 
entreaties  of  her  friends,  resolved  to  enter  a  con- 
vent. She  became  a  member  of  tlie  Benedictine 
convent  at  Montargis,  and  was  soon  after  named 
abbess  La  Trinity  de  Caen.  This  dignity  she 
wished  to  decline,  but  was  compelled  to  accept  it. 
She  fulfilled  all  the  duties  of  this  oiBce  with  gen- 
tleness, jjropriety,  and  wisdom.  She  gave  singular 
proofs  of  her  mild  firmness  in  maintaining  the 
rights  and  privileges  of  the  abbey. 

Her  health  obliged  her  to  remove  to  Malnoue, 
near  Paris ;  and  in  1G69,  she  was  solicited  to  take 
upon  herself  also  the  government  of  another  com- 
munity. In  the  intervals  of  her  duties,  she  ap- 
plied herself  to  study.  She  composed  a  paraphrase 
on  the  Proverbs,  called  "  Morale  de  Solomon  ;"  "A 
Discourse  on  Wisdom,"  and  several  other  tracts. 
To  the  modesty  and  gentleness  of  her  own  sex, 
she  united  the  wisdom  and  learning  of  the  other. 
She  died  in  1G81. 


ROLAND,  MARIE  JEANNE, 

Wife  of  the  celebrated  patriot  of  that  name, 
was  born  at  Paris,  in  1754.  Her  father,  M.  Phi- 
lipon,  was  an  engraver  of  much  talent,  her  mother 
was  a  woman  of  an  uncommonly  elevated  character. 
The  little  ^lanon,  as  Madame  Roland  was  called 
when  a  child,  showed  her  peculiarly  ardent  and 
enthusiastic  temperament  very  early.  Happily 
for  her,  she  was  surrounded  from  her  youth  by 
those  pure  and  religious  influences  which,  not- 
withstanding the  skepticism  of  the  age,  still  lin- 
gers in  the  humble  home  of  the  bourgeoise.  Na- 
turally reserved,  though  animated  and  eager,  she 
required  constant  occupation ;  she  never  remem- 
bered having  learned  to  read ;  by  the  time  she 
was  four,  all  the  trouble  of  her  education  was 
over ;  it  was  only  necessary  to  keep  her  well  sup- 
plied with  books.     Flowers  were  the  only  thing 


that  could  make  her  voluntarily  give  up  her  read- 
ing. But  her  mother,  to  prepare  her  for  her 
future  duties,  often  required  her  to  leave  her 
studies,  and  assist  her  in  all  the  household  occu- 
pations. Dancing,  music,  drawing,  geography, 
and  even  Latin,  slie  acquired  readily ;  and  rising 
at  five  in  the  morning,  she  stole,  half  dressed,  to 
her  studies.  As  to  books,  none  came  amiss  to  her. 
She  devoured  alike,  the  Bible,  romances.  Lives  of 
the  Saints,  or  "Memoirs  of  Mademoiselle  de  Mont- 
pensier." 

But  Plutarch  was  her  chief  delight ;  at  the  age 
of  nine,  she  cari'ied  it  to  church  with  her  secretly, 
and  from  that  time  she  dated  her  first  republican 
feelings  and  opinions.  When  she  was  about  eleven, 
she  became  very  religious  ;  and  at  the  time  of  her 
first  communion,  alwaj'S  a  ceremony  of  necessity 
and  importance  in  the  Roman  Catholic  church, 
she  was  so  carried  away  by  her  religious  emotions, 
that  she  threw  herself  at  her  parents'  feet,  and 
with  toi'rents  of  tears,  begged  them  to  allow  her 
to  go  to  a  convent  to  prepare  for  the  great  event. 
Her  request  was  granted ;  and  her  gravity,  her 
devotion,  and  her  great  quickness  in  learning, 
soon  made  her  a  favourite  among  the  community 
in  which  she  was  placed.  Upon  the  day  when 
she  was  to  take  the  sacrament  for  which  she  had 
prepared,  by  her  seclusion,  long  prayers,  and 
meditation,  her  excited  imagination,  and  her  ex- 
cessive devotion,  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  be 
almost  carried  to  the  altar  by  one  of  the  nuns. 
In  this  retreat,  she  formed  a  friendship  with  a 
young  girl  of  her  own  age,  Sophie  Canet,  which 
lasted  during  her  whole  life.  Though  the  reli- 
gious sentiments  she  then  experienced  yielded  at 
a  later  period  to  the  skepticism  of  the  age,  their 
purifying  influence  is  to  be  traced  through  every 
stage  of  her  existence.  The  philosophic  and  popu- 
lar spirit  which  had  been  gradually  descending 
through  every  class  of  the  nation,  began  to  per- 
vade the  bourgeoise,  and,  in  spite  of  the  obscurity 
of  her  birth  and  station,  Manon  could  not  feel 
indifi"erent  to  the  welfare  of  her  country ;  she 
adopted  eagerly  the  popular  doctrines  of  equality 
and  brotherhood. 

She  was  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  pomp 
and  splendour,  but  she  was  indignant  that  its 
cluef  object  was  to  elevate  still  higher  persons 
already  too  powerful,  and  who  had  nothing  com- 
mendable in  themselves.  In  a  visit  she  paid  to 
the  court,  she  became  soon  disgusted  with  it.  "  If 
I  remain  much  longer,"  said  she  to  her  mother, 
while  urging  her  to  depart,  "  I  shall  soon  detest 
tlie  people  I  see  so  much,  that  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  control  my  hatred."  "  What  injury  have  tliey 
done  you?"  "  They  make  me  feel  their  injustice 
and  their  absurdity."  These  republican  senti- 
ments increased  the  stoical  nature  of  her  charac- 
ter ;  she  looked  upon  life  as  a  struggle  and  a  duty. 
Her  beauty  attracted  many  admirers,  but  she  re- 
fused all  ofi"ers ;  her  superiority  to  those  of  her 
own  rank  rendering  her  naturally  repugnant  to 
marriage. 

M.  Philipon  was  not  kind  to  his  wife.  The 
ascendency  which  his  daughter  had  over  him,  en- 
abled her  to  control  his  ebullitions  of  temper,  so 

4'JO 


RO 


RO 


that  after  she  was  grown,  her  mother  was  in  a 
great  measure  protected  from  them.  In  1775, 
she  lost  this  adored  mother,  and  her  gi'ief  on  the 
occasion  neai-ly  cost  her  her  life.  For  two  weeks 
she  lay  in  terrible  convulsions,  struggling  all  the 
time  with  a  sense  of  suffocation.  A  letter  from 
her  friend,  Sojihie  Canet,  at  length  enabled  her 
to  weep,  an  effect  the  physicians  had  been  trying 
in  vain  to  produce,  and  she  recovered. 

After  her  mother's  death,  her  father  became 
careless  and  dissipated,  and  nearly  ruined  himself. 
Mademoiselle  Philipon  took  refuge  in  her  books 
from  her  troubles  ;  the  works  of  Rosseau  especially 
ihterested  her.  At  the  same  time,  Sophie  Canet 
wrote  to  her  often  about  a  man  whom  she  had 
met  in  the  society  near  Amiens,  where  she  resided ; 
and  when  this  gentleman,  M.  Roland,  went  to 
Paris,  she  gave  him  a  letter  to  Mademoiselle  Phi- 
lipon. They  were  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other,  and  corresponded  from  that  time  till  their 
marriage,  five  years  after,  in  1789. 

M.  Roland  was  a  manufacturer  of  Lyons,  a 
grave,  severe  man,  then  on  the  verge  of  fifty. 
Reserved  and  abrupt  in  his  manners,  few  would 
have  thought  him  likely  to  fascinate  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman.  Nor  was  it  love  that  attracted 
her  to  him.  Love  she  looked  upon — it  was  thought 
through  the  influence  of  some  youthful  disappoint- 
ment— as  a  beautiful  chimera.  Beneath  the  aus- 
tere aspect  of  Roland,  she  saw  and  admired  a  soul, 
in  its  stern  and  unyielding  virtues,  worthy  of  an 
ancient  philosopher.  In  her  enthusiasm,  she  over- 
rated his  qualities  ;  he  proved  a  selfish,  exacting 
husband ;  but  her  sense  of  duty,  and  the  high  es- 
teem she  felt  for  his  qualities,  enabled  her  to  bear 
her  lot  with  cheerfulness. 

The  opening  of  the  French  revolution  drew  her 
from  the  retirement  of  private  life.  She  accom- 
panied her  husband,  in  1791,  to  Paris,  upon  his 
being  sent  there  by  the  municipality  of  Lyons. 
Her  beauty,  enthusiasm,  and  eloquence,  soon  ex- 
ercised a  powerful  fascination  over  her  husband's 
friends.  P^thion,  Buzot,  Brissot,  and  Robespierre, 
met  constantly  at  her  house,  and  she  was  a  deeply 
interested  observer  of  all  that  passed.  Madame 
Roland  had  little  faith  in  constitutional  monarchy  ; 
her  aspirations  were  for  a  republic,  pure,  free, 
and  glorious  as  her  ideal.  Without  seeking  it, 
she  found  herself  the  nucleus  of  a  large  and  pow- 
erful party.  The  singular  and  expressive  beauty 
of  her  face  and  person,  the  native  elegance  and 
dignity  of  her  manners,  her  harmonious  voice  and 
flowing  language,  and  above  all,  the  fervour  and 
eloquence  of'  her  patriotism,  seemed  to  mark  her 
out  for  the  part  which  had  been  instinctively  as- 
signed to  her.  She  presided  over  political  meet- 
ings with  so  much  tact  and  discretion  as  to  appear 
a  calm  spectator;  whilst  she,  in  reality,  imbued 
with  her  own  fervent  enthusiasm  all  those  who 
came  near  her.  This  enthusiasm  she  had  imparted 
to  the  colder  mind  of  her  husband,  and  the  promi- 
nent part  which  he  took  in  the  important  events 
of  the  period,  may  unquestionably  be  attributed 
to  her.  In  1792,  when  the  Girondist  ministry 
was  formed,  Roland  was  named  minister  of  the 
interior;   and  in  her  new  and  elevated  position. 


Madame  Roland  influenced  not  only  her  husband, 
but  the  entire  Girondist  party.  Dismissed  from 
his  post,  in  consequence  of  his  celebrated  letter 
of  remonstrance  to  the  king — which  letter  was,  in 
fact,  written  by  his  wife — Roland,  upon  the  down- 
fall of  the  monarchy,  was  recalled  to  the  ministry. 
This  triumph  was  but  short-lived.  The  power 
wliich  had  been  set  in  motion  could  not  be  arrested 
in  its  fearful  course — the  Girondist  party  fell  be- 
fore the  influence  of  their  blood-thirsty  opponents. 
Protesting  against  the  Reign  of  Terror,  they  fell 
its  victims.  Madame  Roland,  whose  opposition 
to  the  massacres  had  influenced  her  party,  drew 
down  upon  her  husband  and  herself  the  hatred  of 
Marat  and  Danton,  and  their  lives  were  soon 
openly  threatened.  Roland,  who  was  kept  in  con- 
cealment by  a  friend,  escaped  ;  but  Madame  Ro- 
land was  arrested,  and  thrown  into  prison.  Here 
during  a  confinement  of  several  months,  she  pre- 
pared her  memoirs,  which  have  since  been  given 
to  the  woi'ld. 

On  the  10th  of  November,  1793,  she  was  re- 
moved to  the  Couciergerie,  and  her  trial,  as  a  Gi- 
rondist, commenced.  She  was  closely  questioned, 
not  only  about  herself,  but  her  husband.  She 
refused  to  say  anything  that  might  criminate  him, 
or  give  them  a  clue  as  to  his  present  hiding-place. 
She  was  condemned  to  death,  and  November  10th, 
1793,  she  ascended  the  fatal  cart,  dressed  in  white, 
as  an  emblem  of  her  purity  of  mind,  and  went 
calmly  through  the  crowd  which  followed  the  pro- 
cession. The  mass  of  the  people,  moved  by  pity 
and  admiration,  were  generally  silent,  but  some 
of  the  more  furious  ones  cried  out,  "  To  the  guil- 
lotine!  to  the  guillotine!"  "I  shall  soon  be 
there,"  said  Madame  Roland ;  "  but  those  who 
send  me  there  will  follow  themselves  ere  long.  I 
go  there  innocent,  but  they  will  go  as  criminals; 
and  you,  who  now  applaud,  will  also  applaud 
then."  When  she  arrived  in  front  of  the  statue 
of  liberty,  she  bent  her  head  to  it,  exclaiming, 
"  Oh  liberty,  how  many  crimes  are  committed  in 
thy  name!"  At  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  she  said 
to  her  companion,  an  old  and  timid  man,  whom 
she  had  been  encouraging  on  the  way,  "  Go  first ; 
I  can  at  least  spare  you  the  pain  of  seeing  my 
blood  flow."  She  died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
nine. 

She  had  predicted  that  her  husband  would  not 
survive  her :  her  prediction  was  fulfilled.  The 
body  of  Roland  was  foimd  seated  beneath  a  tree, 
on  the  road  to  Rouen,  stabbed  to  the  heart.  Fast- 
ened to  his  dress  was  a  paper,  upon  which  a  few 
lines  were  inscribed,  asserting  that  "upon  learn- 
ing the  death  of  his  wife,  he  could  not  remain  a 
day  longer  in  a  world  so  stained  with  crime." 
That  M.  Roland  was  unable  to  survive  his  wife, 
is  the  strongest  proof  of  the  powerful  influence 
which  she  exercised  over  him.  It  has  been  aptly 
said,  that  of  all  modern  men,  Roland  most  resem- 
bled Cato.  It  was  to  his  wife  that  he  owed  his 
courage,  and  the  power  of  his  talents. 

They  left  one  daughter,  Eudora,  who  was 
brought  up  by  Madame  Champayneux,  a  fi-iend 
of  Madame  Roland  ;  and  the  son  of  this  friend 
married  Eudora. 

491 


RO 


RO 


ROPER,    MARGARET, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  was  a 
woman  of  fine  mind  and  charming  disposition,  the 
deliglit  and  comfort  of  her  celebrated  father.  The 
greatest  care  was  taken  in  her  education  ;  and  she 
became  learned  in  Greek,  Latin,  many  of  the  sci- 
ences, and  music.  Erasmus  wrote  a  letter  to  her, 
as  a  woman  famous  not  only  for  virtue  and  piety, 
but  for  solid  learning.  Cardinal  Pole  was  so  de- 
lighted with  the  elegance  of  her  Latin  style,  that 
he  could  not  believe  it  was  the  production  of  a 
woman.  She  married  William  Roper,  Esq.,  of 
Well-hall,  in  the  parish  of  Eltham,  in  Kent;  she 
died  in  1544,  and  was  buried  at  St.  Dunstan's 
church,  in  Canterbury,  with  her  father's  head  in 
her  arms ;  for  she  had  procured  it  after  it  had 
remained  fourteen  days  on  London  bi'idge,  and 
had  preserved  it  in  a  leaden  box,  till  there  was  an 
opportunity  of  conveying  it  to  Canterbury,  to  the 
burial-place  of  the  Ropers.  Slie  had  five  children, 
one  of  whom,  Mary,  was  nearly  as  famous  as 
herself. 

Mrs.  Roper  wrote,  in  reply  to  Quintilian,  an 
oration  in  defence  of  the  rich  man,  whom  he  ac- 
cuses of  having  poisoned,  by  venomous  flowers  in 
his  garden,  the  poor  man's  bees.  This  perform- 
ance is  said  to  have  rivalled  Quintilian's  in  elo- 
quence. She  also  wrote  two  declamations,  and 
translated  them  into  Latin,  and  composed  a  trea- 
tise "  Of  the  Four  Last  Things,"  in  which  she 
showed  so  much  strong  reasoning  and  justness  of 
thought,  as  obliged  Sir  Thomas  to  confess  its  su- 
periority to  a  discourse  in  which  he  was  himself 
employed  on  the  same  subject.  The  ecclesiastical 
history  of  Eusebius  was  translated  by  this  lady 
from  the  Greek  into  Latin. 

ROSALBA,    CARRIERA, 

Was  born  in  1675,  at  Chiozza,  near  Venice; 
and  was  instructed  by  Giovanni  Diamentini,  from 
whom  she  learned  design,  and  also  the  art  of 
painting  in  oil.  In  that  kind  of  colouring,  she 
copied  several  of  the  works  of  the  best  masters ; 
but  at  last  applied  herself  to  miniature  with  ex- 
traordinary diligence,  being  ambitious  to  arrive 
at  such  a  degree  of  perfection  in  it  as  might  en- 
able her  to  contribute  to  the  support  of  her  pa- 
rents. She  succeeded  to  her  wish ;  but  after 
practising  miniature-painting  with  great  reputa- 
tion, she  quitted  it  for  crayons,  which  art  she 
carried  to  a  degree  of  perfection  that  few  artists 
have  ever  been  able  to  attain.  In  1709,  Frederic 
IV.,  king  of  Denmark,  passing  through  Venice, 
sat  to  Rosalba  for  his  portrait,  of  which,  by  his 
order,  she  made  several  copies,  very  highly  fin- 
ished. Soon  after,  the  same  monarch  employed 
her  to  paint  twelve  portraits  of  Venetian  ladies, 
which  she  performed  so  much  to  his  satisfaction, 
that  he  showed  her  particular  marks  of  his  favour, 
and,  besides  gifts  of  great  value,  jjaid  her  with  a 
truly  royal  munificence.  She  visited  France  in 
company  with  Pelligrini,  who  had  married  her 
sister ;  and  at  Paris  had  the  honour  to  paint  the 
royal  family,  with  most  of  the  nobility,  and  other 
persons  of  distinction.   During  her  residence  there. 


she  was  admitted  into  the  academy,  to  which  she 
presented  a  picture  of  one  of  the  muses.  On  her 
return  to  Venice,  she  continued  her  profession 
until  she  was  seventy,  when,  by  incessant  appli- 
cation, she  lost  her  sight.  She  died  in  1757.  The 
portraits  of  Rosalba  are  full  of  life  and  spirit,  ex- 
ceedingly natural,  with  an  agreeable  resemblance 
to  the  persons  represented.  Her  colouring  is 
soft,  tender,  and  delicate ;  her  tints  clear  and  well 
united;  and  she  generally  gave  a  graceful  turn  to 
the  heads,  especially  to  those  of  her  female  figures. 

ROSA,  ANNA  DI, 
SuRNAMED  Annella  de  Massina,  from  the  name 
of  her  master,  painted  historical  pieces  with  the 
greatest  success.  She  perished  at  the  age  of 
thirty-six,  a  victim  to  the  unjust  jealousy  of  her 
husband. 

ROSE,  SUSAN  PENELOPE, 
An  English  portrait-painter,  was  born  in  1652. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Gibson  the  dwarf,  and 
painted  in  water-colours  with  great  freedom.  The 
ambassador  from  Morocco  sat  to  her  and  to  Sir 
Godfrey  Kneller  at  the  same  time.  She  also  paint- 
ed Bishop  Burnet  in  his  robes,  as  Chancellor  of 
the  Garter.     She  died  in  1700,  aged  forty-eight. 

ROAVE,   ELIZABETH, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Walter  Singer,  a  dis- 
senting minister,  and  was  born  at  Ilchester,  in 
Somersetshire,  England,  September  11th,  1674. 
Her  father  possessed  an  estate  near  Frome  in  that 
county ;  but  he  married  and  settled  at  Ilchester. 
Miss  Singer  gave  early  promise  of  genius,  and 
began  to  write  verses  when  she  was  only  twelve, 
and  also  excelled  in  music  and  painting.  She  was 
very  pious,  and  at  the  request  of  bishop  Ken, 
wrote  her  paraphrase  on  the  38th  chapter  of  Job. 
In  1696,  she  published  a  volume  of  poetry,  en- 
titled, "  Poems  on  Several  Occasions,  by  Philo- 
mela." 

Her  merit  and  personal  attractions  procured 
her  many  admirers,  among  whom  was  Prior  the 
poet;  but  she  married,  in  1709,  Mr.  Thomas  Rowe, 
and  for  five  years  lived  with  him  very  happily. 
He  died  in  1715,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight, 
and  Mrs.  Rowe  retired  to  Frome,  and  spent  the 
remainder  of  her  life  in  the  greatest  seclusion. 
Here  she  composed  most  of  her  works  ;  some  of 
which  were  "  Friendship  in  Death,  or  Letters  from 
the  Dead  to  the  Living."  The  intention  of  this 
work  is  to  impress  the  idea  of  the  soul's  immor- 
tality, without  which  all  virtue  and  religion,  with 
their  temporal  and  eternal  consequences,  must 
fall  to  the  ground.  About  three  years  afterwards 
she  published  "  Letters,  Moral  and  Entertain- 
ing;" "The  History  of  Joseph,"  a  poem;  and, 
after  her  death,  in  1736,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Watts, 
agreeably  to  her  request,  revised  and  published  a 
work  she  left,  called  "Devout  Exercises  of  the 
Heart,  in  Meditation  and  Soliloquy,  Praise  and 
Prayer." 

She  possessed  a  sweetness  and  serenity  of  tem- 
per that  nothing  could  ruffle,  and  great  benevo- 
lence and  gentleness  of  character.     She  was  un- 

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assuming  and  lovely  in  her  deportment ;  and  her 
charities  bordered  on  excess.  She  died,  February 
20th,  1737,  aged  sixty-three. 

After  her  death,  there  were  found  in  her  room 
several  letters  addressed  to  her  most  intimate 
friends,  with  this  atfectiug  superscription  —  "  Not 
to  be  delivered  until  after  my  death."  These 
letters  breathed  those  sentiments  of  piety  and 
affection,  that  peculiarly  marked  every  action  of 
her  life.  In  them  she  expressed  a  hope  of  enjoy- 
ing eternal  happiness  through  the  mediation  and 
intercession  of  Jesus  Chi-ist.  Her  person  is  thus 
described  by  a  relative  :  —  "  Her  stature  was  mo- 
derate ;  her  hair  of  a  fine  auburn ;  her  eyes  dai'k 
grey,  rather  inclinable  to  blue,  full  of  sweetness 
and  expression ;  her  complexion  naturally  fair ; 
and  her  countenance  animated  by  a  beautiful 
bloom.  She  spoke  gracefully,  and  her  voice  was 
at  once  harmonious  and  sweet,  suited  to  the  lan- 
guage which  flowed  from  her  lips.  The  softness 
and  benevolence  of  her  aspect  were  bej'ond  all 
description ;  it  at  once  inspired  veneration  and 
love ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  behold  her  without 
feeling  regard  and  esteem." 

Mrs.  Rowe  was  exemplary  in  all  her  relations ; 
but  in  her  deportment  as  a  wife  and  an  author, 
she  is  worthy  of  especial  regard.  She  felt  it  no 
disparagement  to  her  mind,  but  rather  an  increase 
of  glory,  when  she  honoured  her  husband.  Her 
esteem  and  affection  appeared  in  all  her  conduct 
to  Mr.  Rowe  ;  and  by  the  most  gentle  and  obliging 
manners,  and  the  exercise  of  every  social  virtue, 
she  confirmed  the  empire  she  had  gained  over  his 
heart.  She  made  it  her  duty  to  soften  the  anxie- 
ties, and  heighten  all  the  satisfactions,  of  his  life. 
Her  capacity  for  superior  things  did  not  tempt 
her  to  neglect  the  less  honourable  cares  which  the 
laws  of  custom  and  decency  impose  on  the  female 
sex,  in  the  connubial  state ;  and  much  less  was 
she  led  by  a  sense  of  her  own  merit,  to  assume 
anything  to  herself  inconsistent  with  that  duty 
and  submission  which  the  precepts  of  Christian 
piety  so  expressly  enjoin. 

From  "  Meditations." 

"  With  every  sacrament  let  me  remember  my 
strength,  and  with  the  bread  of  life  receive  im- 
mortal vigour.  Let  me  remember  thy  vows,  0 
God  !  and,  at  my  return  to  the  world,  let  me  com- 
mit my  ways  to  thee.  Let  me  be  absolutely  re- 
signed to  thy  providence,  nor  once  distrust  thy 
goodness  and  fidelity.  Let  me  be  careful  for  no- 
thing, but  with  prayer  and  supplication  make  my 
wants  known  to  thee.  Let  the  most  awful  sense 
of  thy  presence  dwell  on  my  heart,  and  always 
keep  me  in  a  serious  disposition.  Let  me  be  mer- 
ciful and  just  in  my  actions,  calm  and  regular  in 
my  thoughts ;  and  0  do  thou  set  a  watch  on  my 
mouth,  and  keep  the  door  of  my  lips !  let  me 
speak  evil  of  no  man ;  let  me  advance  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  virtuous,  and  never  be  silent  in  the 
praise  of  merit.  Let  my  tongue  speak  the  lan- 
guage of  my  heart,  and  be  guided  by  exact  trath 
and  perfect  sincerity.  Let  me  open  my  hands 
wide  to  the  wants  of  the  poor,  in  full  confidence 


that  my  heavenly  father  will  supply  mine,  and 
that  the  high  possessor  of  heaven  and  earth  will 
not  fail  to  restore,  in  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
what  I  have  parted  with  for  his  sake.  0  let  thy 
grace  be  sufficient  for  me,  and  thy  strength  be 
manifest  in  weakness !  Be  present  with  me  in  the 
hour  of  temptation,  and  confirm  the  pious  resolu- 
tions thou  hast  enabled  me  to  perform." 

From  "  Poems." 
ODE    TO    LOVE. 

Assist  my  doubtful  muse,  propitious  Love, 
Let  all  my  soul  the  sacred  impulse  prove : 
For  tliiue's  a  holy  unpolluted  flarae, 
Howe'er  the  libertines  profane  thy  name ; 
Howe'er  with  impious  cant,  hypocrisy 
And  senseless  superstition  blemish  thee, 
The  pure  result  of  sober  reason  thou  ; 
Thy  laws  the  strictest  honour  must  allow; 

Thy  laws  each  vicious  thought  control : 
From  thee  devotion  takes  its  flaming  w  ings  : 

Thou  giv'st  the  noblest  motion  to  the  soul, 
And  govern'st  all  its  springs. 
To  great  attempts  thou  gen'rous  minds  dost  move. 
And  only  such  are  privileged  to  love; 
Th'  heroic  race,  the  brightest  names  of  old, 
Were  all  thy  glorious  votaries  enrolled. 

Without  thee,  human  life 
A  tedious  round  of  circling  cares  would  be, 

A  cursed  fatigue,  continual  strife. 
And  tiresome  vanity. 

Thy  charms  our  restless  griefs  control. 
And  calm  the  stormy  motions  of  the  soul : 

Before  thee  pride  and  enmity. 

With  all  infernal  passions,  fly. 

And  couldst  thou  in  the  realms  below. 
But  once  display  thy  beauteous  face. 

The  damned  a  short  redress  might  know, 
And  ev'ry  terror  fly  the  place. 

From  thee  one  bright  unclouded  smile 

Would  all  the  torments  there  beguile; 
Thy  smiles  th'  eternal  tempests  could  assuage. 

And  make  the  damned  forget  their  rage; 

The  sulph'rous  waves  would  cease  to  roar, 
And  calmly  glide  along  the  silent  shore. 

No  fabled  Venus  gave  thee  birth. 
At  Cyprus  yet  the  goddess  was  not  named. 
Nor  at  Idalia,  nor  at  Paphos  famed; 

Nor  yet  was  feigned  from  foaming  seas  to  rise; 
For  yet  no  seas  appeared,  or  fountains  flowed: 

Nor  yet  distinguished  in  the  skies, 
Her  radiant  planet  glowed. 
But  thou  wast  long  ere  motion  sprung  its  race, 
Ere  chaos,  and  immeasurable  space 
Resigned  their  useless  rights  to  elemental  place; 

Before  the  sparkling  lamps  on  high 
Were  kindled  up,  and  hung  around  the  sky ! 
Before  the  sun  led  on  the  circling  hours. 
Or  vital  seeds  produced  their  active  powers; 
Before  the  first  intelligences  strung 
Their  golden  harps,  and  soft  preludiums  sung 
To  Love,   the   mighty   cause   whence   their   e.\istence 
sprung, 
Th'  ineffable  Divinity, 
His  own  resemblance  meets  in  thee. 
By  this  thy  glorious  lineage  thou  dost  prove 
Thy  high  descent;  for  GOD  himself  is  Love. 

ROWSON,    SUSANNAH, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Lieutenant  Haswell,  of  the 
British  navy,  who  was  sent  to  New  England  in 
1769,  when  his  daughter  was  about  seven  years 
old.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution,  lieu- 
tenant Haswell  returned  to  London  with  his  family, 
where,  in  1786,  Miss  Haswell  was  married  to  Wil- 
liam Rowson.  While  in  England  she  published 
several  novels,  of  which  the  only  one  that  is  now 

493 


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known  is  the  one  entitled  "  Ciiarlotte  Temple." 
Mrs.  Rowson  returned  to  the  United  States  in 
1793,  and  was  engaged  as  an  actress  in  the  thea- 
tres of  Boston  and  Philadelphia  for  the  next  three 
years ;  and  was  also  diligently  occupied  with  her 
literary  pursuits.  In  1797,  she  opened  a  school 
for  girls  in  Boston,  which  succeeded  extremely 
well.  She  died  in  that  city  in  1824.  She  was  con- 
sidered a  poetess  as  well  as  a  novelist,  though  but 
few  of  her  poems  are  now  known.  Her  writings 
are  very  voluminous. 

R  0  Z  E  E ,  MADEMOISELLE. 
This  extraordinary  lady  was  born  at  Leyden  in 
1632.  Konbraken  says  he  cannot  tell  how  she 
managed  her  work,  lior  with  what  instruments ; 
but  that  she  painted  on  the  rough  side  of  the 
panel,  in  such  tints,  and  in  such  a  manner,  that, 
at  a  competent  distance,  the  picture  had  all  the 
eflFect  of  the  neatest  pencil  and  high  finishing. 
Other  writers,  however,  aflBrm,  that  she  neither 
used  oil  nor  water-colours  in  her  performances ; 
and  only  worked  on  the  rough  side  of  the  panel 
with  a  preparation  of  silk  floss,  selected  with  great 
care,  and  disposed  in  different  boxes,  according  to 
the  several  degrees  of  bright  and  dark  tints,  out 
of  which  she  applied  whatever  colour  was  requi- 
site for  her  work ;  and  blended,  softened,  and 
united  them  with  such  inconceivable  art  and  judg- 
ment, that  she  imitated  the  warmth  of  flesh  with 
as  great  a  glow  of  life  as  could  be  produced  by 
the  most  exquisite  pencil  in  oil.  Nor  could  the 
nicest  eye  discern,  at  a  proper  distance,  whether 
the  whole  was  not  the  work  of  the  pencil.  But 
by  whatever  art  her  pictures  were  wrought,  they 
were  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  perfectly  natural. 
Her  portraits  were  remarkably  faithful,  and  every 
object  was  a  just  imitation  of  the  model,  whether 
the  subject  was  animal  life,  architecture,  land- 
scape, or  flowers.  As  her  manner  of  working 
could  not  well  be  accounted  for,  she  was  distin- 
guished by  the  name  of  the  Sorceress.  One  of  her 
landscapes  is  said  to  have  been  sold  for  five  hun- 
dred florins  ;  and  though  the  subject  was  only  the 
trunk  of  an  old  tree  covered  with  moss,  and  a 
large  spider  finishing  its  web  among  the  leaves 
and  branches,  every  part  appeared  with  so  great 
a  degree  of  force  of  relief  and  expression,  that  it 
was  beheld  with  astonishment.  One  of  her  prin- 
cipal performances  is  in  the  cabinet  at  Florence, 
and  is  considered  a  singular  curiosity  in  that  col- 
lection.    She  died  in  1G80. 

RUSSEL,    LADY    ELIZABETH, 

Daugiitkr  of  Sir  Anthony  Cook,  married  Sir 
Thomas  Hobbey,  and  afterwards  Lord  John  Rus- 
sel,  son  and  heir  of  Francis,  second  Earl  of  Bed- 
ford. She  was  a  woman  of  well-cultivated  mind, 
and  translated  from  the  French  a  religious  book 
on  the  Sacrament.  She  died  about  IGOO,  aged 
seventy-one.  She  lived  to  write  the  epitaphs  in 
Greek,  Latin,  and  English,  for  both  her  husbands. 

RUSSELL,    LADY    RACHEL, 

Second  daughter  of  Thomas  Wriothesley,  Earl 
of  Southampton,  was  born  in  103(3.     She  married 


first.  Lord  Vaughan  ;  and  after  his  death  she  mar- 
ried, in  1669,  William,  Lord  Russell,  third  son  of 
William,  first  duke  of  Bedford.  One  son  and  two 
daughters  were  the  fruits  of  this  union,  which  was 
a  very  happy  one,  though  Lady  Rachel  was  four 
or  five  years  older  than  her  husband.     Lord  Rus- 


sell, being  implicated  in  a  conspiracy  with  the 
duke  of  Monmouth,  natural  son  of  Charles  II., 
Algernon  Sidney,  John  Hampden,  grandson  to  the 
celebrated  patriot  of  that  name,  Essex,  and  How- 
ard, to  prevent  the  succession  of  the  duke  of  York 
to  the  throne,  was  arrested  and  sent  to  the  Tower. 
Monmouth  fled  ;  Howard  saved  himself  by  reveal- 
ing his  accomplices;  and  Essex,  Sidney,  and  Hamp- 
den, were  apprehended  on  his  evidence.  They 
were  also  accused  of  conspiring  against  the  life 
of  Charles  II.,  which  was  not  true.  The  Protestant 
succession,  and  the  prevention  of  encroachments 
on  the  liberties  of  the  people,  were  their  chief 
objects. 

The  day  previous  to  the  trial  of  Lord  Russell, 
he  had  asked  leave  of  the  court  that  notes  of  the 
evidence  might  be  taken  for  his  use.  He  was  in- 
formed that  he  might  have  the  assistance  of  one 
of  his  servants.  "  I  ask  no  assistance,"  said  he, 
"  but  that  of  the  lady  who  sits  by  me."  The  spec- 
tators, seeing  the  daughter  of  the  virtuous  South- 
ampton thus  assisting  her  husband  in  his  distress, 
melted  into  tears.  The  duke  of  Bedford  offered 
the  duchess  of  Portsmouth  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  procure  her  interest  with  the  king  for 
the  pardon  of  his  son.  But  every  application 
proved  vain.  The  independent  spirit,  patriotism, 
popularity,  courage,  talents,  and  virtues  of  the 
prisoner,  were  his  most  dangerous  offences,  and 
became  so  many  arguments  against  his  escape. 

Lady  Russell  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 
king,  and  pleaded  with  tears  the  merits  and  loy- 
alty of  her  father,  as  an  atonement  for  her  hus- 
band's offences.  But  Cliarles  remained  unmoved, 
and  even  rejected  her  petition  for  a  respite  of  a 
few  weeks.  On  finding  every  effort  fruitless  for 
saving  the  life  of  her  husband,  she  collected  her 
courage,  and  fortified  her  mind  for  the  fatal  stroke, 
conf  rmi  ig  by  her  example  the  resolution  of  her 

494 


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husband.  His  courage  never  appeared  to  falter, 
but  when  he  spoke  of  his  wife ;  his  eyes  would 
then  fill  with  tears,  and  he  appeared  anxious  to 
avoid  the  subject.  When  parting  from  Lady  Rus- 
sell, they  mutually  preserved  a  solemn  silence ; 
and  when  she  left  him,  he  said,  "The  bitterness 
of  death  was  past."  He  then  expressed  his  grati- 
tude to  Providence  that  had  given  him  a  wife  who, 
to  birth,  fortune,  talents,  and  virtue,  united  sensi- 
bility of  heart ;  and  whose  conduct,  in  this  trying 
crisis,  had  even  sm-passed  all  her  other  virtues. 

Lord  Russell  was  executed,  July  21st,  1683. 
His  widow  proved  the  faithful  guardian  of  his 
honour,  a  wise  and  active  mother  to  liis  children, 
and  the  friend  and  patroness  of  his  friends. 

Her  lettei-s,  written  after  her  husband's  death, 
give  a  touching  picture  of  her  conjugal  affection 
and  fidelity ;  but  no  expression  of  resentment  or 
traces  of  a  vindictive  spirit  mingle  with  the  senti- 
ment of  gi-ief  by  which  they  are  pervaded. 

Her  only  son,  Wi-iothesley,  duke  of  Bedford, 
died  in  1711,  of  the  small-pox;  and  soon  after 
her  daughter,  the  duchess  of  Rutland,  died  in 
cliildbed.  Her  other  daughter,  the  duchess  of 
Devonshire,  was  also  in  childbed  at  the  time  of 
her  sister's  death ;  and  Lady  Russell  again  was 
called  upon  to  give  new  proofs  of  her  self-control. 
After  beholding  one  daughter  in  her  coffin,  she 
went  to  the  chamber  of  the  other  with  a  tranquil 
countenance.  The  duchess  of  Devonshire  earnestly 
inquiring  after  her  sister.  Lady  Russell  calmly 
replied,  "  I  have  seen  your  sister  out  of  bed  to- 
day." 

Some  years  after  her  husband's  death,  she  was 
under  apprehensions  of  an  entire  loss  of  sight ; 
but  this  was  prevented  by  an  operation.  Lady 
Russell  died,  September  29th,  1723,  aged  eighty- 
seven.  About  fifty  years  afterwards  her  letters 
were  collected  and  published,  which  established 
her  fame  in  literature  as  one  of  the  most  elegant 
writers  of  her  time.  In  whatever  light  we  consi- 
der her  character,  its  moral  excellence  appears 
perfect.  Such  an  examjile  shows  the  power  of 
female  influence  to  promote  good  and  resist  evil. 
Even  the  noble  Lord  Russell  was  made  better  by 
his  union  with  her.  Amiable  and  prudent,  as  well 
as  lovely,  she  was  the  means  of  reclaiming  him 
from  some  youthful  follies  into  which  he  had 
plunged  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration.  With  such 
a  guardian  angel  by  his  side,  no  wonder  he  was 
strengthened  to  act  his  lofty  part,  and  die  a  pa- 
triot martyr.  His  widow  wore  her  weeds  to  the 
close  of  her  life ;  their  conjugal  union  of  hearts 
was  never  broken,  as  the  following  extracts  from 
her  letters  will  show  : 

TO    DR.    FITZWILLIAM ON    HER    SORROW. 

I  am  sure  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  obligation, 
how  ill  soever  my  words  may  express  it,  for  all 
those  hours  you  have  set  apart  (in  a  busy  life)  for 
my  particular  benefit,  for  the  quieting  my  distract- 
ed thoughts,  and  reducing  them  to  a  just  measure 
of  patience  for  all  I  have  or  can  suffer.  I  trust  I 
shall  with  diligence,  and  some  success,  serve  those 
ends  they  were  designed  to.  They  have  very  punc- 
tually, the  tin  >  you  intended  tliem  for,  the  last 


two  sheets  coming  to  my  hands  the  16th  of  this 
fatal  month;  it  is  the  21st  completes  my  three 
years  of  true  sorrow,  which  should  be  turned 
rather  into  joy ;  as  you  liave  laid  it  before  me, 
with  reasons  strongly  maintained,  and  rarely  illus- 
trated. Sure  he  is  one  of  those  has  gained  bj'  a 
dismission  from  a  longer  attendance  here  :  while 
he  lived,  his  being  pleased  led  me  to  be  so  too, 
and  so  it  should  do  still ;  and  then  my  soul  should 
be  full  of  joy ;  I  should  be  easy  and  cheerful,  but 
it  is  sad  and  heavy ;  so  little  we  distinguish  how, 
and  why  we  love,  to  me  it  argues  a  prodigious 
fondness  of  one's  self;  I  am  impatient  that  is  hid 
from  me  I  took  delight  in,  though  he  knows  much 
greater  than  he  did  here.  All  I  can  say  for  myself 
is,  that  while  we  are  clothed  with  flesh,  to  the  per- 
fectest,  some  displeasure  will  attend  a  separation 
from  things  we  love.  This  comfort  I  think  I  have 
in  my  affliction,  that  I  can  say,  unless  thy  law  had 
been  my  delight,  I  should  have  perished  in  my 
trouble.  The  rising  from  the  dead  is  a  glorious 
contemplation,  doctor !  nothing  raises  a  drooping 
spirit  like  it ;  his  Holy  Spirit,  in  the  mean  time, 
speaking  peace  to  our  consciences,  and  through 
all  the  gloomy  sadness  of  our  condition,  letting  us 
discern  that  we  belong  to  the  election  of  grace, 
that  our  persons  are  accepted  and  justified.  But 
still  I  will  humble  myself  for  my  own  sins,  and 
those  of  our  families,  that  brought  such  a  day 
on  us. 

I  have  been  under  more  than  ordinary  care  for 
my  eldest  giid ;  she  has  been  ill  of  St.  Anthony's 
fire,  as  we  call  it,  and  is  not  yet  free  from  it.  I 
had  a  doctor  down  with  her,  but  he  found  her  so 
likely  to  do  well  he  stayed  only  one  day.  I  have 
sent  you  these  Gazettes,  and  will  send  no  more, 
for  I  reckon  you  will  be  in  your  progress  of  visits. 

I  wish  with  you  Lord  Campden  would  marry ; 
but  I  want  skill  to  prevail  by  what  I  can  say.  I 
hope  I  need  employ  none  to  persuade  Dr.  Fitz- 
william  that  I  am  very  acknowledging,  and  very 
sincerely,  &c. 

TO    THE    SAME. 
*  *  *  *  * 

If  I  could  contemplate  the  conducts  of -Provi- 
dence with  the  uses  you  do,  it  would  give  ease 
indeed,  and  no  disastrous  events  should  much  af- 
fect us.  The  new  scenes  of  each  day  make  me 
often  conclude  myself  very  void  of  temper  and 
reason,  that  I  still  shed  tears  of  sori'ow  and  not 
of  joy,  that  so  good  a  man  is  landed  safe  on  the 
happy  shore  of  a  blessed  eternity ;  doubtless  he 
is  at  rest,  though  I  find  none  without  him,  so  true 
a  partner  he  was  in  all  my  joys  and  griefs  ;  I  trust 
the  Almighty  will  pass  by  this  my  infirmity ;  I 
speak  it  in  respect  to  the  world,  from  whose  en- 
ticing delights  I  can  now  be  better  weaned.  I 
was  too  rich  in  possessions  whilst  I  possessed  him : 
all  relish  is  now  gone,  I  bless  God  for  it,  and  pray, 
and  ask  of  all  good  people  (do  it  for  me  from  such 
you  know  are  so)  also  to  pray  that  I  may  more 
and  more  turn  the  stream  of  my  aff'ections  up- 
wards, and  set  my  heart  upon  the  ever-satisfying 
perfections  of  God;  not  starting  at  his  darkest 
providences,  but  remembering  continually  either 

495 


RU 


RU 


his  glory,  justice,  or  power  is  advanced  by  every 
one  of  tliem,  and  that  mercy  is  over  all  his  works, 
as  we  shall  one  day  with  ravishing  delight  see : 
in  the  mean  time,  I  endeavour  to  suppress  all  wild 
imaginations  a  melancholy  fancy  is  apt  to  let  in ; 
and  say  with  the  man  in  the  gospel,  "I  believe, 
help  thou  my  unbelief." 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Never  shall  I,  good  Doctor,  I  hope,  forget  your 
work  (as  I  may  term  it)  of  labour  and  love:  so  in- 
structive and  comfortable  do  I  find  it,  that  at  any 
time,  when  I  have  read  any  of  your  papers,  I  feel 
a  heat  within  me  to  be  repeating  my  thanks  to 
you  anew,  which  is  all  I  can  do  towards  the  dis- 
charge of  a  debt  you  have  engaged  me  in;  and 
though  nobody  loves  more  than  I  do  to  stand  free 
from  engagements  I  cannot  answer,  yet  I  do  not 
wish  for  it  here ;  I  would  have  it  as  it  is ;  and 
although  I  have  the  present  advantage,  you  will 
have  the  future  reward ;  and  if  I  can  truly  reap 
what  I  know  you  design  me  by  it,  a  religious  and 
quiet  submission  to  all  providences,  I  am  assured 
you  will  esteem  to  have  attained  it  here  in  some 
measure.  Never  could  you  more  seasonably  have 
fed  me  with  such  discourses,  and  left  me  with  ex- 
pectations of  new  repasts,  in  a  more  seasonable 
time,  than  these  my  miserable  months,  and  in 
those  this  very  week  in  which  I  have  lived  over 
again  that  fatal  day  that  determined  what  fell  out 
a  week  after,  and  that  has  given  me  so  long  and 
so  bitter  a  time  of  sorrow.  But  God  has  a  com- 
pass in  his  providences,  that  is  out  of  our  reach, 
and  as  he  is  all  good  and  wise,  that  consideration 
should  in  reason  slacken  the  fierce  rages  of  grief. 
But  sure,  Doctor,  't  is  the  nature  of  sorrow  to  lay 
hold  on  all  things  which  give  a  new  ferment  to  it, 
then  how  could  I  choose  but  feel  it  in  a  time  of 
so  much  confusion  as  these  last  weeks  have  been, 
closing  so  tragically  as  they  have  done ;  and  sure 
never  any  poor  creature,  for  two  whole  years  to- 
gether, has  had  more  awakers  to  quicken  and  re- 
vive the  anguish  of  its  soul  than  I  have  had ;  yet 
I  hope  I  do  most  truly  desire  that  nothing  may  be 
so  bitter  to  me,  as  to  think  that  I  have  in  the  least 
offended  thee,  0  my  God !  and  that  nothing  may 
be  so  marvellous  in  my  eyes  as  the  exceeding  love 
of  my  Lord  Jesus :  that  heaven  being  my  aim, 
and  the  longing  expectations  of  my  soul,  I  may  go 
through  honour  and  dishonour,  good  report  and 
bad  report,  prosperity  and  adversitj',  with  some 
evenness  of  mind.  The  inspiring  me  with  these 
desires  is,  I  hope,  a  token  of  his  never-failing  love 
towards  me,  though  an  unthankful  creature  for 
all  the  good  things  I  have  enjoyed,  and  do  still  in 
the  lives  of  hopeful  children  by  so  beloved  a  hus- 
band. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GALWAY — ON  FKIENDSHIP. 

I  have  before  me,  my  good  lord,  two  of  your 
letters,  both  partially  and  tenderly  kind,  and 
coming  from  a  sincere  heart  and  honest  mind  (the 
last  a  plain  word,  but,  if  I  mistake  not,  very  sig- 
nificant), are  very  comfortable  to  me,  who,  I  hope, 
have  no  proud  thoughts  of  myself  as  to  any  sort. 
The  opinion  of  an  esteemed  friend,  that  one  is  not 


very  wrong,  assists  to  strengthen  a  weak  and  wil- 
ling mind  to  do  her  duty  towards  that  Almighty 
Being,  who  has,  from  infinite  bounty  and  goodness, 
so  chequered  my  days  on  this  earth,  as  I  can 
thankfully  reflect  I  felt  many,  I  may  say  many 
years  of  pure,  and,  I  trust,  innocent,  pleasant 
content,  and  happy  enjoyments  as  this  world  can 
alford,  particulai-ly  that  biggest  blessing  of  loving 
and  being  loved  by  those  I  loved  and  respected ; 
on  earth  no  enjoyment  certainly  to  be  put  in  the 
balance  with  it.  All  other  are  like  wine,  intoxi- 
cates for  a  time,  but  the  end  is  bitterness,  at  least 
not  profitable.  Mr.  Waller  (whose  picture  you 
look  upon)  has,  I  long  remember,  these  words : 
All  we  know  they  do  above 
Is,  that  they  sing,  and  that  they  love. 

The  best  news  I  have  heard  is,  you  have  two 
good  companions  with  you,  which,  I  trust,  will 
contribute  to  divert  you  this  sharp  season,  when, 
after  so  sore  a  fit  as  I  apprehend  you  have  felt, 
the  air  even  of  your  improving  pleasant  garden 
cannot  be  enjoyed  without  hazard. 

TO    LADY    SUNDERLAND ON    HEALTH,    FRIENDSHIP, 

LOVE. 

Your  kind  letter,  madam,  asks  me  to  do  much 
better  for  myself  and  mine,  than  to  scribble  so 
insignificantly  as  I  do  in  a  piece  of  paper  ;  but  for 
twenty  several  reasons  you  must  have  the  advan- 
tage you  off'er  me  with  obliging  earnestness  a 
thousand  times  greater  than  I  deserve,  or  there 
can  be  cause  for,  but  that  you  have  taken  a  reso- 
lution to  be  all  goodness  and  favour  to  me.  And 
indeed  what  greater  mark  can  you  almost  give 
than  remembering  me  so  often,  and  letting  me  re- 
ceive the  exceeding  advantage  of  your  doing  so, 
by  reading  your  letters,  which  are  all  so  edifying  ? 
When  I  know  you  are  continually  engaged  in  so 
great  and  necessary  employments  as  you  are,  and 
have  but  too  imperfect  health,  which  to  any  other 
in  the  world  but  Lady  Sunderland  would  unfit  for 
at  least  so  great  despatches  as  you  are  charged 
with.  These  are  most  visible  tokens  of  Provi- 
dence, that  every  one  that  aims  to  do  their  duty 
shall  be  enabled  to  do  it. 

I  hope  your  natural  strength  is  so  great,  that  it 
will  in  some  time,  if  you  do  your  part,  master 
what  has  been  accidentally  in  the  disorder  of  it. 
Health,  if  one  strictly  considers,  is  the  first  of 
earthly  blessings ;  for  even  the  conversation  of 
friends,  which  as  to  spiritual  profits,  as  you  ex- 
cellently observe,  is  the  nearest  approach  we  can 
make  to  heaven  while  we  live  in  these  tabernacles 
of  clay ;  so  it  is  in  a  temporal  sense  also,  the  most 
pleasant  and  the  most  profitable  improvement  we 
can  make  of  the  time  we  are  to  spend  on  earth. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  if  our  bodies  are  out  of  tune, 
how  ill  do  we  enjoy  what  in  itself  is  so  precious  ? 
and  how  often  must  we  choose,  if  we  can  attain  it, 
a  short  slumber,  that  may  take  off  our  sense  of 
pain,  than  to  accept  what  we  know  in  worth  ex- 
cels almost  to  infiniteness  ?  No  soul  can  speak 
more  feelingly  than  my  poor  self  on  this  subject; 
who  can  truly  say,  my  friendships  have  made  all 
the  joys  and  troubles  of  my  life ;  and  yet  who 
would  live  and  not  love  ?     Those  who  have  tried 

406 


SA 


SA 


the  insipidness  of  it  would,  I  believe,  never  choose 
it.  Mr.  AValler  says — "'Tis  (with  singing)  all 
we  know  they  do  above."  And  it  is  enough ;  for 
if  there  is  so  charming  a  delight  in  the  love,  and 
suitableness  in  humours,  to  creatures  !  what  must 
it  be  to  our  clarified  spirits  to  love  in  the  presence 
of  God  !  Can  there  be  a  greater  contemplation 
to  provoke  to  diligence  for  our  preparation  to  that 
great  change,  where  we  shall  be  perfected,  and  so 
continue  for  ever !  I  see  I  have  scribbled  a  great 
deal  of  paper ;  I  dare  not  read  it,  lest  I  should  be 
sorry  Lady  Sunderland  should  ;  and  yet  can  now 
send  her  nothing  if  not  this,  for  my  eyes  grow  ill 
so  fast,  I  resolve  to  do  nothing  of  this  sort  by  can- 
dle-light. 

RUYSCH,    RACHEL, 

A  CELEBRATED  artist,  was  born  at  Amsterdam, 
in  1664.  She  excelled*in  painting  flowers  and 
fruits.     She  died  in  1750. 

RYVES,  ELIZA, 
An  Irish  lady,  known  for  her  literary  abilities. 
Having  lost  her  property  by  a  lawsuit,  she  sub- 
sisted by  the  labours  of  her  pen.  She  wrote  the 
"  Hermit  of  Snowden,"  a  novel ;  besides  some 
translations  from  the  French,  and  frequent  con- 
tributions to  the  annual  registers.  She  died  in 
London,  in  1797. 


s. 


SABLIERE,    MADAME   DE   LA, 

A  French  poetess,  was  the  friend  and  benefac- 
tress of  La  Fontaine,  who  lived  in  her  house  for 
twenty  years.  Her  husband  was  also  a  poet,  and 
she  is  said  to  have  assisted  him  in  his  writings. 
She  was  not,  however,  always  faithful  to  her  hus- 
band ;  but  she  expiated  this  sin,  in  the  opinion  of 
her  contemporaries,  by  retiring  to  a  convent,  and 
consecrating  the  rest  of  her  life  to  taking  care  of 
the  sick.  She  died  at  Paris  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  seventeenth  century. 

ST.    LEGER,    HON.   ELIZABETH, 

The  only  female  that  ever  was  initiated  into  the 
mystery  of  freemasonry,  was  the  daughter  of  Lord 
Doneraile,  a  very  zealous  freemason.  She  obtain- 
ed this  honour  by  contriving  to  place  herself  so  as 
to  watch  the  manner  in  which  a  new  member  was 
initiated.  Being  discovered  just  before  the  termi- 
nation of  the  ceremonies,  she  was  at  first  threat- 
ened with  death,  but  saved  by  the  entreaties  of 
her  brother,  on  condition  that  she  would  go  through 
the  whole  of  the  solemn  ceremonies.  This  she 
consented  to,  and  sometimes  afterwards  joined  in 
their  processions.  This  lady  was  a  cousin  to  Ge- 
neral Anthony  St.  Leger,  and  married  Richard 
Aldworth,  Esq.,  of  New  Market. 

SAINTE-NECTAIRE,  MAGDALENE  DE, 

Widow  of  Guy  de  St.  Exuperi,  was  a  Protestant 
heroine,   who   distinguished   herself  in  the  civil 
wars  of  France.     After  the  death  of  her  husband, 
2G 


she  retired  to  her  chateau  at  Miremont,  in  the 
Limousin,  where,  with  sixty  young  men,  well 
armed,  she  was  accustomed  to  make  excursions  on 
the  Catholic  armies  in  her  neighbourhood.  In 
1575,  M.  Montal,  governor  of  the  province,  having 
had  his  detachments  often  defeated  by  Madame 
de  Sainte-Nectaire,  resolved  to  besiege  her  in  her 
chateau,  with  fifteen  hundred  foot  and  fifty  horse. 
Sallying  out  upon  him,  she  defeated  his  troops ; 
but  finding,  on  her  return,  her  chateau  in  posses- 
sion of  the  enemy,  she  galloped  to  Turenne,  a 
neighbouring  town,  to  procure  a  reinforcement. 
Montal  awaited  her  in  a  defile,  but  was  vanquish- 
ed and  mortally  wounded  by  her  troops.  The  time 
of  her  death  is  not  recorded. 

SAINTE-PHALIER,  FRANgOISE  THERESE 
AUMILE  DE, 

A  French  lady,  who  wrote  "  The  Confident  Ri- 
val," a  comedy,  and  some  other  poetical  pieces. 
She  died  at  Paris  in  1757. 

SALVIONI,  ROSALBA  MARIA, 

Was  born  at  Rome  in  1658.  She  studied  the 
art  of  painting  under  Sebastian  Conea,  but  devoted 
herself  wholly  to  portraiture,  in  which  she  ex- 
celled.    She  died  in  1708. 

SAMSON,    DEBORAH, 

Was  the  child  of  very  poor  parents,  of  Ply- 
mouth, Massachusetts.  She  was  received  into  a 
respectable  family,  where  she  was  kindly  treated, 
but  where  her  education  was  entirely  neglected. 
She,  however,  contrived  to  teach  herself  to  read 
and  write ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  able,  earned 
money  enough  to  pay  for  her  own  schooling  for  a 
short  time.  When  she  was  about  twenty,  the  Re- 
volutionary war  in  America  commenced ;  and  De- 
borah, disguising  herself  in  man's  apparel,  and 
going  to  the  American  camp,  enlisted,  in  1778, 
for  the  whole  term  of  the  war,  under  the  name  of 
Robert  ShirtlitFe.  Accustomed  to  out-door  labour, 
she  was  enabled  to  undergo  the  same  fatigues  and 
exercises  as  the  other  soldiers.  Her  fidelity  and 
zeal  gained  her  the  confidence  of  the  officers,  and 
she  was  a  volunteer  in  several  hazardous  enter- 
prises. She  was  twice  wounded,  at  first  in  the 
head,  and  afterwards  in  the  shoulder;  but  she 
managed  to  preserve  the  secret  of  her  sex  unsus- 
pected. However,  she  was  seized  with  a  brain- 
fever  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  physician  who  was 
attending  her  discovered  her  sex,  and  took  her  to 
his  own  house.  AVhen  her  health  was  restored, 
her  commanding  oflScer,  to  whom  the  physician 
had  revealed  his  discovery,  ordered  her  to  carry  a 
letter  to  General  Washington.  Certain  now  of  a 
fact  of  which  she  had  before  been  doubtful,  that 
her  sex  was  known,  she  went  with  much  reluctance 
to  fulfil  the  order.  Washington,  after  reading  the 
message  with  great  consideration,  without  speak- 
ing a  word,  gave  her  her  discharge,  together  with 
a  note  containing  a  few  words  of  advice,  and  some 
money.  She  afterwards  married  Benjamin  Gan- 
nett, of  Sharon,  Massachusetts.  She  received  a 
pension,  with  a  grant  of  land,  for  her  services  as 
a  revolutionary  soldier. 

49" 


sc 


sc 


SARTE,   DAUPHINE   DE, 

A  French  lady,  wife  of  the  Marquis  de  Robias, 
wrote  treatises  on  philosophy,  and  was  distin- 
guished for  her  mathematical  knowledge.  She 
excelled  in  music,  and  had  a  particular  talent  for 
composing  it.     She  died  at  Aries,  in  1685. 

SCALIGERI,   LUCIA, 

Was  born  at  Venice  in  1G37.  She  became 
distinguished  by  her  knowledge  of  the  learned 
languages,  and  her  skill  in  music  and  painting. 
Several  of  her  pictures  are  in  the  churches  of 
Venice,  where  she  died  in  1700. 

SCHOPENHAUER,  JOHANNA  FROSINA, 

Born  in  the  year  1770,  at  Dantzic,  where  her 
father,  Henry  Frosino,  was  senator,  showed  at  an 
early  age  a  decided  talent  for  drawing  and  paint- 
ing, as  well  as  for  languages.  After  having  re- 
ceived in  her  parental  home  a  careful  education, 
and  enjoyed  a  happy  youth,  she  married  Henry 
Flaris  Schopenhauer,  who  accompanied  his  young 
wife  through  Germany  to  France,  thence  to  Lon- 
don, where  they  remained  a  long  time ;  and  after- 
wards through  Brabant,  Flanders,  and  Germany, 
back  to  Dantzic.  There  she  lived  until  the  capture 
of  this  free  city  by  the  Prussians,  in  1793.  The 
next  ten  years  she  spent  with  her  husband  in 
Hamburg.  In  1803,  they  visited  Holland,  the 
North  of  France,  England,  Scotland,  and  went 
from  Holland  to  Paris.  There  she  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  thoroughly  taxight,  by  the  celebrated 
Augustin,  in  miniature  painting,  which  had  always 
been  her  favoui-ite  occupation.  From  Paris,  the 
travellers  went  over  the  South  of  France  to  Ghent, 
wandered  through  Switzerland,  saw  Munich,  Vi- 
enna, (where  they  remained  some  time,)  Presburg, 
Silesia,  Bohemia,  Saxony,  Brandenburg,  touched 
Dantzic,  and  after  three  years  came  back  to  Ham- 
burg, where  a  sudden  death  snatched  away  Mr. 
Schopenhauer.  She  then  fixed  (1806)  her  abode 
in  Weimar,  where  a  highly  refined  social  circle 
surrounded  her,  to  which  Goethe,  Wieland,  Henry 
Meier,  Fernow,  Bcrtuch,  Falk,  Fr.  Mayer,  and 
many  literary  women,  belonged,  of  whom  this  city 
may  well  be  proud.  Every  suitable  foreigner  was 
her  welcome  guest.  Between  her  and  Fernow  (of 
whom  she  learned  the  Italian  language)  existed  an 
ideal  friendship,  which  death  interrupted  two  years 
after.  G.  V.  Kiigelgen  had  at  that  time  arrived 
in  Weimar  to  take  Goethe's,  Wieland's,  Schiller's, 
and  Herder's  portraits.  A  description  of  these 
four  portraits,  and  of  several  oil-paintings  by  the 
landscape  painter  Frederic,  were  the  first  publica- 
tions of  which  Mrs.  S.  acknowledged  herself  to 
be  the  authoress.  She  was  induced  by  Cotter  to 
write  Fernow's  life.  This  work  appeared  in  1810. 
Two  years  later,  she  published  "  Remembrances 
of  a  Tour  through  England;"  1816,  followed  a 
volume  of  "Novels;"  1817,  the  "Trip  to  the 
Rhine  and  its  Nearest  Environs;"  and  1818,  the 
"Journey  through  the  South  of  France."  The 
writer  has  obtained  a  just  approval  for  her  nice 
observations,  joined  to  an  easy  and  graceful  style. 
Her  last  work  is  the  popular  novel,  "  Gabrielle." 


Her  novels  show  great  powers  of  observation,  and 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  world  and  men. 

Madame  Schopenhauer  died  at  Jena,  in  April, 
1838. 

SCOTT,  LADY  ANNE, 
Was  the  only  daughter  of  Francis,  Earl  of  Buc- 
cleugh,  and  the  greatest  heiress  in  the  three  king- 
doms. When  she  was  but  thirteen,  she  was 
selected  by  Charles  II.  to  be  the  wife  of  his  son, 
the  unfortunate  duke  of  Monmouth,  who  was  only 
a  year  older  than  his  bride.  These  early  marriages 
were  the  vice  of  the  times,  and  rarely  produced 
satisfactory  results ;  and  this  one  was  not  an  ex- 
ception. Brave  to  a  fault,  exquisitely  handsome, 
courted,  flattered,  caressed  by  the  court,  and 
adored  by  the  people,  Monmouth  ran,  even  in  his 
boyish  days,  a  career  of  vice  and  profligacy  which 
appears  to  have  been  the  almost  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  his  bringing  up.  Anne  Scott  possessed 
many  estimable  qualities,  but  she  was  imable  to 
attach  the  heart  of  her  fickle  husband.  She  was  a 
woman  of  taste  and  accomplishments ;  the  encou- 
rager  of  learning  and  genius ;  and  the  patroiaess 
of  men  of  letters.  Without  possessing  beauty,  she 
had  an  agreeable  countenance ;  and  her  wit,  virtue, 
and  good  sense,  rendered  her  attractive.  The  tur- 
bulence of  her  husband,  the  dangers  he  was  con- 
tinually hurrying  into,  imposed  upon  the  duchess 
a  life  of  anxiety,  privation,  and  sorrow.  She  was 
for  ever  at  her  post  as  mediator  with  Charles  II. 
and  king  James ;  and  to  the  last  strove  to  inter- 
pose her  influence  for  his  safety.  AVhen  he  was 
condemned  to  death,  she  visited  him  in  the  Tower. 
He  exonerated  her  from  all  blame  or  knowledge 
of  his  rebellious  schemes,  paid  a  just  tribute  to 
her  virtues  and  excellence,  and  recommended  their 
children  to  her  care ;  but  exhibited  no  tenderness 
towards  her,  his  whole  affections  being  absorbed 
in  his  romantic  attachment  to  Lady  Henrietta 
Wentworth,  who  he  professed  to  consider  his  wife 
in  the  eyes  of  God.  His  duchess  he  said  he  had 
married  when  a  child ;  she  was  his  wife  by  the 
law  of  the  land ;  the  other  was  his  true  wife  in 
the  sight  of  heaven. 

The  duchess  of  Buccleugh  was  the  mother  of 
six  children,  three  of  whom  died  in  infancy.  Her 
oldest  son  inherited  the  title  and  estates,  which 
had  been  confirmed  to  the  children  of  Monmouth 
by  James  II.  The  present  duke  of  Buccleugh  is  a 
lineal  descendant  of  the  neglected  duchess  and  her 
ill-fated  lord.  Three  years  after  the  death  of  Mon- 
mouth, the  duchess  became  the  second  wife  of 
Charles,  third  Lord  Cornwallis.  By  this  marriage 
she  was  the  mother  of  three  children,  who  all  died 
unmarried.  The  duchess  died  on  the  6th  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1782,  in  her  eighty-first  year. 

SCHROEDER,  SOPHIA, 
Engaged  at  the  Imperial  theatres  of  Vienna, 
was  born  in  Paderborn,  in  1781.  Her  father's 
name  was  Burger.  Her  mother,  after  the  deatli 
of  her  first  husband,  married  the  celebrated  actor 
Keilholz,  and  went  with  her  daughter  to  St.  Pe- 
tersburg. Sophia  had  not  been  destined  for  the 
stage ;  yet,  as  the  company  of  players  in  St.  Pe- 

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tersburg  was  very  limited,  and  by  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Stallmers  the  juvenile  parts  had  become 
vacant,  she  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  the  director, 
and  began  her  theatrical  course  in  the  charming 
little  opera,  "  The  Red  Cap."  When  fourteen 
years  old,  she  married  the  actor  Stallmers.  In 
Reval,  she  was  introduced  to  Kotzebue,  by  whose 
recommendation  she  received  an  engagement  at 
the  theatre  of  Vienna.  She  performed  exclusively 
comic  and  naif  parts,  and  was  much  applauded  as 
Margaret  in  the  "  Affinities."  After  twelve  months, 
she  left  Vienna  to  go  to  Breslau,  where  she  was 
engaged  for  the  opera.  In  the  part  of  Hulda,  in 
the  "Nymph  of  the  Danube,"  she  was  very  suc- 
cessful. In  1801,  she  was  invited  to  Hamburg. 
There  she  entered  on  a  new  career,  in  which  she 
shone  like  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude ;  for  she 
devoted  herself  entirely  to  tragedy.  Domestic 
grief  had  turned  her  cheerful  spirits  into  melan- 
choly ;  and  the  slumbering  spark  of  her  genius 
kindled  into  a  mighty  blaze.  In  1804,  she  married 
her  second  husband,  Schroeder,  (director  of  the 
Hamburg  theatre,)  and  lived  twelve  years  in  Ham- 
burg, under  the  most  favourable  auspices,  until  the 
warlike  events  of  1813  compelled  her  to  leave  this 
city.  After  having  made  a  journey,  on  which  she 
everywhere  gained  laurels,  she  accepted  an  en- 
gagement in  Prague,  where  she  remained  two 
years.  When  the  time  of  her  contract  had  elapsed, 
she  returned  to  Vienna.  Her  characters  of  Phe- 
dra.  Lady  Macbeth,  Merope,  Sappho,  Johanna  von 
Montfaucan,  are  masterly  performances,  and  ex- 
cited unbounded  admiration. 

SCHURMAN,  ANNA  MARIA, 
A  MOST  extraordinai-y  German  lady,  was  the 
daughter  of  parents  who  wei'e  both  descended 
from  noble  Protestant  families,  and  was  born  at 
Cologne  in  1607.  At  sis  years  of  age  she  could 
cut  with  her  scissors  all  kinds  of  figures  out  of 
paper,  without  any  model ;  and  at  eight,  she  learn- 
ed in  a  few  days  to  draw  flowers  admirably  ;  two 
years  after,  she  was  but  three  hours  in  learning 
to  embroider.  Afterwards,  she  was  taught  vocal 
and  instrumental  music,  painting,  sculpture,  and 
engraving ;  and  succeeded  equally  well  in  all  these 
arts.  Her  handwriting  in  all  languages  was  inimi- 
table ;  and  some  curious  persons  have  preserved 
specimens  of  it  in  their  cabinets.  She  painted  her 
own  portrait,  and  made  artificial  peai-ls  so  like 
natural  ones,  that  they  could  be  distinguished  only 
by  pricking  them  with  a  needle. 

The  powers  of  her  understanding  were  not  in- 
ferior to  her  dexterity ;  for,  at  eleven,  when  her 
brothers  were  examined  in  their  Latin,  she  often 
prompted  them  in  whispers,  though  she  had  only 
heard  them  say  their  lessons  c?i  passant.  Her 
father,  observing  this,  applied  himself  to  the  culti- 
vation of  her  mind ;  and  the  Latin,  Greek,  and 
Hebrew  languages  became  so  familiar  to  her,  that 
she  not  only  wrote  but  spoke  them  in  a  manner 
which  surprised  the  most  learned  men.  She  made 
great  progress  also  in  several  Oriental  languages, 
as  the  Syriac,  Chaldee,  Arabic,  and  Ethiopic ;  she 
also  understood,  and  spoke  readily,  French,  Eng- 
lish, and  Italian.     She  was  well  versed  in  geogra- 


phy, astronomy,  philosophy,  and  the  sciences ; 
but,  not  satisfied  witli  these  acquisitions,  she  turn- 
ed her  attention  to  the  study  of  theology,  and  be- 
came very  religious. 

Her  father  had  settled  at  Utrecht  when  she  was 
an  infant ;  and  afterwards  removed  to  Francker 
for  the  more  convenient  education  of  his  children, 
where  he  died  in  1G23.  His  widow  then  returned 
to  Utrecht,  where  Anna  Maria  continued  her  stu- 
dies. Her  devotion  to  her  intellectual  and  religious 
cultivation  undoubtedly  prevented  her  marrying  ; 
as  Mr.  Cats,  a  celebrated  poet,  and  several  others, 
proposed  to  her.  Her  modesty,  which  equalled 
her  acquirements,  made  her  shrink  from  notoriety ; 
but  Rivetus,  Spanheim,  and  Vossius,  brought  her 
into  notice  contrary  to  her  own  inclination.  Sal- 
masius,  Beverovicius,  and  Huygens,  also  main- 
tained a  literary  correspondence  with  her ;  and  by 
showing  her  letters,  spread  her  fame  into  foreign 
countries.  At  last  she  became  so  celebrated  that 
persons  of  the  highest  rank  visited  her ;  and  car- 
dinal Richelieu  showed  her  marks  of  esteem. 

About  1650,  she  made  a  great  alteration  in  her 
religious  system.  She  no  longer  attended  church, 
but  f)erformed  her  devotions  in  private,  and  at- 
tached herself  to  Labadie,  the  famous  religious 
enthusiast,  accompanying  him  wherever  he  went. 
She  lived  some  time  with  him  at  Altena,  in  Hol- 
stein;  and  after  his  death,  in  1677,  she  retired  to 
Wivert,  in  Friesland,  where  William  Penn  visited 
her.     She  died  there  in  1678. 

She  wrote  "  De  Vitro  Humanag  Termino  ;"  "  Dis- 
sertatio  de  ingcnii  muliebris  ad  doctrinam  et  me- 
liores  literas  aptitudine."  These  two  essays,  with 
letters  in  French,  Greek,  Latin,  and  Hebrew,  to 
her  learned  correspondents,  were  printed  in  1648. 
She  wrote  afterwards,  "  Eukleria,  seu  melioris 
partis  electio."  This  is  a  defence  of  her  attach- 
ment to  Labadie.  She  chose  for  her  device  the 
words  of  St.  Ignatius,  '■'■Amor  mens  crucifixm  est." 
"  My  love  is  crucified," 

SCUDERI,    MAGDALEINE   DE, 

A  WOMAN  of  more  wit  and  talent  than  taste,  was 
born  in  1607,  at  Havre  de  Grace.  She  went  when 
very  young  to  Paris,  where  her  brother,  George 
de  Scuderi,  also  an  eminent  French  writer,  was 
living ;  and  her  wit  and  acquirements  soon  gained 
her  admission  into  the  best  literary  society  of  that 
day.  Being  obliged  to  support  herself,  she  resolved 
to  do  so  by  her  pen ;  and  the  taste  of  that  age 
being  for  romances,  she  turned  her  attention  that 
way,  and  succeeded  wonderfully.  Her  books  were 
eagerly  sought,  and  her  reputation  became  very 
great.  She  was  chosen  to  succeed  the  learned 
Helena  Cornaro,  by  the  celebrated  academy  of  the 
Ricovrati  at  Padua.  Several  great  personages 
gave  her  many  marks  of  their  regard ;  among 
others,  Christina  of  Sweden  often  wrote  to  her, 
settled  on  her  a  pension,  and  sent  her  her  picture  ; 
Cardinal  Mazarin  left  her  an  annuity  by  his  will ; 
and,  in  1683,  Louis  XIV.,  at  the  solicitation  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  settled  a  good  pension  on 
her. 

Mademoiselle  de  Scuderi  corresponded  with 
many  learned  men ;  and  her  house  at  Paris  was  a 

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kind  of  little  court,  to  which  all  persons  of  genius, 
learning,  or  wit,  were  accustomed  to  resort.  At 
her  death,  two  churches  contended  fiercely  for  the 
honour  of  possessing  her  remains.  She  was  a  very- 
voluminous  writer,  and  obtained  the  first  prize 
of  eloquence  bestowed  by  the  academy  of  Paris. 
Her  principal  romances  were  entitled  "Almahide ;" 
"Artamenes;"  "Clelia;"  "Le  Grand  Cyrus;"  and 
"  Ibrahim."  She  also  wrote  fables  and  poetry, 
and  a  work  called  "Conversations."  Her  narra- 
tives are  tedious  and  prolix ;  but  the  pi-aise  of 
ingenuity,  of  elevated  sentiment,  and  of  purifying 
and  ennobling  the  particular  species  of  writing  to 
which  she  devoted  hex-self,  cannot  be  denied  to 
her.  She  was  very  plain  in  person,  and  this,  joined 
with  her  wit,  gained  for  her  the  name  of  Sappho. 

A  curious  incident  happened  to  this  lady  in  a 
journey  she  took  with  her  brother.  At  a  great 
distance  from  Paris,  their  conversation  one  even- 
ing, at  an  inn,  turned  upon  a  romance  they  were 
jointly  composing,  the  hero  of  which  they  had 
called  Prince  Mazare.  "What  shall  we  do  with 
Prince  Mazare?"  said  Mademoiselle  Scuderi ;  "is 
it  not  better  that  he  should  die  by  poison  than  the 
sword  ?" 

"  It  is  not  yet  time,"  replied  her  brother,  "  for 
that  business ;  when  it  is  necessary,  we  can  de- 
spatch him  as  we  please ;  but  at  present  we  have 
not  quite  done  with  him." 

Two  merchants,  in  the  next  room,  overhearing 
this  conversation,  concluded  they  had  conspired 
to  murder  some  prince,  whose  real  name  was 
concealed  under  that  of  Mazare.  They  imparted 
their  suspicions  to  the  host,  who  sent  for  the  offi- 
cers of  the  police.  M.  and  Mademoiselle  Scuderi 
were  arrested,  and  sent  back  under  a  strong  escort 
to  Paris,  where,  after  much  trouble  and  expense, 
they  procured  their  liberty.  Mademoiselle  Scu- 
deri died  in  1701,  aged  ninety- four. 

SEGUIER,   ANNE   DE, 

Dattghter  to  Pierre  Seguier,  whose  family  gave 
to  France  so  many  illustrious  magistrates,  married 
Francis  du  Prat,  baron  de  Thiers,  by  whom  she 
had  two  daughters,  Anne  and  Philippine,  who 
were  educated  in  the  court  of  Henry  III.  of  France. 
Anne  de  Seguier  was  a  celebrated  poetess ;  she 
was  living  in  1573.  Her  daughters,  also,  were 
distinguished  for  their  literary  attainments,  and 
for  their  skill  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages. 


SEIDELMANN,   APOLLONIA, 

The  wife  of  James  Seidelmann,  Professor  of  the 
Fine  Arts  at  the  academy  of  Dresden.  In  Venice, 
her  native  city,  she  had  received  instructions  in 
drawing,  and  afterwards  perfected  herself  in  this 
accomplishment  under  the  direction  of  her  hus- 
band. In  the  year  1790,  she  went  with  him  to 
Italy,  where  she  devoted  herself  for  three  years 
to  miniature  painting,  assisted  by  the  celebrated 
Teresa  Maron,  sister  of  Raphael  Mengs.  After 
her  return  to  Dresden,  she  painted  more  after  the 
manner  of  her  husband,  and  showed  herself  a 
rare  artist,  by  her  fine  copies  of  the  best  pictures 


of  the  academy.  One  of  her  master  copies  is  the 
Madonna  of  Raphael.  The  eminent  talent  of  this 
artistic  couple  for  conversation  deserves  to  be 
mentioned  likewise  ;  their  soirees,  which  they  gave 
abroad  and  at  home,  and  to  which  their  charming 
daughter,  Luise  Seidelmann,  aided  greatly  by  her 
musical  powers,  were  the  delight  of  all  who  loved 
genius  and  art. 

SERMENT,    LOUISE   ANASTASIE, 

Born  at  Grenoble  in  1642,  w<as  admitted  to  the 
academy  of  the  Ricovrati  at  Padua,  and  acquired 
great  celebrity  by  her  learning.  She  also  wrote 
poems  in  French  and  Latin ;  and  it  was  said  that 
all  the  best  part  of  the  operas  of  Quinault  was 
her  work.     She  died  in  1692. 

SESSI,  MARIANNE  and  ANNA  MARIA, 
Bore  a  name  well  known  in  the  annals  of  mo- 
dern music,  and  celebrated  by  several  vocalists 
of  Italian  origin.  Of  five  sisters  of  this  name, 
Marianne  Sessi  was  the  oldest.  She  was  engaged, 
in  1793,  at  the  opera  seria  of  Vienna,  went  in  1804 
to  Italy,  and  then  for  a  longer  period  to  London. 
In  1817  and  1818,  she  visited  the  north  of  Ger- 
many, Leipzic,  Dresden,  Berlin,  Hamburg,  &c., 
and  went  finally  from  Copenhagen  to  Stockholm, 
where  she  remained.  The  second  of  the  sisters, 
Imperatrice  Sessi,  has  acquired  the  greatest  repu- 
tation of  all.  Her  talent  was  cultivated  in  Vienna. 
In  1804  she  went  to  Venice,  where,  during  the 
carnival,  she  enjoyed  the  highest  triumph.  She 
enchanted  the  audience  so  much,  that  sonnets  of 
all  colours  and  shapes  were  thrown  on  the  stage ; 
her  likeness  was  handed  around  among  the  spec- 
tators ;  a  bouquet  in  a  richly  decorated  golden 
vase  was  presented  to  her ;  and  at  the  close  she 
was  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  laurel.  She  died 
in  October,  1808,  in  her  twenty-eighth  year,  of 
consumption,  at  Florence,  deeply  mourned  by  all 
lovers  of  music.  The  talent  of  her  younger  sister, 
Anna  Maria  Sessi,  developed  itself  early.  She 
was  born  at  Rome  in  1793,  but  came  to  Vienna  in 
the  first  year  of  her  existence,  where  she  modelled 
her  art  after  that  of  her  sisters.  In  Florence,  she 
devoted  herself  still  more  thoroughly  to  the  culti- 
vation of  her  voice ;  and  there  laid  the  foundation 
of  a  true  Italian  singer.  In  1813,  she  was  married 
at  Vienna ;  and  on  all  her  subsequent  travels  was 
welcomed  everywhere  as  a  rare  phenomenon  of 
song.  It  is  said,  that  in  the  recitative  she  had  no 
rival,  even  among  the  Italians. 

The  fourth  and  fifth  of  these  sisters,  Vittoria 
and  Caroline,  of  whom  the  former  was  married  in 
Vienna,  and  the  latter  in  Naples,  are  less  generally 
known.  A  cousin  of  the  above-named  sisters, 
Maria  Theresa  Sessi,  was  also  noted  for  her 
talent  in  music. 

SETURNAN,    MADAME, 

A  NATIVE  of  Cologne,  excelled  in  the  arts,  and 
acquired  a  wide  reputation.  She  was  a  painter, 
musician,  engraver,  sculptor,  philosopher,  geome- 
trician, and  a  theologian.  She  understood  and 
spoke  nine  languages. 

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SEVIGNE,  MARIE  DE  RUBUTIN  CHANTAL, 
MARCHIONESS  OF, 
Daughtek  of  the  baron  de  Chantal,  was  born, 
in  1627,  at  Bourbilly,  in  Burgundy,  and  was  early 
left  an  oi'phan.  Her  maternal  uncle,  Christopher 
de  Coulauges,  brought  her  up,  and  she  was  taught 
by  Menage  and  Chapelain.  At  the  age  of  eighteen 
she  maiTied  the  Marquis  de  Sevign^,  who  was 


killed  in  a  duel  seven  years  afterwards.  Left  with 
a  son  and  daughter,  she  devoted  herself  entirely 
to  their  education.  To  her  daughter,  who,  in  1669, 
married  the  Count  de  Grlgnan,  governor  of  Pro- 
vence, she  was  particuharly  attached;  and  to  her 
was  addressed  the  greater  part  of  those  letters 
which  have  placed  the  Marchioness  de  S6vign6  in 
the  first  rank  of  epistolary  writei's.  This  illus- 
trious lady  was  acquainted  with  all  the  wits  and 
learned  men  of  her  time ;  and  she  is  said  to  have 
decided  the  famous  dispute  between  Perrault  and 
Boileau,  concerning  the  preference  of  the  ancients 
to  the  moderns,  saying,  "  the  ancients  are  the 
finest,  and  we  are  the  prettiest." 

"  Her  letters,"  says  Voltaire,  "  filled  with  anec- 
dotes, written  with  freedom,  and  in  a  natural  and 
animated  style,  are  an  excellent  criticism  upon 
studied  letters  of  wit ;  and  still  more  upon  those 
fictitious  letters,  which  aim  to  imitate  the  episto- 
lary style,  by  a  recital  of  false  sentiments  and 
feigned  adventures  to  imaginary  correspondents." 
She  died  in  1696,  in  her  seventy-first  year,  at 
her  daughter's  residence  in  Provence,  of  a  fever 
brought  on  in  consequence  of  the  anxiety  she  had 
endured  during  a  dangerous  illness  of  Madame  de 
Grignan. 

Tenderness  and  sensibility  are  characteristic  of 
her  letters,  and  were  displayed  by  her  during  her 
whole  life.  "  The  true  mark  of  a  good  heart," 
says  Madame  de  S6vign6,  "  is  its  capacity  for 
loving." 

Letter  11. 

TO    M.    DE    COULANOES. 

Paris,  Monday,  15  Dec,  1670. 
I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  thing  that  is  the  most 
astonishing,  the  most  surprising,  the  most  mar- 


vellous, the  most  miraculous,  the  most  supreme, 
the  most  confounding,  the  most  unheard,  the  most 
singular,  the  most  extraordinary,  the  most  incre- 
dible, the  most  unforseen,  the  greatest,  the  least, 
the  rarest,  the  most  common,  the  most  public,  the 
most  private,  till  to-day ;  the  most  brilliant,  the 
most  to  be  envied ;  in  short,  a  thing  of  which  there 
has  been  but  one  example  for  ages  past,  and  that 
not  a  just  one  neither;  a  thing  that  we  cannot 
believe  at  Paris ;  how  then  will  it  gain  credit  at 
Lyons?  A  thing  which  makes  every  body  cry, 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  us !  a  thing  which  causes 
the  greatest  joy  to  Madame  de  Rohan  and  Madame 
de  Hauterive  ;  a  thing,  in  fine,  which  will  be  done 
on  Sunday  next,  when  those  who  are  present  at  it 
will  think  they  see  double.  A  thing  which  will 
be  done  on  Sunday,  and  yet  perhaps  not  finished 
on  Monday.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  tell  it  you : 
can't  you  guess  ?  I  give  you  three  times  to  do  it 
in.  What,  not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog  ?  Well 
then,  I  find  I  must  tell  it  you.  Monsieur  de  Lau- 
zun  is  to  be  married  next  Sunday  at  the  Louvre, 

to guess  whom !    I  give  you  four  times  to  do 

it  in,  I  give  you  six,  I  give  you  a  hundred.  Says 
Madame  de  Coulanges,  it  is  really  very  hard  to 
giiess :  perhaps  it  is  Madame  de  la  Valiere.  In- 
deed, Madame,  it  is  not.  It  is  Mademoiselle  de 
Retz,  then.  No,  nor  yet  her ;  you  are  violently 
provincial.  Lord  bless  me,  says  you,  what  stupid 
wi'etches  we  are ;  it  is  Mademoiselle  de  Colbert  all 
the  while.  Nay,  now  you  are  still  further  from 
the  mark.  AVhy  then  it  must  certainly  be  Made- 
moiselle de  Crequy.  You  have  it  not  yet :  well,  I 
find  I  must  tell  you  at  last.  He  is  to  be  married 
next  Sunday,  at  the  Louvre,  with  the  king's  leave, 
to  Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle  de  .  .  .  .  Made- 
moiselle   guess  her  name.  He  marries  Ma- 
demoiselle, the  great  Mademoiselle ;  Mademoiselle, 
daughter  of  the  late  MONSIEUR ;  Mademoiselle, 
grand-daughter  of  Henry  IV. ;  Mademoiselle  d'Eu, 
Mademoiselle  de  Dombes,  Mademoiselle  de  Mont- 
pensier.  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans,  Mademoiselle, 
the  king's  cousin-german ;  Mademoiselle,  destined 
to  the  throne  ;  Mademoiselle,  the  only  match  that 
was  worthy  of  MONSIEUR.  Here  is  a  glorious 
matter  for  talk.  If  you  should  cry  out,  if  you  are 
beside  yourselves,  if  you  say  we  have  told  you  a 
lie,  that  it 's  all  false,  that  we  are  making  a  jest 
of  you,  that  it  is  a  very  pretty  joke  indeed!  that 
the  invention  is  dull  and  flat,  in  short,  if  you  abuse 
us,  we  shall  think  you  quite  in  the  right ;  for  we 
have  done  just  the  same  ourselves.  Farewell ; 
you  will  find  from  the  letters  you  receive  this  post 
whether  we  tell  you  the  truth  or  not. 

Letter  12. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Paris,  Friday,  19  Dec,  1670. 
What  is  called  falling  from  the  clouds,  or  from 
a  pinnacle,  happened  last  night  at  the  Thuilleries  ; 
but  I  must  take  things  farther  back.  You  have 
already  shared  in  the  joy,  the  transport,  and  ec- 
stacies  of  the  princess  and  her  happy  lover.  It 
was  just  as  I  told  you  ;  the  affair  was  made  public 
on  Monday.  Tuesday  was  passed  in  talking,  as- 
tonishment, and  compliments.     W^ednesday,  Ma- 

501 


SE 


SE 


demoiselle  macie  a  deed  of  gift  to  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun,  investing  him  with  certain,  titles,  names, 
and  dignities,  necessary  to  be  inserted  in  the  mar- 
riage-contract, which  was  drawn  up  that  day. 
She  gave  him  tlien,  till  she  could  give  him  some- 
thing better,  four  duchies ;  the  first  was  that  of 
count  d'Eu,  which  entitles  him  to  rank  as  first 
peer  of  France ;  the  dukedom  of  Montpensier, 
which  title  he  bore  all  that  day ;  the  dukedom  de 
Saint  Fargeau ;  and  the  dukedom  de  Chatellerault ; 
the  whole  valued  at  twenty-two  millions  of  livres. 
The  contract  was  then  drawn  up,  and  he  took  the 
name  of  Montpensier.  Thursday  morning,  which 
was  yesterday,  IMademoiselle  was  in  expectation 
of  the  king's  signing  the  contract,  as  he  had  said 
he  would  ;  but  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
the  queen,  Monsieur,  and  several  old  dotards  that 
were  about  him,  had  so  persuaded  his  majesty 
that  his  reputation  would  suffer  in  this  aff"air,  that, 
after  sending  for  Mademoiselle  and  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun  into  his  presence,  he  declared  unto  them, 
Ijefore  the  prince,  that  he  absolutely  forbade  them 
to  think  any  farther  about  this  mai-riage.  Mon- 
sieur de  Lauzun  received  this  order  with  all  the 
respect,  all  the  submission,  all  the  firmness,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  despair,  that  could  be 
expected  in  so  great  a  reverse  of  fortune.  As  for 
Mademoiselle,  being  under  no  restraint,  she  gave 
a  loose  to  herself,  and  burst  forth  into  tears,  ci'ies, 
lamentations,  and  the  most  violent  expressions  of 
grief;  she  keeps  her  bed  all  day  long,  and  takes 
nothing  within  her  lips  but  a  little  broth.  What 
a  fine  dream  is  here!  what  a  glorious  subject  for 
a  tragedy,  or  a  romance,  but  especially  for  an 
eternity  of  talk  and  reasoning !  This  is  what  we 
do  day  and  night,  moi'ning  and  evening,  without 
end  or  ceasing :  we  hope  you  do  the  like.  E  frd 
tanto  vi  baccio  le  mani. 

Letter  138. 

TO    MADAME    DE    GRIGNAX. 

Paris,  Tuesday,  4  March,  1672. 

You  say  then,  my  dear  child,  that  you  cannot 
possibly  keep  hatred  alive  for  so  long  a  time. 
You  are  in  the  right  of  it :  it  is  much  the  same 
with  me ;  but  then  guess  what  I  do  in  the  room 
of  it :  why  I  can  love  as  strongly,  and  for  as  long 
a  time,  a  certain  person  that  you  know.  You 
seem  to  give  way  to  a  negligence  that  gives  me  a 
deal  of  concern.  You  seldom  want  an  excuse  for 
it,  it  is  so  much  your  natural  inclination  ;  but  you 
know  I  always  found  fault  with  you  for  it,  and  do 
so  still.  One  might  make  an  excellent  mean  of 
Madame  du  Fresnoy  and  you :  both  of  you  are  in 
the  extreme ;  but  certainly  j'ours  may  be  better 
borne  with  than  hers.  I  wonder,  sometimes,  at 
the  many  nothings  that  drop  from  my  pen :  I 
never  cui-b  it,  but  am  extremely  happy  that  such 
trifles  amuse  you.  They  would  be  very  disagree- 
able to  many  people ;  but  I  beg  you  will  not  re- 
gret the  want  of  them  when  you  have  me  with 
you,  or  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  my  own  letters. 

The  dinner  that  M.  de  Valavoire  gave,  entirelj' 
eclipsed  ours :  not  for  the  quantity,  but  extreme 
delicacy  of  the'  dishes.  My  dear  child,  how  you 
look  !     Madame  de  Lafayette  will  scold  you  with- 


out mercy.  For  God's  sake,  dress  your  head  to- 
morrow ;  excessive  negligence  eclipses  beauty ; 
and  you  carry  your  dullness  beyond  bounds.  I 
have  made  your  compliments  ;  those  that  are  sent 
you  in  return  surpass  in  number  the  stars  of  the 
sky.  A  propos  of  stars :  La  Gouville  was  the 
other  day  at  Madame  de  St.  Lou's,  who  has  just 
lost  her  old  page.  La  Gouville,  among  other 
things,  was  talking  of  her  star;  and  her  star  did 
this,  and  her  star  did  that:  and  at  length  Segrais, 
who  was  there,  rousing  himself,  as  if  he  had  been 
asleep,  says  to  her,  "  Dear  Madam,  do  you  think 
you  have  a  star  to  yourself?  I  hear  nothing  but 
people  talking  about  their  stars.  Why,  do  you 
know,  Madam,  that  there  are  but  one  thousand 
and  twenty-two  in  all  ?  How  then  do  3'ou  think 
every  one  can  have  a  star  to  himself?"  This  was 
spoken  in  such  a  comical  manner,  and  with  so 
serious  a  countenance,  that  it  put  an  end  to  all 
their  sorrow  in  a  trice.  Your  letters  were  given 
to  Madame  de  Vaudemont  by  d'Hacqueville.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  see  him  very  seldom  now. 
The  great  fish  swallow  Up  the  little  ones,  you 
know.  Farewell,  my  dearest  love :  I  am  getting 
Bajazet  and  la  Fontaine's  Fables,  to  send  you  for 
your  amusement. 

Letter  159. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Paris,  Friday,  30  May,  1672. 

I  had  no  letter  from  you  yesterday,  my  dear 
child:  your  journey  to  Monaco  had  put  you  quite 
out  of  sorts :  I  was  afraid  of  some  such  accident. 
I  now  send  you  news  from  M.  de  Pomponne :  the 
fashion  of  being  wounded  is  begun  already :  my 
heart  is  vei-y  heavy  with  the  fears  of  this  cam- 
paign. My  son  writes  by  every  opportunity ;  he 
is  hitherto  in  good  health. 

My  aunt  is  still  in  a  deplorable  condition ;  and 
yet  we  have  the  courage  to  think  of  appointing  a 
day  for  parting  hence,  assuming  a  hope  which  in 
reality  we  cannot  entertain.  I  cannot  yet  forbear 
thinking  there  are  certain  things  not  ranged  in 
good  order,  among  the  various  events  of  life  ;  they 
are,  as  it  were,  rugged  stones  lying  across  our 
way,  too  unwieldy  to  be  removed,  and  which  we 
must  get  over  as  we  can,  though  it  is  not  without 
pain  and  difBculty. 

We  have  a  very  tragical  history  to  communicate 
to  you  from  Livri.  Do  you  remember  that  pre- 
tended devote,  who  walked  so  steadily,  without 
turning  his  head,  that  you  would  have  thought  he 
was  carrying  a  vessel  full  of  water  ?  His  devotion 
has  turned  his  brain.  One  night  he  gave  himself 
five  or  six  stabs  with  a  knife,  and  fell  on  his  knees 
in  his  cell,  all  naked,  and  weltering  in  his  blood. 
They  come  in,  and  find  him  in  this  posture.  "  Bro- 
ther, what  have  you  done  ?  AVho  has  left  you  in 
such  a  condition?"  He  replies  very  calmly,  "Fa- 
ther, I  am  doing  a  little  penance."  He  faints 
away;  they  lay  him  on  a  bed;  they  dress  his 
wounds,  which  are  found  very  dangerous ;  he  is 
recovered  with  much  difficulty,  and  sent  to  his 
friends. 

If  you  do  not  think  such  a  head  sufiiciently  dis- 
ordered, tell  me  so,  and  you  shall  have,  instead  of 

502 


SE 


SF 


it,  that  of  Madame  Paul,  who  is  fallen  desperately 
in  love  with  a  great  booby,  whom  she  had  taken  as 
her  gardener.  This  lady  has  managed  her  afl'airs 
admirably ;  she  has  married  him.  The  fellow  is  a 
mere  brute,  and  has  not  common  sense ;  he  will 
beat  her  soon,  and  has  already  threatened  to  do 
it ;  no  matter,  she  was  resolved  to  have  him.  I 
have  never  seen  so  violent  a  passion ;  there  is  all 
the  fine  extravagance  of  sentiments  imaginable, 
were  they  but  rightly  applied  :  it  is  like  the  rough 
sketch  of  an  ill  painting ;  all  the  colours  are  there  ; 
they  want  only  to  be  properly  disposed.  I  am  ex- 
tremely diverted  with  the  caprices  of  love ;  but 
really  I  tremble  for  myself,  when  I  reflect  on  such 
an  attempt  as  this.  What  insolence  was  it  in  this 
passion,  to  attack  Madame  Paul  ?  that  is,  to  at- 
tack rigid,  austere,  antiquated  virtue  herself  in 
person.  Alas  !  where  can  we  hope  to  find  security  ? 
This  is  a  pleasant  piece  of  news  indeed,  after  the 
agreeable  relations  you  have  given  us.  I  beg  you 
not  to  forget  M.  de  Harouis,  whose  heart  is  a 
master-piece  of  perfection,  and  who  adores  you. 
I  am  very  impatient  to  hear  of  you  and  your  little 
son.  The  weather  must  be  extremely  hot  in  the 
climate  you  are  in :  I  fear  this  season  for  him,  and 
for  you  much  more ;  for  I  have  never  yet  had  any 
reason  to  think  it  possible  to  love  anything  be- 
sides, in  an  equal  degree  with  you. 

SEWARD,    ANNA, 

Daughter  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Seward,  was 
born,  in  1747,  at  Eyam,  in  Derbyshire.  Very 
early  in  life  she  manifested  a  talent  for  poetry, 
which  her  father  in  vain  tried  to  discourage.  She 
acquired  considerable  reputation  as  a  poet ;  and 
also  wrote  "A  Life  of  Dr.  Darwin,"  in  which  she 
claims  the  first  fifty  lines  of  his  "  Botanic  Garden" 
as  her  own. 

In  1754,  Mr.  Seward  removed  with  his  family 
to  Lichfield,  the  birth-place  of  Johnson  and  Gar- 
rick,  and  the  residence  of  Dr.  Darwin ;  and  Miss 
Seward  continued  to  live  there  till  her  death  in 
1809.  Her  only  sister  dying  in  1764,  just  as  she 
was  on  the  eve  of  marrying  Dr.  Porter,  step-son 
to  Dr.  Johnson,  Anna  found  her  society  so  indis- 
pensable to  her  parents,  that  she  rejected  all  offers 
of  matrimony  on  their  account ;  although,  being 
young,  beautiful,  and  an  heiress,  she  was  of  course 
much  sought.  She  was  remai-kable  for  the  ardour 
and  constancy  of  her  friendships,  as  well  as  for 
her  filial  devotion. 

Her  sonnets  have  procured  her  the  greater  part 
of  her  celebrity  as  a  poetess ;  though  her  poetical 
novel,  entitled  "  Louisa,"  was  very  favourably  re- 
ceived at  the  time  of  its  publication.  Miss  Seward 
died  in  1809,  aged  sixty-two  years.  Among  her 
publications  were  six  volumes  of  "  Letters."  The 
"Description  of  the  Life  of  an  English  Country 
Clergyman  some  eighty  or  ninety  years  ago,"  is  a 
fair  specimen  of  her  prose,  which  we  think  is  su- 
pei-ior  to  her  poetry. 

FROM    A    LETTER   DATED    1767. 

The  convenient  old  parsonage  is  uncommonly 
light  and  cheerful.  Its  fire-places  have  odd  little 
extra  windows  near  them,  which  are  the  blessings 


of  employment  in  cold  or  gloomy  days.  A  rural 
walk  encircles  the  house.  In  its  front,  a  short 
flagged  walk  divides  two  grass-plots,  and  leads  to 
a  little  wicket  gate,  arched  over  with  ivy,  that 
opens  into  the  fold-yard.  A  narrow  gravel-walk 
extends  along  the  front  of  the  house,  and  under 
the  parlour-windows.  Opposite  them,  and  on  the 
larger  grass-plot,  stands  the  venerable  and  expan- 
sive mulberry-tree.  *  *  *  AVe  rise  at  seven.  At 
eight,  my  aunt  and  cousin,  my  mother,  Honora, 
and  myself,  meet  at  our  neat  and  cheerful  break- 
fast. That  dear,  kind-hearted  saint,  my  uncle, 
has  his  milk  earlier,  and  retires,  for  the  morning, 
to  his  study.  At  nine,  we  adjourn  to  my  aunt's 
apartment  above  stairs,  where  one  reads  aloud  to 
the  rest,  who  are  at  work.  At  twelve,  my  uncle 
summons  us  to  prayers  in  the  parlour.  AVhen 
they  are  over,  the  family  disperses,  and  we  young 
ones  either  walk  or  write  till  dinner.  That  ap- 
pears at  two.  At  four,  we  resume  my  aunt's  apart- 
ment. *  *  *  AVhen  we  quit  this  dear  apartment 
to  take  an  evening  walk,  it  is  always  with  a  de- 
gree of  reluctance.  At  half-past  ten,  he  calls  in 
his  servants  to  join  our  vesper  devotions,  which 
close  the  peaceful  and  unvaried  day,  resigning  us 
to  sleep  as  tranquil  as  itself.  *  *  *  The  village 
has  no  neighbourhood,  and  in  itself  no  prospect. 
The  roads  are  deep  and  dirty,  in  winter  scarce 
passable.  My  fair  cousin,  Miss  Marten,  is  com- 
pletely buried  through  the  dreary  months.  *  *  * 
She  tells  us  she  weeps  for  joy  at  the  sight  of  the 
first  daisy,  and  welcomes  and  talks  to  and  hails  the 
little  blessed  harbinger  of  brighter  days,  her  days 
of  liberty  as  well  as  of  peace. 

SEYMOUR,  ANNE,  MARGARET,  and  JANE, 

Daughters  of  Edward,  duke  of  Somerset,  were 
known  for  their  poetical  talents.  Their  one  hun- 
dred and  four  Latin  distichs  on  the  death  of  Mar- 
garet of  Valois,  queen  of  France,  were  translated 
into  French,  Greek,  and  Italian,  and  printed  in 
Paris  in  1551,  but  possess  little  merit.  Anne 
married  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  afterwards  Sir 
Edward  Hunter.  Margaret  and  Jane  died  single. 
Jane  was  maid  of  honour  to  queen  Elizabeth  of 
England,  and  died  in  1500,  at  the  age  of  twenty. 

SEYMOUR,  JANE, 
Was  married  to  Henry  VIII.,  in  May,  1536,  the 
day  after  Anne  Boleyn  was  beheaded,  and  died, 
October,  1537,  two  days  after  the  birth  of  her  son, 
Edward  VI.  Henry  is  said  to  have  been  very 
much  attached  to  her  during  their  brief  union ; 
but  she  seems  to  have  been  cold  and  insipid  in 
her  character,  retaining  his  affections  more  by  her 
yielding  disposition,  than  by  any  other  quality. 
She  never  interfered  in  state  affairs.  She  was 
maid  of  honour  to  Anne  Boleyn  at  the  time  that 
Henry  fell  in  love  with  her ;  and  witnessed  Anne's 
fall  and  death  without  the  slightest  appearance  of 
sensibility. 

SFORZA,   BONA, 
Queen  of  Poland,  was  born  in  Naples,  in  1501. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Isabella  of  Aragon,  and  of 
Sei'vanni  Galeozzo  Sforza,  nephew  of  the  founder  of 

503 


SF 


SH 


the  Sfoi-sa  dynasty  in  ]Mil:m.  She  lost  her  father 
in  very  tender  infancy,  and  was  brought  up  with 
great  care  by  her  mother.  In  1518,  she  was  mar- 
ried by  proxy  to  Sigismond  I.,  king  of  Poland, 
over  whom  she  obtained  the  greatest  influence, 
which  she  used  to  advantage  in  prompting  and 


causing  to  be  executed,  plans  for  the  prosperity 
of  the  kingdom.  She  inspired  the  administration 
with  an  activity  unknown  before  in  Poland ;  and 
while  she  resided  there,  was  a  patron  of  many 
useful  and  magnificent  undertakings.  On  the  death 
of  her  husband,  she  became  disgusted  with  a  ma- 
trimonial misalliance  contracted  by  her  son,  the 
reigning  monarch.  She  returned  to  her  native 
country,  where  she  was  received  with  the  highest 
honours.  In  her  little  sovereignty  of  Bar,  she 
occupied  herself  with  useful  establishments,  ac- 
cording to  her  means,  and  took  particular  delight 
in  the  society  and  encouragement  of  men  of  letters. 
She  died  in  1557. 

SFORZA,    CRISTIERNA,    DUCHESS 
OF   MILAN, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Christian  II.,  king  of  Den- 
mark, a  prince  who  was  expelled  by  his  subjects, 
and  died  in  exile.  Her  mother  was  Isabella,  sister 
of  Charles  V.  Left  an  orphan  in  infancy,  she  was 
tenderly  educated  by  her  aunt,  the  dowager  queen 
of  Hungary,  and,  by  her  beauty  and  pleasing  man- 
ners, having  gained  the  favour  of  Charles  V.,  was 
adopted  by  that  sovereign,  who  carried  her  with 
him  to  the  court  of  JIadrid.  In  1530,  she  espoused 
Francesco  Sforza,  duke  of  Milan.  His  death, 
which  took  place  three  years  afterwards,  left  her 
a  j'oung  and  beautiful  widow,  richly  endowed  with 
the  gifts  of  fortune.  Among  many  suitors,  she  se- 
lected Francesco  I.,  duke  of  Lorena;  refusing  the 
proposals  of  Henry  YIIL,  of  England,  who  had 
demanded  her  hand  of  Charles  V.  At  the  end  of 
four  years  of  domestic  happiness,  death  deprived 
her  of  Francesco,  and  after  that  she  refused  to 
enter  into  any  new  matrimonial  connexion,  but 
devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  her  children  and  of 
the  Lorenese  states,  of  which  she  had  been  left 
regent.     Here  it  is  that  she  merits  other  praise 


than  that  of  a  good  mistress  of  a  family :  for  she 
evinced  so  much  sagacity,  so  much  good  feeling 
and  activity,  that,  by  judicious  management,  she 
rendered  Lorena  the  most  flourishing  and  prosper- 
ous duchy  in  that  province.  But  no  wisdom,  no 
courage,  could  defend  this  little  state  from  the 
rapacity  of  a  mighty  monarch,  who  had  cast  upon 
it  a  covetous  eye.  Henry  II.,  king  of  France, 
partly  by  craft,  and  partly  by  force,  found  means 
to  seize  upon  the  government.  The  heir  was  taken 
to  Paris,  and  the  regent  banished.  Ambition  was 
not  her  master  passion,  and  she  willingly  retired 
into  private  life,  when  an  opportunity  occurred  for 
revealing  great  force  of  character,  joined  with  tact, 
intelligence,  and  many  other  admirable  qualities, 
and  in  a  way  peculiarly  congenial  to  a  woman. 
She  perceived  that  France  and  Spain,  wearied  of 
the  long  turbulence  and  continual  war  in  which 
they  had  been  engaged,  were  both  inclined  to 
peace,  and  needed  only  some  mediator  to  bring 
about  that  blessing.  Inspired  by  a  generous  wish 
to  benefit  her  fellow-creatures,  she  undertook  this 
affair ;  active,  industrious,  eloquent,  persuasive, 
she  made  repeated  journeys  between  Paris  and 
Madrid,  and  rested  not  till  she  had  obtained  from 
the  two  monarchs  a  promise  that  they  would  meet 
in  a  congress.  In  1555,  Charles  and  Henry  had 
an  interview  at  Chateau  Cambresis ;  and  then  the 
lady  overpowered  every  body  by  her  ready  wit, 
her  seducing  eloquence,  and  her  profound  views 
of  policy.     Peace  was  the  result  of  her  efforts. 

Cristierna  passed  the  rest  of  her  life  in  a  modest 
seclusion,  where  she  exhibited  all  the  virtues  of 
private  life.  She  died  of  paralysis,  in  the  city  of 
Tortona,  in  the  year  1590. 

SHEREEN,  or  SCHIRIN,  or  SIRA, 
Was  an  Armenian  princess,  second  wife  of 
Chosroes  II.,  king  of  Persia  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  She  was  very  beautiful,  intellectual,  and 
accomplished,  and  is  the  heroine  of  many  of  the 
Tm-kish  and  Persian  romances.  Her  husband  was 
murdered  by  his  own  son  by  a  former  wife,  and 
Shereen  killed  herself  on  his  tomb  to  escape  the 
love  of  the  murderer. 

SHERIDAN,  FRANCES, 
Wife  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  M.  A.,  was  born  in 
Ireland,  in  1724,  but  descended  from  a  good  Eng- 
lish family,  which  had  removed  there.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Chamberlaine.  She  wrote  a  little  pam- 
phlet at  the  time  of  a  violent  party-dispute  about 
the  theatre  in  which  Mr.  Sheridan  had  just  em- 
barked his  fortune.  He,  by  accident,  discovered 
his  defender,  and  soon  afterwards  married  her. 
She  was  a  very  charming  woman,  and  fulfilled  all 
her  duties  with  the  greatest  propriety.  She  died 
at  Blois,  in  France,  in  1767.  Her  "  Sydney  Bid- 
dulph,"  is  a  very  well-written  novel ;  and  her  little 
romance  called  "Nourjahad,"  shows  a  very  fertile 
imagination.  She  also  wrote  two  comedies,  en- 
titled "  The  Discovery,"  and  "  The  Dupe." 

Although  not  handsome,  Mrs.  Sheridan  is  de- 
scribed as  having  had  an  intelligent  countenance, 
fine  dark  eyes  and  hair,  with  a  particularly  fair 
complexion. 

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In  her  dress  l\Irs.  Sheridan  was  somewhat  plain, 
though  she  did  not  aifect  that  negligence  which 
was  adopted  by  some  of  the  literary  ladies  of  that 
day,  who  were  accused  of  studiously  neglecting 
the  Graces  to  pay  homage  to  the  ISIuses. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  was  as  much  beloved  in  her  own 
family  as  she  was  admired  by  her  cotemporaries ; 
and  she  was  even  more  famed  for  her  colloquial 
powers  than  for  her  literary  talents.  Her  temper 
was  good,  though  warm,  of  which  infirmity  she 
was  herself  aware.  From  her  works,  it  is  evident 
she  had  a  strong  sense  of  religion;  and  in  her 
principal  performance,  "Sidney  Biddulph,"  she 
portrays  it  as  the  only  consolation  her  heroine  re- 
ceives dui-ing  her  misfortunes. 


SHREWSBURY,    ELIZABETH, 
COUNTESS   OF, 

Was  the  daughter  of  John  Hardwick,  of  Hard- 
wick,  a  gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  fortune 
in  Derbyshire.  At  a  very  early  age  she  married, 
not  without  some  suspicions  of  interested  motives, 
a  gentleman  of  fortune,  named  Barlow,  in  delicate 
health.  Before  his  marriage,  to  prove  his  devo- 
tion, he  made  a  will,  in  which  he  secured  to  her, 
and  her  heirs,  almost  the  whole  of  his  vast  estates. 
A  short  time  after  their  marriage  he  died.  She 
soon  contracted  a  second  marriage,  with  Sir  Wil- 
liam Cavendish,  to  whom  she  appears  to  have  been 
really  attached.  He  was  a  widower  for  the  third 
time  when  he  married  her,  and  seems  to  have  re- 
turned her  aiFection  sincerely,  denying  her  nothing, 
and  anticipating  her  wishes.  To  gratify  her,  he 
sold  his  estates  in  the  south  of  England,  and  pur- 
chased lands  in  her  native  county ;  and  here  he 
began,  by  her  desire,  the  building  of  Chatsworth, 
a  mansion,  since  one  of  the  most  magnificent  and 
celebrated  in  the  kingdom,  on  which  a  mine  of 
wealth  has  been  spent  at  different  times.  Her 
great  passion  seems  to  have  been  to  erect  great 
mansions  in  every  part  of  her  large  estates ;  as 
Chatsworth,  Hardwick,  Oldcotes,  and  others,  prove. 
Tradition  has  preserved  a  prophecy  that  she  would 
not  die  while  she  continued  to  build.  Sir  William 
Cavendish  did  not  live  to  see  the  finishing  of  his 
splendid  mansion.     Upon  his  widow  this  task  de- 


volved, as  well  as  the  bringing  up  of  their  six 
children,  to  whom  she  was  fondly  attached,  and  to 
whose  interests  she  was  devoted.  Through  these 
children,  she  became  the  ancestress  of  more  than 
one  noble  and  distinguished  family.  Her  oldest 
son  died  childless ;  the  second,  William,  became 
the  first  earl  of  Devonshire ;  the  third,  Charles, 
was  the  ancestor  of  the  dukes  of  Newcastle.  Her 
oldest  daughter,  Frances,  married  Sir  Henry 
Pierrepoint,  ancestor  of  the  dukes  of  Kingston, 
by  which  alliance  we  perceive  that  "  old  Bess  of 
Hardwick"  was  an  ancestress  of  lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  Montague.  Elizabeth,  the  second  daughter, 
married  Charles  Stuart,  duke  of  Lennox,  brother 
of  Darnley,  who  became  father  of  the  unfortunate 
Arabella  Stuart,  the  victim  of  state  policy.  Mary, 
the  third  daughter,  married  Gilbert,  the  oldest 
son  of  Elizabeth's  fourth  husband,  and  arrived  at 
the  same  dignity  of  Countess  of  Shrewsbui-y. 

With  a  splendid  fortune,  and  unimpaired  beauty, 
the  attractive  widow  retained  her  liberty  some 
time,  till  at  length  she  was  prevailed  upon  to 
change  her  state  again,  in  favour  of  Sir  William 
St.  Lo,  of  Toi-marton,  in  Gloucestershire,  captain 
of  the  guard  to  queen  Elizabeth,  and  grand  butler 
of  England.  He  was  wealthy,  and  had  broad 
lands  in  Gloucestershire ;  and  these  circumstances 
weighed  with  the  acute  widow  and  careful  mother, 
who  determined,  before  she  ventured  to  alter  her 
position,  to  secure  as  much  as  possible  of  his  pos- 
sessions to  herself  and  children.  She  was  suc- 
cessful, and  Sir  William  settled  the  whole  of  his 
fortune  upon  her  and  her  heirs,  to  the  exclusion 
of  his  children  by  a  former  marriage.  The  en- 
amoured captain  did  not  survive  long  to  enjoy  his 
happiness.  Elizabeth  was  for  the  third  time  left 
a  widow,  with  a  fortune  considerably  increased, 
and  no  heirs  of  St.  Lo  to  take  any  thing  from  her 
family  of  Cavendish. 

Wealth  had  been  her  object  in  her  last  match, 
and  as  her  appetite  seemed  to  "grow  with  what 
it  fed  on,"  she  resolved  to  give  the  reins,  not  only 
to  her  desire  of  gain,  but  to  the  ambition  which 
led  her  step  by  step  till  she  had  established  her- 
self in  the  precincts  of  the  court.  It  was  not  long 
before  she  made  a  new  selection.  George,  earl 
of  Shrewsbury,  was  no  longer  a  young  man,  but 
he  was  rich,  of  exalted  rank,  and  the  greatest  sub- 
ject in  the  realm ;  high  in  favour  with  the  queen, 
and  trusted  beyond  any  other  noble  in  her  court, 
independent,  magnificent,  and  powerful,  ai^d  a 
widower,  with  sons  and  daughters  unmarried.  In 
an  evil  day  for  him,  the  earl  of  Shrewsbury  sub- 
mitted his  fate  to  the  guidance  of  the  successful 
widow.  A  magnificent  jointure  was  settled  upon 
the  bride,  and  it  was  agreed,  not  only  that  her 
eldest  son  should  espouse  his  daughter,  but  that 
her  3'oungest  daughter,  Mary,  should  become  the 
wife  of  his  heir,  Gilbert.  The  earl  of  Shrewsbury's 
good  genius  must  have  forsaken  him  at  this  event- 
ful period  of  his  life :  for  soon  after  his  marriage 
he  voluntarily  undertook  the  guardianship  of  Mary, 
queen  of  Scots,  who,  in  May,  15G8,  landed  in 
England,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  protection 
of  queen  Elizabeth,  who  immediately  made  her  a 
state  prisoner :  an  act  of  treachery  that  has  found 

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a  parallel  in  English  histoi-y  of  modern  times.  It 
appears  that  both  the  earl  and  countess  eagerly 
sought  the  office  of  head  jailers  to  the  xinfortunate 
Mary. 

At  this  period  of  their  married  life,  the  earl  and 
countess  seemed  to  live  on  terms  of  affectionate 
confidence;  but  from  the  first  entrance  of  the 
queen  of  Scots  into  their  family,  disturbances 
began  to  occur.  What  the  ambitious  and  danger- 
ous schemes  of  the  countess  may  have  been,  can- 
not now,  with  certainty,  be  known ;  but  it  is  likely 
that  she  endeavoured  to  secure  Mary  as  her  friend, 
in  case  of  a  failure  with  Elizabeth  ;  or,  in  modern 
parlance,  she  deemed  it  wisest,  in  the  game  she 
was  playing,  to  "hedge!"  The  earl  was  accused 
of  a  tender  leaning  towards  his  captive;  "a 
scandal"  which  he  has  himself  recorded  in  his  own 
epitaph.  That  his  wary  mistress,  queen  Elizabeth, 
distrusted  him  somewhat,  is  evident  from  the  part 
which  she  afterwards  played  when  the  earl  and 
countess  began  to  quarrel.  In  1574,  the  countess 
took  the  daring  step  of  marrying  her  daughter 
Elizabeth  to  the  earl  of  Lennox,  brother  of  Darn- 
ley.  This  alliance  with  the  family  of  the  royal 
captive,  gave  great  offence  to  the  queen,  and  we 
find  the  earl  of  Shrewsbury  writing  to  her  and 
protesting  his  ignorance  of  this  act  of  his  wife's. 
The  object  of  this  turmoil,  Elizabeth  Cavendish, 
seems  to  have  derived  little  happiness  from  her 
marriage ;  blamed,  imprisoned,  persecuted,  and 
reproached,  she  had  small  cause  to  congratulate 
herself  on  the  dangerous  elevation  to  which  her 
mother's  ambition  had  raised  her ;  and,  after  a 
brief  space,  the  husband,  on  whom  so  many  hopes 
wei'e  fixed,  fell  a  victim  to  sickness  or  soi'row,  and 
she  became  a  widow,  with  one  child,  Arabella,  the 
heiress  of  her  griefs  and  all  the  misfortunes  of  the 
devoted  race  of  Stuart. 

The  earl  of  Shrewsbury's  office  of  custodian  to 
the  royal  Mary  was  prolific  of  troubles ;  the 
queen's  suspicions  aroused,  his  wife's  jealousy 
excited,  his  own  liberty  necessarily  restrained,  a 
responsible  office,  and  expensive  establishment, 
for  which  he  was  inadequately  paid,  to  support, 
all  combined  to  render  his  situation  little  to  be 
envied.  In  the  year  1577,  the  first  shade  is  evi- 
dent that  appears  to  have  clouded  the  domestic 
sky  of  the  earl  and  countess,  and  henceforth  their 
disunion  increased  till  it  amounted  to  open  re- 
vilings.  The  earl's  children  sided  with  their  step- 
mother, whose  resolute  will  gave  her  unbounded 
sway  over  all  within  her  influence.  Notwithstand- 
ing that,  the  earl  accuses  her  of  a  desire  to  gain 
possession  of  his  estates  and  revenues  for  the 
benefit  of  her  own  children.  The  poor  earl  seems 
to  have  been  sorely  ill  treated  by  both  the  women 
who  ruled  him  ;  for  we  find  him  making  applica- 
tion to  the  queen,  "for  the  hundreth  time,"  for 
payment  of  his  just  dues  in  keeping  the  queen  of 
Scots.  At  length,  the  sorrows  and  troubles  of 
the  eai'l  of  Shrewsbury  were  brought  to  a  close. 
He  died  in  November,  1590.  During  the  follow- 
ing seventeen  years  of  widowhood,  Elizabeth  of 
Shrewsbury  devoted  herself  to  building ;  and 
there  is  no  knowing  how  many  more  mansions 
the  would  have  erected  if  her  life  had  been  spared. 


The  story  goes,  that  in  1607  a  hard  frost  set  in, 
which  obliged  her  workmen  to  stop  suddenly  ; 
"  the  spell  was  broken,  the  astrologer's  prediction 
verified,  Elizabeth  of  Ilardwick  could  build  no 
longer,  and  she  died."  Her  death  occurred  at 
Hardwick  Hall,  in  February,  1607,  in  the  87th 
year  of  her  age.  During  the  latter  jjart  of  her 
life,  the  affection  which  the  countess  entertained 
for  her  grand-daughter,  Arabella  Stuart,  was  one 
of  the  master  passions  of  her  mind.  It  was  well 
for  her  proud  spirit  that  she  was  spared  the  pain 
of  witnessing  the  downfall  of  her  ambitious  hopes, 
and  the  melancholy  fate  of  one  so  dear  to  her. 

This  countess  of  Shrewsbury  is  a  remarkable 
instance  of  the  worldly-wise  woman,  approaching, 
both  in  the  powers  of  her  intellect  and  the  manner 
in  which  she  directed  her  talents,  very  nearly  the 
masculine  type  of  mind.  Calm,  jirudent,  energetic, 
but  politic,  selfish,  hard,  she  stands  out  from  our 
pictui-es  of  true  feminine  character  like  an  oak 
among  laurels,  willows  and  magnolias.  Happily, 
for  the  moral  welfare  of  our  race,  there  arc  few 
women  like  "Bess  of  Hardwick." 

SIDDONS,    SARAH, 

The  most  eminent  English  tragic  actress,  was 
born,  in  1755,  at  Brecknock,  and  was  the  daughter 
of  Roger  Kemble,  manager  of  a  company  of  itine- 
rant players.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  became 
attached  to  Mr.  Siddons  ;  and  her  parents  refusing 
their  consent  to  her  mari-iage,  she  went  to  reside 
with  Mrs.  Greathead,  of  Guy's  Cliff,  as  an  humble 
companion.  In  her  eighteenth  year  she  married 
Mr.  Siddons,  and  returned  to  the  stage.  In  1775, 
she  made  her  first  appearance  on  the  London 
boards,  but  was  unsuccessful.  Time,  however, 
matured  her  powers ;  and,  after  an  absence  of 
seven  years,  spent  partly  at  Bath,  where  she  was 
much  admired,  she  reappeared  at  Drury  Lane  in 
1782  ;  and  from  that  time  her  course  was  a  perpe- 
tual triumph.  In  1812,  having  acquired  an  ample 
fortune,  she  withdrew  into  private  life.  She  died, 
June  9th,  1831.  Mrs.  Siddons  possessed  consi- 
derable talents  as  a  sculptor.  A  medallion  of  her- 
self, and  a  bust  of  her  brother,  John  Kemble,  are 
among  her  works.  Her  character  was  irreproach- 
able. 

SIRANI,  ELISABETTA, 
Was  born  in  Bologna,  in  1638.  Her  father, 
Gian  Andrea  Sirani,  was  a  painter  of  some  repu- 
tation, and  had  been  a  favourite  scholar  of  Guide, 
and  successful  imitator  of  his  style.  The  manifest- 
ations of  real  genius  are  usually  to  be  discovered 
at  the  earliest  age ;  and  Elisabetta,  when  almost 
an  infant,  excited  attention  by  her  attempts  at 
drawing.  These  baby  pencillings,  though  they 
attracted  the  notice  of  her  father,  did  not  give 
him  the  idea  of  instructing  her,  because  she  was  a 
girl.  Fortunately,  a  visiter  at  the  house,  count 
Canonico  Malvasia,  a  man  of  cultivated  mind  and 
enlarged  views,  used  his  influence  with  Sirani,  and 
represented  to  him  the  culpability  of  stifling  the 
rare  talent  that  was  developing  itself  in  the  little 
maiden.  From  this  time  she  was  educated  for  her 
future  profession,  and  every  study  was  attended 

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to  that  could  be  useful  to  improve  her  genius.  Her 
delight  in  intellectual  cultivation  was  only  equalled 
by  her  conscientious  industry ;  the  most  complete 
success  crowned  her  application.  As  a  painter, 
her  works  take  place  among  the  best  Italian 
masters.     She  has  also  left  some  very  excellent 


engravings,  and  displayed  no  mean  ability  in  mo- 
delling in  plaster.  Before  she  had  attained  her 
eighteenth  year,  she  had  painted  many  large  his- 
torical pieces,  which  were  regarded  with  admira- 
tion, and  obtained  an  honourable  situation  in  the 
various  churches.  Besides  this,  the  young  artist 
was  a  very  excellent  musician,  singing  beautifully, 
and  playing  with  grace  upon  the  harp.  She  was 
as  remarkable  for  her  plain  good  sense  and  amia- 
ble disposition,  as  for  her  talents.  The  solace  and 
support  of  her  invalid  father,  she  put  into  his 
hands  all  the  money  she  received  for  her  pictures. 
Her  mother  having  become  paralytic,  the  house- 
hold affairs  devolved  upon  her ;  and  her  attention 
to  the  minutiae  of  inferior  occupations,  as  well  as 
her  motherly  care  of  her  younger  sisters,  proved 
that  the  brilliant  exercise  of  the  most  refined  ac- 
complishments and  the  most  intellectual  attain- 
ments is  by  no  means  incompatible  with  the  perfect 
discharge  of  those  menial  employments  to  which 
the  wisdom  of  some  Solomons  would  limit  the 
faculties  of  woman. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate  the  works 
of  this  indefatigable  artist.  She  was  admired  and 
visited  by  the  great  of  that  day,  who  vied  with  one 
another  in  the  desire  to  obtain  specimens  of  her 
pencil.  At  one  time,  a  committee  appointed  to 
order  a  large  picture  of  the  baptism  of  Jesus,  to 
be  placed  opposite  a  Holy  Supper  in  the  church 
of  the  Certosini,  called  upon  her.  Radiant  with 
inspiration,  the  girl,  then  scarcely  twenty,  took  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and,  before  the  eyes  of  the  aston- 
ished beholders,  with  the  utmost  promptness,  drew 
in  Indian  ink,  that  composition  so  rich  in  figures, 
so  spirited  in  its  details,  and  so  grand  in  its  en- 
semble.. As  soon  as  it  was  finished,  it  was  hung 
where  it  now  stands,  and  drew  au  immense  con- 
course of  admiring  spectators.  The  drawing,  the 
colouring,  the  harmony  of  the  parts,  have  obtain- 


ed the  praise  and  enthusiastic  tributes  of  all  suc- 
ceeding artists.  Her  fame  was  spread  throughout 
Italy,  and  foreign  courts  became  desirous  of  ex- 
tending to  her  their  patronage.  A  large  picture 
was  bespoken  by  the  empress  Eleonora,  widow  of 
Ferdinand  III.,  when  she  was  assailed  by  a  disease 
of  the  stomach,  which,  after  a  few  months  of  slight 
indisposition,  attacked  her  so  violently,  that  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  she  was  reduced  to  extre- 
mity. She  received  the  sacrament,  and  died  on 
the  28th  of  August,  her  birth-day.  She  was 
twenty-seven  years  of  age.  As  she  was  apparently 
robust  and  of  good  constitution,  suspicions  arose 
of  poison  having  been  administered  to  her ;  but, 
upon  a  post  mortem  examination,  no  conclusive 
evidence  could  be  found ;  and  as  the  suspected 
individual  (a  servant)  was  acquitted  in  the  legal 
scrutiny  which  took  place,  we  are  not  warranted 
in  the  idea  that  her  death  was  otherwise  than  a 
natural  one. 

There  was  a  universal  moui'ning  among  her  fel- 
low-citizens ;  all  funereal  honours  were  given  to 
her  remains,  which  were  deposited  near  those  of 
Guido,  in  the  church  of  San  Domenico. 

SIRIES,   VIOLANTE  BEATRICE, 

Was  born  at  Florence,  in  1710.  She  was  a  pupil 
of  Giovanna  Fratellini,  who  at  that  time  lived  in 
high  esteem  in  Florence ;  by  whose  instruction  she 
made  an  extraordinary  proficiency  in  water-colour 
and  crayon  painting,  till  she  was  sixteen,  when  she 
went,  with  her  father,  to  Paris,  where  he  was  ap- 
pointed goldsmith  to  the  king  of  France.  Here 
she  continued  for  five  years,  and  studied  under  au 
eminent  Flemish  artist.  She  painted  portraits  of 
several  of  the  nobility  with  such  beauty  and  fide- 
lity, that  she  was  invited  to  take  likenesses  of  the 
royal  family  ;  but  she  was  under  the  necessity  of 
declining  this  honour,  as  she  was  about  to  retui-n 
with  her  father  to  Florence,  where  he  had  a  very 
lucrative  employment  conferred  on  him  by  the 
Grand  Duke. 

The  Grand  Duke  professed  great  esteem  for  this 
artist,  and  ordered  her  portrait  to  be  placed  in  the 
gallery  of  artists  at  Florence.  To  perpetuate  her 
father's  memory,  she  introduced  his  portrait  with 
her  own,  giving  at  once  a  proof  of  her  filial  piety 
and  distinguished  mei-it.  She  painted  equally  well 
in  oil  and  with  crayons ;  but  most  of  her  works 
are  in  oil,  and  are  principally  from  historical  sub- 
jects. She  also  painted  fruit  and  flowers ;  and 
executed  every  subject  with  extraordinary  taste, 
truth,  and  delicacy.     She  died  in  1700. 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE, 
Eldest  daughter  of  Nicholas  Turner,  Esq.,  of 
Surrey,  in  England,  was  born  in  London,  May  4th, 
1749.  She  lost  her  mother  when  she  was  only 
three  years  old,  and  the  charge  of  her  education 
devolved  on  her  aunt.  Miss  Turner  was  carefully 
instructed  in  all  the  accomplishments  of  the  day, 
but  she  afterwards  regretted  that  lier  attention 
had  not  been  directed  more  to  the  solid  branches 
of  learning.  She  began  to  write  when  very  young, 
and  was  always  extravagantly  fond  of  reading, 
especially  poetry  and  romances.     At  the  early  age 

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of  twelve  she  left  school,  and  from  that  time  was 
accustomed  to  frequent  public  amusements  with 
her  family,  and  even  appear  in  society  with  them. 
She  was  beautiful,  animated,  and  attractive,  and 
appeared  so  much  older  than  she  really  was,  that 
at  fourteen  she  received  pi'oposals  of  man'iage, 
which  were  refused,  and  at  fifteen  she  was  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Smith,  son  of  Richard  Smith,  a  West 
India  merchant,  and  Director  of  the  East  India 
Company. 


Mr.  Smith's  great  inferiority  to  his  wife,  both 
in  mind  and  principles,  was  more  and  more  appa- 
rent every  year,  which  Mrs.  Smith  felt  keenly  as 
she  grew  older ;  yet  never  to  her  most  confidential 
fi'iends  did  she  allow  a  complaint  or  severe  remark 
to  escape  her  lips.  Her  father-in-law  fully  appre- 
ciated her,  and  often  employed  her  pen  on  matters 
of  business,  and  confided  to  her  all  his  anxieties. 
He  often  remarked  that  she  could  expedite  more 
business  in  an  hour,  from  his  dictation,  than  any 
one  of  his  clerks  could  perfoi-m  in  a  day.  This 
aifords  a  strong  instance  of  the  compass  of  her 
mind,  which  could  adapt  itself  with  equal  facility 
to  the  charms  of  literature  and  the  dry  details  of 
commerce. 

In  1776,  the  death  of  her  father-in-law,  who 
left  an  incomprehensible  will  which  kept  them  for 
some  time  involved  in  law-suits,  occasioned  the 
final  ruin  of  their  fortunes.  Their  estate  in  Hamp- 
shire was  sold,  and  they  removed  to  Sussex.  Mrs. 
Smith  never  deserted  her  husband  for  a  moment 
during  the  period  of  his  misfortunes.  While  suf- 
fering from  the  calamities  he  had  brought  on  him- 
self and  his  children,  she  exerted  herself  with  as 
much  energy  as  though  his  conduct  had  been  un- 
exceptionable, made  herself  mistress  of  his  afi'airs, 
and  finally  succeeded  in  settling  them. 

Mr.  Smith  found  it  expedient,  in  1783,  to  retire 
to  the  continent,  where  his  wife  joined  him  with 
their  children.  They  resided  near  Dieppe ;  and 
here  her  youngest  son  was  born.  She  translated 
while  there  the  novel  called  "  Manon  I'Escaut." 
In  1785,  she  returned  to  England ;  and  soon  after 
published  "The  Romance  of  Real  Life,"  a  trans- 


lation of  some  of  the  most  remarkable  trials,  from 
"Zes  Causes  CeUhres." 

In  1786,  Mrs.  Smith,  finding  it  impossible  to  live 
longer  with  any  degree  of  comfort  with  her  hus- 
band, resolved  to  separate  from  him ;  and,  with 
the  approbation  of  all  her  most  judicious  friends, 
she  settled  herself  in  a  small  house  near  Chiches- 
ter. Her  husband,  becoming  involved  in  fresh 
difiiculties,  again  retired  to  the  continent,  after 
some  ineffectual  attempts  to  induce  her  to  return 
to  him.  They  sometimes  met  after  this,  and  con- 
stantly corresponded,  Mrs.  Smith  never  relaxing 
her  efforts  to  afford  him  assistance,  or  bring  the 
family  affairs  to  a  final  arrangement;  but  they 
never  afterwards  resided  together. 

In  her  seclusion  at  Wyhe,  her  novels  of  "  Em- 
meline,"  "  Ethelinde,"  and  "  Celestina,"  were 
written.  These  were  very  successful.  In  1791, 
she  went  to  reside  near  London ;  and,  during  the 
excitement  caused  by  the  French  revolution,  she 
wrote  "Desmond,"  which  was  severely  censured 
for  its  political  and  moral  tendency.  "  But  she 
regained  public  favour,"  says  Mr.  Chambers,  "by 
her  tale,  the  'Old  Manor  House,'"  which  is  the 
best  of  her  novels.  Part  of  this  work  was  written 
at  Eartham,  the  residence  of  Hayley,  during  the 
period  of  Cowper's  visit  to  that  poetical  retreat. 
"  It  was  delightful,"  says  Hayley,  "to  hear  her 
read  what  she  had  just  written  ;  for  she  read,  as 
she  wi'ote,  with  simplicity  and  grace."  Cowper 
was  also  astonished  at  the  rapidity  and  excellence 
of  her  composition.  Mrs.  Smith  continued  her 
literary  labours  amidst  private  and  family  distress. 
She  also  wrote  a  "  History  of  England,"  and  a 
"Natural  History  of  Birds,"  in  1807;  "Conver- 
sations," and  several  other  works.  Her  first  pub- 
lication was  a  volume  of  elegiac  "Sonnets"  and 
other  Essays,  in  1784.  She  died  at  Tilford,  Oc- 
tober 28th,  1806,  in  her  fifty-eighth  year.  Her 
husband  had  died  the  preceding  year.  As  a  mo- 
ther, she  was  most  exemplary. 

Mr.  Chambers  thus  sums  up  his  opinion  of  her 
writings: — "  The  poetry  of  Mrs.  Smith  is  elegant 
and  sentimental,  and  generally  of  a  pathetic  cast. 
She  wrote  as  if  '  melancholy  had  marked  her  for 
her  own.'  The  keen  satire  and  observation  evinced 
in  her  novels  do  not  appear  in  her  verse ;  but  the 
same  powers  of  description  are  displayed.  Her 
sketches  of  English  scenery  are  true  and  pleasing." 

Sir  Walter  Scott  also  gives  "high  praise  to  the 
sweet  and  sad  eflusions  of  Mrs.  Smith's  pen  ;"  but 
observes,  "  We  cannot  admit  that  by  these  alone 
she  could  ever  have  risen  to  the  height  of  eminence 
which  we  are  disposed  to  claim  for  her  as  authoress 
of  her  prose  narratives." 

From  "  Poems." 
flora's  horologe. 

In  every  copse  and  sheltered  dell. 

Unveiled  to  the  observant  eye, 
Are  faithful  monitors  who  tell 

How  pass  the  hours  and  seasons  by. 

The  green-robed  children  of  the  spring 
Will  mark  the  periods  as  they  pass, 

Mingle  with  leaves  Time's  feathered  wing, 
And  bind  with  flowers  his  silent  glass. 

508 


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Mark  where  transparent  waters  glide, 
Soft  flowing  o'er  tlieir  tranquil  bed; 

There,  cradled  on  the  dimpling  tide, 
Nyinphaea  rests  her  lovely  head. 

But  conscious  of  the  earliest  beam, 
She  rises  from  her  humid  nest, 

And  sees,  reflected  in  the  stream, 
The  virgin  whiteness  of  her  breast. 

Till  the  bright  day-star  to  the  west 
DecliHes,  in  ocean's  surge  to  lave; 

Then,  folded  in  her  modest  vest. 
She  slumbers  on  the  rocking  wave. 

See  Hieracium's  various  tribe, 
Of  plumy  seed  and  radiate  flowers, 

The  course  of  Time  their  blooms  describe. 
And  wake  or  sleep  appointed  hours. 

Broad  o'er  its  imbricated  cup 
The  goatsbeard  spreads  its  golden  rays. 

But  shuts  its  cautious  petals  up. 
Retreating  from  the  noontide  blaze. 

Pale  as  a  pensive  cloistered  nun. 
The  Bethlem  star  her  face  unveils, 

When  o'er  the  mountain  peers  the  sun, 
But  shades  it  from  the  vesper  gales. 

Among  the  loose  and  arid  sands 

The  humble  arenaria  creeps; 
Slowly  the  purple  star  e.\pands. 

But  soon  within  its  calyx  sleeps. 

And  those  small  bells  so  lightly  rayed 
With  young  Aurora's  rosy  hue, 

Are  to  the  noontide  sun  displayed. 
But  shut  their  plaits  against  the  dew 

On  upland  slopes  the  shepherds  mark 
The  hour  when,  as  the  dial  true, 

Cichorium  to  the  towering  lark 
Lifts  her  soft  eyes  serenely  blue. 

And  thou,  "Wee  crimson-tipped  flower," 
Gatherest  thy  fringed  mantle  round 

Thy  bosom  at  the  closing  hour. 
When  night-drops  bathe  the  turfy  ground. 

Unlike  silene,  who  declines 
The  garish  noontide's  blazing  light ; 

But  when  the  evening  crescent  shines, 
Gives  all  her  sweetness  to  the  night. 

Thus  in  each  flower  and  simple  bell. 
That  in  our  path  betrodden  lie, 

Are  sweet  remendirancers  who  tell 
How  fast  their  winged  moments  fly. 

THE    CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth. 
Chirping  on  my  humble  hearth; 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode. 
Always  harbinger  of  good. 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  most  soft  and  sweet : 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  song  as  I  can  give. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee. 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are; 
Their's  is  but  a  summer-song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long. 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill  and  clear. 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night  nor  dawn  of  day 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  lay, 
Then,  insect  I  let  thy  simple  song 
Cheer  the  winter  evening  long; 
While,  secure  from  every  storm. 
In  my  cottage  stout  and  warm, 
Thou  shalt  my  merry  mitistrel  he, 
And  I  delight  to  shelter  thee. 


SONNETS. 
On  the  Departure  of  the  J^ightingale. 
Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu ! 

Farewell  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year! 
Ah !  'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shall  sing  anew. 

And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
Whether  on  spring  thy  wandering  flights  await. 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell. 
The  pensive  muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 
With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 

Through  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  ne.?l; 
And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 

The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 
For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  atFections  move, 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow  and  to  love ! 

Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove; 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew, 
Anemonies  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain. 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity!  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day. 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring; 

Ah!  why  has  happiness  no  second  .Spring? 


TO    NIGHT. 

I  love  thee,  mournful  sober-suited  night, 
Wlien  the  faint  moon,  yet  lingering  in  her  wane, 

And  veiled  in  clouds,  with  pale  uncertain  light 
Hangs  o'er  the  waters  of  the  restless  main. 

In  deep  depression  sunk,  th'  enfeebled  mind 
Will  to  the  deaf,  cold  elements  complain. 
And  tell  th'  embosomed  grief,  however  vain, 

To  sullen  surges  and  the  viewless  wind  ; 

Though  no  repose  on  thy  dark  breast  I  find, 
I  still  enjoy  thee,  cheerless  as  thou  art ; 
For  in  thy  quiet  gloom  th'  exhausted  heart 

Is  calm,  though  wretched  ;  hopeless,  yet  resigned ; 

While  to  the  winds  and  waves  its  sorrows  given, 

May  reach— though  lost  on  earth— the  ear  of  Heaven. 


TO    TRANQUILLITY. 

In  this  tumultuous  sphere,  for  thee  unfit. 

How  seldom  art  thou  found —  Tranquillity! 

Unless  't  is  when  with  mild  and  downcast  eye 
By  the  low  cradles  thou  delighfst  to  sit 
Of  sleeping  infants,  watching  the  soft  breath, 

And  bidding  the  sweet  slumberers  easy  lie. 
Or  sometimes  hanging  o'er  the  bed  of  death. 

Where  the  poor  languid  sufferer  hopes  to  die. 
O  beauteous  sister  of  the  halcyon  peace  ! 

I  sure  shall  find  thee  in  that  heavenly  scene 
Where  care  and  anguish  shall  their  power  resign  ; 

Where  hope  alike  and  vain  regret  shall  cease; 

And  Memory,  lost  in  happiness  serene, 
Repeat  no  more  —  that  misery  has  been  mine  ! 


SMITH,    ELIZABETH, 

AVas  born,  in  1776,  at  the  family  seat  of  Burnhall, 
in  the  county  of  Durham.  She  understood  mathe- 
matics, drawing,  Hebrew,  Syriac,  Arabic,  Persian, 
Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  Spanish,  German,  and 
French.  Her  "  Fragments,"  "  Translation  of 
Job,"  and  "  Translation  of  the  Life  of  Klopstock," 
have  been  published.  She  also  wrote  poetry. 
She  died  in  1806,  need  thirty  years. 

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SMITH,  SARAH  LOUISA  P., 
Was  born  at  Detroit,  in  1811,  while  her  maternal 
grandfather,  Major-General  William  Hull,  so  well 
known  for  his  patriotism  and  his  misfortunes,  was 
governor  of  the  territory  of  Michigan.  Her  father's 
name  was  Hickman ;  he  died  when  Louisa  was  an 
infant;  and  her  mother,  returning  to  her  own 
home  at  Newton,  Massachusetts,  there  educated 
her  two  daughters.  The  uncommon  quickness  of 
talent  exhibited  by  Louisa,  soon  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  her  instructers.  She  had  a  most  won- 
derful memory,  and  gathered  knowledge  without 
any  apparent  effort  —  yet  was  she  ever  among  the 
most  active  in  mental  pursuits.  And  the  ease  with 
which  she  acquired  information  was  not  more  re- 
markable than  the  modesty  which  accompanied 
her  superiority.  She  began  to  write  when  a  mere 
child,  and  these  juvenile  productions  were  often  so 
excellent,  as  to  elicit  great  commendations  from 
her  family  and  their  confidential  friends  ;  yet  this 
praise  never  fostered  pride  or  self-confidence  in 
the  youthful  poetess.  She  wrote  from  the  sponta- 
neous overflowing  of  her  own  heart,  which  seemed 
filled  with  thoughts  of  beauty,  and  all  tender  and 
sweet  emotions.  By  the  persuasion  of  her  friends, 
she  was  induced  to  send  some  of  her  effusions, 
anonymously,  to  different  periodicals.  These  were 
greatly  admired,  and  often  reprinted.  Before  she 
was  fifteen,  her  name  had  become  known,  and  she 
was  distinguished  as  a  young  lady  of  uncommon 
powers  of  intellect.  She  was  soon  an  object  of 
attention.  Her  personal  appearance  was  very 
prepossessing.  She  had  a  countenance  bright  with 
the  "  light  of  mind,"  a  soft  and  delicate  complex- 
ion, a  "large  loving  eye,"  and  a  head  of  that  fine 
"spiritual  form,"  which  at  once  impresses  the 
beholder  with  the  majesty  and  purity  of  the  mind 
within. 

In  1828,  Miss  Hickman  was  married  to  'Mr.  S.  J. 
Smith,  then  the  editor  of  a  literary  periodical  in 
Providence.  Soon  after  her  marriage,  her  husband 
published  a  volume  of  her  poems ;  some  collected 
from  the  literary  journals,  and  others  written  as 
the  book  was  passing  through  the  press.  She  was 
then  but  "  careless  seventeen,"  as  she  says  of  her- 
self; and  it  was  a  hazardous  experiment  to  give  a 
volume  of  poeti-y,  which  must  have  been,  however 
highly  imbued  with  genius,  more  fraught  with  the 
feelings  and  sentiments  of  others,  than  with  those 
teachings  of  truth  and  nature  which  experience 
in  the  real  world  can  only  bestow.  But  the  book 
was  popular;  and  though  she  would,  had  she  lived 
till  the  maturity  of  her  powers,  no  doubt  greatly 
excelled  her  early  writings,  yet,  as  the  blossoms 
of  an  original  and  extraordinary  genius,  these 
poems  will  ever  be  admired. 

And  yet  it  is  not  as  an  authoress  that  she  is  re- 
membered and  lamented  by  her  intimate  friends, 
or  by  those  who  had  the  pleasure  of  a  brief  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  "  Any  literary  reputation  that 
she  might  have  acquired,  could  never  have  15een 
thought  of  in  her  presence,"  is  the  testimony  of 
one  who  knew  her.  "  It  was  the  confiding  since- 
rity of  her  manners,  the  playfulness  of  her  con- 
versation, her  enthusiastic  and  devoted  assiduity 


to  those  she  loved,  which  made  her  presence  a 
perpetual  delight."  In  her  own  home  she  was  a 
model  of  discretion,  cheerfulness  and  kindness. 
Her  husband  was  always  her  lover,  and  her  two 
little  sons  she  cherished  with  that  peculiar  tender- 
ness which  only  those  endowed  with  the  finest 
sensibilities  can  feel.  Yet,  amid  all  her  maternal 
and  household  cares,  her  mind  was  rapidly  gather- 
ing strength  for  higher  literary  pursuits.  She  was, 
at  the  time  of  her  decease,  engaged  in  reviewing 
her  early  opinions  on  literature,  and  her  early 
productions,  pointing  out,  and  acknowledging  her 
errors  and  deficiencies,  with  the  most  frank  ho- 
nesty ;  and  preparing  by  study  and  reflection  to 
make  her  genius  the  faithful  interpreter  of  nature 
and  the  human  heart.  AVhat  she  has  written  is 
marked  by  ease,  grace,  and  that  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  the  beautiful  and  good,  which  shows  that 
her  imagination  was  a  blessing  to  herself,  as  well 
as  a  pleasure  to  others.  And  with  the  refinement 
of  taste  and  warmth  of  affections  which  Mrs.  Smith 
possessed,  was  united  pure,  ardent,  and  unaffected 
piety.  The  hope  of  immortality  was  to  her  a  glo- 
rious hope  ;  and  the  benevolence  which  the  Gospel 
inculcates,  was  her  cherished  feeling. 

She  died,  February,  1832,  in  the  twenty-first 
year  of  her  age. 

The  following  are  considered  among  her  best 
poems: — 

THE    HUMA. 

"j9  bird  peculiar  to  the  East.     It  is  supposed  to  fly  constnn'l'j 

in  the  air  and  never  touch  the  ground." 
Fly  on  !  nor  touch  thy  wing,  blight  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  eartli, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard. 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on  — nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of  "care-worn  things;" 
T  would  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest 

And  thy  brightly  burnished  wings, 
To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free  : 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine. 

Above  life's  stormy  sea. 
I  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again. 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free — 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  they  are  bound  and  fettered  here, 
Forever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird, 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay ; 
Our  air  is  with  them  for  ever  stirred, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 

Is  ever  hovering  o'er, 
But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun. 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore. 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings, 
Where  the  fount  of  "  living  waters"  springs. 

THE    heart's    treasures. 

Know  ye  what  things  the  heart  holds  dear 

III  its  hidden  cells? 
'Tis  never  the  beam  of  careless  smiles, 
Nor  riches  wafted  from  far-off  isles; 
The  light  that  cheers  it  is  never  shed 
From  the  jewelled  pomp  of  a  regal  head. 

Not  there  it  dwells. 

610 


SM 


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Gay  things,  tlie  loved  of  worldly  eyes, 

Enchain  it  not; 
It  suns  its  blossoms  in  fairer  skies. 
The  dewy  beam  of  affection's  eyes; 
The  spell  is  there  that  can  hold  it  fast, 
When  earthly  pride  in  its  pomp  is  past, 

And  all  forgot. 

Thoughts  that  come  from  their  far,  dim  rest, 

Woke  by  a  smile — 
The  memory  sweet  of  a  youthful  hour. 
The  faded  hue  of  a  cherished  flower, 
Or  parting  tones  of  a  far-off  friend, 
It  loves  in  melody  soft  to  blend 

With  him  the  while. 

Know  ye  what  things  the  heart  holds  dear  : 

Its  buried  loves! 
Those  that  have  wrung  from  it  many  a  tear. 
Gone  where  the  leaves  never  fall  or  sear. 
Gone  to  the  land  that  is  sought  in  prayer, 
Tlie  trace  of  whose  step  is  fairest,  where 

Fond  memory  roves. 

The  sound  of  music  at  even-fall. 

Filling  its  springs 
With  a  flow  of  thought,  and  feeling  sweet 
As  summer  winds,  when  at  eve  they  meet. 
And  lip^  that  are  loved,  breathe  forth  the  song 
When  day  with  its  troubled  sounds  is  gone — 

To  these  it  clings. 

.\iid  nature's  pleasant  murmurings, 

So  sweet  to  hear ; 
Her  bowers  of  beauty,  and  soft-slied  gleams 
Of  light  and  shadow  on  forest  streams, 
Her  mossy  rocks  and  places  rude. 
The  charm  of  her  breathing  solitude — 

These  it  holds  dear. 


TRUST    IN    HEAVEN. 
Ihr  He  hath  said,  I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee  ' 

Yes,  He  hath  said,  whose  word  hath  power. 

Nor  may  his  children  fear 
The  clouds  that  on  their  pathway  lower. 

With  this  high  promise  near. 

When  He,  whose  arm  sends  o'er  the  deep 

The  shades  of  falling  night. 
And  calls  the  morning  sun  to  steep 

The  isles  of  earth  in  light. 

Is  o'er  their  path,  and  guarding  still 
Those  whom  he  knows  are  frail; 

When  gathering  clouds  of  worldly  ill 
Cause  human  strength  to  fail. 

The  spirit  hath  a  chord  that  clings 

To  lights  that  must  grow  dim. 
And  places  trust  in  fragile  things, 

That  should  be  placed  on  Him. 

But  when  that  hold  is  severed  —  then. 

In  sorrow's  hour  of  night — 
When  the  plant  has  lost  its  earthly  stem, 

He  sends  his  own  clear  light. 

And  in  those  words  of  truth  and  power 

Is  the  sacred  promise  given  ; 
Which  has  lifted  many  a  drooping  flower 

To  the  still  clear  air  of  heaven. 


SMITH,  SARAH  LANMAN, 
W.\s  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  June  18, 
1802.  Her  father  was  Jabez  Huntington,  Esq. 
Her  biographer,  Rev.  Edward  W.  Hooker,  says  of 
her  early  years,  after  describing  her  sufferings 
from  ill  health  during  childhood,  and  also  from 
the  severity  of  a  school-mistress,  which  circum- 


stances, added  to  the  death  of  her  mother,  had  the 
effect  to  bring  out  great  decision  and  sometimes 
wilfulness  of  character : 

"  But  with  these  things  in  childhood,  showing 
that  she  was  a  subject  of  that  native  depravity  in 
which  all  the  human  race  are  '  guilty  before  God,' 


she  exhibited,  as  she  was  advanciug  in  tiic  years 
of  youth,  many  of  the  virtues  which  are  useful  and 
lovely ;  and  probably  went  as  far  in  those  excel- 
lences of  natural  character  on  which  many  en- 
deavour to  build  their  hope  of  salvation,  as  almost 
any  unconverted  persons  do ;  carrying  with  her, 
however,  the  clear  and  often  disturbing  conviction, 
that  the  best  virtues  which  she  practised  were  not 
holiness,  nor  any  evidence  of  fitness  for  heaven. 

She  was  exceedingly  attached  to  her  friends. 
Her  father  was  almost  her  idol.  The  affection  for 
her  mother,  who  was  so  early  removed  by  death, 
she  transferred,  with  exemplary  tenderness,  to  her 
step-mother ;  and  it  is  believed  the  instances  are 
rare  in  which  the  parties  are  uniformlj^  happier 
in  each  other,  in  that  relation,  than  were  Mrs. 
Huntington  and  this  daughter.  Her  warmth  and 
tenderness  of  affection  as  a  sister  were  also  pe- 
culiar and  exemplary.  Her  childhood  and  youth 
were  marked  with  great  delicacy  of  mind  and 
manners;  diligence,  promptitude,  and  efficiency 
in  her  undertakings ;  love  of  system  and  fondness 
for  study,  improvement,  and  the  acquirement  of 
useful  knowledge,  joined 'with  a  great  desire  to 
answer  the  wishes  and  expectations  of  her  friends. 
Dutifulness  and  respect  for  her  parents  and  grand- 
parents ;  reverence  for  her  superiors  generally ; 
readiness  to  receive  advice  or  admonition  ;  a  just 
appreciation  of  the  good  influence  of  others,  and 
a  spirit  of  cautiousness  respecting  whatever  might 
be  injurious  to  her  own  character,  were  also  pro- 
minent traits  in  her  habits.  Disinterestedness  and 
self-denial  for  the  benefit  of  others  were  conspicu- 
ous. Long  before  she  became  a  subject  of  divine 
grace,  she  took  an  interest  in  various  objects  of 
benevolence,  particularly  Sabbath  schools ;  and 
exhibited  that  spirit  of  enterprise,  patience,  and 
perseverance,  in  aiding  the  efforts  of  others,  which 
constituted  so  prominent  an  excellence  in  her  cha- 

51] 


SM 


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racter  in  the  later  years  of  her  life.  Self-govern- 
ment ;  economy  in  the  use  of  her  time  and  pocket- 
money  ;  tastefulness  in  dress,  without  extrava- 
gance ;  and  a  careful  and  conscientious  considera- 
tion of  her  father's  resources,  also  were  observable 
in  her  early  habits.  These  traits  are  not  mentioned 
because  they  are  not  found  in  many  other  young 
persons,  but  because  they  appeared  in  her  in  an 
uncommon  degree." 

The  virtues  and  graces  of  character  enumerated 
do  not,  it  is  true,  constitute  the  holiness  of  a 
Chi'istian — that  is,  the  especial  gift  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  to  sanctify  the  heart ;  but  they  do  show  a 
state  of  feeling  naturally  inclined  to  the  moi'alities 
of  life,  to  which  sin,  acted  out,  would  have  been 
at  "enmity."  Her  "moral  sense"  was  refined 
and  enlightened ;  she  only  needed  the  breath  of 
divine  grace  to  tui-n  her  heart  to  God;  all  her 
ways  were  in  harmony  with  his  laws ;  while  con- 
verted men  have,  usually,  the  whole  inner  course 
of  their  lives  to  alter,  or  at  least  to  put  off  the 
"  old  man  with  his  deeds;"  which  is  the  struggle 
of  a  carnal  nature  women  do  not  often  have  to 
undergo.  Mrs.  Smith  is  a  true  and  lovely  illus- 
tration of  the  noblest  type  of  feminine  nature. 
She  commenced  her  ofiSce  as  teacher  in  a  Sunday- 
school,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  before  she  was  a 
convert  to  Jesus  ;  that  is,  before  she  had  yielded 
her  will  to  the  convictions  of  her  reason  and  the 
promptings  of  her  best  feelings,  and  determined 
to  live  the  life  of  duty,  and  seek  her  own  happi- 
ness in  doing  good  to  others.  This  change  took 
place  when  she  was  about  eighteen  years  old ; 
from  that  time  all  was  harmony  in  her  soul ;  she 
had  found  the  true  light,  and  she  followed  it  till 
she  entered  heaven.  In  1833,  Miss  Huntington 
was  married  to  the  Rev.  Eli  Smith,  of  the  Ameri- 
can mission  at  Beyroot,  Syria ;  and  she  went  to 
that  remote  region  as  the  "  help  meet"  for  a  hum- 
ble missionary.  She  was  singularly  fitted  for  this 
important  station,  having  been  a  voluntary  mis- 
sionary to  the  miserable  remnant  of  a  tribe  of  the 
Mohegan  Indians ;  she  had  thus  tested  her  powers 
and  strengthened  her  love  for  this  arduous  work 
in  the  cause  of  doing  good.  Her  letters  to  her 
father  and  friends,  while  reflecting  on  this  im- 
portant step  of  a  foreign  mission,  will  be  intensely 
interesting  to  those  who  regard  this  consecration 
of  woman  to  her  office  of  moral  teacher  as  among 
the  most  efficient  causes  of  the  success  of  the 
Gospel.  The  literary  merits  of  her  writings  are 
of  a  high  order ;  we  venture  to  say,  that,  com- 
pared with  the  "Journals"  and  "Letters"  of 
the  most  eminent  men  in  the  missionary  station, 
those  of  Mrs.  Smith  will  not  be  found  inferior 
in  merits  of  any  kind.  Her  intellect  had  been 
cultivated ;  she  could,  therefore,  bring  her  rea- 
soning powers,  as  well  as  her  moral  and  religious 
sentiments,  to  bear  on  any  subject  discussed; 
the  following  is  proof  in  point.  The  powerful 
competition  which  the  missionary  cause  held  in 
Miss  Huntington's  affections,  with  her  home  and 
all  its  pleasant  circumstances,  may  be  learned 
from  two  or  three  sentences  in  one  of  her  letters, 
written  a  few  months  before  she  left  her  country. 
"  To  make  and  receive  visits,  exchange  friendlv 


salutations,  attend  to  one's  wardrobe,  cultivate  a 
garden,  read  good  and  entertaining  books,  and 
even  attend  religious  meetings  for  one's  own  en- 
joyment; all  this  does  not  satisfy  me.  I  want  to 
be  where  every  arrangement  will  have  unreserved 
and  constant  reference  to  eternity.  On  missionary 
ground  I  expect  to  find  new  and  unlooked-for  ti-ials 
and  hinderances ;  still  it  is  my  choice  to  be  there. 
And  so  far  from  looking  upon  it  as  a  difficult  task 
to  sacrifice  my  home  and  country,  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  '  flee  as  a  bird  to  her  mountain.'  " 

Such  are  the  helpers  Christian  men  may  sum- 
mon to  their  aid,  whenever  they  will  provide  for 
the  education  of  woman  and  give  her  the  office  of 
teacher,  for  which  God  designed  her. 

Mrs.  Smith  accompanied  her  husband  to  Bey- 
root, and  was  indeed  his  "help"  and  good  angel. 
She  studied  Arabic  ;  established  a  school  for  girls ; 
exerted  her  moral  and  Christian  influence  with 
great  effect  on  the  mixed  population  of  Moslems, 
Syiians,  Jews ;  visiting  and  instructing  the  mo- 
thers as  well  as  the  children ;  working  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul,  mind  and  might ; .  and  the  time 
of  her  service  soon  expired.  She  died  September 
oOth,  1836,  aged  thirty-four ;  a  little  over  three 
years  from  the  time  she  left  her  own  dear  land. — 
She  died  at  Boojah,  near  Smyrna ;  and  in  the 
burial-ground  of  the  latter  her  precious  dust  re- 
poses, beneath  a  monument  which  does  honour  to 
America,  by  showing  the  heroic  and  holy  character 
of  her  missionary  daughters.  AVe  must  give  some 
extracts  from  her  "Journal"  and  excellent  "Let- 
ters," collected  and  published  since  her  decease: 

From  "  Letters,"  written  before  her  Marriage. 
INFLUENCE    OF    THANKFULNESS  AND  CHEERFULNESS. 

AVhen  is  your  Thanksgiving  ?  Do  you  recollect 
that  our  ancestors,  after  appointing  a  number  of 
fasts,  in  the  midst  of  their  perplexities,  resolved 
that  they  would  appoint  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  to 
acknowledge  their  mercies,  as  well  as  deplore  their 
misfortunes,  and  it  seemed  to  be  accepted  ?  Do, 
my  dear  sister,  strive  to  keep  from  despondency, 
and  enjoy,  with  your  husband  and  children,  the 
domestic  blessings  which  surround  you.  It  may 
prove  a  permanent  injury  to  your  children,  if  the 
sunshine  of  a  mother's  face,  which  often  furnishes 
such  delightful  associations,  is  clouded  by  depressed 
feelings.  Once,  since  my  return  home,  when  an 
unconscious  shade  passed  over  my  face,  Elizabeth 
came  to  me  and  scrutinized  my  countenance  with 
much  intenseness.  I  was  led  to  feel  that  children 
notice  the  expression  very  readily ;  their  own  is 
moulded  by  that  of  others  with  whom  they  asso- 
ciate constantly. 

SATISFACTION    IN    EMPL0T3IENT. 

I  am  happy  and  cheerful  in  the  attempted  dis- 
charge of  duty ;  and  have  no  time  to  cultivate 
morbid  sensibility.  And  at  night,  when  I  lay  my 
weary  head  upon  the  pillow  of  repose,  my  rest  is 
rendered  doubly  sweet  by  a  busy  day. 

WRITINGS    OF    JANE    TAYLOR. 

I  agree  fully  with  Mrs.  C.  in  regard  to  Jane 
Taylor's  writings.     She  is  so  natural  and  simple 

512 


SM 


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Have  you  seen  "  Display,"  a  tale  by  her,  which  is 
truly  experimental  ?  She  does  not  give,  like  Mrs. 
Sherwood,  such  importance  to  personal  beauty,  in 
heroines.  All  Mrs.  Sherwood's  are  conspicuous 
for  that,  while  Miss  Taylor  attaches  but  little  im- 
portance to  it,  and  seldom  gives  a  novelist's  de- 
scription of  beauty.  As  young  people  attach  so 
much  value  to  it,  to  the  neglect  of  other  graces,  I 
have  admired  the  manner  in  which  Miss  Taylor 
treats  the  subject.  Still  I  am  a  great  admirer  of  Mrs. 
Sherwood. 

QUIET    USEFULNESS. 

A  well-regulated  mind  will  never  form  plans 
which  require  the  agitation  of  hurry  in  their  exe- 
cution. I  am  anxious  to  fill  up  life  with  useful- 
ness, that  God  may  be  honoured,  and  my  fellow- 
creatures  not  be  the  worse  for  my  existence  ;  and 
by  curtailing  my  own  wants,  in  the  pursuance  of 
a  systematic  plan,  I  try  to  avoid  that  bustling 
course  which  is  so  uncomfortable  to  surrounding 
persons,  and  distracting  to  one's  self.  I  know  of 
no  better  preparation  for  life  or  for  death.  From 
the  midst  of  usefulness,  I  wish  to  be  called  to  the 
reward  which  is  "  of  grace,  not  of  debt." 

EXCITEMEKT. 

The  old-fashioned  quietude  of  domestic  life,  in 
this  region  at  least,  seems  much  interrupted  by 
the  bustle  and  excitement  of  the  present  day.  Do 
you  not  think  that  it  is  injurious  to  the  character 
to  live  upon  excitement  ?  I  think,  if  I  had  any 
superintendence  of  gii'ls,  I  should  strive  to  have 
it  avoided  in  their  education.  It  produces  an 
artificial  stimulus,  which,  sooner  or  later,  must 
end  in  reaction,  leaving  the  character  tame  and 
spiritless.  Fixed  principles  of  action,  having  their 
foundation  in  truth,  will  animate  the  soul  suflB- 
ciently,  and  give  permanent  cheerfulness,  instead 
of  being  lost  by  effervescence.  Excitement,  how- 
ever, is  the  order  of  the  day,  and  I  do  not  consider 
myself  free  from  its  injurious  influence. 

SELFISHNESS. 

It  is  useful  to  go  abroad  occasionally ;  but  if 
we  fix  our  thoughts,  habitually,  upon  the  interests 
of  Christ's  kingdom,  which  are  occupying  the 
heavenly  world,  we  cannot  be  "  selfish ;"  ajid  for 
myself,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  in  any  place  where 
these  are  not  the  predominant  subjects.  Did  you 
ever  notice  particularly,  that  in  the  Lord's  prayer 
the  petitions  relative  to  his  kingdom  are  placed 
before  our  own  individual  wants  ?  Would  it  not 
be  profitable  to  follow  this  arrangement  in  our 
closet  duties,  and  thus  in  our  prayers  "  seek  first 
the  kingdom  of  God  ?"  and  possibly  it  might  have 
an  effect  to  weaken  our  attachment  to  the  things 
of  the  world,  and  to  our  private  interests. 

A    THOUGHT    IN    BROADWAY. 

New  York  seems  pleasant  to  me,  and  quite  like 
home.  In  Broadway  it  seems  as.  if  people  were 
hurrying  to  eternity,  as  fast  as.  possible.  Each 
one  seems  intent  upon  somethiug,  nobody  can  tell 
what,  as  though  it  were  the  last  day  of  existence. 
And  I  hurry  on,  in  the  same,  apparently  selfish 
manner. 

2H 


ANXIETY    RESPECTING    PUBLIC    INTERESTS. 

Do  you  not  tremble  for  our  country  ?  My  heart 
sickens  with  apprehension.  A  crisis  seems  to  be 
approaching ;  and  statesmen  as  well  as  Christians 
seem  to  fear.  The  whole  earth  seems  to  "  reel  to 
and  fro  like  a  drunken  man."  Personal  interests 
.seem  to  dwindle  to  insignificance  in  the  contrast. 
I  never  perused  newspapers  with  such  eagerness 
as  I  do  now;  and  I  find  matter  enough  for  prayer; 
and  oh !  for  a  wrestling  spirit ! 

SIDEBOARD    ORNAMENTS. 

I  have  taken  pains  to  adorn  the  sideboard  with 
flowers  —  ornaments  which  the  God  of  nature  has. 
provided  to  our  hands,  without  expense  or  anxiety.. 
I  believe  you  will  not  think  me  visionary  whea  I 
say  that,  in  the  Millennium,  his  works  will  be  a<d-  . 
mired  more  than  those  of  art  —  nor  call  it  very 
improperly  odd,  if  I  try  to  turn  our  thoughts  from> 
the  last,  to  the  contemplation  of  his  glorious  works- . 

EXPENSIVE    CHURCHES. 

I  have  been  for  some  time  decidedly  of  the  . 
opinion,  that  while  Christ's  last  command  remains 
unfulfilled,  splendid  churches  are  not  an. acceptable 
offering  to  Him.  The  temple  of  Solomon  has  pro- 
bably been  a  criterion,  while  it  seems  to  have  been 
forgotten  that  its  magnificence  was  typical^ 

MEANS    OF    HAPPINISS. 

All  our  years  would  be  happier,  if  we  could 
make  the  service  of  God  continually  our  supreme 
delight,  our  meat  and  our  drink.  Trials  we  must 
have,  for  our  Master  had  them. 

SELF-INDCLGENGB. 

At  our  preparatory  lecture,  last  evening,  I  was 
much  struck  with  the  27th  hymn  — 

"Cold  mountains  and  the  midnight  air 
Witnessed  the  fervour  of  thy  prayer; 
The  desert  thy  temptation  kn€w. 
Thy  conflict  and  thy  victory  too." 

Shame  upon  the  Christian  who  would  prefer  hih 
own  ease  to  the  honour  and  service  of  his  Saviour. 
And  yet  this  is  too  muph  the  case  with  us  all. 
My  earnest  petition  is,  "  Deliver  me  from  self.'' 

BEING,  OF   GOD. 

I  was  this  morning, contemplating  the  being  or 
God.     For  a  moment  I  felt  bewildered  with  the 
incomprehensibility  of  the  subject,  and  all  finite 
things  appeared  unworthy  of  a  thought.     But  I 
soon  felt  that  these  were  more  suited  to  the  strength 
of  our  minds  thap  the  secret  things  which  belong 
to  God  only ;  and  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  be  grateful 
to  Him,  that  my  attention  was  divided  between  . 
things  real  and  spiritual;  or  rather  things  earthly  * 
and  heavenly.    We  could  not  bear  an  uninterrupted  , 
meditation  on  these   great  subjects;    we  should  . 

soon  be  in 's  case.     Our  minds  are  prone  to 

speculate,  and  sometimes  unprofitably. 

conte:«tment. 

I  have  thought,  to-day,  of  the  text,  "  Godliness 
with  contentment  is  great  gain."     It  does  not  say 

613 


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riches,  or  honour,  or  pleasure  with  contentment, 
but  "godliness."  Let  us  live  for  God's  glory,  rise 
above  ti-ifles  as  far  as  possible,  (and  all  things 
merely  worldly  are  trifles,)  and  exercise  strong 
faith.  "  Rejoice  in  the  Lord,  0  ye  righteous ;  and 
again  I  say,  Rejoice." 

HABITS    OF    THOUGHT    RESPECTING    CHRIST. 

I  am  sensible  that  I  do  not  regard  Christ  as 
much  as  I  ought ;  and  I  wish  you  would  pray  for 
me,  that  he  may  be  more  clearly  revealed  to  my 
soul. 

HEAVEN. 

I  am  trying  to  learn  that  earthly  hopes  and  de- 
pendences have  no  permanence  ;  and  whenever  I 
part  with  Christian  friends,  I  console  myself  with 
the  anticipation  of  time  and  opportunity  in  heaven. 

I  am  overwhelmed  with  cares  and  burdens,  be- 
cause I  am  pleased  to  undertake  considerable. 
But  the  burdens  and  cares  of  this  life  will  make 
heaven  sweet.  There,  dear  sister,  we  shall  unite, 
without  separation.  Let  us  live  for  this  end,  and 
be  happy. 

I  do  love  to  think  of  heaven.  I  seem  to  feel  a 
spirit  within  me  that  says,  there  is  immingled 
happiness  in  store  for  the  immortal  mind.  Oh ! 
how  soon,  if  faithful,  shall  we  find  ourselves  upon 
those  happy  shores,  disembodied,  disenthralled, 
and  holding  converse  with  Christ,  with  angels, 
with  our  departed  ones  I 

"  Letters"  from  abroad. 
STATE    OF    WOMEN    IN    SYRIA. 

These  weak-minded  Syrian  females  are  not  at- 
tentive to  personal  cleanliness  ;  neither  have  they 
a  neat  and  tasteful  style  of  dress.  Their  apparel 
is  precisely  such  as  the  apostle  recommended  that 
Christian  females  should  avoid ;  while  the  orna- 
ment of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit  is  thrown  wholly 
out  of  the  account.  They  have  no  books,  and  no 
means  of  moral  or  intellectual  improvement.  It 
is  considered  a  disgrace  for  a  female  to  know  how 
to  read  and  write,  and  a  serious  obstacle  to  her 
marriage,  which  is  the  principal  object  of  the  pa- 
rent's heart.  This  abhorrence  of  learning  in  fe- 
males, exists  most  strongly  in  the  higher  classes. 
Nearly  every  pupil  in  our  school  is  very  indigent. 
Of  God's  word  they  know  and  understand  nothing ; 
for  a  girl  is  taken  to  church  perhaps  but  once  a 
year,  where  nothing  is  seen  among  the  women  but 
talking  and  trifling ;  of  course,  she  attaches  no 
solemnity  to  the  worship  of-  God.  Xo  sweet  do- 
mestic circle  of  father,  brother,  mother,  and  sister, 
all  capable  of  promoting  mutual  cheerfulness  and 
improvement,  greets  her  in  her  own  house.  I  do 
not  mean  to  imply,  that  there  exists  no  family  af- 
fection among  them,  for  this  tie  is  often  very 
strong ;  but  it  has  no  foundation  in  respect,  and 
is  not  employed  to  promote  elevation  of  character. 
The  men  sit  and  smoke  their  pipes  in  one  apart- 
ment, while  in  another  the  women  cluster  upon 
the  floor,  and  with  loud  and  vociferous  voices  gos- 
sip with  their  neighbours.  The  very  language  of 
the  females  is  of  a  lower  order  than  that  of  the 
men;  wliich  renders  it  almost  impossi'ilc  for  them 


to  comprehend  spiritual  and  abstract  subjects, 
when  first  presented  to  their  minds.  I  know  not 
how  often,  when  I  have  attempted  to  converse  with 
them,  they  have  acknowledged  that  they  did  not 
understand  me,  or  have  interrupted  me  by  alluding 
to  some  mode  or  article  of  dress,  or  something 
quite  as  foolish. 

QCALIFICATIOXS     FOR    AN    AMERICAN     FEMALE     MIS- 
SIONARY. 

Strength  of  character,  discipline  of  mind,  stea- 
diness of  fjiith,  patience,  perseverance,  and  self- 
denial,  are  the  requisite  qualifications.  I  need 
not  remind  you  that  ardent  piety  lies  at  the  foun- 
dation of  the  whole.  This  you  must  cultivate 
upon  the  altar  of  devotion  in  your  closets.  Com- 
mune with  God  there,  respecting  your  feelings  and 
purposes,  more  than  any  where  else.  He  will  feed 
and  cause  them  to  grow  and  expand ;  and  in  due 
time  will  furnish  you  with  a  sphere  in  which  to 
exercise  them.  You  need  not  wait  to  get  upon 
missionary  ground,  before  becoming  an  accepted 
missionary  with  God.  Ere  I  left  my  father's 
house,  I  was  convinced  of  the  truth,  and  am  now 
confirmed  in  it,  that  within  the  walls  of  her  own 
dwelling,  a  young  lady  may  cultivate  and  exhibit 
all  the  qualifications  of  a  devoted  missionary.  As 
a  daughter,  sister,  friend,  she.  may  be  so  faithful, 
humble,  obliging,  and  self-denying,  and  may  ac- 
quire such  self-control,  that  even  should  she  die 
before  entering  upon  a  wider  sphere,  she  would 
merit  the  commendation,  "She  hath  done  what 
she  could."  Therefore  be  not  impatient  and  un- 
easy, while  you  are  providentially  detained,  amid 
every-day  duties,  within  a  narrow  circle;  but 
'*  whatever  your  hand  findeth  to  do  there,  do  it," 
at  the  same  time  chei-ishing  the  determination  to 
assume  greater  responsibilities,  and  more  self- 
denial,  whenever  God  shall  give  the  opportunity. 
Next  to  piety,  the  most  important  qualification 
for  active  usefulness,  is  habitual  self-control. 
"  He  that  ruleth  his  own  spirit,  is  greater  than  he 
that  taketh  a  city."  Perhaps  you  are  exposed  to 
some  trials  of  temper  now ;  but  on  missionary 
ground  they  will  be  increased  a  hundred  fold, 
where  every  thing  is  crooked  and  wrong ;  where 
ignorance,  stupidity,  insolence,  and  deceit,  provoke 
the  corresponding  emotions  of  pride,  impatience, 
contempt,  imperiousness,  and  dislike. 

Avoid  all  habits  of  particularity  and  daintiness, 
which  will  prevent  your  assimilating  readily  to 
new  and  unlooked-for  circumstances  in  which  you 
may  be  placed,  prove  a  source  of  uneasiness  to 
yourselves,  and  interfere  with  your  usefulness  to 
others.  Learn  the  happy,  yet  difficult  art  of  for- 
getting yourselves,  in  all  unimportant  things. 
Much  general  knowledge  and  discipline  of  mind 
are  essential  in  preparing  you  to  do  good  to  your 
fellow-beings  ;  but  if  you  choose  a  foreign  station, 
the  first  mental  qualification  necessary,  is  a  taste 
for  acquiring  languages,  and  the  knowledge  of 
several.  This  accomplishment,  and  valuable  qua- 
lification, has  been  too  much  overlooked  by  young 
ladies  in  America,  and  I  hope  to  hear  of  a  change 
in  this  respect.  The  greatest  obstacle  and  most 
painful    discouragement    on   missionary   ground, 

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arises  from  the  want  of  language  by  -which  to  ex- 
press the  common  sympathies  of  our  nature,  and 
to  impart  instruction  in  a  thousand  nameless  ways, 
aside  from  formal  exhortation  and  preaching. 

SOMMERY,  N.  FONTELLE  DE, 
A  LADY  whose  parentage  is  unknown,  as  she 
was  secretly  entrusted  to  the  care  of  a  convent. 
She  possessed  great  powers  of  mind,  with  inoffen- 
sive gaiety.  Her  society  was  sought  by  philoso- 
phers and  men  of  letters.  She  died  about  1792, 
at  an  advanced  age.  She  wrote,  ^' Doutes  sur  les 
Opinions  replies  dans  la  Societe,"  and  '^ L' Oreillo," 
an  Asiatic  romance. 

SOPHIA   OF   WOLFEN BUTTE L, 

Baptized  Carolina  Christina  Sophia,  distin- 
guished for  her  sufferings  and  her  beautiful  femi- 
nine traits  of  character,  sister  of  the  wife  of 
Charles  VI.,  emperor  of  Germany,  was  united  in 
marriage  to  the  prince  Alexis,  son  and  presump- 
tive heir  of  Peter  the  Great,  czar  of  Muscovy.  In 
her  were  mingled  the  fairest  gifts  of  natm-e  and 
education:  lovely,  graceful,  with  a  penetrating 
and  cultivated  mind,  and  a  soul  tempered  and 
governed  by  virtue ;  j-et  with  all  these  rare  gifts, 
which  softened  and  won  every  other  heart,  she 
was  nevertheless  an  object  of  aversion  to  Alexis, 
the  most  brutal  of  mankind.  More  than  once  the 
unfortunate  wife  was  indebted  for  her  life  to  the 
use  of  antidotes  to  counteract  the  insidious  poisons 
administered  to  her  by  her  husband.  At  length 
the  barbarity  of  the  prince  arrived  at  its  climax. 
By  an  inhuman  blow  she  was  left  for  dead.  He 
himself  fully  believed  that  which  he  so  ardently 
desired,  and  tranquilly  departed  for  one  of  his 
villas,  calmly  ordering  the  funeral  rites  to  be  duly 
celebrated. 

But  the  days  of  the  unfortunate  princess  were 
not  yet  terminated.  Under  the  devoted  care  of 
the  countess  of  Konigsmark,  her  laily  of  honour, 
who  had  been  present  at  the  horrible  event,  she 
slowly  regained  health  and  strength,  while  her 
fictitious  obsequies  were  magnificently  performed 
and  honoured  throughout  Muscovy,  and  nearly  all 
the  European  courts  assumed  mourning  for  the 
ileparted  princess.  This  wise  and  noble  countess 
of  Konigsmark,  renowned  as  the  mother  of  the 
brave  marshal  of  Saxony,  perceived  that  by  not 
seconding  the  fortunate  deceit  of  the  prince  Alexis, 
and  the  nation  in  general,  and  by  proclaiming  her 
recovery,  the  unhappy  princess  Sophia  would  ex- 
pose herself  to  perish  sooner  or  later  by  a  more 
certain  blow.  She  therefore  persuaded  her  wretch- 
ed mistress  to  seek  refuge  in  Paris,  under  the 
escort  of  an  old  man,  a  German  domestic.  Having 
collected  as  much  money  and  jewellery  as  she  was 
able,  the  princess  set  out  with  her  faithful  servant, 
who  remained  with  her  in  the  character  of  father, 
which  he  sustained  during  his  life ;  and  truly  he 
possessed  the  feelings  and  tenderness,  as  well  as 
I  he  semblance,  of  a  parent. 

The  tumult  and  noise  of  Paris,  however,  ren- 
dered it  a  place  of  sojourn  ill  adapted  to  Sophia, 
and  her  desire  of  concealment.  Her  small  estab- 
lishment having  been  increased  by  a  single  maid- 


servant, she  accordingly  embarked  for  Louisiana, 
where  the  French,  who  were  then  in  possession 
of  this  lovely  portion  of  America,  had  formed 
extensive  colonies.  Scarcely  was  the  young  and 
beautiful  stranger  arrived  at  New  Orleans,  than 
she  attracted  the  attention  of  every  one.  There 
was  in  that  place  a  young  man,  named  Moldask. 
who  held  an  office  in  the  colony ;  he  had  travelled 
much  in  Russia,  and  believed  that  he  recognised 
the  fair  stranger ;  but  he  knew  not  how  to  per- 
suade himself  that  the  daughter-in-law  of  the  czar, 
Peter,  could  in  reality  be  reduced  to  so  lowly  a 
condition  ;  and  he  dared  not  betray  to  any  one  his 
suspicions  of  her  identity.  He  offered  his  friend- 
ship and  assistance  to  her  supposed  father ;  and 
soon  his  attentive  and  pleasing  manners  rendered 
him  so  acceptable  to  both,  that  a  mutual  intimacy 
induced  them  to  join  their  fortunes,  and  establish 
themselves  in  the  same  habitation. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  news  of  the  death  of 
Alexis  reached  them  through  the  public  journals. 
Then  Moldask  could  no  longer  conceal  his  doubts 
of  the  true  condition  of  Sophia ;  and  finding  that 
he  was  not  deceived,  he  offered  with  respectful 
generosity  to  abandon  his  pursuits,  and  to  sacrifice 
private  fortune,  that  he  might  reconduct  her  to 
Moscow.  But  the  princess,  whose  bitterest  mo- 
ments had  been  there  passed,  preferred  to  live  far 
from  the  dazzling  splendour  of  the  court,  in  tran- 
quillity and  honourable  obscurity.  She  thanked 
the  noble-hearted  iSIoldask  ;  but  implored  him,  in- 
stead of  such  splendid  offers,  to  preserve  her  secret 
inviolable,  so  that  nothing  might  trouble  her  pre- 
sent felicity.  He  promised,  and  he  kept  his  pro- 
mise ;  his  heart  ardently  desired  her  happiness,  in 
which  his  own  felicity  was  involved.  Living  under 
the  same  roof,  in  daily  communion,  their  equal  age 
and  ardent  feelings  kindled  in  the  young  man's 
soul  a  livelier  flame  than  mere  friendship  ;  but  re- 
spect controlled  it,  and  he  concealed  his  love  in 
his  own  bosom. 

At  length  the  old  domestic,  who,  in  the  charac- 
ter of  father,  had  shielded  the  princess,  died,  and 
was  followed  to  the  tomb  by  the  sincere  grief  of 
his  grateful  mistress  —  a  just  recompense  for  such 
fidelity.  Propriety  forbade  that  Moldask  and  So- 
phia should  inhabit  together  the  same  dwelling 
after  this  event.  He  loved  her  truly,  but  loved 
her  good  fame  more,  and  exjilained  to  her,  not 
without  grief,  that  it  was  necessary  he  should  seek 
another  abode,  unless  that  she,  who  had  already 
renounced  all  thoughts  of  pride  and  rank,  were 
content  to  assume  a  "name  dearer  and  more  sacred 
still  than  that  of  friend.  He  gave  her  no  reason 
to  doubt  that  vanity,  instead  of  love,  was  the  origin 
of  this  proposal,  since  the  princess  herself  was 
fii'm  in  her  desire  to  remain  happy  in  private  life. 
With  all  delicacy  he  sought  to  assure  her  that  he 
could  not  but  remember,  in  case  of  a  refusal,  that 
it  was  scarcely  undeserved.  Nor  could  he  ever 
forget  how  much  was  exacted  from  him,  by  the 
almost  regal  birth  of  her  to  whose  hand  he  thus 
dared  aspire. 

Love,  and  her  desolate  and  defenceless  condition, 
induced  the  princess  willingly  to  consent ;  and,  in 
constituting  his  felicity,  she  increased  her  own, 

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Heaven  blessed  so  happy  a  union ;  and,  in  due 
time,  an  infant  bound  still  closer  the  marriage  tie. 
Thus,  the  princess  Sophia,  born  of  noble  blood, 
destined  to  enjoy  grandeur,  homage,  even  a  throne, 
having  abandoned  the  magnificence  of  her  former 
state,  in  private  life  fulfilled  all  the  duties  of  na- 
ture and  of  society. 

Years  passed  happily  on,  until  Moldask  was  at- 
tacked with  disease,  which  required  the  aid  of  a 
skilful  surgeon.  Sophia  was  unwilling  to  confide 
a  life  so  precious  and  beloved  to  the  care  of  sur- 
geons of  doubtful  skill,  and  therefore  resolved  to 
visit  Paris.  She  persuaded  her  husband  to  sell 
all  their  possessions  and  embark.  The  medical 
skill  of  Paris  restored  Moldask  to  health.  Being 
now  perfectly  cured,  the  husband  sought  to  obtain 
employment  in  the  island  of  Bourbon,  and  was 
successful. 

Meanwhile,  the  wife  was  one  day  walking  with 
her  graceful  little  girl  in  a  public  garden,  as  was 
her  Avont.  She  sat  down  on  a  green  bank,  and 
conversed  with  her  child  in  German,  when  the 
marshal  of  Saxony  passing  by,  was  struck  with 
the  German  accent,  and  stayed  to  observe  them. 
She  recognised  him  immediately ;  and,  fearing  the 
same  from  him,  bent  her  eyes  to  the  ground.  Her 
blushes  and  confusion  convinced  the  marshal  that 
he  was  not  mistaken;  and  he  cried  out,  "How, 
Madame  ?  What  do  I  see  ?  Is  it  possible  ?"  So- 
phia suffered  him  not  to  proceed,  but  drawing  him 
aside,  she  declared  herself,  praying  him  to  keep 
sacred  the  needful  secret,  and  to  return  with  her 
to  her  dwelling,  where  she  might  with  greater 
care  and  security  explain  her  situation.  The 
marshal  was  faithful  to  his  promise ;  visited  the 
princess  many  times,  though  with  all  due  precau- 
tion, and  heard  and  admired  her  history.  He 
wished  to  inform  the  king  of  France,  that  this 
august  lady  might  be  restored  to  her  rightful 
honours  and  rank,  and  that  he  himself  might  thus 
complete  the  good  work  begun  by  his  mother,  the 
countess  of  Konigsmark.  He  did  inform  the  em- 
press, Maria  Theresa,  who  wished  to  restore  her 
to  her  former  rank.  Sophia  refused  all  these  sug- 
gestions and  offers.  "I  am  so  used,"  she  said  to 
the  officer  who  proposed  to  reconduct  her  to  the 
court — "  I  am  so  used  to  this  domestic  and  private 
life,  that  I  will  never  change  it.  Neither  to  be 
near  a  throne,  nor  to  receive  the  greatest  homage, 
nor  to  enjoy  riches,  nor  even  to  possess  the  uni- 
verse, would  give  me  the  shadow  of  the  pleasure 
and  delight  I  feel  at  this  moment."  So  saying, 
she  tenderly  embraced  the  one  and  the  other  of 
her  dear  family. 

She  lived  long  with  her  husband  and  daughter, 
serene  and  contented,  dividing  her  cares  and  occu- 
pations between  assisting  and  amusing  the  one, 
and  educating  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  the  other. 
Death  snatched  from  her,  within  a  short  interval, 
these  two  beloved  ones,  who  had  filled  her  heart 
with  sweet  emotions ;  and  for  a  long  time  that 
heart  was  a  prey  to  one  only  sentiment  of  the 
deepest  grief.  Yet  not  even  this  sorrow  affected 
her  so  much,  but  that  she  believed  the  uuhappi- 
ness  of  grandeur  to  be  still  greater.  She  constantly 
refused  the  repeated  invitations  to  Vienna ;  and, 


accepting  only  a  small  pension  from  the  liberality 
of  the  empress,  she  retired  to  Vitry,  near  Paris, 
where  she  wished  still  to  pass  under  the  name  of 
Madame  Moldask ;  but  it  was  impossible  any 
longer  to  conceal  her  high  birth  and  illustrious 
ancestry.  Notwithstanding  this,  she  never  aban- 
doned her  accustomed  simplicity  and  retirement 
of  life,  in  which  alone  she  had  begun  to  find,  and 
found  to  the  last,  true  felicity. 

SOUTHCOTT,   JOANNA, 

A  FANATIC,  was  born,  in  April,  1750,  in  the  west 
of  England.  Her  parents  were  poor,  and  she  was 
for  many  years  a  servant.  Early  in  life  sh'fe  in- 
dulged in  visionary  feelings ;  bvit  when  she  was 
forty-two,  she  claimed  the  character  of  a  pro- 
phetess. For  more  than  twenty  years  from  that 
time,  she  continued  to  pour  forth  unintelligible 
rhapsodies,  by  which  she  succeeded  in  making 
many  dupes.  At  length,  mistaking  disease  for 
pregnancy,  she  announced  that  she  was  to  be  the 
mother  of  the  promised  Shiloh  ;  and  great  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  his  reception  by  her  deluded 
followers.  She,  however,  died  of  the  malady,  De- 
cember 27, 1814.    Her  sect  is  not  even  yet  extinct. 

SOUZA,    MARIA   FLAHAULT   DE, 

Was  born  at  Paris.  She  married  the  Chevalier 
de  Souza,  ambassador  from  Portugal  to  the  court 
of  France,  and  editor  of  a  fine  edition  of  Camoens. 
Madame  de  Souza,  at  that  time  a  widow,  was 
among  the  noble  emigrants  who  sought  shelter  in 
England,  from  the  revolutionary  storms  of  1789. 
She  had  been  admired  as  a  brilliant  woman  of 
fashion  ;  and  it  has  been  said  of  her,  that  it  was 
only  "necessity,  the  mother  of  invention,''^  that 
had  converted  her  into  a  successful  author. 

Iler  earliest  work,  "Charles  and  Marie,"  was 
published,  by  subscription,  in  London,  and  was, 
in  point  of  time,  one  of  the  very  first  fictions  no- 
ticed by  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Madame  de 
Souza,  being  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  Talley- 
rand, obtained  permission  to  return  to  France. 
On  being  presented  to  Napoleon,  he  graciously 
asked  which  among  her  works  was  her  favourite. 
"  Mon  meilleur  ouvrage,  sire,  le  voici,"  she  re- 
plied, introducing  her  son,  the  handsome  and  ani- 
mated Charles  de  Flahault,  who  was  soon  after- 
wards appointed  aid-de-camp  to  the  emperor,  and 
accompanied  him  through  all  his  campaigns.  The 
most  esteemed  of  Madame  de  Souza's  novels  are, 
"Eugene  de  Rothelin,"  and  "AdMede  Senange," 
both  distinguished  for  moral  purity,  and  a  parti- 
cular delicacy  of  thought ;  these  books  were  much 
admired  by  the  celebrated  Charles  James  Fox. 
Madame  de  Souza  was  educated  at  that  period 
preceding  the  revolution,  when  ladies  of  rank 
were  taught,  at  their  convents,  very  little  more 
than  to  shine  in  a  drawing-room.  Madame  de 
Genlis  relates,  in  her  entertaining  memoirs,  the 
pains  she  took  to  induce  the  duchess  de  Chartres, 
and  some  other  court  dames,  to  learn  a  little  or- 
thography. Their  expressions  were  choice,  and 
their  style  in  speaking  faultless  ;  but  alas !  they 
could  not  spell.  Madame  de  Souza  used,  ingenu- 
ously, to  avow  that  this  defect  of  her  early  edu- 

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cation  she  had  never  been  able  to  remedy.  At  the 
same  time,  the  critics  allow  that  her  French  is  a 
model  of  ease  and  purity.  She  died  in  1836,  at 
her  hotel,  Faubourg  St.  Honored,  surrounded  by 
many  attached  friends  and  relatives,  having  lived 
to  see  her  grand-children  grown  up,  and  her  son 
reinstated  in  his  rank,  at  the  court  of  the  Tuil- 
leries. 

SPILBERG,    ADRIANA, 

Was  born  at  Amsterdam,  in  1646.  She  was 
taught  painting  by  her  father,  John  Spilberg,  an 
eminent  historical  and  portrait  painter.  Her  best 
works  were  portraits  in  crayon,  though  she  some- 
times painted  in  oil.  Her  eminent  abilities  caused 
her  to  be  invited  to  the  court  of  the  electress,  at 
Dusseldorp,  where  she  was  received  with  marks 
of  respect  and  honour.  She  married  the  celebrated 
painter,  Eglon  Vander  Neei-. 

SPILIMBERGO,   IRENE   DI, 

Was  of  a  noble  family  at  Venice,  and  is  said  to 
have  been  instructed  by  Titian,  whose  style  she 
certainly  followed.  She  painted  merely  for  amuse- 
ment; and  flourished  about  1560.  Titian,  who 
lived  on  terms  of  friendship  with  her  family,  drew 
her  portrait. 

STAAL,  MADAME  DE, 
Whose  maiden  name  was  De  Launai,  was  born, 
in  1693,  at  Paris,  and  was  the  daughter  of  an 
artist.  She  received  an  excellent  education  in  the 
convent  of  St.  Sauveur,  in  Normandy,  and  dis- 
played precocious  talents.  For  many  years  she 
was  waiting-woman  to  the  duchess  of  Maine;  and 
having  been  privy  to  some  of  the  duchess's  politi- 
cal intrigues,  which  she  refused  to  betray  to  the 
government,  she  was,  for  two  years,  imprisoned  in 
the  Bastile  ;  for  which  honourable  fidelity  she  was 
but  ill  rewarded.  She  married  the  baron  de  Staal, 
and  died  in  1750.  She  wrote  her  own  memoirs, 
letters,  and  two  comedies. 

STAEL,  ANNE  LOUISE  GERMAIN, 
MADAME  DE, 
Was  born,  April  22d,  1766,  at  Paris.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  well-known  French  financier, 
Necker.  Her  parents  being  protestants,  instead 
of  receiving  her  education,  like  most  young  ladies 
of  the  period,  in  the  seclusion  of  a  convent,  she 
was  reared  at  home,  and  allowed  to  mingle  freely 
with  the  talented  guests  who  assembled  in  her  mo- 
ther's drawing-room.  Already  a  precocious  child, 
this  produced  in  her  a  premature  development  of 
intellect.  Some  of  the  gravest  men  who  visited 
Madame  Necker,  when  her  daughter  had  scarcely 
emerged  from  childhood,  discerned  her  intellectual 
power,  and  found  pleasure  in  conversing  with  her  ; 
the  acuteness  of  her  judgment  already  revealing 
what  she  would  one  day  become.  From  her  mo- 
ther she  imbibed  a  strong  religious  feeling,  which 
never  abandoned  her ;  Necker  imparted  to  her  his 
ambitious  love  of  political  popularity ;  and  the 
society  in  which  she  was  brought  up  strengthened 
her  passion  for  literature,  and  fed  the  burning 
flame  of  her  genius.     Her  life  and  wi'itings  bear 


deep  traces  of  these  three  powerful  principles. 
As  a  talker  she  has  never  perhaps  been  surpassed. 
Clear,  comprehensive,  and  vigorous,  like  that  of 
man,  her  language  was  also  full  of  womanly  pas- 
sion and  tenderness.  Her  afl"ection  for  her  father 
was  enthusiastic,  and  her  respect  for  him  bordered 


upon  V  jneration.  The  closest  and  most  unreserved 
friendship  marked  their  intercourse  through  life. 
Mademoiselle  Necker  was  heir  to  immense  wealth ; 
and  at  the  age  of  twenty,  through  the  interposi- 
tion of  Marie  Antoinette,  a  marriage  was  brought 
about  between  her  and  the  baron  de  Stael  Holstein, 
then  Swedish  ambassador  at  the  court  of  France. 
M.  de  Stael  was  young,  handsome,  and  cultivated ; 
he  had  no  fortune,  but  he  was  a  Lutheran ;  and  as 
M.  Necker  had  no  inclination  to  see  his  fortune 
pass  into  the  hands  of  a  catholic,  his  consent  was 
easily  obtained. 

Neither  the  disposition  or  situation  of  Madame 
de  Stael  would  allow  her  to  remain  indiff'erent  to 
the  general  agitation  which  prevailed  in  France. 
Enthusiastic  in  her  love  of  liberty,  she  gave  all  the 
weight  of  her  influence  to  the  cause.  Her  father's 
banishment  in  1787,  and  his  triumphant  return  in 
1788,  deeply  afi'ected  her ;  and  when  he  was  obliged 
to  retire  from'  public  life,  it  was  a  source  of  deep 
grief  and  disappointment  to  her.  During  Robes- 
pierre's ascendency,  she  exerted  herself,  at  the 
hazard  of  her  life,  to  save  his  victims,  and  she 
published  a  powerful  and  eloquent  defence  of  the 
queen.  On  the  2d  of  September,  when  the  tocsin 
called  the  populace  to  riot  and  murder,  she  fled 
from  Paris,  with  great  difficulty,  and  took  refuge 
with  her  father,  at  Coppet.  When  Sweden  re- 
cognised the  French  republic,  she  returned  to  Paris 
with  her  husband,  who  was  again  appointed  Swed- 
ish ambassador.  Her  influence,  social,  literary, 
and  political,  was  widely  extended.  On  Talley- 
rand's return  from  America,  in  1796,  she  obtained, 
through  Barras,  his  appointment  to  the  ministry 
of  foreign  affairs.  To  this  period  also  belongs  two 
political  pamphlets,  containing  her  views  respect- 
ing the  situation  of  France  in  1795,  which  express 
the  remarkable  opinion  that  France  could  arrive  at 
limited  monarchy  only  through  military  despotism. 

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In  1798,  M.  de  Stael  died;  her  connexion  with 
her  husband  had  not  been  a  happy  one.  When 
she  became  desirous  of  saving  her  children's  pro- 
perty from  the  eflfects  of  his  lavish  expenditure, 
a  separation  took  place ;  but  when  his  infirmities 
required  the  kind  offices  of  friends,  she  returned 
to  him,  and  was  with  him  when  he  died. 

Madame  de  Stael  first  saw  Napoleon  in  1797.  His 
brilliant  reputation  excited  her  admiration,  but  this 
sentiment  soon  gave  way  to  fear  and  aversion  ;  her 
opposition  offended  Napoleon,  and  she  was  ban- 
ished from  Paris.  She  resided  with  her  father  at 
Coppet,  where  she  devoted  herself  to  literature. 
After  the  death  of  her  father,  in  1803,  she  visited 
Italy  and  Germany ;  which  visits  produced  her  two 
most  remarkable  works,  "  Corinne,"  and  "Ger- 
many." The  latter,  when  printed  in  Paris,  was 
seized  and  desti-oyed  by  the  minister  of  police ; 
and  her  exile  from  Paris  was  extended  to  banish- 
ment from  France.  During  her  residence  on  her 
father's  estate,  Madame  de  Stael  contracted  a 
marriage  with  a  young  officer,  in  delicate  healthy 
by  the  name  of  de  Rocca,  which  continued  a  secret 
till  her  death.  Notwithstanding  she  was  twice 
the  age  of  her  husband,  this  marriage  was  very 
happy.  M.  de  Rocca  loved  her  with  romantic 
enthusiasm ;  and  she  realized,  in  his  affection, 
some  of  the  dreams  of  her  youth.  He  survived 
her  only  six  months.  Banished  from  France,  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  wandered  over  Europe ;  her  suf- 
ferings she  has  embodied  in  her  '  •  Ten  Years  of 
Exile."  In  1814  she  returned  to  Paris,  and  was 
treated  with  great  distinction  by  the  allied  princes. 
On  the  return  of  Napoleon  from  Elba,  she  retired 
to  Coppet.  It  is  said  that  he  invited  her  to  return 
to  Paris,  and  that  she  refused  to  do  so.  After  the 
restoration,  she  received  from  the  government  two 
millions  of  francs ;  the  sum  which  her  father  had 
left  in  the  royal  treasury.  Surrounded  by  a  happy 
domestic  circle,  esteemed  and  courted  by  the  most 
eminent  men  of  the  capital,  Madame  de  Stael  re- 
sided in  Paris  till  her  death,  which  took  place  in 
July,  1817.  Madame  de  Stael  has  been  called  the 
greatest  female  writer  of  all  ages  and  countries. 
She  was  certainly  the  most  distinguished  for 
talents  among  the  women  of  her  age.  Since 
Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  no  French  writer  has  dis- 
played equal  power.  Her  works  are  numerous 
—  "Corinne,"  "Delphine,"  "Germany,"  "Ten 
Years  of  Exile,"  and  "Considerations  on  the 
French  Revolution,"  are  the  most  noted.  In 
making  selections  from  this  distinguished  writer, 
we  have  chosen  that  which  we  consider  her  great- 
est work ;  its  moral  tone  elevates  its  philosophy, 
while  the  religious  sentiment  adds  a  refinement  to 
the  speculations  which  might  otherwise  be  thought 
too  bold  for  a  woman. 

From  "Germanj-." 
WOMAN. 

Nature  and  society  give  to  woman  a  habit  of 
endurance;  and  I  think  it  can  hardly  be  denied 
that,  in  our  days,  they  are  generally  worthier  of 
moral  esteem  than  the  men.  At  an  epoch  when 
selfishness  is  the  prevailing  evil,  the  men,  to  whom 
all  positive  interests  have  relation,  must  necessa- 


rily have  less  generosity,  less  sensibility,  than  the 
women.  These  last  are  attached  to  life  only  by 
the  ties  of  the  heart ;  and  even  when  they  lose 
themselves,  it  is  by  sentiment  that  they  are  led 
away ;  their  selfishness  is  extended  to  a  double 
object,  while  that  of  man  has  himself  only  for  its 
end.  Homage  is  rendered  to  them  according  to 
the  affections  which  they  inspire,  but  those 
which  they  bestow  are  almost  always  sacrifices. 
The  most  beautiful  of  virtues,  self-devotion,  is 
their  enjoyment  and  their  destiny ;  no  happiness 
can  exist  for  them  but  by  the  reflection  of  another's 
glory  and  prosperity ;  in  short,  to  live  independ- 
ently of  self,  whether  by  ideas  or  by  sentiments, 
or,  above  all,  by  virtues,  gives  to  the  soul  an  ha- 
bitual feeling  of  elevation. 

In  those  countries  where  men  are  called  upon. 
by  political  institutions,  to  the  exercise  of  all  the 
military  and  civil  virtues  which  are  inspired  by 
patriotism,  they  recover  the  superiority  which  be- 
longs to  them ;  they  reassume,  with  dignity,  their 
rights,  as  masters  of  the  world ;  but  when  they 
are  condemned,  in  whatever  measure,  to  idleness 
or  to  slavery,  they  fall  so  much  the  lower  as  they 
ought  to  rise  more  high.  The  destiny  of  women 
always  remains  the  same ;  it  is  their  soul  alone 
which  creates  it ;  political  circumstances  have  no 
influence  upon  it.  When  men  are  either  ignorant 
or  incapable  of  the  means  of  employing  their  lives 
with  dignity  or  propriety,  Nature  revenges  herself 
upon  them  for  the  very  gifts  which  they  have  re- 
ceived from  her ;  the  activity  of  the  body  contri- 
butes only  to  the  sloth  of  the  mind ;  the  strength 
of  soul  degenerates  into  coarseness ;  and  the  day 
is  consumed  in  vulgar  sports  and  exercises,  horses, 
the  chase,  or  entertainments  which  might  be  suit- 
able enough  in  the  way  of  relaxation,  but  seem 
merely  degrading  as  occupations.  Women,  the 
while,  cultivate  their  understanding ;  and  senti- 
ment and  reflection  preserve  in  their  souls  the 
image  of  all  that  is  free  and  generous. 

CONVEESATION. 

It  seems  to  me  an  acknowledged  fact  that  Paris 
is,  of  all  cities  of  the  world,  that  in  which  the 
spirit  and  taste  for  conversation  are  most  gene- 
rally diS'used ;  and  that  disorder  which  they  call 
the  mal  du  pays,  that  undefinable  longing  for  oui- 
native  land,  which  exists  independently  even  of 
the  friends  we  have  left  behind  there,  applies  par- 
ticularly to  the  pleasure  of  conversation  which 
Frenchmen  find  nowhere  else  in  the  same  degree 
as  at  home.  Yolney  relates,  that  some  French 
emigrants  began,  during  the  revolution,  to  esta- 
blish a  colony  and  clear  some  lands  in  America ; 
but  they  were  continually  quitting  their  work  to 
go  and  talk,  as  they  said,  in  town — and  this  town. 
New  Orleans,  was  distant  six  hundred  leagues 
from  their  place  of  residence.  The  necessity  of 
conversation  is  felt  by  all  classes  of  peoj^le  in 
France :  speech  is  not  there,  as  elsewhere,  merely 
the  means  of  communicating,  from  one  to  another, 
ideas,  sentiments,  and  transactions ;  but  it  is  an 
instrument  on  which  they  are  fond  of  playing,  and 
which  animates  the  spirits,  like  music  among  some 
people,  and  strong  liquors  among  others. 

618 


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That  sort  of  pleasure  which  is  produced  by  an 
animated  conversation,  does  not  precisely  depend 
on  the  nature  of  that  conversation ;  the  ideas  and 
knowledge  which  it  developes  do  not  form  its  prin- 
cipal interest ;  it  is  a  certain  manner  of  acting 
upon  one  another,  of  giving  mutual  and  instanta- 
neous delight,  of  speaking  the  moment  one  thinks, 
of  acquiring  immediate  self-enjoyment,  of  receiv- 
ing applause  without  labour,  of  displaying  the  un- 
derstanding in  all  its  shades,  by  accent,  gesture, 
look ;  of  eliciting,  in  short,  at  will,  the  electric 
sparks  which  relieve  many  by  the  very  excess  of 
their  vivacity,  and  serve  to  awaken  others  out  of 
a  state  of  painful  apathy. 

The  spirit  of  conversation  is  sometimes  attended 
with  the  inconvenience  of  impairing  the  sincerity 
of  character ;  it  is  not  a  combined,  but  an  unpre- 
meditated deception.  •  The  French  have  admitted 
into  it  a  gaiety  which  renders  them  amiable  ;  but 
it  is  not  the  less  certain  that  all  that  is  most  sacred 
in  this  woi'ld  has  been  shaken  to  its  centre  by  grace, 
at  least  by  that  sort  of  grace  that  attaches  import- 
ance to  nothing,  and  turns  all  things  into  ridicule. 

EDUCATION. 

Education,  conducted  by  way  of  amusement, 
dissipates  the  reasoning  powers :  pain,  in  all  the 
concerns  of  life,  is  one  of  the  gi'eat  secrets  of  na- 
ture :  the  understanding  of  the  child  should  ac- 
custom itself  to  the  efforts  of  study,  as  our  soul 
accustoms  itself  to  suffering.  It  is  a  labour  which 
leads  to  the  perfection  of  our  earlier,  as  grief  to 
that  of  our  later  age :  it  is  to  be  wished,  no  doubt, 
that  our  parents,  like  our  destiny,  may  not  too 
much  abuse  this  double  secret;  but  there  is  no- 
thing important  in  any  stage  of  life  but  that  which 
acts  upon  the  very  central  point  of  existence,  and 
we  are  too  apt  to  consider  the  moral  being  in  de- 
tail. You  may  teach  your  child  a  number  of  things 
with  pictures  and  cards,  but  you  will  not  teach 
him  to  learn ;  and  the  habit  of  amusing  himself, 
which  you  direct  to  the  acquirement  of  knowledge, 
will  soon  follow  another  course  when  the  child  is 
no  longer  under  your  guidance. 

POETRY. 

The  gift  of  revealing  by  speech  the  internal 
feelings  of  the  heart,  is  very  rare ;  there  is,  how- 
ever, a  poetical  spirit  in  all  beings  who  are  capable 
of  strong  and  lively  affections :  expression  is  want- 
ing to  those  who  have  not  exerted  themselves  to 
find  it.  It  may  be  said  that  the  poet  only  disen- 
gages the  sentiment  that  was  imprisoned  in  his 
soul.  Poetic  genius  is  an  internal  disposition,  of 
the  same  nature  with  that  which  renders  us  capable 
of  a  generous  sacrifice.  The  composition  of  a  fine 
ode,  is  a  heroic  trance.  If  genius  were  not  ver- 
satile, it  would  as  often  inspire  fine  actions  as 
affecting  expressions ;  for  they  both  equally  spring 
from  a  consciousness  of  the  beautiful  that  is  felt 
within  us. 


Those  who  think  themselves  in  possession  of 
taste,  are  more  proud  of  it  than  those  who  believe 
that  they  possess  genius.     Taste  is,  in  literature, 


what  the  bon  ton  is  in  society.  We  consider  it  as 
a  proof  of  fortune  and  of  birth,  or,  at  least,  of  the 
habits  which  are  found  in  connection  with  them ; 
while  genius  may  spring  from  the  head  of  an  arti- 
zan  who  has  never  had  any  intercourse  with  good 
company.  In  every  country  where  there  is  vanity, 
taste  will  be  placed  in  the  highest  rank  of  qualifi- 
cations, because  it  separates  different  classes,  and 
serves  as  a  rallying  point  to  all  the  individuals  of  the 
the  first  class.  In  every  country  where  the  power 
of  ridicule  is  felt,  taste  will  be  reckoned  as  one  of 
first  advantages ;  for,  above  all  things,  it  teaches 
us  what  we  ought  to  avoid. 

But  taste,  in  its  application  to  the  fine  arts,  dif- 
fers extremely  from  taste  as  applied  to  the  rela- 
tions of  social  life ;  when  the  object  is  to  force 
men  to  grant  us  a  reputation,  ephemeral  as  our 
own  lives,  what  we  omit  doing  is  at  least  as  ne- 
cessary as  what  we  do ;  for  the  higher  orders  of 
society  are  naturally  so  hostile  to  all  pretensions, 
that  very  extraordinary  advantages  are  requisite 
to  compensate  that  of  not  gi\'ing  occasion  to  the 
world  to  speak  about  us.  Taste  in  poetry  de- 
pends on  nature,  and,  like  nature,  should  be  crea- 
tive ;  the  principles  of  this  taste  are  therefore 
quite  different  from  those  which  depend  on  our 
social  relations. 

STANHOPE,    LADY   HESTER, 

W.\s  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Stanhope, 
well  known  for  his  eccentricities  and  democratic 
sentiments.  Her  mother  was  sister  of  the  cele- 
brated William  Pitt.  Lady  Hester  early  lost  her 
mother,  and,  under  the  nominal  guidance  of  a 
young  and  gay  step-mother,  she  received  an  ill- 
directed  and  inappropriate  education.  She  was 
very  precocious  —  the  genius  of  the  family,  and 
the  favourite  of  her  father,  with  whom  she  took 
great  liberties.  She  relates,  herself,  that  upon  one 
occasion,  when  the  earl,  in  a  democratic  fit,  put 
down  his  carriage,  she  brought  him  round  again 
by  an  amusing  practical  appeal.  "  I  got  myself 
a  pair  of  stilts,"  she  said,  "and  out  I  stumped 
down  a  dirty  lane,  where  my  father,  who  was 
always  spying  about  through  a  glass,  could  see 
me."  The  experiment  had  the  desired  effect;  her 
father  questioned  her  good-humouredly  upon  her 
novel  mode  of  locomotion,  and  the  result  was  a 
new  carriage.  Unlike  her  father.  Lady  Hester 
was  a  violent  aristocrat,  boasting  of  her  nobility, 
and  priding  herself  upon  those  mental  and  phy- 
sical peculiarities  which  she  considered  the  marks 
of  high  birth.  At  an  early  age,  she  established 
herself  in  the  family  of  her  uncle,  Mr.  Pitt,  for 
the  purpose,  she  asserted,  of  guarding  the  inte- 
rests of  her  family  during  a  perilous  political 
crisis.  She  resided  with  Mr.  Pitt  till  his  death, 
courted  and  flattered  by  the  most  distinguished 
people  in  England,  and  enjoying  all  the  advan- 
tages which  her  position  as  mistress  of  his  house 
afforded  her.  She  represents  herself  as  having 
possessed  considerable  influence  with  Mr.  Pitt ; 
sharing  his  confidence,  and  exercising  a  larga 
amount  of  control  over  the  patronage  belonging 
to  his  post. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Pitt,  she  obtained  from 

619 


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George  III.  a  pension  of  £1500.  On  this  she  tried 
to  maintain  her  former  rank  and  style ;  but,  find- 
ing it  impossible,  she  removed  to  Wales,  and  finally, 
in  1810,  to  the  East.  In  1813,  she  settled  near 
Sidon  ;  and  soon  afterwards  removed  to  Djoun, 
her  celebrated  Syrian  residence.  Here  she  erected 
extensive  buildings  for  herself  and  suite,  in  the 
Oriental  style,  with  several  gardens  laid  out  with 
good  taste.  Money  goes  very  far  in  the  East,  and 
the  munificence  which  she  exhibited,  added  to  her 
well-known  rank,  acquired  for  her  an  influence 
which  her  personal  character  soon  established ; 
and  she  exercised  a  degree  of  power  and  control 
over  the  neighbouring  tribes  and  their  chiefs,  for 
which  their  ignorance  and  superstition  can  alone 
account.  Lady  Hester  here  promulgated  those 
peculiar  religious  sentiments  which  she  continued 
to  hold  to  the  last.  The  words  of  St.  John,  "  But 
there  is  one  who  shall  come  after  me,  who  is  greater 
than  I  am,"  she  with  a  most  extraordinary  care- 
lessness attributes  to  Christ ;  and  upon  this  pro- 
mise she  founded  her  belief  in  the  coming  of  an- 
other Messiah,  whose  herald  she  professed  to  be. 
She  kept  in  a  luxurious  stable,  carefully  attended 
to  by  slaves  devoted  solely  to  that  purpose,  two 
mares,  one  of  which,  possessing  a  natural  defect 
in  the  back,  she  avowed  was  born  ready  saddled 
for  the  Messiah ;  the  other,  kept  sacred  for  her- 
self, she  was  to  ride  upon  at  his  right  hand,  when 
the  coming  took  place. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  what  Lady  Hester's  faith 
really  was.  She  professed  to  believe  in  astrology, 
magic,  necromancy,  demonology,  and  in  various 
extravagances  peculiarly  her  own.  This  mysti- 
cism was  well  adapted  to  the  people  among  whom 
she  dwelt,  and  may  in  a  great  measure  have  been 
assumed  to  impose  upon  and  confirm  her  influence 
with  them.  Possessing  in  a  high  degree  the  spirit 
of  intrigue,  she  exercised  her  powers  in  fomenting 
or  allaying  the  disturbances  among  the  neighbour- 
ing tribes.  With  the  emir  Besliyr,  prince  of  the 
Druses,  whom  she  braved,  she  kept  up  an  un- 
ceasing hostility ;  her  enmity  was  also  violently 
displayed  towards  the  whole  consular  body,  who 
she  said  "  were  intended  to  regulate  merchants, 
and  not  to  interfere  with  or  control  nobility." 
On  the  other  hand,  she  was  profuse  in  her  bounty, 
and  charitable  to  the  poor  and  afiiicted  of  every 
faith.  Her  residence  was  a  place  of  refuge  to  all 
the  persecuted  and  distressed  who  sought  her  pro- 
tection. When  news  arrived  of  the  battle  of  Na- 
varino,  all  the  Franks  in  Sayda  fled  for  refuge  to 
her  dwelling ;  and,  after  the  siege  of  Acre,  she 
relieved  and  sheltered  several  hundred  persons. 
Nor  was  her  generosity  confined  to  acts  like  these ; 
she  loaned  large  sums  to  chiefs  and  individuals, 
who,  in  their  extremity,  applied  to  her ;  and,  to 
save  whole  families  from  tlie  miseries  of  the  con- 
scription, she  furnished  the  requisite  fines.  This 
profuse  expenditure,  added  to  the  charge  of  her 
household,  which  was  seldom  composed  of  less 
than  forty  persons,  without  counting  the  various 
hangers-on  from  without,  soon  crippled  her  means. 
She  took  up  money  at  an  enormous  interest,  and 
became  involved  in  pecuniary  difficulties.  Upon 
.application  made  by  one  of  her  creditors  to  the 


British  goverament,  in  1838,  Lord  Palmerston 
issued  an  order  to  the  consuls,  forbidding  them  to 
sign  the  necessary  certificates  of  Lady  Hester's 
still  being  alive ;  and  this  high-handed  measure 
being  carried  out,  she  was  henceforward  deprived 
of  all  use  of  her  pension. 

Lady  Hester's  suite  comprised  only  two  Euro- 
peans :  Miss  Williams,  an  English  lady,  who  was  a 
sort  of  humble  companion,  and  died  some  years 
before  Lady  Hester ;  and  her  physician  who  ac- 
companied her  abroad.  Dr.  M.  remained  with 
her  till  1817;  and  at  two  different  periods  he 
again  rejoined  her  for  the  space  of  a  year  or  two 
at  a  time.  It  is  to  the  Journal  kept  by  the  latter 
that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  the  information 
we  have  obtained  regarding  her  singular  life  in  the 
East ;  the  accounts  given  of  her  by  the  numerous 
travellers  who  visited  her,  affording  but  very  par- 
tial insight  into  her  character  and  pursuits.  By 
many.  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  is  looked  upon  as  an 
insane  person  ;  that  her  mind  was  diseased  there 
can  be  very  little  doubt.  Even  admitting  that  much 
which  she  professed  to  believe  was  assumed  to 
mislead  others,  the  very  desire  to  give  such  im- 
pressions betrays  an  ill-balanced  mind. 

Lady  Hester's  ruling  passion  was  an  inordinate 
love  of  power.  She  exercised  the  most  despotic 
dominion  over  all  connected  with  her,  which  trait 
may  account  for  her  choice  of  residence ;  as  no 
Christian  followers  would  have  submitted  to  her 
tya-anny.  Her  will  was  the  law ;  she  allowed  no 
one  to  make  a  suggestion  or  venture  an  opinion  in 
her  presence.  Even  her  doctor's  opinions  she  dis- 
puted on  his  own  ground,  quarrelling  with  him  for 
not  taking  Mr  prescriptions,  though  she  refused 
to  follow  his !  Her  temper  was  violent  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  slie  did  not  confine  herself  to  words 
when  under  its  influence.  One  of  the  marked 
characteristics  of  her  mind  was  the  necessity  she 
was  under  of  incessantly  talking.  Her  physician, 
who  describes  her  eloquence  at  times  as  something 
wonderful,  relates  that  he  has  sat  thirteen  hours 
at  a  time  listening  to  her ;  that  a  gentleman  once 
remained  from  three  in  the  afternoon  till  break  of 
day,  tete-a-tete  with  her;  and  "  Miss  Williams," 
he  also  adds,  "  once  assured  me  that  Lady  Hester 
kept  Mr.  N.,  an  English  gentleman,  so  long  in  dis- 
course that  he  fainted  away ! 

Her  ladyship's  readiness  in  exigencies  may  be 
exemplified  by  what  occurred  on  that  occasion. 
When  she  had  rung  the  bell,  and  the  servants  had 
come  to  her  assistance,  she  said  very  quietly  to 
them,  that  in  listening  to  the  state  of  disgrace  to 
which  England  was  reduced  by  the  conduct  of  the 
ministers,  his  feelings  of  shame  and  grief  had  so 
overwhelmed  him  that  he  had  fainted.  Mr.  N., 
however,  declared  to  Miss  Williams,  that  it  was 
no  such  thing,  but  that  he  absolutely  swooned 
away  from  fatigue  and  constraint. 

Tormented  by  her  creditors,  and  enraged  at  the 
treatment  she  had  received  from  her  own  govern- 
ment. Lady  Hester  renounced  her  allegiance,  re- 
fusing ever  again  to  receive  her  pension.  She 
walled  up  her  gate-way,  determining  to  have  no 
communication  with  any  one  without;  and  dis- 
missed her  physician,  though  she  was  in  an  ad- 

520 


ST 


ST 


vanced  stage  of  pulmonary  disease.  Dr.  M.  left  j 
her  in  August,  1838.  Her  last  letter  to  him  is 
dated  May,  1839;  and,  on  the  23d  of  June,  1839, 
attended  by  a  few  slaves,  and  without  a  single 
European  or  Christian  near  her,  she  breathed  her 
last,  aged  sixty-three  years.  Mr.  Moore,  the  Eng- 
lish consul  at  Beyrout,  and  Mr.  Thompson,  an 
American  missionary,  hearing  of  her  death,  pro- 
ceeded to  Djoun,  and  performed  the  last  sad  oflBces 
to  her  remains,  burying  her  at  midnight  in  her 
own  garden. 

STEELE,  MRS.  ANNE, 
Was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Ste_ele,  a 
dissenting  minister  at  Broughton,  in  Hampshire, 
England.  She  is  the  authoress  of  many  of  the 
most  popular  hymns  sung  in  churches.  She  also 
wrote  aversion  of  the  Psalras,  which  showed  great 
talent.     She  died  in  1779. 

STEPHENS,  KATHARINE, 
The  daughter  of  a  carver  and  gilder,  was  born 
in  London,  September  18th,  1794.  She  gave  early 
proofs  of  her  musical  abilities,  and  on  the  23d  of 
September,  1813,  made  her  d^but  on  the  stage,  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  as  a  vocalist,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  great  applause.  She  continued  for  a 
long  time  the  principal  female  singer  on  the  Eng- 
lish stage.  Her  character  was  always  unim- 
peachable. 


./    ^/ 


STEWART,    HARRIET   BRADFORD, 

Was  born  near  Stamford,  in  Connecticut,  on 
the  24th  of  June,  1798.  Her  father.  Colonel  Tif- 
fany, was  an  ofi&cer  dui-ing  the  revolutionary  war, 
but  he  died  while  his  daughter  was  very  young, 
and  her  youth  was  passed  principally  at  Albany 
and  Cooperstown,  in  New  York.  In  1822,  Miss 
Tiffany  married  the  Rev.  C.  S.  Stewart,  mission- 
ary to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  accompanied 
him  to  those  distant  and  uncultivated  regions. 
She  had  previously,  in  1819,  passed  through  that 
mysterious  change  denominated  regeneration. 
"  Repeated  afflictions,"  says  her  biographer.  Rev. 
Mr.  Eddy,  "  the  death  of  friends,  and  her  own 
sickness,  led  her  to  feel  the  need  of  a  strong  arm 


and  a  sure  hope.  She  turned  to  Him  who  can 
give  support  to  the  soul  in  the  hours  of  its  dark 
night,  and  guide  it  amid  the  gloom." 

The  great  subject  of  a  missionai-y  life  was  pre- 
sented to  her  view,  connected  with  a  proposal  to 
accompany  Rev.  C.  S.  Stewart  to  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  as  his  assistant  and  companion.  With 
trembling  anxiety  she  submitted  the  case  to  the 
wise  discretion  of  her  Father  in  heaven  ; — on  earth 
she  had  none.  As  may  be  supposed,  it  was  no 
easy  thing  for  a  young  lady  of  high  and  honour- 
able connexions,  who  had  always  been  surrounded 
with  friends,  and  educated  in  the  circle  of  refine- 
ment and  luxury,  to  leave  all  these.  There  were 
tender  ties  to  be  riven,  fond  associations  to  be 
broken  up,  dear  friends  to  part  with,  and  a  loved 
home  to  leave  behind ;  and  when  the  momentous 
question  was  brought  distinctly  before  her  mind, 
it  required  a  strong  faith,  a  firm  dependence  on 
God,  an  entire  submission  to  his  will,  to  induce 
her  to  take  the  solemn  and  important  step ;  but 
believing  herself  called  upon  by  God,  she  decided 
in  his  favour,  and  lost  sight  of  the  sacrifice  and 
self-denial  of  the  undertaking. 

She  resolved  to  go ; — to  go,  though  home  wag 
to  be  abandoned,  friends  to  be  left,  loved  scenes 
deserted,  and  a  life  of  toil  to  be  endured.  She 
resolved  to  go; — to  go,  though  she  might  pass 
through  a  sea  of  tears,  and  at  last  leave  her  en- 
feebled body  upon  a  couch  that  would  have  no 
kind  friends  to  surround  it  when  she  died.  She 
resolved  to  go,  though  she  should  find  in  savage 
lands  a  lowly  grave. 

She  married  Mr.  Stewart,  and  they  sailed  in 
company  with  a  large  number  of  others  who  were 
destined  for  the  same  laborious  but  delightful  ser- 
vice. The  sun  of  the  nineteenth  of  November,  1822, 
went  down  on  many  homes  from  which  glad  spirits 
had  departed,  on  their  errand  of  mercy  to  a  dying 
world ;  and  on  that  day  the  eye  of  many  a  parent 
gazed  upon  the  form  of  the  child  for  the  last  time. 
Nor  could  a  vessel  leave  our  shores  having  on  her 
decks  nearly  thirty  missionaries,  without  being 
followed  by  the  prayers  of  more  than  the  relatives 
of  those  who  had  departed.  There  was  mingled 
joy  and  sorrow  throughout  the  churches  of  New 
England,  as  the  gales  of  winter  wafted  the  gospel- 
freighted  vessel  to  her  distant  destination. 

They  arrived,  in  April  of  the  following  year,  at 
Honolulu ;  and  after  a  residence  of  a  few  days, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stewart  located  themselves  at  La- 
haiua,  a  town  containing  about  twenty-five  thou- 
sand inhabitants,  who  were  mostly  in  a  degraded 
condition.  Here  they  found  but  few  of  the  con- 
veniences of  life,  and  were  obliged  to  live  in  little 
huts,  which  aff'orded  but  slight  shelter  from  the 
scorching  heat  or  the  pelting  i-ain.  In  these 
miserable  tenements  did  the  child  of  luxury  and 
wealth  reside,  and  in  perfect  contentment  perform 
the  duties  of  her  station.  She  suffered,  but  did 
not  complain ;  she  laboured  hard,  but  was  not 
weary ;  and  cheerful  in  her  lot,  smiled  even  at  her 
privations  and  sorrows. 

In  1825,  her  health  began  to  fail.  Unable 
longer  to  labour  for  her  perishing  heathen  sisters, 
she  sailed  for  England,  in  order  to  enjoy  medical 

521 


ST 


ST 


advice  and  care ;  but  instead  of  improving  by  the 
voyage,  she  continued  to  decline,  until  the  hope- 
lessness of  her  case  became  apparent.  She  em- 
barked for  America  in  July,  1826,  her  residence 
of  a  few  months  in  England  having  rendered  her 
no  permanent  benefit.  In  her  low  state  the  voyage 
was  anything  but  agreeable,  and  she  arrived 
among  her  friends  the  mere  shadow  of  what  she 
was  when,  a  few  j'ears  before,  she  had  gone  forth 
in  the  flush  of  youth  and  the  vigour  of  health. 

For  a  time  after  her  arrival,  strong  hopes  were 
cherished  that  she  might  recover.  The  balmy 
breezes  of  her  own  native  valley,  the  kind  con- 
gratulations of  friends,  the  interest  and  excite- 
ment of  a  return  to  the  scenes  of  youth,  gave 
colour  to  her  cheek,  and  life  to  her  step.  But 
this  expectation,  or  rather  hope,  proved  delusive; 
she  died  January,  1830,  aged  thirty-eight. 


STUART,  ARABELLA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Charles  Stuart,  earl  of 
Lennox,  brother  of  Darnley,  the  husband  of  Mary 
queen  of  Scots,  and  Elizabeth  Cavendish,  daughter 
of  the  countess  of  Shrewsbury,  commonly  called 
"Old  Bess  of  Hardwick."  She  was  born  about 
the  year  1577.  Her  affinity  to  the  throne  made 
her  an  object  of  jealousy,  even  in  infancy,  to  queen 
Elizabeth,  who  took  great  offence  at  the  marriage 
of  her  parents.  She,  however,  permitted  her  to 
remain  under  the  charge  of  the  old  countess  of 
Shrewsbury,  her  grandmother,  who  brought  her 
up,  her  parents  having  both  died  early.  Arabella, 
when  quite  a  child,  was  made  the  object  of  dark 
intrigues  ;  the  Catholic  party  plotting  to  carry  her 
off,  and  educate  her  in  that  faith,  for  the  purpose 
of  placing  her  on  the  throne  upon  the  death  of 
Elizabeth.  An  active  watch  was  in  consequence 
constantly  kept  over  her  during  that  queen's  reign, 
who  nevertheless  frequently  threw  out  hints  that 
she  intended  to  declare  the  lady  Arabella  her  suc- 
cessor. Upon  the  accession  of  James  to  the  throne, 
the  lady  Arabella  was  received  at  the  new  court, 
and  treated  as  one  of  the  family.  James,  how- 
ever, in  the  position  in  which  she  stood,  could  not 
fail  to  look  upon  her  with  eyes  of  suspicion,  which 
must  have  been  confirmed  by  the  breaking  out  of 


that  unfortunate  conspiracy,  into  which  Raleigh 
was  accused  of  having  entered,  the  main  object 
of  which  was  to  place  her  on  the  throne.  Her 
innocence  was  proved  upon  the  trial,  and  it  ap- 
pears that  the  king  was  persuaded  of  her  igno- 
rance of  the  plot.  James,  after  he  ascended  the 
throne,  seems  to  have  adopted  the  policy  of  queen 
Elizabeth,  in  desiring  to  prevent  the  marriage  of 
the  lady  Arabella.  Many  offers  of  marriage  were 
made  to  her,  many  alliances  proposed,  to  none  of 
which  he  gave  heed.  Surrounded  by  numerous 
difficulties,  alone,  with  no  one  to  enter  into  her 
interests — for  her  grandmother  was  now  dead — 
Arabella  accepted  the  hand  of  Sir  William  Sey- 
mour, second  son  of  Lord  Beauchamp,  and  grand- 
son of  the  earl  of  Hertford,  to  whom  she  was 
warmly  attached.  Anticipating  the  king's  denial, 
they  took  the  rash  step  of  marrying  privately.  It 
was  not  long  before  their  secret  was  divulged : 
the  bride  was  placed  in  safe  keeping,  and  the 
bridegroom  was  hurried  to  the  Tower.  The  un- 
happy pair  were  not  kept  so  closely  confined  as  to 
prevent  their  secretly  corresponding ;  but  when 
this  was  discovered  by  the  king,  he  angrily  ordered 
Arabella  to  be  removed  to  a  place  of  greater  se- 
curity. On  her  journey  to  Durham,  Arabella  was 
taken  ill,  and  while  resting  on  the  road,  she  con- 
trived to  escape,  to  communicate  with  her  lover, 
who  also  escaped,  and  get  on  board  a  vessel  bound 
to  France.  Here,  while  waiting  to  be  joined  by 
her  husband,  she  was  taken  prisoner  by  one  of  the 
king's  ships  in  pursuit  of  her,  and  re-conducted 
to  London,  where  she  was  placed  under  strict 
guard  in  the  Tower  ;  Seymour  meanwhile  escaping 
safely  to  Flanders,  where  he  remained  for  many 
years  a  voluntary  exile.  The  unhappy  Arabella, 
unpitied  by  the  king,  languished  in  prison,  the 
victim  of  deferred  hope,  till  her  reason  sank  under 
her  accumulated  sorrows.  She  died  in  the  Tower, 
a  maniac,  after  four  years'  confinement,  on  the 
27th  of  September,  1615.  Her  unfortunate  hus- 
band, Seymour,  though  he  afterwards  married 
again,  preserved  inviolably  his  tender  affection  for 
his  first  love,  and  gave  her  name  to  his  daughter, 
who  was  called  Arabella  Stuart,  in  memory  of  his 
attachment  and  misfortunes. 

STUART,  FRANCES,  DUCHESS  OF 
RICHMOND, 

Commonly  called  La  Belle  Stuart,  was  the 
daughter  of  Walter  Stuart,  son  of  lord  Blantyre, 
who  stood  in  a  distant  degree  of  relationship  to 
the  royal  family.  She  was  born  about  1647,  and 
was  educated  in  France,  from  whence  she  accom- 
panied her  mother  to  England.  Soon  after  her 
arrival  she  was  appointed  maid  of  honour  to  queen 
Catherine.  Her  remarkable  beauty  attracted  the 
attention  of  Charles  II.,  who  is  said  to  have  been 
so  much  distracted  at  her  rejection  of  his  advances, 
that  he  contemplated  divorcing  his  queen,  that  he 
might  marry  her.  La  Belle  Stuart,  though  so 
highly  favoured  as  regards  personal  charms,  is 
described  as  a  frivolous,  vain  beauty.  She  had 
many  admirers  ;  among  them,  Francis  Digby,  son 
of  the  earl  of  Bristol,  who  threw  away  his  life  in 
despair,   in  a  naval  engagement,   for  her   sake. 

622 


su 


su 


However  "  empty"  may  have  been  her  head,  she 
had  principle  and  strength  of  mind  sufficient  to 
resist  the  overtures  of  the  king,  in  a  court  where 
evil  example  surrounded  her,  and  where  infamy 
in  high  places  was  so  gilded  as  to  lose  all  its 
loathsomeness.  Perceiving  that  scandal  was  al- 
ready attacking  her,  in  consequence  of  the  king's 
open  pursuit,  she  determined  to  marry,  and  ac- 
cepted the  offer  of  the  duke  of  Richmond,  who 
was  one  of  her  most  devoted  lovers ;  she  eloped 
from  Whitehall,  and  was  privately  married  to  the 
duke.  The  king,  highly  incensed,  forbid  them 
both  the  court.  Charles,  however,  with  his  usual 
placability,  soon  forgave  them,  and  in  less  than  a 
year  she  was  appointed  lady  of  the  bed-chamber 
to  queen  Catherine.  The  beauty  which  had  turned 
so  many  heads  was  destined  to  suffer  a  speedy 
eclipse ;  the  duchess  caught  the  sraall-pox  when 
she  had  only  been  a  wife  two  years,  and  though 
she  recovered  her  health,  her  beauty  had  disap- 
peared forever.  The  king  appears  to  have  retained 
a  regard  and  respect  for  the  duchess  ever  after. 
She  continued  to  remain  at  court,  always  in  favour, 
and  is  mentioned  as  one  of  the  witnesses  present 
at  the  birth  of  the  unfortunate  prince  of  Wales, 
the  son  of  James  II.  She  died  in  1702,  a  devout 
catholic,  having  survived  her  husband  thirty  years. 
She  had  no  children,  and  bequeathed  a  consider- 
able fortune  to  her  nephew,  lord  Blantyre. 

SUFFOLK,  HENRIETTA,  COUNTESS  OF. 

To  the  divinity  that  "hedges  a  king,"  there  are 
few  now  in  the  world  willing  to  pay  blind  admira- 
tion. Looking  back  only  to  the  last  centui-y,  it 
is  wonderful  to  note  what  a  faint  shadow  of  per- 
sonal merit  was  magnified  into  virtue  and  excel- 
lence, when  it  fell  upon  royalty  !  How  the  vilest 
faults  were  not  only  overlooked,  but  fostered  by 
otherwise  worthy  persons.  Unquestionably  one 
of  the  most  pernicious  errors — vices  it  should  be 
said — that  royal  privileges  introduced  into  society, 
and  varnished  with  the  appearance  of  respecta- 
bility, was  conjugal  infidelity.  That  two  women, 
such  as  queen  Caroline  and  lady  SuflFolk,  should 
have  been  brought  to  stifle  their  natural  virtues, 
abate  their  pride,  and  lower  their  intellects  to 
minister  to  the  evil  propensities  of  so  coarse,  nar- 
row-minded, and  unfeeling  an  animal  as  George 
II.,  is  an  instance  of  the  corrupting  influence  of 
ill-placed  power  scarcely  to  be  comprehended  by 
an  American  woman. 

Henrietta  Hobart  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Sir  Heni-y  Hobart.  She  was  born  about  1688,  and 
was  left  an  orphan  at  quite  an  early  age;  —  her 
eldest  brother  being  but  fifteen,  she  was  in  a  very 
unprotected  situation,  and  as  a  matter  rather  of 
expediency  than  of  prudence  or  affection,  married 
Charles  Howard,  who  subsequently,  by  the  deaths 
of  his  two  elder  brothers  and  their  sons,  became 
earl  of  Suffolk.  Mr.  Howard  is  spoken  of,  by 
Horace  Walpole,  as  every  thing  that  was  worth- 
less and  contemptible :  and  he  appears  to  have 
tormented  his  wife  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability,  as 
long  as  he  lived,  although  a  formal  separation  be- 
tween them  took  place  long  before  that  event  oc- 
curred.    At  the  accession  of  George  I.,  Mr.  Ho- 


ward was  appointed  groom  of  the  chamber  to  the 
king ;  and  Mrs.  Howard  named  one  of  the  bed- 
chamber women  to  the  princess  of  Wales,  Caroline 
of  Anspach.  In  this  situation  she  obtained  the 
highest  favour  with  the  princess,  who  appeared  to 
value  her  society,  and  her  many  estimable  quali- 
ties. Unfortunately  she  attracted  the  admiration 
of  the  prince,  and  has  been  "  damned  to  everlast- 
ing fame,"  by  the  disgraceful  ambition  of  possess- 
ing what  was  called  the  heart  of  a  stupid  and 
licentious  monarch. 

Here  may  be  recalled  an  anecdote  lord  Hervey 
relates  :  that  the  daughters  of  George  II.,  express- 
ing their  gratification,  when  lady  Suffolk  was  dis- 
missed from  court,  that  their  mother's  rival  was 
abandoned,  qualified  their  triumph  by  lamenting 
that  "  Poor  mamma  would  have  to  endure  so  many 
more  hours  of  his  majesty's  tediousness."  The 
decorum  and  propriety  of  lady  Suffolk's  conduct, 
in  this  unworthy  situation,  it  must  be  allowed 
were  great ;  since  some  memoir  writers  are  yel 
found  who  would  vindicate  her  from  more  than  a 
Platonic  attachment  to  the  king.  This  all  the 
best  contemporary  authorities  disprove  ;  and  yet, 
as  the  shadow  of  virtue  is  better  than  the  ostenta- 
tion of  vice,  we  must  grant  it  as  much  favom-  as 
it  deserves.  That  lady  Sufi'olk  formed  friendships 
with  all  the  most  remarkable  characters  of  her 
circle,  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  during  the  pei'iod 
that  she  possessed  court  favour ;  but  that  she  re- 
tained these  friends  after  her  retirement,  must  bo 
ascribed  to  her  own  merits.  The  happiest  period 
of  her  life  must  have  been  after  she  left  the  slavery 
of  the  court  and  established  herself  at  Marble 
Hill,  an  estate  which  she  derived  from  the  gift 
of  the  king.  Lord  Suffolk  died  in  1733 ;  and  in 
1734  she  resigned  her  office  and  formally  retired 
from  court,  fully  understanding  that  it  was  a  mea- 
sure desired  by  both  the  king  and  queen. 

In  1735,  the  countess  of  Suffolk  married  the 
Hon.  George  Berkley,  youngest  son  of  the  earl 
of  Berkley ;  in  which  union,  which  was  entirely 
one  of  inclination,  she  appears  to  have  enjoyed  the 
utmost  domestic  happiness.  By  her  first  husband, 
the  earl  of  Suffolk,  she  had  one  son,  who  succeeded 
his  father  as  tenth  earl,  and  was  the  last  of  his 
branch.  Lady  Suffolk  died  in  1767,  surviving 
both  her  son  and  Mr.  Berkley.  Her  sweetness 
of  disposition  and  equanimity  of  mind  appear  to 
have  furnished  her  with  a  cheerful  and  pleasant 
existence,  though  she  was  afflicted  with  many 
constitutional  infirmities.  She  had  been  troubled 
with  deafness  at  the  most  brilliant  period  of  her 
life.  Living  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Twickenham, 
she  saw  a  great  deal  of  Pope ;  and  in  her  latter 
years  maintained  a  close  intimacy  with  Horace 
Walpole.  Her  correspondence,  published  in  1824, 
shows  the  very  high  estimation  in  which  she  was 
held  by  all  the  illustrious,  the  noble,  and  the  lite- 
rary characters  of  consequence,  who  lived  at  that 
time.  Swift,  Chesterfield,  the  great  lord  Chatham, 
Gay ;  in  short,  a  list  of  her  friends  would  be  but  a 
list  of  the  great  men  of  England,  in  the  reign  of 
George  II. 

Horace  Walpole,  in  his  reminiscences,  speaks 
of  her  remarkable  beauty,  which  never  entirely 

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deserted  her,  even  in  old  age  showing  its  traces ; 
he  commends  her  amiable  disposition  and  prudence, 
in  the  same  work.  We  will  finish  this  sketch  by 
quoting  from  a  letter  he  wrote  to  lord  Strafford, 
in  which,  after  giving  an  account  of  her  death,  he 
proceeds  to  these  encomiums: — "I  can  give  your 
lordship  strong  instances  of  the  sacrifices  she  tried 
to  make  to  her  principles.  I  own  I  cannot  help 
wishing  that  those  who  had  a  regard  for  her,  may 
now,  at  least,  know  how  much  more  she  deserved 
it  than  even  they  suspected.  In  truth,  I  never 
knew  a  woman  more  respectable  for  her  honour 
and  principles ;  and  have  lost  few  whom  I  shall 
miss  so  much." 

SUZE,  HENRIETTA  COLIGNY  DE  LA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  the  marechal  de  Coligny. 
She  was  born  in  1613,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
admired  poetesses  of  her  day.  She  was  particu- 
larly praised  for  her  elegies.  Mademoiselle  de 
Scuderi  has  given  her  the  most  high-flown  eulo- 
giums,  in  her  romance  of  "Clelia;"  and  she  re- 
ceived tributes  from  all  the  beaux  csprits;  some 
Latin  poems  among  others.  It  is  said  that,  being 
engaged  in  a  lawsuit  with  Madame  de  Chatillon, 
Madame  de  la  Suze  met  that  lady  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  court  of  parliament,  escorted  by  M.  de  la 
Feuillade,  while  she  herself  was  accompanied  by 
the  poet  Benserade.  "  Madame,"  said  her  adver- 
sary, "  you  have  rhyme  on  your  side,  and  we  have 
reason  upon  ours." 

"  It  cannot  be  alleged,"  retorted  Madame  de  la 
Suze,  "  that  we  go  to  law  without  rhyme  or  rea- 
son." 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  want  of  order  in  which 
she  lived,  nor  her  apathetic  negligence  of  her 
affairs.  One  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  her  house- 
hold goods  were  seized  for  debt;  she  was  not  up, 
and  she  begged  the  officer  on  duty  to  allow  her  to 
sleep  a  couple  of  hours  longer,  as  she  had  been 
up  late  the  night  before.  He  granted  her  request, 
and  took  his  seat  in  the  ante-room.  She  slept 
comfortably  till  ten,  when  she  arose,  dressed  her- 
self for  a  dinner-party  to  which  she  was  engaged, 
walked  in  to  the  officer,  thanked  him,  and  made 
him  a  great  many  compliments  on  his  politeness 
and  good  mannei-s ;  and  coolly  adding,  "I  leave 
you  master  of  everything,"  she  went  out.  She 
and  her  husband  lived  very  unhappily ;  they  were 
Protestants.  Madame  de  la  Suze,  having  become 
a  Roman  Catholic,  queen  Christina  of  Sweden 
said  she  did  so,  that  she  might  not  meet  her  hus- 
band in  the  other  world.  She  obtained  a  divorce 
from  him  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  large  sum  of  money. 
Madame  de  la  Suze  died  in  1673. 


TAGGART,    CYNTHIA, 

Has  won  herself  a  place  among  those  who  de- 
serve to  be  remembered,  by  her  serene  patience 
under  the  severest  bodily  sufferings,  and  the  moral 
energy  whereby  she  made  these  sufferings  serve 


as  instructors  to  her  own  mind,  and  to  the  hearts 
of  pious  Christians  who  may  read  her  sorrowful 
story.  The  father  of  Cynthia  Taggart  was  a  sol- 
dier in  ovu-  war  for  independence.  During  this 
struggle  his  property  was  destroyed ;  and,  dying 
in  poverty,  he  had  nothing  to  leave  for  the  support 
of  his  daughters.  They  resided  in  Rhode  Island, 
about  six  miles  from  Nevrport ;  and  there,  in  a 
little  cottage,  this  poor  girl  was  born,  about  the 
year  1804.  Her  training  was  religious,  though 
she  had  few  opportunities  of  learning;  and  when, 
at  the  age  of  nineteen,  her  strength  became  utterly 
prostrated  by  severe  sufferings  from  a  chronic  dis- 
ease of  the  bones  and  nerves,  or  rather  of  her 
whole  physical  system,  she  began  her  intellectual 
life,  self-educated  by  her  own  sensations  and  re- 
flections ;  and  her  soul  was  sustained  in  this  conflict 
of  bodily  pain  with  mental  power,  by  her  strong 
and  ardent  faith  in  her  Saviour.  She  enumerates 
among  her  greatest  sufferings,  her  inability  to 
sleep.  For  many  years  she  was  unable  to  close 
her  eyes  in  slumber,  except  when  under  the  pow- 
erful effect  of  anodynes  ;  and  it  was  during  these 
long,  dai'k  watches  of  the  night,  when  every  pulse 
was  a  throb  of  pain,  and  every  breath  an  agony 
of  suffering,  that  she  composed  her  soul  to  con- 
templations of  the  goodness  of  God  and  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  and  breathed  out  her  strains  of 
poetry. 

Her  poems  were  collected  and  published  in  1834, 
with  an  autobiography  sadly  interesting,  because 
it  showed  the  hopeless  as  well  as  helpless  condition 
of  Miss  Taggart ;  enduring  death  in  life.  The 
work  has  passed  through  several  editions.  Miss 
Taggart  has  been  released  from  her  unparalleled 
sufferings.  She  died  in  1849.  Her  poetry  will 
have  an  interest  for  the  afflicted ;  and  few  there 
are  who  pass  through  the  scenes  of  life  without 
feeling  a  chord  of  the  heart  respond  to  her  sor- 
rowful lyre. 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  EAELY  YEARS. 

Dear  days!  in  rapid  pleasures  past, 
Whene'er  I  glance  my  longing  eyes 
Back  o'er  these  joys  too  fair  to  last, 
My  aching  heart  within  me  dies. 

The  waves  melodious  flow  the  same, 
The  joyful  birds  still  wake  the  song. 
The  morn  and  evening  gales  still  breathe 
Their  balmy  odours  pure  along. 

The  flow'ry  landscape  blooms  as  fair, 
The  foliage  waves  as  graceful  now. 
As  when  each  breezy  breath  of  air 
Fanned  fragrance  o'er  this  peaceful  brow. — 

Gone  are  the  bright,  the  rosy  smile. 
The  raptured  bosom's  thrilling  glow, 
The  peace,  the  joy,  that  breathed  the  while. 
Soft  as  the  warbling  n)usjc's  flow. 

Where  calmly  spreads  the  embowering  shade, 
That  oft  this  gliding  form  hath  traced, 
When  laughing  joy  and  pleasure  strayed, 
And  innocence  and  peace  embraced. 

Still  nature  wears  her  sweetest  charms; 
And  wooingly  each  loved  retreat 
Seems  opening,  as  affection's  arms, 
The  long-expected  guest  to  meet. 

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Far  from  each  bright,  each  flowery  scene, 
In  solemn  silence  now  reclined. 
No  hope,  no  joy,  no  smile  serene. 
Revives  this  blighted  form  and  mind. 

Though  nature  smile  with  aspect  sweet. 
And  varying  seasons  circle  round, 
No  more  the  struggling  captive's  feet 
Can  'scape  affliction's  prison  bound. 

The  refluent  tide,  the  rolling  wave 
Alternate  on  the  peaceful  shore. 
That  oft  to  this  glad  spirit  gave 
A  pensive  rapture,  now  no  more. 


ODE    TO    THE    POPPY. 

Through  varied  wreaths  of  myriad  ijues. 
As  beams  of  mingling  light, 
.    Sparkle  replete  with  pearly  dews, 
AVaving  their  tinted  leaves  profuse. 

To  captivate  the  sight- 
Though  fragrance,  sweet  e.xhaling,  blend 

With  the  soft,  balmy  air. 
And  gentle  zephyrs,  wafting  wide 
Their  spicy  odours  bear; 
While  to  the  eye, 
Deiightingly, 
Each  floweret  laughing  blooms. 
And  o'er  the  fields 
Prolific,  yields 
Its  increase  of  perfumes; 
Yet  one  alone  o'er  all  the  plain, 
With  lingering  eye,  I  view; 
Hasty  I  pass  the  brightest  bower, 
Heedless  of  each  attractive  flower. 
Its  brilliance  to  pursue. 

No  odours  sweet  proclaim  the  spot 

Where  its  soft  leaves  unfold; 
Nor  mingled  hues  of  beauty  bright 
Charm  and  allure  the  captive  sight 
With  forms  and  tints  untold. 

One  simple  hue  the  plant  portrays 

Of  glowing  radiance  rare. 
Fresh  as  the  roseate  morn  display?. 

And  seeming  sweet  and  fair. 

But  closer  pressed,  an  odorous  breath 

Repels  the  rover  gay ; 
And  from  her  hand  with  eager  haste 

'Tis  careless  thrown  away; 
And  thoughtless  that  in  evil  hour 
Disease  may  happiness  devour, 
-And  her  fairy  form,  elastic  now. 
To  Misery's  wand  may  helpless  bo«-. 

Then  Reason  leads  wan  Sorrow  forth 

To  seek  the  lonely  flower; 
And  blest  E.^perience  kindly  proves 

Its  mitigating  power. 

Then  its  bright  hue  the  sight  can  trace. 

The  brilliance  of  its  bloom; 
Though  misery  veil  the  weeping  eyes. 
Though  sorrow  choke  the  breath  with  sighs. 
And  life  deplore  its  doom. 

This  magic  flower 

In  desperate  hour 

A  balsam  mild  shall  yield. 

When  the  sad,  sinking  heart 
Feels  every  aid  depart. 
And  every  gate  of  hope  for  ever  sealed. 

Then  still  its  potent  charm 

Each  agony  disarm, 
And  its  all-healing  power  shall  respite  give  : 

The  frantic  sufferer,  then. 

Convulsed  and  wild  with  pain. 
Shall  own  the  sovereign  remedy,  and  live. 


The  dews  of  slumber  now 

Rest  on  her  aching  brow. 
And  o'er  the  languid  lids  balsamic  fall ; 

While  fainting  Nature  hears, 

With  dissipated  fears. 
The  lowly  accents  of  soft  Somnus'  rail. 

Then  will  Aflection  twine 

Around  this  kindly  flower; 
And  grateful  Memory  keep 
How,  in  the  arms  of  Sleep, 

Afiiiction  lost  its  power. 

TALBOT,   CATHARINE, 

Was  lineally  descended  from  the  noble  family 
of  Talbots,  earls  of  Shrewsbury,  and  was  niece  to 
Lord  Talbot,  created  earl  of  Chancellor  in  1733. 
Her  father,  Mr.  Edward  Talbot,  married  the 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  George  Martin,  and  died 
suddenly  before  the  birth  of  Catharine.  The 
fatherless  daughter  and  her  mother  found  a  home, 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  with  Dr.  Seeker,  arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  whose  wife  was  the  friend 
of  Mrs.  Talbot.  This  worthy  prelate,  having  no 
children,  bestowed  much  affection  on  Catharine, 
and  took  great  pleasure  in  cultivating  her  mind 
and  encouraging  her  literary  tastes.  By  con- 
stantly associating  with  him,  she  reaped  all  the 
advantages  of  his  extensive  learning,  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  Scriptures,  and  his  critical  ac- 
quaintance with  the  sciences  and  languages  con- 
nected with  that  important  study. 

But  the  circumstance  which  had  the  greatest 
influence  in  stimulating  the  talents  of  Miss  Talbot, 
(for  we  do  not  think  that  she  possessed  what  is 
termed  genius,)  was  her  early  acquaintance  and 
intimate  friendship  with  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Carter. 
This  acquaintance  began  when  Elizabeth  Carter 
was  twenty-three  and  Catharine  Talbot  twenty 
years  of  age,  and  continued  till  the  death  of  the 
latter,  at  the  age  of  forty-eight.  Miss  Talbot  and 
Mrs.  Carter  corresponded  for  many  years  ;  aiid 
these  letters  show  that  the  former  had  an  excel- 
lent understanding,  and  a  heart  warm  with  piety. 
After  her  death,  her  manuscripts  were  collected 
and  published,  under  the  supervision  of  Mrs. 
Carter.  These  works  are,  "  Reflections  on  the 
Seven  Days  of  the  Week,"  "Essays  and  Miscel- 
laneous Works,"  and  "Correspondence  between 
Mrs.  Carter  and  Miss  Talbot."  In  estimating  the 
character  of  this  excellent  woman,  we  will  abide 
by  the  opinion  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Carter,  who 
says  of  Miss  Talbot: — "Never,  surely,  was  there 
a  more  perfect  pattern  of  evangelical  goodness, 
decorated  by  all  the  ornaments  of  a  highly  im- 
proved understanding ;  and  recommended  by  a 
sweetness  of  temper,  and  an  elegance  and  polite- 
ness of  manners,  of  a  peculiar  and  more  engaging 
kind,  than  in  any  other  character  I  ever  knew." 

TALLIEN,  THERESA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Count  Cabarrus,  a  French 
gentleman,  established  in  Spain.  His  wife,  the 
mother  of  Th4r6sa,  was  a  native  of  that  country. 
Th6r6sa  was  married,  at  an  early  age,  to  M.  de 
Fontenay.  During  the  reign  of  terror,  while  on 
their  way  to  Spain,  M.  de  Fontenay  was  arrested 
at  Bordeaux,   and  thrown  into  prison.     Madame 

525 


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de  Fontenay  remained  at  Bordeaux,  in  the  hope 
of  effecting  his  liberation,  where  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  M.  Tallien,  who,  under  the  direction 
of  the  Convention,  was  persecuting  the  Girondists. 
All  unite  in  representing  the  beauty  and  grace  of 
Madame  de  Fontenay  as  extraordinary ;  she  added 


to  these  atti-actions,  wit,  great  fascination,  and  a 
compassionate  and  tender  heart.  Tallien  became 
passionately  enamoured  of  her,  and  Madame  de 
Fontenay  was  frail  enough  to  accept  his  homage. 
Her  husband  was  released,  and  favoured  in  his 
retreat  to  Spain.  Theresa  remained  behind,  and 
procured  a  divorce,  to  enable  her  to  marry  Tallien. 
Meanwhile,  she  exerted  her  influence  over  her 
lover  to  stay  the  course  of  bloodshed.  Tallien 
could  not  resist  her  tears  and  entreaties,  and  daily 
some  family  had  to  thank  her  for  a  member  saved 
from  the  guillotine.  In  the  town  where  her  lover 
reigned,  she  received  the  name  of  "  Our  Lady  of 
Mercy." 

The  leniency  of  Tallien  was  condemned  in  Paris. 
He  was  recalled,  and  Theresa  was  thrown  into 
prison,  where  she  shared  the  room  of  Josephine, 
future  empress  of  France.  Tallien  was  unable  to 
procure  the  release  of  the  woman  he  adored.  Ex- 
pecting daily  to  be  summoned  to  the  fatal  tribunal, 
she  euei'getically  urged  him  from  her  prison  to 
save  her  —  to  overthrow  Robespierre,  and  deliver 
France  from  the  reign  of  terror.  Love  inspired 
Tallien.  The  ninth  Thermidor  delivered  France 
from  Robespierre ;  the  prison  doors  were  thrown 
open,  and  Theresa  was  free.  A  few  days  after, 
Tallien  and  Th6r(5sa  confirmed  their  union  at  the 
altar. 

Madame  Tallien  had  the  most  beneficent  influ- 
ence over  her  husband's  public  life,  and  all  her 
efforts  were  exerted  to  assist  the  unfortunate  suf- 
ferers from  the  revolution.  By  her  political  influ- 
ence and  beautj',  she  attracted  the  attention  of 
all  Paris  ;  Josephine  de  Beauharnais  and  herself 
being  the  principal  ornaments  of  the  splendid 
circle  of  Barras.  Giatitude  to  her  husband,  did 
not  prevent  her  from  entering  into  other  passing 
connexions.  Tallien,  who  followed  Napoleon  to 
Egypt,  was  forgotten,  and,  on  her  application,  she 


was  formally  divorced  from  him.  Napoleon,  who 
had  been  one  of  her  intimates,  after  his  marriage 
with  Josephine,  broke  off  all  intercourse  with  her, 
and  could  never  be  persuaded  to  grant  her  admis- 
sion to  court.  She  was  thus  thrown  into  the  op- 
position, which  led  to  her  connexion  with  Madame 
de  Stael  and  her  third  husband,  the  prince  of  Chi- 
may,  whom  she  married  in  1805.  As  she  could 
not  obtain  admittance  to  the  Tuilleries  during 
Napoleon's  administration,  she  was  obliged  to  con- 
tent herself  with  forming  a  little  court  of  her  own, 
at  Chimay,  where  she  died  in  1835. 

TAMBRONI,  CLOTILDE, 
Was  born  at  Bologna,  in  1758.  Her  childhood 
offered  indications  of  superior  intelligence,  which 
were  observed  by  every  one  who  knew  her ;  but 
disregarding  these,  her  mother,  far  from  attempt- 
ing to  cultivate  her  mind,  required  her  to  devote 
herself  to  household  duties,  and  to  useful  needle- 
work, and  the  various  humble  labours  demanded 
of  girls  in  their  modest  station  in  society.  The 
distinguished  Hellenist,  Emanuele  Aponte,  lodged 
with  the  Tambroni  family ;  and  while  Clotilde  sat 
apparently  busied  with  her  work,  she  was  atten- 
tively listening  to  the  Greek  lessons  given  by  that 
professor  to  various  classes.  One  day,  as  he  was 
examining  an  ill-prepared  scholar,  to  his  great 
surprise,  the  little  girl  prompted  the  blunderer, 
giving  him  exactly  the  right  sentence  in  excellent 
Greek.  Delighted  and  astonished,  Aponte  per- 
suaded the  mother  to  allow  him  to  cultivate  this 
decided  inclination  for  study.  Her  facility  of  ac^ 
quirement  was  wonderful ;  to  a  general  acquaint- 
ance with  elegant  literature,  she  added  a  know- 
ledge of  mathematics,  and  of  the  Latin  tongue ; 
but  her  most  remarkable  accomplishment  was  her 
very  uncommon  learning  in  Greek.     At  the  re- 


«  M  1 1(1  iW^'' 


commendation  of  Aponte,  she  was,  while  yet  a 
girl,  appointed  to  the  Greek  chair  in  the  junior 
department  of  the  University  of  Bologna.  Political 
circumstances  caused  her  family  to  leave  Italy  at 
one  time,  and  she  remained  for  a  short  period  in 
Spain ;  but  subsequently  returning  home,  she 
was  received  by  her  countrymen  with  the  highest 

526 


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honours,  and  was  appointed  by  the  government 
of  Milan,  professor  of  Greek  in  the  University  of 
Bologna  —  a  situation  which  she  held  with  credit 
to  herself,  and  advantage  to  the  college.  She 
lived  in  a  lettered  seclusion,  dividing  her  leisure 
between  study  and  the  society  of  a  few  congenial 
and  erudite  persons.  She  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty, 
in  the  year  1817.  She  has  left  several  translations 
from  the  Greek,  and  some  Greek  poems ;  besides 
an  oration,  which  she  delivered  in  Latin,  on  the 
inauguration  of  the  doctor  Maria  Dalle-Donne 
into  the  college  honours. 

TARABOTI,  CATERINA, 
Was  born  at  Venice,  in  1582,  and  was  taught 
the  art  of  painting  by  Alessandro  Varotari.  She 
profited  so  well  by  his  instructions,  as  to  be  dis- 
tinguished in  her  native  city  above  many  of  the 
most  considerable  artists  in  history.  She  died 
there  in  1631. 

TARRAKANOFF,    N.,    PRINCESS    OF, 

Daughter  of  Elizabeth,  empress  of  Russia,  by 
Alexis  Rozoumofi'ski,  whom  she  had  secretly  mar- 
ried, was  carried  away,  in  17G7,  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  by  prince  Radzivil,  and  concealed  in  a 
convent  at  Rome.  This  singular  step  was  taken 
by  the  dissatisfied  noble  to  curb  the  ambition  of 
Catharine ;  but  it  failed,  and  her  favourite,  Alexis 
Orlofi",  pretending  great  discontent  against  the 
government  of  Catharine,  prevailed  on  the  prin- 
cess, in  the  absence  of  Radzivil,  to  marry  him, 
and,  by  her  presence,  to  excite  a  new  insurrection 
in  Russia.  The  young  and  unsuspecting  princess 
no  sooner  placed  herself  in  his  power,  than  she 
was  seized  in  the  bay  of  Leghorn,  where  she  had 
been  conducted  on  pretence  of  paying  her  military 
honours,  bound  in  chains,  and  carried  to  St.  Pe- 
tersburg. In  December,  1777,  a  violent  rising  of 
the  Neva  suddenly  forced  the  waters  into  her  pri- 
son, and  she  was  drowned  before  assistance  coidd 
be  obtained. 

TAYLOR,   JANE, 

Was  born  in  London,  September  2od,  1783, 
where  her  father,  a  respectable  engraver,  then 
resided.  Being  also  a  dissenting  minister,  Mr. 
Taylor  accepted,  in  1792,  an  invitation  from  a 
congregation  at  Colchester,  and  carried  his  daugh- 
ters there  with  him,  superintending  himself  their 
education,  and  teaching  them  his  own  art.  It  was 
in  the  intervals  of  these  pursuits  that  Jane  Taylor 
found  leisure  to  wi-ite ;  and  on  a  visit  to  London, 
in  1802.  she  and  her  sister  were  induced  to  join 
several  other  young  ladies  in  contributing  to  the 
"Minor's  Pocket-Book,"  a  small  publication,  in 
which  her  first  work,  "  The  Beggar  Boy,"  ap- 
peared, in  1804.  The  success  of  this  little  poem 
encouraged  her  to  proceed,  and  she  continued  to 
publish  occasional  miscellaneous  pieces  in  prose 
and  verse ;  the  principal  of  which  were,  "  Original 
Poems  for  Infant  Minds,"  and  "  Rhymes  for  the 
Nursery."  In  1815,  she  published  a  prose  com- 
position of  higher  pretensions,  called  "Display," 
which  was  very  successful.  Her  last  and  principal 
work,  published  while  she  was  living,  consists  of 


"Essays  in  Rhymes,  on  Morals  and  Manners." 
The  latter  part  of  her  life  was  passed  principally 
at  Ongar,  where  her  family  had  resided  since  1810. 
She  died  of  an  affection  of  the  lungs,  in  April, 
1823.  After  her  decease,  her  prose  writings,  con- 
sisting of  "  Contributions  of  Q.  Q.  to  a  Periodical," 
and  her  "Correspondence,"  consisting  chiefly  of 
letters  to  her  intimate  friends,  were  collected  and 
published.  No  one  who  reads  her  works,  and 
those  of  Cowper,  but  must,  we  think,  notice  the 
likeness  in  the  character  of  their  minds.  Miss 
Taylor  possessed,  like  Cowper,  a  vein  of  playful 
humour,  that  often  gave  point  and  vividness  to 
the  most  sombre  sentiment,  and  usually  animated 
the  strains  she  sung  for  children  ;  but  still,  there 
was  often  over  her  fancy,  as  over  his,  a  deep  shade 
of  pensiveness,  —  "morbid  humility,"  she  some- 
times calls  it, — and  no  phrase  could  better  express 
the  state  of  feeling  which  frequently  oppressed 
her  heart.  The  kind  and  soothing  domestic  influ- 
ences which  were  always  around  her  path  in  life, 
prevented  the  sad  and  despairing  tone  of  her  mind 
from  ever  acquiring  the  predominance,  so  as  to 
unfit  her  for  her  duties ;  in  this  respect  she  was 
much  more  favoured  than  the  bard  of  Olney.  But 
we  are  inclined  to  think  that,  had  she  met  with 
severe  trials  and  misfortunes,  the  character  of  her 
poetry  would  have  been  more  elevated,  and  her 
language  more  glowing.  The  retiring  sensitive- 
ness of  her  disposition  kept  down,  usually,  that 
energy  of  thought  and  elevation  of  sentiment, 
which,  from  a  few  specimens  of  her  later  writings, 
she  seemed  gifted  to  sustain,  could  she  only  have 
been  incited  to  the  effort.  Her  piety  was  deep 
and  most  humble :  diffidence  was  usually  in  all 
things  the  prevailing  mood  of  her  mind ;  and  this 
often  clouded  her  religious  enjoj'ment.  But  she 
triumphed  in  the  closing  scene;  those  "  uin-eal 
fears"  were,  in  a  great  measure,  removed,  and  she 
went  down  to  the  "cold  dark  grave"  with  that 
firm  trust  in  her  Redeemer  which  disarmed  death 
of  its  terrors.  The  first  specimen  is  in  her  devo- 
tional strain;  the  others  are  in  the  moral  and 
playful  mood. 

"  THE  THINGS  THAT  ARE  UXSEEX  ARE  ETERNAL." 

There  is  a  state  unknown,  unseen. 

Where  parted  souls  must  he: 
And  hilt  a  step  may  he  between 

That  world  of  souls  and  me. 

The  friend  I  loved  has  thither  fled, 

U'lth  whom  I  sojourned  liere : 
I  see  no  sight — I  liear  no  troail, 

But  ma/ she  not  be  near? 

I  see  no  light— I  hear  no  sound, 
When  midnight  shades  are  spread  : 

Yet  angels  pitch  tlieir  tents  around. 
And  guaril  iny  quiet  bed. 

Jesus  was  wrapt  from  mortal  gaze, 
And  clouds  conveyed  him  hence; 

Enthroned  amid  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Beyond  our  feeble  sense. 

Vet  say  not  — Who  shall  mount  on  high 

To  bring  him  from  above? 
For  lo!  thf!  Lord  is  always  nigh 

The  children  of  his  love. 

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The  Saviour,  whom  I  long  have  sought, 
And  would,  but  cannot  see — 

And  is  he  here  ?    O  wondrous  thought ! 
And  will  he  dwell  with  me? 

I  ask  not  with  my  mortal  eye 

To  view  the  vision  bright; 
1  dare  not  see  Thee,  lest  I  die; 

Yet,  Lord,  restore  my  sight ! 

Give  me  to  see  Thee,  and  to  feel— 

The  mental  vision  clear; 
The  things  unseen  reveal!  reveal! 

And  let  me  know  them  near. 

I  seek  not  fancy's  glittering  height, 
That  charmed  my  ardent  youth; 

But  in  thy  light  would  see  the  light, 
And  learn  thy  perfect  truth. 

'I"he  gathering  clouds  of  sense  dispel, 

That  wrap  my  soul  around ; 
In  heavenly  places  make  me  dwell, 

While  treading  earthly  ground. 

Illume  this  shadowy  soul  of  mine. 

That  still  in  darkness  lies; 
•O  let  the  light  in  darkness  shine, 
And  bid  the  day-star  rise! 

Impart  the  faith  that  soars  on  high, 

Beyond  this  earthly  strife. 
That  holds  sweet  converse  witli  the  sky, 

And  lives  Eternal  Life! 


EXPERIENCE. 


How  false  is  found,  as  on  in  life  we  go. 
Our  early  esiimate  of  bliss  and  wo  ! 
—Some  spakrling  joy  attracts  us,  that  we  fain 
Would  sell  a  precious  birth-right  to  obtain. 
There  all  our  hopes  of  happiness  are  placed ; 
Life  looks  without  it  like  a  joyless  waste; 
No  good  is  prized,  no  comfort  sought  beside  ; 
Prayers,  tears  implore,  and  will  not  be  denied. 
Heaven  pitying  hears  the  intemperate,  rude  appeal, 
And  suits  its  answer  to  our  truest  weal. 
The  self-sought  idol,  if  at  last  bestowed. 
Proves,  what  our  wilfulness  required— a  goad  ; 
Ne'er  but  as  needful  chastisement,  is  given 
The  wish  thus  forced,  and  torn,  and  stormed  from  heaven: 
But  if  withheld,  in  pity,  from  our  prayer. 
We  rave,  awhile,  of  torment  and  despair. 
Refuse  each  proffered  comfort  with  disdain. 
And  slight  the  thousand  blessings  that  remain. 
Meantime,  Heaven  bears  the  grievous  wrong,  and  waits 
In  patient  pity  till  the  storm  abates ; 
Applies  with  gentlest  hand  the  healing  balm, 
Or  speaks  the  ruffled  mind  into  a  calm  ; 
Deigning,  perhaps,  to  show  the  mourner  soon, 
'T  was  special  mercy  that  denied  the  boon. 

Our  blasted  hopes,  our  aims  and  wishes  crossed. 
Are  worth  the  tears  and  agonies  they  cost ; 
When  the  poor  mind,  by  fruitless  effiirts  spent 
With  food  and  raiment  learns  to  be  content. 
Bounding  with  youthful  hope,  the  restless  mind 
Leaves  that  divine  monition  far  behind  ; 
But  tamed  at  length  by  suffering,  comprehends 
The  tranquil  happiness  to  which  it  tends. 
Perceives  the  high-wrought  bliss  it  aimed  to  share. 
Demands  a  richer  soil,  a  purer  air; 
That  't  is  not  fitted,  and  would  strangely  grace 
The  mean  condition  of  our  mortal  race: 
And  all  we  need,  in  this  terrestrial  spot. 
Is  calm  contentment  with  "  the  common  lot." 


THE    PHILOSOPHER  S    SCALES. 

In  days  of  yore,  as  Gothic  fable  tells. 
When  learning  dimly  gleamed  from  grated  cells. 


When  wild  Astrology's  distorted  eye 
Shunned  the  fair  field  of  true  philosophy. 
And,  wandering  through  the  depths  of  mental  night. 
Sought  dark  predictions  'mid  the  worlds  of  light ; — 
When  curious  A'ichymy,  with  puzzled  brow. 
Attempted  things  that  Science  laughs  at  now, 
Losing  the  useful  purpose  she  consults. 
In  vain  chimeras  and  unknown  results: — 
In  those  gray  times  there  lived  a  reverend  sage. 
Whose  wisdom  shed  its  lustre  on  the  age. 
A  monk  he  was,  immured  in  cloistered  walls. 
Where  now  the  ivied  ruin  crumbling  falls. 
'T  was  a  profound  seclusion  that  he  chose  ; 
The  noisy  world  disturbed  not  that  repose  ; 
The  flow  of  murmuring  waters,  day  by  day. 
And  whistling  winds  that  forced  their  tardy  way 
Through  reverend  trees,  of  ages  growth,  that  made 
Around  the  holy  pile  a  deep  monastic  shade  ; 
The  chanted  psalm,  or  solitary  prayer — 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  broke  the  silence  there. 
***** 
'T  was  here,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  vs-ere  o'er. 
In  the  depth  of  the  cell  with  its  stone-covered  floor, 
Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain. 
He  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain  : 
But  whether  by  magic,  or  alchymy's  powers. 
We  know  not  —  indeed  't  is  no  business  of  ours  : 
Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care. 
At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear. 
In  youth,  'twas  projected;  but  years  stole  away, 
And  ere  'twas  complete  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray. 
But  success  is  secure  unless  energy  fails  ; 
And  at  length  he  produced  Tke  Philosophers  Scales. 

What  were  they? — you  ask:  you  shall  presently  see; 
These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea ; 
O  no;  —  for  such  properties  wondrous  had  they. 
That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  could  weigh 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense. 
From  mountains  or  planets,  to  atoms  of  sense  : 
Nought  was  there  so  bulky,  but  there  it  could  lay: 
And  nought  so  ethereal,  but  there  it  would  stay ; 
And  nought  so  reluctant,  but  in  it  must  go; 
All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 

The  first  thing  he  tried  was  the  head  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retained  all  the  wit  that  had  ever  been  there ; 
As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a  leaf, 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent  thief; 
When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden  a  spell, 
As  to  bound  like  a  ball  on  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

Next  time  he  put  in  ^Alexander  the  Orcat. 
With  a  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made — for  a  weight ; 
And  though  clad  in  armour  from  sandals  to  crown, 
The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 

A  long  row  of  alms-houses,  amply  endowed. 
By  a  well-esteemed  pharisee,  busy  and  proud. 
Now  loaded  one  scale,  while  the  other  was  prest 
By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the  chest  ;^ 
Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce. 
And  down,  down,  the  farthing's  worth  came  with  a  bouiue. 

Again,  he  performed  an  experiment  rare; 
A  monk,  vi'ith  austerities  bleeding  and  bare. 
Climbed  into  his  scale;  in  the  other  was  laid 
The  heart  of  our  Iloicard,  now  partly  decayed  ; 
When  he  found,  with  surprise,  that  the  whole  of  his  brother 
Weighed  less,  by  some  pounds,  than  this  bit  of  the  other. 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 
He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than  one  plough  : 
A  sword,  with  gilt  trappings,  rose  up  in  the  scale, 
Though  balanced  by  only  a  ten-penny  nail; 
A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and  spear, 
Weighed  less  than  a  widows  uncrystallized  tear. 
A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail. 
When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale. 
Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 
Ten  counsellors'  wigs  full  of  powder  and  curl. 
All  heaped  in  one  balance,  and  swinging  from  thence. 
Weighed  less  than  some  atoms  of  candour  and  sense  ; 

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A  first-water  cliainontl,  with  brilliants  begirt, 
Than  one  good  potato,  just  washed  from  tlie  dirt ; 
Yet,  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  would  suffice 
One  pearl  to  outweigh — 't  was  the  '•  pearl  of  great  price." 

At  last  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the  grate. 
With  the  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a  weight ; 
When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong  a  rebuff. 
That  it  made  a  vast  rent,  and  escaped  at  the  roof; 
Whence,  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 
And  sailed  up  aloft  a  balloon  in  the  sky; 
Wliile  the  scale  with  the  soul  in  so  mightily  fell. 
That  it  jerked  the  philosopher  out  of  his  cell. 

Moral. 

Dear  reader,  if  e'er  self-deception  prevails, 
We  pray  you  to  try  The  Philosopher's  Scales. 
But  if  they  are  lost  in  the  ruins  around. 
Perhaps  a  good  substitute  thus  may  he  found: — 
Let  judgment  and  conscience  in  circles  be  cut. 
To  which  strings  of  thought  may  be  carefully  put: 
Let  these  be  made  even  with  caution  extreme, 
And  impartiality  use  for  a  beam  : 
Then  bring  those  good  actions  which  pride  overrates, 
And  tear  up  your  motives  to  serve  for  the  weights. 

TENCIN,    MADAME   DE, 

Was  born  at  Grenoble,  in  1681.  She  was  com- 
pelled by  her  father  to  take  the  veil  at  an  early 
age.  The  gay  and  worldly  life  led  by  the  inmates 
of  the  convent  where  she  was  j^laced,  called  down 
great  scandal ;  and  it  was  in  the  large  and  bril- 
liant circle  which  there  surrounded  her,  that  the 
atti-actions,  both  mental  and  personal,  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Teucin  first  became  known.  She  was 
fascinating  rather  than  beautiful.  Her  manners 
were  pliant  and  insinuating,  and  her  tact  was  un- 
erring. The  fascination  which  she  exercised  over 
the  abbess  and  her  confessor,  procured  her  un- 
usual freedoms ;  and  the  more  she  saw  of  the 
world,  the  more  she  longed  to  enter  it.  She  pro- 
tested against  her  vows,  and  succeeded  in  gaining 
her  liberty  ;  the  obligation  of  celibacy  being  the 
only  one  not  dispensed  with.  Madame  de  Tencin, 
for  she  henceforth  assumed  that  name,  took  up 
her  residence  with  her  brother,  the  abbe  de  Tencin, 
in  Paris,  where  she  soon  became  surrounded  by  a 
host  of  admirers.  She  had  several  intrigues,  one 
of  which  ended  in  the  birth  of  a  son,  who  was  ex- 
posed upon  the  steps  of  a  church,  on  the  17th  of 
November,  1717.  The  child,  thus  forsaken,  was 
found  and  brought  up  by  a  poor  glazier's  wife,  and 
proved  to  be  the  future  great  mathematician, 
D'Alembert.  She  never  provided  for  it ;  the  fear 
of  futm-e  detection  outweighing  every  other  con- 
sideration. 

Madame  de  Tencin  soon  began  to  take  an  ac- 
tive part  in  her  brother's  political  intrigues. 
After  a  vain  attempt  to  influence  the  regent,  she 
formed  a  degrading  connexion  with  cardinal  Du- 
bois. He  admired  her  talents,  and,  at  a  time 
when  Madame  du  Maine  was  enlisting  society 
against  the  regent,  he  felt  the  value  of  ^ladame 
de  Tencin's  influence  over  the  brilliant  and  select 
circle  which  assembled  at  her  house.  Madame 
de  Tencin  possessed  a  deep  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  especially  of  its  evil  side,  and  a  keen  per- 
ception of  character.  Few  women  understood  so 
well  as  she  did  the  art  of  drawing  together  men 
of  the  most  varied  tastes  and  opinions  ;  or  of  in- 
21 


fluencing  them  without  their  even  suspecting  her 
power.  Men  of  science  and  daring  thought,  ga- 
thered around  her ;  and,  after  acting  the  part  of  a 
profligate  intrigante  imder  the  regency,  Madame 
de  Tencin,  under  the  ministry  of  Henry,  seemingly 
gave  up  her  intrigues,  and  was  satisfied  with 
keeping  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  celebrated 
"bureaux  d'Esprits"  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Henry,  though  he  feared  and  disliked  her,  did  not 
venture  to  oppose  this  branch  of  her  power.  This 
society  was  at  one  period  disturbed  to  its  centre, 
by  an  unfortunate  incident  which  involved  Ma- 
dame de  Tencin.  La  Frenaye,  councillor  to  the 
king,  one  of  her  lovers,  shot  himself  at  her  house, 
in  a  fit  of  jealousy  or  despair.  In  an  incoherent 
document  which  he  left,  he  declared  her  to  be  the 
cause  of  his  death.  This  accusation  was  taken  in 
a  literal  sense,  and  she  was  thrown  into  the  Bas- 
tile,  whence,  however,  she  was  soon  released.  It 
was  in  the  brilliant  society  of  Madame  de  Tencin, 
and  under  her  superintendence,  that  the  germ  of 
the  future  encycloptedists  was  slowly  developed. 
A  mind  so  keen  and  clear  sighted,  so  deeply  versed 
in  the  details  of  political  life  as  Madame  de  Ten- 
cin's, could  not  but  be  disgusted  with  the  disorder 
of  every  thing  in  the  state.  Disappointed  ambi- 
tion converted  this  feeling  into  one  of  secret,  but 
dangerous,  opposition ;  and  she  became  the  reci- 
pient of  the  covert  indignation  which  the  condition 
of  France  was  then  beginning  to  inspire.  The 
first  attacks  on  absolute  monarch}',  in  favour  of 
constitutional  liberty,  which  characterized  the 
eighteenth  century,  originated  in  her  drawing- 
room.  It  was  an  intellectual  movement,  and  Ma- 
dame de  Tencin  was  one  of  the  first  women  who 
laid  the  basis  of  this  formidable  power.  "  Unless," 
she  said,  "God  visibly  interferes,  it  is  physically 
impossible  that  the  state  should  not  fall  to  pieces ;" 
a  pithy  prophecy,  which  may  be  quoted  as  a  proof 
of  her  political  sagacity  and  foresight.  Tlie  nature 
of  her  influence  over  her  contem})oraries  may  be 
traced  in  two  important  works,  which,  if  they  do 
not  owe  their  existence  to  her,  were  inspired  by 
the  tone  of  her  society,  viz.:  Montesquieu's  "Es- 
prit des  Lois,"  and  Helvetius's  "  De  I'Esprit." 

As  she  advanced  in  age  her  conduct  became 
more  correct,  and  the  attractions  of  her  mind  and 
conversation  procured  her  more  admirers  than  she 
had  formerly  obtained  by  the  charms  of  her'person. 
The  immorality  of  Madame  de  Tencin  was  no  dis- 
qualification for  her  becoming  the  advocate  of 
enlightened  freedom.  It  was  a  characteristic  fea- 
ture of  the  eighteenth  century,  that  all  those  who 
prepared  the  great,  but  short-lived,  triumph  of 
liberty,  with  which  it  closed,  participated,  from 
Madame  de  Tencin  down  to  Mirabeau,  in  the  im- 
morality of  the  age.  Her  intrigues  procured  her 
brother  the  highest  dignities  of  the  church ;  but 
she  did  not  succeed  in  raising  him  to  the  rank  of 
minister,  her  constant  aim.  The  writings  with 
which  she  amused  her  old  age,  are  calculated  to 
give  a  high  idea  of  her  intellect,  as  well  as  of  a 
nobleness  and  delicacy  contradicted  by  her  life. 
She  wrote,  "  Memoires  de  Comminges,"  "The 
Siege  of  Calais,"  "  Anecdotes  of  Edward  II.,"  and 
a  collection  of  letters. 

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TEODORO,   DANTI, 

Of  Perugia,  was  born  in  1498.  She  was  a  pro- 
found scholar  in  the  exact  sciences,  and  well 
acquainted  with  physics  and  painting.  Never 
intending  to  marry,  she  employed  herself  in  in- 
tellectual pursuits  and  was  honoured  with  general 
esteem. 

She  has  left  an  elaborate  commentary  on  Euclid ; 
also  a  treatise  on  painting,  and  several  poems  of 
an  agreeable  style.     She  died  in  1573. 

TERRACINA,    LAURA, 

Of  Naples,  was  born  in  1500.  She  was  much 
praised  by  the  contemporary  literati.  She  met 
with  a  violent  death,  —  being  killed  by  her  hus- 
band, Boccalini  Mauro,  in  1595.  Four  editions 
of  her  works  were  printed  at  Venice ;  these  are 
principally  poems. 

THEOT,   CATHARINE, 

Was  bom,  in  1725,  at  Baranton,  a  village  in  the 
diocess  of  Avranches.  She  came,  when  young,  to 
Paris,  to  obtain  means  of  subsistence,  and  lived  in 
a  menial  capacity  in  several  places,  the  last  of 
which  was  the  convent  of  the  Miramions,  which 
she  left  in  1779,  as  she  had  discovered  that  she 
possessed  the  gift  of  seeing  visions  and  of  pro- 
phecy. From  that  time  she  published  openly  her 
reveries,  calling  herself,  sometimes  a  second  Eve, 
sometimes  the  mother  of  God,  and  at  last,  a  mes- 
siah,  who  was  to  regenerate  the  human  race.  Her 
pretensions  attracted  the  attention  of  the  police, 
and  she  was  confined  in  the  Bastile,  but  at  the  end 
of  five  weeks  was  transferred  to  the  hospital  of 
Salpetri^re,  where  she  remained  till  1782. 

In  1794,  having  made  a  convert  of  dom  Gerle, 
a  priest,  and  member  of  the  constituent  assembly, 
a  man  of  learning  and  merit,  but  whose  mind  had 
been  affected  by  his  austerities  and  solitary  life, 
she  again  openly  proclaimed  herself  the  mother 
of  God,  and  promised  eternal  life  to  her  adherents. 
Her  followers  became  very  numerous,  and  even 
extended  into  Germany.  She  received  from  them 
the  homage  due  only  to  God,  and  her  revelations 
were  regarded  as  divine.  She  was  soon,  however, 
taken  prisoner,  together  with  dom  Gerle  and  a 
number  of  her  adherents,  and  tried  before  the 
convention;  but  being  protected  by  Robespierre, 
she  and  all  her  friends  were  acquitted.  She  died 
in  five  weeks  after  her  arrest. 

THERESA,  SAINT, 
Was  born  at  Avila,  in  Spain,  in  1515.  While 
reading  the  lives  of  the  saints,  when  very  young, 
she  became  possessed  with  a  desire  for  martyi'dom, 
and  ran  away  from  her  parents,  hoping  to  be  taken 
by  the  Moors.  But  she  was  discovered,  and  was 
obliged  to  return,  when  she  persuaded  her  father 
to  build  her  a  hermitage  in  his  garden,  where  she 
might  devote  herself  to  her  religious  duties.  In 
1537,  Theresa  took  the  veil  at  the  convent  of  the 
Carmelites  at  Avila,  where  her  religious  zeal  led 
her  to  undertake  the  restoration  of  the  original 
severity  of  the  order.  In  pursuance  of  this  object, 
in  1562,  she  founded  a  convent  of  reformed  Car- 


melite nuns  at  Avila;  and  in  1568,  a  monastery 
of  friars,  or  barefooted  Carmelites,  at  Dorvello. 
She  died  at  Alba,  October  1582,  but  before  her 
death  there  were  thirty  convents  founded  for  her 
followers.  She  was  canonized  by  pope  Gregory 
XV.  She  left  an  autobiography,  and  several  other 
works. 

THEROIGNE,    ANNE   JOSEPH, 

SuRNAMED  La  Liegoise,  was  born  in  1759,  at 
the  village  of  Mericourt,  near  the  city  of  Liege. 
Her  parents  were  honest  labourers ;  but  her  intel- 
lect, grace,  and  beauty  rendering  her  their  idol, 
she  was  brought  up  as  delicately  and  carefully  as 
most  children  in  a  much  higher  rank.  When  she 
was  about  seventeen,  the  son  of  a  nobleman,  whose 
estate  was  near  the  humble  abode  of  the  beautiful 
girl,  saw  her,  fell  violently  in  love  with  her,  se- 
duced her,  and  then  coldly  abandoned  her.  This 
cruel  treatment,  and  her  subsequent  disgrace, 
created  in  her  breast  a  resentment  that  was  ex- 
tinguished many  years  after  only  in  the  blood  of 
her  seducer. 

Soon  after  the  abandonment  of  Th^roigne  by 
her  lover,  she  went  to  England,  and  we  have  no 
accurate  account  of  her  manner  of  life  there, 
though  it  is  said  that  she  made  a  conquest  of  the 
prince  of  Wales,  and  she  certainly  lived  in  luxury. 
At  the  end  of  three  months  she  went  to  Paris, 
bringing  with  her  letters  from  the  duke  of  Orleans ; 
and  for  some  time  she  was  the  reigning  beauty  in 
that  city.  Her  tall,  well-formed  figure,  brilliant 
eye,  and  expressive  countenance,  making  her  every 
where  conspicuous.  Upon  the  first  breaking  out 
of  the  revolution,  she  embraced  the  cause  of  the 
people,  more  to  revenge  herself  on  the  class  to 
which  her  seducer  belonged  than  from  any  other 
motive,  and,  adopting  the  dress  of  a  soldier,  she 
led  those  savage  hordes  of  men  and  women  who 
sacked  the  Hotel  des  Invalides,  burnt  the  Bastile, 
and  murdered  all,  on  whom  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  aristocracy  rested,  who  crossed  their  paths. 
She  gave  orders  to  these  ferocious  crowds,  and 
was  obeyed  without  the  slightest  opposition.  She 
spoke  at  the  clubs  and  revolutionary  festivals,  and 
always  with  great  effect.  She  was  present  at 
those  dreadful  scenes  of  blood  at  the  Abbey,  at 
La  Force,  at  Bicetre;  and  meeting,  among  the 
doomed  prisoners  at  the  Abbey,  the  young  noble- 
man who  had  seduced  her,  she  plunged  her  swoi"d 
into  his  breast. 

At  the  taking  of  the  Bastile,  she  had  formed  a 
strong  attachment  to  Brissot,  which  was  the  cause 
of  her  ruin ;  for  he  became  very  unpopular,  and 
she  attempted  in  vain  to  defend  him,  and  at  one 
time,  when  Brissot  was  assailed  by  a  mob  of  fu- 
rious women,  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuilleries,  she, 
rushing  foi'ward  to  save  him,  was  seized  by  them 
and  publicly  whipped. 

This  disgrace  was  so  deeply  felt  by  the  proud 
amazon  as  to  make  her  deranged ;  she  was  con- 
fined in  the  Salpetri^re,  an  asylum  for  the  insane, 
and  never  afterwards  appeared  in  public,  though 
she  lived  till  1817.  She  was  fifty-eight  years  of 
age,  and  preserved  her  great  beauty,  in  a  mea- 
sure, to  the  last ;  although  a  greater  part  of  the 


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time  a  raving  maniac.     Her  ferocity  survived  her 
intellect. 

THICKNESSE,  ANNE, 
AVas  bom  in  the  Temple,  in  London,  in  1737. 
Her  beauty  and  talents  early  introduced  her  into 
the  world  of  fashion.  She  gave  three  concerts  on 
her  own  account,  having  left  her  father's  house  to 
avoid  being  forced  into  a  man-iage.  By  her  con- 
certs she  is  said  to  have  realized  £1500 ;  and  ac- 
quiring the  patronage  of  lady  Betty  Thicknesse, 
became  domesticated  in  her  family.  On  the  death 
of  this  lady,  she  married  governor  Thicknesse, 
and  accompanied  her  husband  on  various  journeys. 
She  was  with  him  in  France  when  he  died,  in 
1792,  and  narrowly  escaped  execution ;  Robes- 
pierre having  sent  an  order  to  that  effect.  On 
her  liberation  she  returned  to  England,  and  died 
at  her  house,  on  the  Edgeware  Road,  in  1824. 
Her  principal  works  are,  "  Biographical  Sketches 
of  Literary  Females  of  the  French  Nation,"  and 
"  The  School  of  Fashion,"  a  novel. 

THOMAS,   ELIZABETH, 

Known  under  the  name  of  Corinna,  was  born 
in  1675 ;  and,  after  a  life  of  ill  health  and  misfor- 
tunes, died  February  3d,  1730,  and  was  buried  in 
the  church  of  St.  Bride.  She  was  only  a  second- 
rate  writer ;  but  her  poetry  is  soft  and  delicate, 
and  her  letters  sprightly  and  entertaining.  She 
incurred,  in  some  way.  Pope's  displeasure,  and  he 
placed  her  in  his  "  Dunciad." 

THYNNE,  FRANCES,  DUCHESS  OF 
SOMERSET, 

Was  born  near  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Walpole  says  of  her,  "she  had  as  much 
taste  for  the  writings  of  others  as  modesty  about 
her  own,"  and  might  have  obtained  fame  for  her 
talents,  had  not  her  retiring  disposition  and  affec- 
tionate piety  led  her  to  prefer  the  society  of  well- 
chosen  friends,  to  the  applause  of  the  world.  Her 
attainments  were  considerable,  which  she  employed 
in  the  careful  education  of  her  children,  the  charge 
of  whom,  and  devoted  attendance  by  the  sick-bed 
of  her  husband,  occupied  the  best  part  of  her  life. 
She  was  fond,  however,  of  literary  society,  as  is 
shown  by  her  friendship  for  Mrs.  Rowe,  (she  was 
the  authoress  of  the  letter  signed  Cleora,  in  Mrs. 
R.'s  collection) ;  Thomson,  whom  she  kindly  pa- 
tronized, (who  dedicated  to  her  the  first  edition 
of  his  "Spring");  Dr.  Watts,  (who  dedicated  to 
her  his  "Miscellaneous  Thoughts  in  Prose  and 
Verse");  and  Shenstone,  (who  addressed  to  her 
his  ode  on  "  Rural  Elegance.")  She  died  in  1754. 
No  collection  of  her  poems  has  been  made,  though 
a  number  are  preserved  in  Bingley's  "Corre- 
spondence of  the  Countess  of  Pomfret"  with  our 
authoress.  The  specimen  given  is  found  in  Dr. 
Watt's  Miscellanies,  ascribed  to  Eusebia. 

THE    DYING    CHRISTIAN'S    HOPE. 

When  faint,  and  siiiking  to  the  shades  of  death, 
I  gasp  with  pain  for  ev'ry  lah'ring  breath, 
O  may  my  soul  by  some  blest  foretaste  know 
■    That  she 's  deliver'd  from  eternal  woe  I 


May  hope  in  Christ  dispel  each  gloomy  fear, 
And  thoughts  like  these  my  drooping  spirits  cheer. 
What  tho'  my  sins  are  of  a  crimson  stain. 
My  Saviour's  blood  can  wash  me  white  again : 
Tho'  numerous  as  the  twinkling  stars  they  be, 
Or  sands  along  the  margin  of  the  sea  ; 
Or  as  smooth  pebbles  on  some  beachy  shore. 
The  mercies  of  th'  Almighty  still  are  more: 
Ho  looks  upon  my  soul  with  pitying  eyes, 
Sees  all  my  fears,  and  listens  to  my  cries : 
He  knows  the  frailty  of  each  human  breast, 
What  passions  our  unguarded  hearts  molest. 
And  for  the  sake  of  his  dear  dying  Son, 
Will  pardon  all  the  ills  that  I  have  done. 
Arm'd  with  so  bright  a  hope,  I  shall  not  fear 
To  see  my  death  hourly  approach  more  near; 
But  my  faith  strength'ning  as  my  life  decay. 
My  dying  breath  shall  mount  to  heav'n  in  praise. 

TIBERGEAU,  MARCHIONESS  DE, 

Was  sister  of  the  marquis  de  Phisieulx,  and  the 
beloved  niece  of  Rochefoucauld,  author  of  the 
celebrated  "  Maxims."  Her  maiden  name  was 
Sillery.  She  early  showed  a  decided  inclination 
for  poetry.  It  was  to  Mademoiselle  de  Sillery 
that  La  Fontaine  addressed  several  fables,  and  of 
her  he  spoke  when  he  said, 

"  Qui  dit  Sillery,  dit  tout." 

She  married  the  marquis  de  Tibergeau,  and  con- 
tinued till  her  death  the  constant  friend  and  pro- 
tector of  literary  men.  She  encouraged  Destou- 
ches  in  writing  for  the  theatre,  and  induced  M. 
Phisieulx  to  take  him  for  his  secretary  when  he 
went  as  ambassador  to  Sweden.  Destouches  often 
consulted  Madame  de  Tibergeau  concerning  the 
plans  of  his  different  plays.  She  preserved  all 
her  quickness  and  vivacity  of  mind  to  the  last. 
When  she  was  more  than  eighty,  being  at  Sillery 
with  her  brother  and  her  young  nieces  and  their 
husband,  one  evening,  after  she  had  retired,  there 
was  a  long  dispute  as  to  whether  it  showed  greater 
tenderness  of  feeling  to  write  to  one's  lover  or 
mistress  in  prose  or  verse-.  It  was  agreed  to  refer 
the  decision  of  this  important  point  to  Madame  de 
Tibergeau ;  and  they  went  to  awaken  her  for  that 
purpose.  She  sent  for  her  writing-desk,  and  wrote 
immediately : 

"  Non,  ce  n'est  point  en  vers  qu'un  tendre  amour  s'exprime : 
II  ne  doit  point  rever  pour  trouver  ce  qu'il  dit, 
Et  tout  arrangement  de  mesure  et  de  rime, 
Ote  toujours  au  coeur  ce  qu'il  donne  a  I'esprit." 

She  died  at  the  age  of  eighty.  She  lived  in  the 
seventeenth  century. 

TIGHE,    MARY, 

Was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  AVilliam  Blach- 
ford,  county  of  Wicklow,  Ireland.  Mary  Blachford 
was  born  in  Dublin,  in  1774;  and  in  1793,  when 
but  nineteen  years  old,  she  married  her  cousin, 
Henry  Tighe,  of  Woodstock,  M.  P.  for  Kilkenny, 
in  the  Irish  parliament,  and  author  of  a  "  County 
History  of  Kilkenny."  The  family  of  Mrs.  Tighe 
were  consumptive,  and  she  inherited  the  delicacy 
of  organization  which  betokens  a  predisposition  to 
this  fatal  disease.  From  early  womanhood  she 
suffered  from  depression  of  mind  and  languor  of 
frame,  which  probably  gave  that  "  tone  of  melan- 
choly music"  to  her  celebrated  poem,  "which 
seemed  the  regretful  expression  of  the  conscious- 


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ness  of  a  not  far-off  death."  Well  she  might  feel 
sad  when  this  thought  was  pressing  on  her  heart ; 
for  she  was  most  happily  married,  beloved  and 
cherished  by  her  husband,  and  surrounded  with 
all  the  luxuries  of  life  ;  dwelling 

"  The  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among." 


Yet  she  felt  that  all  these  loved  and  lovely  bless- 
ings of  earth  were  passing  swiftly  away.  She 
died  in  1810,  aged  thirty-five,  after  six  years  of 
protracted  suffering.  Her  husband,  though  he 
survived  her  some  years,  never  married  again. 
She  left  no  children  ;  but  the  scenes  of  her  bridal 
happiness,*  and  of  her  lamented  death, f  will  bear 
the  memory  of  her  beauty,  genius,  and  virtues, 
while  her  "Psyche"  is  read,  and  the  names  of 
those  who  have  celebrated  her  merits  in  their 
songs  are  remembered.  And  she  has  left  an  en- 
during monument  of  her  goodness,  which  gives 
lustre  to  her  genius.  From  the  profits  of  her 
poem,  "  Psyche,"  which  ran  through  four  editions 
during  her  life-time,  she  built  an  addition  to  the 
orphan  asylum  in  Wicklow,  thence  called  the 
"  Psyche  Ward." 

An  English  critic  thus  testifies  to  the  merits  of 
her  great  work : — "  Her  poem  of  '  Psyche,'  found- 
ed on  the  classic  fable  related  by  Apuleius,  of  the 
loves  of  '  Cupid  and  Psyche,'  or  the  allegory  of 
'  Love  and  the  Soul,'  is  characterised  by  a  graceful 
voluptuousness  and  brilliancy  of  colouring  rarely 
excelled.  It  is  in  six  cantos,  and  wants  only  a 
little  more  concentration  of  style  and  description 
to  be  one  of  the  best  poems  of  the  period."  J 

"  None  but  Spenser  himself,"  says  William 
Howitt,  in  his  popular  work,  '  Homes  and  Haunts 
of  the  most  Eminent  British  Poets,'  "  has  excelled 
Mi's.  Tighe  in  the  field  of  allegory."  But  the 
most  full  and  free  acknowledgment  of  her  merits 
has  been  given  by  an  eminent  American  scholar 
and  divine,  Rev.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  has  recorded 
his  opinion  in  his  "  British  Female  Poets."  He 
says,  "  Perhaps  Mrs.  Tighe  has  been  too  diffuse ; 

»  Rosanna,  in  Wicklow, 

t  Woodstock,  in  Kilkenny. 

J  See  "  Cyclopa-'dia  of  English  Literature." 


but,  taking  her  altogether,  she  is  not  equalled  in 
classical  elegance  by  any  English  female,  and  not 
excelled  (in  that  particular)  by  any  male  English 
poet.  She  has  the  rare  quality  for  a  poetess  of 
not  sparing  the  pumice-stone,  her  verses  being  se- 
dulously polished  to  the  highest  degree.  She 
shows  also  her  great  taste  in  omitting  obsolete 
words,  the  affectation  of  which  so  frequently  dis- 
figures imitations  of  the  great  master  of  English 
allegory.  Her  minor  pieces  are  far  inferior  to  her 
main  work,  though  graceful,  but  pervaded  by  a 
painful,  often  religionless,  despondency.  It  is  of 
Mrs.  Tighe  that  Moore  wiites  in  his  touching 
song  : 

"  I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime." 
We  give  a  few  selections  from  "Psyche." 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE  IN  THE 
PALACE  OF  LOVE. 

The  sun  looks  glorious  'mid  a  sky  serene, 
•     And  bids  bright  lustre  sparkle  o'er  the  tide ; 
The  clear  blue  ocean  at  a  distance  seen, 
Bounds  the  gay  landscape  on  the  western  side, 
While  closing  round  it  with  majestic  pride, 
The  lofty  rocks  'mid  citron  groves  arise ; 
"Sure  some  divinity  must  here  reside," 
As  tranced  in  some  bright  vision.  Psyche  cries. 
And  scarce  believes  the  bliss,  or  trusts  her  charmed  eyes. 

When  lo!  a  voice  divinely  sweet  she  hears, 
From  unseen  lips  proceeds  the  heavenly  sound ; 
"  Psyche  approach,  dismiss  thy  timid  fears. 
At  length  his  bride  thy  longing  spouse  has  found. 
And  bids  for  thee  immortal  joys  abound; 
For  thee  the  palace  rose  at  his  command. 
For  thee  his  love  a  bridal  banquet  crowned  ; 
He  bids  attendant  nymphs  around  thee  stand. 
Prompt  every  wish  to  serve — a  fond  obedient  band." 

Increasing  wonder  filled  her  ravished  soul, 
For  now  the  pompous  portals  opened  vvide. 
There,  pausing  oft,  with  timid  foot  she  stole 
Through  halls  high-domed,  enriched  with  sculptured  pride, 
While  gay  saloons  appeared  on  either  side. 
In  splendid  vista  opening  to  her  sight; 
And  all  with  precious  gems  so  beautified. 
And  furnished  with  such  exquisite  delight. 
That  scarce  the  beams  of  heaven  emit  such  lustre  bright. 

The  amethyst  was  there  of  violet  hue. 
And  there  the  topaz  shed  its  golden  ray. 
The  chrysoberyl,  and  the  sapphire  blue 
As  the  clear  azure  of  a  sunny  day. 
Or  the  mild  eyes  where  amorous  glances  play ; 
The  snow-white  jasper,  and  the  opal's  flame, 
The  blushing  ruby,  and  the  agate  gray. 
And  there  the  gem  which  bears  his  luckless  name 
Whose  death,  by  Phoebus  mourned,  insured  him  deathless 
fame. 

There  the  green  emerald,  there  cornelians  glow. 
And  rich  carbuncles  pour  eternal  light. 
With  all  that  India  and  Peru  can  show. 
Or  Labrador  can  give  so  flaming  bright 
To  the  charmed  mariner's  half-dazzled  sight: 
The  coral-paved  baths  with  diamonds  blaze; 
And  all  that  can  the  female  heart  delight 
Of  fair  attire,  the  last  recess  displays, 
And  all  that  luxury  can  ask,  her  eye  surveys. 

Now  through  the  hall  melodious  music  stole. 
And  self  prepared  the  splendid  banquet  stands, 
Self  poured  the  nectar  sparkles  in  the  bowl. 
The  lute  and  viol,  touched  by  unseen  hands. 
Aid  the  sofl  voices  of  the  choral  bands ; 
O'er  the  full  board  a  brighter  lustre  beams 
Than  Persia's  monarch  at  his  feast  commands: 
For  sweet  refreshment  all  inviting  seems 
To  taste  celestial  food,  and  pure  ambrosial  streams 

532 


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But  when  meek  eve  Iiiing  out  her  dewy  star, 
And  gently  veiled  with  gradual  hand  the  sky, 
Lo!  the  bright  fnlding  doors  retiring  far, 
Display  to  Psyche's  captivated  eye 
All  that  voluptuous  ease  could  e'er  supply 
To  soothe  the  spirits  in  serene  repose: 
Beneath  the  velvet's  purple  canopy, 
Divinely  formed,  a  downy  couch  arose, 
While  alabaster  lamps  a  milky  light  disclose 

Once  more  she  hears  the  hymeneal  strain ; 
Far  other  voices  now  attune  the  lay; 
The  swelling  sounds  approach,  awhile  remain, 
And  then  retiring,  faint  dissolved  away; 
The  expiring  lamps  emit  a  feebler  ray. 
And  soon  in  fragrant  death  extinguished  lie: 
Then  virgin  terrors  Psyche's  soul  dismay. 
When  through  the  obscuring  gloom  she  nought  can  spy, 
But  softly  rustling  sounds  declare  some  being  nigh. 

Oh,  you  for  whom  1  write  !  whose  hearts  can  melt 
At  the  soft  thrilling  voice  whose  power  you  prove, 
You  know  what  charm,  unutterably  felt. 
Attends  the  unexpected  voice  of  love: 
Above  the  lyre,  the  lute's  soft  notes  above. 
With  sweet  enchantment  to  the  soul  it  steals. 
And  bears  it  to  Elysium's  happy  grove  ; 
You  best  can  tell  the  rapture  Psyche  feels. 
When  Love's  ambrosial  lip  the  vows  of  Hymen  seals. 

""Tis  he,  'tis  my  deliverer!  deep  imprest 
Upon  my  heart  those  sounds  I  well  recall," 
The  blushing  maid  exclaimed,  and  on  his  breast 
A  tear  of  trembling  ecstasy  let  fall. 
But,  ere  the  breezes  of  the  morning  call 
Aurora  from  her  purple,  humid  bed. 
Psyche  in  vain  explores  the  vacant  hall; 
Her  tender  lover  from  her  arms  is  fled. 
While  sleep  his  downy  wings  had  o'er  her  eyelids  spread. 


PSYCHE    GAZES    ON    LOVE    WHILE    ASLEEP,    AND    IS 
BANISHED. 

And  now  with  softest  whispers  of  delight. 
Love  welcomes  Psyche  still  more  fondly  dear; 
Not  unobserved,  though  hid  in  deepest  night. 
The  silent  anguish  of  her  secret  fear. 
He  thinks  that  tenderness  excites  the  tear. 
By  the  late  image  of  her  parent's  grief. 
And  half  offended  seeks  in  vain  to  cheer; 
Yet,  while  he  speaks,  her  sorrows  feel  relief. 
Too  soon  more  keen  to  sting  from  this  suspension  brief! 

Allowed  to  settle  on  celestial  eyes. 
Soft  sleep,  exulting,  now  exerts  his  sway. 
From  Psyche's  anxious  pillow  gladly  flies 
To  veil  those  orbs,  whose  pure  and  lambent  ray 
The  powers  of  heaven  submissively  obey. 
Trembling  and  breathless  then  she  softly  rose. 
And  seized  the  lamp,  where  it  obscurely  lay. 
With  hand  too  rashly  daring  to  disclose 
The  sacred  veil  which  hung  mysterious  o'er  her  woes. 

Twice,  as  with  agitated  step  she  went. 
The  lamp  expiring  shone  with  doubtful  gleam. 
As  though  it  warned  her  from  her  rash  intent: 
And  twice  she  paused,  and  on  its  trembling  beam 
Gazed  with  suspended  breath,  while  voices  seem 
With  murmuring  sound  along  the  roof  to  sigh  ; 
As  one  just  waking  from  a  troublous  dream. 
With  palpitating  heart  and  straining  eye. 
Still  fixed  with  fear  remains,  still  thinks  the  danger  nigh. 

Oh,  daring  Muse!  wilt  thou  indeed  essay 
To  paint  the  wonders  which  that  lamp  could  show? 
And  canst  thou  hope  in  living  words  to  say 
The  dazzling  glories  of  that  heavenly  view  ? 
Ah!  well  I  ween,  that  if  with  pencil  true 
That  splendid  vision  could  be  well  expressed. 
The  fearful  awe  imprudent  Psyche  knew 
Would  seize  with  rapture  every  wondering  breast. 
When  Love's  all-potent  charms  divinely  stood  confessed. 


AH  imperceptible  to  human  touch, 
His  wings  display  celestial  essence  light ; 
The  clear  eff'ulgence  of  the  blaze  is  such. 
The  brilliant  plumage  shines  so  heavenly  bright. 
That  mortal  eyes  turn  dazzled  from  the  sight; 
A  youth  he  seems  in  manhood's  freshest  years: 
Round  his  fair  neck,  as  clinging  with  delight. 
Each  golden  curl  resplendently  appears. 
Or  shades  his  darker  brow,  which  grace  majestic  wears . 

Or  o'er  his  guileless  front  the  ringlets  bright 
Their  rays  of  sunny  lustre  seem  to  throw, 
That  front  than  polished  ivory  more  white! 
His  blooming  cheeks  with  deeper  blushes  glow 
Than  roses  scattered  o'er  a  bed  of  snow : 
While  on  his  lips,  distilled  in  balmy  dews, 
(Those  lips  divine,  that  even  in  silence  know 
The  heart  to  touch),  persuasion  to  infuse. 
Still  hangs  a  rosy  charm  that  never  vainly  sues. 

The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep 
Disclosed  not  yet  his  eyes'  resistless  sway, 
But  from  their  silky  veil  there  seemed  to  peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a  softened  ray. 
Which  o'er  his  features  exquisitely  play. 
And  all  his  polished  limbs  suffuse  with  light. 
Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure  day, 
Sudden  its  cheerful  rays  diffusing  bright. 
Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams,  to  gild  the  brow  of  oight 

His  fatal  arrows  and  celestial  bow 
Beside  the  couch  were  negligently  thrown. 
Nor  needs  the  god  his  dazzling  arms  to  show 
His  glorious  birth;  such  beauty  round  him  shone 
As  sure  could  spring  from  Beauty's  self  alone ; 
The  bloom  which  glowed  o'er  all  of  soft  desire 
Could  well  proclaim  him  Beauty's  cherished  son  : 
And  Beauty's  self  will  oft  those  charms  admire. 
And  steal  his  witching  smile,  his  glance's  living  fire. 

Speechless  with  awe,  in  transport  strangely  lost. 
Long  Psyche  stood  with  fixed  adoring  eye ; 
Her  limbs  immovable,  her  senses  tossed 
Between  amazement,  fear,  and  ecstasy. 
She  hangs  enamoured  o'er  the  deity. 
Till  from  her  trembling  hand  extinguished  falls 
The  fatal  lamp  —  he  starts  —  and  suddenly 
Tremendous  thunders  echo  through  the  halls. 
While  ruin's  hideous  crash  bursts  o'er  the  affrighted  walls. 

Dread  horror  seizes  on  her  sinking  heart, 
A  mortal  chillness  shudders  at  her  breast. 
Her  soul  shrinks  fainting  from  death's  icy  dart. 
The  groan  scarce  uttered  dies  but  half  expressed. 
And  down  she  sinks  in  deadly  swoon  oppressed  • 
But  when  at  length,  awaking  from  her  trance. 
The  terrors  of  her  fate  stand  all  confessed. 
In  vain  she  casts  around  her  timid  glance; 
The  rudely  frowning  scenes  her  former  joys  enhance. 

No  traces  of  those  joys,  alas,  remain  I 
A  desert  solitude  alone  appears; 
No  verdant  shade  relieves  the  sandy  plain. 
The  wide-spread  waste  no  gentle  fountain  cheers ; 
One  barren  face  the  dreary  prospect  wears; 
Nought  through  the  vast  horizon  meets  her  eye 
To  calm  the  dismal  tumult  of  her  fears  ; 
No  trace  of  human  habitation  nigh; 
A  sandy  wild  beneath,  above  a  threatening  sky. 

JEALOUSY. 

Her  spirits  die,  she  breathes  polluted  air. 
And  vaporous  visions  swim  before  her  sight ! 
His  magic  skill  the  sorcerer  bids  her  share. 
And  lo !  as  in  a  glass,  she  sees  her  knight 
In  bower  remembered  well,  the  bower  of  loose  delight. 

But  oh !  what  words  her  feelings  can  impart ! 
Feelings  to  hateful  envy  near  allied  I 
While  on  her  knight  her  anxious  glances  dart : 
His  plumed  helmet,  lo  I  he  lays  aside; 
His  face  with  torturing  agony  she  spied, 

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Yet  cannot  from  the  sight  her  eyes  remove  ; 
No  mortal  knight  she  sees  had  aid  supplied. 
No  mortal  knight  in  her  defence  had  strove ; 
'T  was  Love !  't  was  Love  himself,  her  own  adored  Love. 

Poured  in  soft  dalliance  at  a  lady's  feet. 
In  fondest  rapture  he  appeared  to  lie, 
While  her  fair  neck  with  inclination  sweet, 
Bent  o'er  his  graceful  form  her  melting  eye. 
Which  his  looked  up  to  meet  in  ecstasy. 
Their  words  slie  heard  not ;  words  had  ne'er  exprest. 
What  well  her  sickening  fancy  could  supply, 
All  that  their  silent  eloquence  confest, 
As  breathed  the  sigh  of  fire  from  each  impassioned  breast. 

While  thus  she  gazed,  her  quivering  lips  turn  pale; 
Contending  passions  rage  within  her  breast. 
Nor  ever  had  she  known  such  bitter  bale. 
Or  felt  by  such  tierce  agony  opprest. 
Otl  had  her  gentle  heart  been  sore  distrest. 
But  meekness  ever  has  a  lenient  power 
From  anguish  half  his  keenest  darts  to  wrest; 
Meekness  for  her  had  softened  sorrow's  hour. 
Those  furious  fiends  subdued  which  boisterous  souls  devour. 

For  there  are  hearts  that,  like  some  sheltered  lake, 
Ne'er  swell  with  rage,  nor  foam  with  violence; 
Though  its  sweet  placid  calm  the  tempests  shake. 
Yet  will  it  ne'er  with  furious  impotence 
Dash  its  rude  waves  against  the  rocky  fence. 
Which  nature  placed  the  limits  of  its  reign  : 
Thrice  blest !  who  feel  the  peace  which  flows  from  hence, 
Whom  meek-eyed  gentleness  can  thus  restrain  ; 
Whate'er  the  storms  of  fate,  with  her  let  none  complain ! 

LOVEKS'    QUAREELS. 

Oh !  fondly  cherish  then  the  lovely  plant 
Which  lenient  heaven  hath  given  thy  pains  to  ease 
Its  lustre  shall  thy  summer  hours  enchant, 
And  load  with  fragrance  every  prosperous  breeze. 
And  when  rude  winter  shall  thy  roses  seize, 
When  nought  through  all  thy  bovvers  but  thorns  remain. 
This  still  with  undeciduous  charms  shall  please, 
Screen  from  the  blast  and  shelter  from  the  rain. 
And  still  with  verdure  cheer  the  desolated  plain. 

Through  the  hard  season  Love  with  plaintive  note 
Like  the  kind  red-breast  tenderly  shall  sing. 
Which  swells  'mid  dreary  snows  its  tuneful  throat. 
Brushing  the  cold  dews  from  its  shivering  wing. 
With  cheerful  promise  of  returning  spring 
To  the  mute  tenants  of  the  leafless  grove. 
Guard  thy  best  treasure  from  the  venomed  sting 
Of  baneful  peevishness:  oh!  never  prove 
How  soon  ill-temper's  power  can  banish  gentle  Love  ! 

Repentance  may  the  storms  of  passion  chase. 
And  Love,  who  shrunk  affrighted  from  the  blast, 
May  hush  his  just  complaints  in  soft  embrace. 
And  smiling  wipe  his  tearful  eye  at  last : 
Yet  when  the  wind's  rude  violence  is  past. 
Look  what  a  wreck  the  scattered  fields  display ! 
See  on  the  ground  the  withering  blossoms  cast ! 
And  hear  sad  Philomel  with  piteous  lay 
Deplore  the  tempest's  rage  that  swept  her  young  away. 

The  tears  capricious  beauty  loves  to  shed, 
The  pouting  lip,  the  sullen  silent  tongue. 
May  wake  the  impassioned  lover's  tender  dread, 
And  touch  the  spring  that  clasps  his  soul  so  strong ; 
But  ah,  beware  !  the  gentle  power  too  long 
Will  not  endure  the  frown  of  angry  strife; 
He  shuns  contention,  and  the  gloomy  throng 
Who  blast  the  joys  of  calm  domestic  life, 
And  flies  when  discord  shakes  her  brand  with  quarrels  rife. 

Oh!  he  will  tell  you  that  these  quarrels  bring 

The  ruin,  not  renewal  of  his  flame  : 

If  oft  repeated,  lo  !  on  rapid  wing 

He  flies  lo  hide  his  fair  but  tender  frame ; 

From  violence,  reproach,  or  peevish  blame 

Irrevocably  flies.    Lament  in  vain  ! 


IndiflTerence  comes  the  abandoned  heart  to  claim. 
Asserts  for  ever  her  repulsive  reign. 
Close  followed  by  disgust  and  all  her  chilling  train. 

Indiff"erence,  dreaded  power!  what  art  shall  save 
The  good  so  cherished  from  thy  grasping  hand? 
How  shall  young  Love  escape  the  untimely  grave 
Thy  treacherous  arts  prepare?  or  how  withstand 
The  insidious  foe,  who  with  her  leaden  band 
Enchains  the  thoughtless,  slumbering  deity? 
Ah,  never  more  to  wake !  or  e'er  expand 
His  golden  pinions  to  the  breezy  sky. 
Or  open  to  the  sun  his  dim  and  languid  eye. 

Who  can  describe  the  hopeless,  silent  pang 
With  which  the  gentle  heart  first  marks  her  sway? 
Eyes  the  sure  progress  of  her  icy  fang 
Resistless,  slowly  fastening  on  her  prey  ; 
See  rapture's  brilliant  colours  fade  away, 
And  all  the  glow  of  beaming  sympathy; 
Anxious  to  watch  the  cold  averted  ray 
That  speaks  no  more  to  the  fond  meeting  eye 
Enchanting  tales  of  love,  and  tenderness,  and  joy. 

Too  faithful  heart!  thou  never  canst  retrieve 
Thy  withered  hopes:  conceal  the  cruel  pain! 
O'er  thy  lost  treasure  sti!l  in  silence  grieve; 
But  never  to  the  unfeeling  ear  complain  : 
From  fruitless  struggles  dearly  bought  refrain ! 
Submit  at  once— the  bitter  task  resign, 
Nor  watch  and  fan  the  expiring  flame  in  vain  : 
Patience,  consoling  maid,  may  yet  be  thine, 
Go  seek  her  quiet  cell,  and  hear  her  voice  divine  ! 

DELAY    OF    LOVE    COMPENSATED. 

Two  tapers  thus,  with  pure  converging  rays, 
In  momentary  flash  their  beams  unite. 
Shedding  but  one  inseparable  blaze 
Of  blended  radiance  and  effulgence  bright, 
Self-lost  in  mutual  intermingling  light ; 
Thus,  in  her  lover's  circling  arms  embraced. 
The  fainting  Psyche's  soul,  by  sudden  flight. 
With  his  its  subtlest  essence  interlaced; 
Oh !  bliss  too  vast  for  thought !  by  words  how  poorly  trace 

Fond  youth  !  whom  Fate  hath  summoned  to  depart. 
And  quit  the  object  of  thy  tenderest  love. 
How  oft  in  absence  shall  thy  pensive  heart 
Count  the  sad  hours  which  must  in  exile  move. 
And  still  their  irksome  weariness  reprove  ; 
Distance  with  cruel  weight  but  loads  thy  chains 
With  every  step  which  bids  thee  farther  rove. 
While  thy  reverted  eye,  with  fruitless  pain. 
Shall  seek  the  trodden  path  its  treasure  to  regain. 

For  thee  what  rapturous  moments  are  prepared ! 
For  thee  shall  dawn  the  long-expected  day  I 
And  he  who  ne'er  thy  tender  woes  hath  shared. 
Hath  never  known  the  transport  they  shall  pay. 
To  wash  the  memory  of  those  woes  away  : 
The  bitter  tears  of  absence  thou  must  shed. 
To  know  the  bliss  which  tears  of  joy  convey. 
When  the  long  hours  of  sad  regret  are  fled, 
And  in  one  dear  embrace  thy  pains  compensated! 

Even  from  afar  beheld,  how  eagerly 
With  rapture  thou  shall  hail  the  loved  abode! 
Perhaps  already,  with  impatient  eye. 
From  the  dear  casement  she  hath  marked  thy  road. 
And  many  a  sigh  for  thy  return  bestowed : 
Even  there  she  meets  thy  fond  enamoured  glance; 
Thy  soul  with  grateful  tenderness  o'erflowed. 
Which  firmly  bore  the  hand  of  hard  mischance, 
Faints  in  the  stronger  power  of  joy's  o'erwhelming  trance. 

TINTORETTO,  MARIETTA, 
Was  born  in  Venice,  in  1560,  and  was  instructed 
in  the  art  of  painting  by  her  father,  Giacomo. 
She  showed  an  early  genius  for  music,  as  well  as 
for  painting,  and  performed  remarkably  well  on 
several  instruments;  but  her  predominant  incli- 
nation to  the  art  in  which  her  father  was  so  emi- 

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nent,  determined  her  to  quit  all  other  studies,  and 
apply  herself  entirely  to  it.  By  the  direction  of 
Giacomo,  she  studied  design,  composition,  and 
colouring  ;  and  drew  after  the  antique,  and  finest 
models,  till  she  had  obtained  a  good  taste  and 
great  readiness  of  hand.  But  though  she  was  well 
qualified  to  make  a  considerable  appearance  in 
historical,  she  devoted  her  talents  wholly  to  por- 
trait-painting Her  father,  who  was  accounted 
little  inferior  to  Titian,  if  not  his  equal  in  that 
line,  took  great  pains  to  direct  her  judgment  and 
skill  in  that  branch  of  art,  till  she  gained  an  easy 
elegance  in  her  manner  of  design,  and  an  admira- 
ble tint  of  colour.  Her  pencil  was  free,  her  touch 
light  and  full  of  spirit ;  and  she  received  deserved 
applause,  not  only  for  the  beauty  of  her  work,  but 
for  the  exactness  of  resemblance.  Most  of  the 
nobility  of  Venice  sat  to  her ;  and  she  was  soli- 
cited by  the  emperor  Maximilian,  Philip  II.,  king 
of  Spain,  and  by  the  archduke  Ferdinand,  to  visit 
their  courts ;  but  such  was  her  afi'ectionate  attach- 
ment to  her  father,  that  she  declined  these  ho- 
nours, and  continued  at  Venice,  where  she  mar- 
ried ;  but  died  yoimg,  in  1590. 

TISHEM,    CATHARINE, 

Said  to  have  been  an  Englishwoman,  married 
Gualtherus  Gruter,  a  burgomaster  of  Antwerp,  to 
whom  she  bore  a  son,  James  Gruter,  celebrated 
for  his  erudition.  Being  persecuted,  on  account 
of  her  religion,  by  Margaret,  duchess  of  Parma, 
she  took  refuge  with  her  son  in  England,  in  1565. 
She  was  one  of  the  most  learned  women  of  the 
age ;  was  well  acquainted  with  the  ancient  and 
modern  languages,  and  read  Galen  in  Greek,  which 
few  physicians  were  then  able  to  do.  She  was 
her  son's  chief  instructor,  and  continued  to  super- 
intend his  studies  during  his  residence  in  Cam- 
bridge.    She  was  living  in  1579. 

TOLLET,  ELIZABETH, 
An  English  lady,  eminent  for  her  knowledge  of 
mathematics,  history,  French,  Latin,  and  Italian. 
She  published  among  other  poems,  "Susannah, 
or  Innocence  Preserved."  Her  talents  were  care- 
fully cultivated  by  her  father,  under  whose  su- 
perintendence she  received  every  advantage  of 
education.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  hers,  and  an  admirer  of  her  genius. 
Sevei'al  of  her  poems  display  profound  thought. 
She  also  had  great  taste  and  skill  in  music  and 
di'awing.  She  was  never  married.  She  died 
February  1st,  1754,  at  the  age  of  sixty. 

TOMLINS,  ELIZABETH  S., 
An  ingenious  English  poetess,  novelist,  and 
miscellaneous  writer,  was  born  in  London,  in  1768. 
Her  father  was  Thomas  Tomlins,  Esq.,  an  eminent 
solicitor.  She  showed  an  early  talent  for  poetry ; 
but  afterwards  turning  her  attention  to  the  com- 
position of  tales  and  novels,  she  published  suc- 
cessively several  works,  the  most  popular  of  which 
was,  "  The  Victim  of  Fancy,"  and  a  ballad,  enti- 
tled "  Connell  and  Mary."  Miss  Tomlins  also 
translated  the  first  history  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
She  died  at  her  residence  atChalden,in  Surrey,  1826. 


TONNA,    CHARLOTTE   ELIZABETH, 

Better  known  simply  as  Charlotte  Elizabeth, 
was  the  only  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Browne,  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  at  Norwich,  England.  She 
was  born  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;  when  about  six  years  old,  intense  applica- 
tion to  study  brought  on  a  total  blindness,  which 
lasted  for  several  months.  When  about  ten  years 
old,  she  was  afiiicted  with  an  illness,  which,  to- 
gether with  the  severe  remedy  (calomel)  used  by 
the  physicians,  brought  on  the  total  loss  of  her 
hearing,  which  she  never  recovered,  though  she 
retained  the  faculty  of  speech  all  her  life.  Her 
enthusiastic  nature  was  shown  when  she  was  very 
young,  in  her  ardent  pursuit  of  knowledge  and 
her  intense  love  of  poetry.  When  she  was  about 
eighteen,  her  father  died.  She  married  Dr.  Phelan, 
a  surgeon  in  the  British  army,  whom  she  followed 
to  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia.  This  union  proved  an 
unhappy  one,  and,  after  nearly  three  years'  absence, 
Charlotte  Elizabeth  returned  to  England.  She  soon 
after  went  to  Ireland,  where  her  husband  was  then 
engaged  in  a  law-suit.  While  there,  she  became 
very  much  interested  in  the  Irish  people,  and 
formed  a  strong  attachment  to  them  which  lasted 
all  her  life  ;  and  what  was  of  greater  importance 
to  herself  and  the  world,  she  also  became  deeply 
and  truly  religious. 

In  1821,  she  went  to  the  county  of  Kilkenny, 
where  she  resided  for  three  years.  While  here, 
she  became  deeply  interested  in  a  little  ignorant 
dumb  boy,  whom  she  took  and  educated,  so  that 
he  proved  a  useful  and  pious  member  of  society 
till  his  early  death.  In  1824,  she  returned  to 
England,  taking  her  little  mute  with  her,  and  for 
the  next  year  she  resided  at  Clifton,  near  Bristol, 
where  she  formed  an  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Hannah  More.  Her  only  and  dearly  beloved 
brother  returning  at  that  time  from  Portugal, 
where  he  had  been  for  some  time  as  an  officer  in 
the  British  army,  she  accompanied  him  and  his 
family  to  Sandhurst.  In  the  course  of  the  little 
more  than  two  years  that  she  passed  with  her 
brother,  Charlotte  Elizabeth  wrote  "  The  Rockite," 
"The  System,"  "Izram,"  "Consistency,"  "Per- 
severance," "Allen  McLeod,"  and  more  than 
thirty  other  little  books  and  tracts,  besides  con- 
tributions to  various  periodicals. 

In  1828,  her  brother,  captain  Murray  Browne, 
was  ordered  to  Ireland,  where  he  was  drowned 
while  fishing.  After  five  years'  residence  at  Sand- 
hurst, where  Charlotte  Elizabeth  had  been  zealous 
and  untiring  in  every  good  and  benevolent  work, 
she  removed  to  London,  where  she  continued  her 
career  of  active  usefulness,  both  with  her  pen  and 
by  her  personal  exertions.  She  established  schools 
for  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  in  the  wretched  district 
of  St.  Giles,  and  taught  in  them  herself  a  great 
part  of  the  day.  In  1836  she  removed  to  Black- 
heath  ;  and  in  1837  she  again  visited  Ireland.  In 
the  same  year  she  heard  of  the  death  of  captain 
Phelan,  and  in  1841  she  married  L.  H.  I.  Tonna. 
In  1841  she  also  undertook  the  editorship  of  the 
"  Protestant  Magazine,"  which  she  continued  till 
1844.      Her   last   work   of  fiction  was    entitled, 

535 


TO 


TO 


"  Judah's  Lion."  In  1842  she  wrote  "  Principal- 
ities and  Powers  in  Heavenly  Places."  "  Con- 
formity," and  "Dangers  and  Duties,"  also  ap- 
peared during  this  year.  In  1843  she  wrote  "  The 
Wrongs  of  AVomen,"  "  The  Church  Visible  in  all 
Ages,"  and  "  The  Perils  of  tlie  Nation."  In  1845 
she  wrote  "  Judea  Capta;"  and  in  the  same  year 
removed  to  London.  Soon  after  she  went  to 
Ramsgate,  for  the  benefit  of  the  sea-air,  but  re- 
turned in  a  short  time  to  London.  She  afterwards 
returned  to  Ramsgate,  where  she  died  of  a  cancer, 
.July  12  til,  1846.  She  wrote  several  other  works, 
which  are  not  enumerated  here. 

The  life  and  writings  of  Charlotte  Elizabeth  af- 
ford remarkable  proofs  of  the  advantages  of  female 
education,  and  the  usefulness  of  female  talents. 
No  other  English  writer  has,  within  the  last  fifty 
years,  done  so  much  to  promote  the  cause  of 
evangelical  piety  in  the  English  Church  as  this 
deaf  woman.  And  her  pen,  reaching  across  the 
Atlantic,  has  instructed  thousands  of  Christians 
of  America  in  the  better  understanding,  or  doing, 
of  their  work  of  love. 

It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  good  which  has 
been,  and  will  be,  effected  by  the  earnest,  active, 
instructed  mind  of  this  woman,  devoting  herself 
and  her  genius  to  God  and  his  cause  on  earth. 
Though  she  is  dead  her  works  live,  and  their  po- 
tent and  persuasive  manner  of  setting  forth  the 
truths  of  the  Bible,  will  maintain  their  popularity 
with  those  who  value  the  Word  of  God  above  the 
traditions  of  men.  This  adherence  to  the  doc- 
trines of  the  Bible,  and  constant  reference  to  the 
sacred  book,  as  the  source  of  all  true  wisdom,  we 
consider  the  most  striking  and  beautiful  charac- 
teristic of  her  works.  As  these  are  extensively 
known,  we  choose  our  selections  from  her  "Auto- 
biography," which,  as  unveiling  the  secret  sources 
of  her  uncommon  energies,  and  her  wonderful 
power  to  move  the  hearts  of  her  readers,  should 
be  studied  by  all  who  are  interested  by  her 
writings. 

THE    ADVAXTAGES    OF    OBDER. 

How  very  much  do  they  err  who  consider  the 
absence  of  order  and  method  as  implying  greater 
liberty  or  removing  a  sense  of  restraint!  Such 
freedom  is  galling  to  me ;  and  in  my  eyes  the 
want  of  punctuality  is  a  want  of  honest  principle  ; 
for  however  people  may  think  themselves  author- 
ised to  rob  God  and  themselves  of  their  own  time, 
they  can  plead  no  right  to  lay  a  violent  hand  on 
the  time  and  duties  of  their  neighbour.  I  say  it 
deliberately,  that  I  have  been  defrauded  of  hun- 
dreds of  pounds,  and  cruelly  deprived  of  my  ne- 
cessary refreshment  in  exercise,  in  sleep,  and  even 
in  seasonable  food,  through  this  disgraceful  want 
of  punctuality  in  others,  more  than  through  any 
cause  whatsoever  besides.  It  is  also  very  irritat- 
ing ;  for  a  person  who  would  cheerfully  bestow  a 
piece  of  gold,  does  not  like  to  be  swindled  out  of 
a  piece  of  copper ;  and  many  an  hour  have  I  been 
ungenerously  wronged  of,  to  the  excitement  of 
feelings  in  themselves  far  from  right,  when  I  would 
gladly  have  so  arranged  my  work  as  to  bestow 
upon  the  robbers  thrice  the  time  they  made  me 


wantonly  sacrifice.  To  say,  "  I  will  come  to  you 
on  such  a  day,"  leaving  the  person  to  expect  you 
early,  and  then,  after  wasting  her  day  in  that  un- 
comfortable, unsettled  state  of  looking  out  for  a 
guest,  which  precludes  all  application  to  present 
duties,  and  to  come  late  in  the  evening  —  or  to 
accept  an  invitation  to  dinner,  and  either  break 
the  engagement  or  throw  the  household  into  con- 
fusion by  making  it  wait  —  to  appoint  a  meeting, 
and  fail  of  keeping  your  time  —  all  these,  and 
many  other  effects  of  this  vile  habit  are  exceed- 
ingly disgraceful,  and  wholly  opposed  to  the  scrip- 
tural rules  laid  down  for  the  governance  of  our 
conduct  one  to  another.  I  say  nothing  of  the  in- 
sult put  upon  the  Most  High,  the  daring  presump- 
tion of  breaking  in  upon  the  devotions  of  his 
worshippers,  and  involving  them  in  the  sin  of 
abstractedness  from  the  solemn  work  before  them, 
by  entering  late  into  the  house  of  prayer.  Such 
persons  may  one  day  find  they  have  a  more  serious 
account  to  render  on  the  score  of  their  contempt 
of  punctuality  than  they  seern  willing  to  believe. 

BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS. 

How  strong,  how  sweet,  how  sacred  is  the  tie 
that  binds  an  only  sister  to  an  only  brother,  when 
they  have  been  permitted  to  grow  up  together, 
untrammelled  by  the  heartless  forms  of  fashion  ; 
unrivalled  by  alien  claimants  in  their  confiding 
affection ;  undivided  in  study,  in  sport,  and  in 
interest.  Some  object,  that  such  union  renders 
the  boy  too  effeminate  and  the  girl  too  masculine. 
In  our  case  it  did  neither.  He  was  the  manliest, 
the  hardiest,  most  decided,  most  intrepid  character 
imaginable ;  but  in  manners  sweet,  gentle,  and 
courteous,  as  they  will  be  who  are  accustomed  to 
look  with  protecting  tenderness  on  an  associate 
weaker  than  themselves.  And  as  for  me,  though 
I  must  plead  guilty  to  the  charge  of  being  more 
healthy,  more  active,  and  perhaps  more  energetic 
than  young  ladies  are  usually  expected  to  be,  still 
I  never  was  considered  unfeminine  ;  and  the  only 
peculiarity  resulting  from  this  constant  compan- 
ionship with  one  of  the  superior  sex,  was  to  give 
me  a  high  sense  of  that  superiority,  with  a  habit 
of  deference  to  man's  judgment,  and  submission 
to  man's  authority,  which  I  am  quite  sure  God 
intended  the  woman  to  yield.  Every.way  has  this 
fraternal  tie  been  a  rich  blessing  to  me.  The  love 
that  grew  with  us  from  our  cradles  never  knew 
diminution  from  time  or  distance.  Other  ties 
were  formed,  but  they  did  not  supersede  or  weaken 
this.  Death  tore  away  all  that  was  mortal  and 
perishable,  but  this  tie  he  could  not  sunder.  As 
I  loved  him  while  he  was  on  earth,  so  do  I  love 
him  now  that  he  is  in  heaven  ;  and  while  I  cherish 
in  his  boys  the  living  likeness  of  what  he  was,  my 
heart  ever  more  yearns  towards  him  where  he  is, 
anticipating  the  day  when  the  Lord  shall  come, 
and  bring  that  beloved  one  with  him. 

Parents  are  wrong  to  check  as  they  do  the  out- 
goings of  fraternal  affection,  by  separating  those 
whom  God  has  especially  joined  as  the  offspring 
of  one  father  and  one  mother.  God  has  beauti- 
fully mingled  them,  by  sending  now  a  babe  of  one 
sex,  now  of  the  other,  and  suiting,  as  any  careful 

536 


TO 


TO 


observer  may  discern,  tlieir  various  characters  to 
form  a  domestic  whole.  The  parents  interpose, 
packing  the  boys  to  some  school  where  no  softer 
influence  exists  to  round  oiF,  as  it  were,  the  rugged 
points  of  the  masculine  disposition,  and  where 
they  soon  lose  all  the  delicacy  of  feeling  peculiar 
to  a  brother's  regard,  and  learn  to  look  on  the 
female  character  in  a  light  wholly  subversive  of 
the  frankness,  the  purity,  the  generous  care  for 
which  earth  can  yield  no  substitute,  and  the  loss 
of  which  only  transforms  him  who  ought  to  be  the 
tender  preserver  of  woman  into  her  heartless  de- 
stroyer. The  girls  are  either  grouped  at  home, 
with  the  blessed  privilege  of  a  father's  eye  upon 
them,  or  sent  away  in  a  different  direction  from 
their  brothei's,  exposed,  through  unnatural  and 
unpalatable  restraints,  to  evils  not  perhaps  so 
great,  but  every  whit  as  wantonly  incurred  as  the 
others. 

THE    EVILS    OF    TIGHT    LACING. 

One  morning,  when  I  was  about  eight  years  old, 
my  father  came  in,  and  found  sundry  preparations 
going  on,  the  chief  materials  for  which  were  buck- 
ram, whalebone,  and  other  stitf  articles  :  while  the 
young  lady  was  under  measurement  by  the  hands 
of  a  female  friend. 

"  Pray  what  are  you  going  to  do  to  the  child  ?" 

"  Going  to  fit  her  with  a  pair  of  stays." 

"  For  what  purpose  ?" 

"To  improve  her  figure;  no  young  lady  can 
grow  up  properly  without  them." 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  young  gentlemen  grow 
up  very  well  without  them,  and  so  may  young 
ladies." 

"  Oh,  you  are  mistaken.  See  what  a  stoop  she 
has  already ;  depend  on  it  this  girl  will  be  both  a 
dwarf  and  a  cripple  if  we  don't  put  her  into 
stays." 

"  My  child  may  be  a  cripple,  ma'am,  if  such  is 
God's  will ;  but  she  shall  be  one  of  his  making,  not 
cur's." 

All  remonstrance  was  vain ;  stays  and  every 
species  of  tight  dress  was  strictly  prohibited  by 
the  authority  of  one  whose  will  was,  as  every 
man's  ought  to  be,  absolute  in  his  own  household. 
He  also  carefully  watched  against  any  evasion  of 
the  rule  ;  a  riband  drawn  tightly  round  my  waist 
would  have  been  cut  without  hesitation,  by  his 
determined  hand  ;  while  the  little  girl  of  the  anx- 
ious friend,  whose  operations  he  had  interrupted, 
enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of  that  system  from 
which  I  was  preserved.  She  grew  up  a  wand-like 
figure,  graceful  and  interesting,  and  died  of  decline 
at  nineteen,  while  I,  though  not  able  to  compare 
shapes  with  a  wasp  or  an  hour-glass,  yet  passed 
muster  very  fairly  among  mere  human  forms,  of 
God's  moulding ;  and  I  have  enjoyed  to  this  hour 
a  rare  exemption  from  headaches,  and  other  lady- 
like maladies,  that  appear  the  almost  exclusive 
privilege  of  women  in  the  higher  classes. 

This  is  no  trivial  matter,  believe  me  ;  it  has  fre- 
quently been  the  subject  of  conversation  with  pro- 
fessional men  of  high  attainment,  and  I  never  met 
with  one  among  them  who  did  not,  on  hearing  that 
I  never  but  once,  and  then  only  for  a  few  hours, 


submitted  to  the  restraint  of  these  unnatural  ma- 
chines, refer  to  that  exemption,  as  a  means,  the 
free  respiration,  circulation,  and  powers  both  of 
exertion  and  endurance  with  which  the  Lord  has 
most  mercifully  gifted  me.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  hand  which  first  encloses  the  waist 
of  a  girl  in  these  cruel  contrivances,  supplying  her 
with  a  fictitious  support,  where  the  hand  of  God 
has  placed  bones  and  muscles  that  ought  to  be 
brought  into  vigorous  action,  that  hand  lays  the 
foundation  of  bitter  suflTerings  ;  at  the  price  of 
which,  and  probably  of  a  premature  death,  the 
advantage  must  be  purchased  of  rendei-ing  her 
figure  as  unlike  as  possible  to  all  the  models  of 
female  beauty,  universally  admitted  to  be  such, 
because  they  are  chiselled  after  nature  itself.  I 
have  seen  pictures,  and  I  have  read  harrowing  de- 
scriptions, of  the  murderous  consequences  of  thus 
flying  in  the  face  of  the  Creator's  skill,  and  pre- 
suming to  mend  —  to  improve  —  his  perfect  work; 
but  my  own  experience  is  worth  a  thousand  trea- 
tises and  ten  thousand  illustrations,  in  bringing 
conviction  to  my  mind. 

EMPLOYMENT. 

How  is  it  that  Christians  so  often  complain  they 
can  find  nothing  to  do  for  their  Master  ?  To  hear 
some  of  them  bemoaning  their  unprofitableness,  we 
might  conclude  that  the  harvest  indeed  is  small, 
and  the  labourers  many.  So  many  servants  out 
of  employ,  is  a  bad  sign ;  and  to  obviate  this  diffi- 
culty complained  of,  I  purpose  showing  joii  two 
or  three  ways  in  which  those  who  are  so  inclined 
may  bestir  themselves  for  the  good  of  others. 
What  a  blessing  were  a  working  church  !  and  by 
a  church,  I  mean  "the  company  of  all  faithful 
people,"  whomsoever  and  wheresoever  they  be. 

In  the  village  where  I  lived,  there  was  a  very 
good  national-school,  well  attended :  also  a  Sun- 
day-school ;  and  the  poorer  inhabitants  generally 
were  of  a  respectable  class,  with  many  of  a  higher 
grade — such  as  small  tradesmen,  and  the  families 
of  those  in  subordinate  offices  about  the  Military 
College.  I  always  took  a  great  interest  in  the 
young ;  and  as  love  usually  produces  love,  there 
was  no  lack  of  affectionate  feeling  on  their  part. 
It  occurred  to  me,  as  the  Sunday  was  much  de- 
voted by  most  of  them  to  idling  about,  that  assem- 
bling such  of  them  as  wished  it  at  my  cottage, 
would  afford  an  opportunity  for  scriptural  instruc- 
tion ;  and  without  anything  resembling  a  school, 
or  any  regular  proposal,  I  found  a  little  party  of 
six  or  seven  childi-en  assembled  in  the  afternoon, 
to  hear  a  chapter  read,  answer  a  few  questions 
upon  it,  and  join  in  a  short  prayer.  Slaking  it  as 
cheerful  and  unrestrained  as  possible,  I  found  my 
little  guests  greatly  pleased ;  and  on  the  next  Sab- 
bath my  party  was  doubled,  solely  through  the 
favourable  report  spread  by  them.  One  had  asked 
me,  "  Please,  ma'am,  may  I  bring  my  little  sister?" 
and  on  the  reply  being  given,  "You  may  bring  any- 
body and  everybody  you  like,"  a  general  beating 
up  for  recruits  followed.  In  three  or  four  weeks, 
my  assemblage  amounted  to  sixty,  only  one  half 
of  whom  could  be  crowded  into  the  parlour  of  my 
small  cottage.     What  was  to  be  done  ?     The  woik 

537 


TO 


TR 


was  rather  arduous ;  but  as  I  too  had  been  com- 
plaining not  long  before  of  having  little  to  do  for 
the  Lord,  except  with  the  pen,  I  resolved  to  brave 
a  little  extra  labour.  I  desired  the  gii"ls  to  come 
at  four,  the  boys  at  six ;  and  allowing  an  interval 
of  half  an  hour  between,  we  got  through  it  very 
well.  A  long  table  was  set  across  the  room,  from 
corner  to  corner ;  round  this  they  were  seated, 
each  with  a  Bible,  I  being  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
I  found  this  easy  and  sociable  way  of  proceeding 
highly  gratified  the  children :  they  never  called, 
never  thought  it  a  school  —  they  came  bustling  in 
with  looks  of  great  glee,  particularly  the  boys, 
and  greeted  me  with  the  affectionate  freedom  of 
young  friends.  A  few  words  of  introductory 
prayer  were  followed  by  the  reading  of  one  or 
more  chapters,  so  that  each  had  a  verse  or  two ; 
and  then  we  talked  over  the  portion  of  Scripture 
very  closely,  mutually  questioning  each  other. 
Many  of  the  girls  were  as  old  as  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen, beautiful  creatures,  and  very  weU  dressed ; 
and  what  a  privilege  it  was  so  to  gather  and  so  to 
arm  them,  in  a  place  where,  alas !  innumerable 
snares  beset  their  path !  We  concluded  with  a 
hymn ;  and  long  before  the  half-hour  had  expired 
that  preceded  the  boys'  entrance,  they  were  clus- 
tering like  bees  at  the  gate,  impatient  for  the  joy- 
ous rush ;  and  to  set  themselves  round  their  dear 
table,  with  all  that  free  confidence,  without  which 
I  never  could  succeed  in  really  commanding  the 
attention  of  boys. 

Our  choice  of  chapters  was  peculiar ;  I  found 
they  wanted  stirring  subjects,  and  I  gave  them 
Gideon,  Samson,  Jonathan,  Nehemiah,  Boaz,  Mor- 
decai,  Daniel  —  all  the  most  manly  characters  of 
Old  Testament  history,  with  the  rich  gospel  that 
lies  wrapped  in  every  page  of  that  precious  volume. 
Even  in  the  New  Testament,  I  found  that  indivi- 
dualizing, as  much  as  possible,  the  speaker  or  the 
narrative,  produced  great  efi"ects.  Our  blessed 
Lord  himself,  John  the  Baptist,  Paul  —  all  were 
brought  before  them  as  vividly  as  possible ;  and 
I  can  assure  those  who  try  to  teach  boys  as  they 
would  teach  girls,  that  they  are  pursuing  a  wi-ong 
method.  Mine  have  often  coaxed  an  extra  hour 
from  me ;  and  I  never  once  saw  them  willing  to 
go,  during  the  fifteen  months  of  our  happy  meet- 
ings. If  the  least  symptom  of  unruliness  appeared, 
I  had  only  to  tell  them  they  were  my  guests ;  and 
I  appealed  to  their  feelings  of  manliness,  whether 
a  lady  had  not  some  claim  to  forbearance  and 
respect.  Nothing  rights  a  boy  of  ten  or  twelve 
years  like  putting  him  on  his  manhood ;  and, 
really,  my  little  lads  became  gentlemen  in  mind 
and  manners,  while,  blessed  be  God!  not  a  few 
became,  I  trust,  wise  unto  salvation. 

THE    BIBLE. 

Those  who  received  the  gospel  by  man's  preach- 
ing, may  doubt  and  cavil :  I  took  it  simply  from 
the  Bible,  in  the  words  that  God's  wisdom  teacheth, 
and  I  thus  argued: — "Jesus  Christ  came  into  the 
world  to  save  sinners :  I  am  a  sinner :  I  want  to 
be  saved:  he  will  save  me."  There  is  no  pre- 
sumption in  taking  God  at  his  word :  not  to  do  so, 
is  very  impertinent :  I  did  it,  and  I  was  happy. 


I  confess  myself  very  little  under  the  influence 
of  human  teachers ;  my  being  thrown  exclusively 
on  the  Bible  for  a  scheme  of  doctrine,  not  only  fur- 
nished me  with  a  satisfactory  one,  but  showed  me 
so  much  of  the  inexhaustible  treasures  of  wisdom 
and  knowledge  hid  in  Christ,  and  of  the  Holy 
Spirit's  all-sufificiency  to  take  of  those  things,  and 
show  them  unto  the  humble,  diligent,  prayerful 
enquirer,  that,  in  most  cases  of  difliculty,  instead 
of  asking,  "What  say  the  commentators?"  or 
"What  says  Mr.  so  and  so?"  I  put  the  question, 
"What  says  the  Lord?"  For  an  answer,  I  search 
his  written  word ;  and  for  a  commentary  upon  it, 
I  study  his  visible  works. 

TORRELLA,   IPPOLITA, 

Was  the  wife  of  the  celebrated  Baldassane  Cas- 
tigliona,  and  was  born  at  Reggio.  Little  is  known 
of  her  life,  except  that  she  was  a  friend  of  the 
learned  and  virtuous  Olimpia  Morati.  She  has 
left  some  excellent  Latin  poems  —  the  following 
translation  of  one  by  Moore,  may  serve  as  a  spe- 
cimen. It  is  addressed  to  her  husband,  absent  at 
the  court  of  Leo  X. 

They  tell  me  thou  'rt  the  favour'd  guest 
Of  every  gay  and  brilliant  throng; 

No  wit  like  thine  to  point  the  jest. 

No  voice  like  thine  to  breathe  the  song — 

And  none  could  tell,  so  gay  thou  art, 

That  thou  and  I  are  far  apart. 

Alas,  alas!  how  different  flows. 
With  thee  and  me,  the  time  away ! 

Not  that  I  wish  thee  sad,  heaven  knows; 
Still,  if  thou  canst  be  light  and  gay, 

I  only  know  that  without  thee. 

The  sun  himself  is  dark  to  me. 

Do  1  thus  haste  to  hall  and  bower. 
Among  the  gay  and  fair  to  shine  ? 

Or  deck  my  hair  with  gem  and  flower, 
To  flatter  other  eyes  than  thine? 

Ah,  no!  with  me,  love's  smiles  are  past — 

Thou  had'st  the  first,  thou  had'st  the  last. 

TOSINI,  EUTROPIA, 
Was  born  in  Ferrara.  The  works  of  this  au- 
thoress have  survived  but  in  part,  as  they  were 
suppressed  by  the  censors  of  the  press,  the  sub- 
jects being  deemed  detrimental  to  the  existing 
church.  She  was  a  nun  of  the  Augustine  order. 
Those  poems  which  have  been  preserved,  are  in 
the  collection  of  Bergalli,  and  are  very  beautiful. 

TRANTHAM,   BETSEY, 
Celebrated  for  her  longevity,  was  a  German 
by  birth,  and  emigrated  to  the  British  colonies  of 
North  America  in  1710,  and  died  in  Maury  county, 
Tennessee,  in  1834,  at  the  great  age  of  154. 

TRIMMER,    SARAH, 

The  daughter  of  Mr.  Kirby,  who  wrote  on  Per- 
spective, was  born  at  Ipswich,  in  England,  in  1741. 
She  prepared  several  useful  works  to  promote  the 
difl'usion  of  education,  at  a  period  when  for  a  wo- 
man to  devote  herself  to  such  a  task  was  uncom- 
mon and  unpopular.  Mrs.  Hannah  More  was,  it  is 
true,  in  the  field  of  literature ;  but  she  had  gained 
powerful  friends  and  supporters ;  nor  did  she  aim 

638 


TR 


UL 


so  much  at  opening  and  clearing  the  sources  of 
education  for  the  young  and  ignorant,  as  in  inte- 
resting and  improving  those  who  were  already 
educated,  or  giving  a  moral  direction  to  minds 
which  could  not  be  kept  quiet  in  their  ignorance. 
But  Hannah  More  could  not  do  everything  which 


was  then  needed  in  literature  for  her  sex  and  for 
children;  she,  probably,  effected  more  good  than 
any  other  writer  of  her  time ;  and  among  her  kind 
feelings  and  noble  acts,  was  the  regard  she  mani- 
fested for  Mrs.  Trimmer,  and  the  efiForts  she  used 
to  serve  this  more  humble,  but  useful  literary 
contemporary,  as  the  following  letter  proves : — 

FKOM    MRS.    TRIMMER    TO    MISS    H.    MORE. 

May  10,  1787. 

Dear  Madam  : — I  feel  myself  inexpressibly  ob- 
liged by  your  kind  attention.  It  would  appear 
like  flattery  to  say  how  much  I  value  your  good 
opinion,  but  indeed  it  has  long  been  the  secret 
wish  of  my  heart  to  obtain  it.  Your  kind  mention 
of  my  works  to  the  bishop  of  Salisbury,  I  esteem 
a  high  obligation.  I  cannot  but  be  proud  of  his 
approbation,  though  I  must  consider  it  as  a  proof 
of  his  regard  to  religion,  which  induces  him  to 
countenance  any  attempt,  however  feeble,  to  pro- 
mote its  interests.  I  could  wish  you,  dear  madam, 
to  assure  his  lordship  that  his  kind  notice  gives 
fresh  animation  to  my  zeal,  and  that  I  shall  be 
highly  gratified  if  he  does  me  the  honour  of  call- 
ing on  me. 

I  have  been  favoured  with  a  most  friendly  letter 
from  Dr.  Stonehouse,  and  a  present  of  all  his 
Tracts,  &c.  My  best  thanks  are  due  to  you, 
madam,  for  the  obliging  representations  which 
have  procured  me  the  notice  of  this  venerable 
gentleman,  who  would  otherwise  have  overlooked 
me  and  my  humble  performances.  I  need  not  say 
that  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  be  regarded 
in  so  favourable  a  light  by  the  good  and  the  wise; 
for  you  have  had  such  full  experience  of  this  kind 
of  pleasure,  that  you  can  easily  conceive  what  I 
enjoy  from  this  circumstance. 

When  I  see  new  editions  of  your  publications 
advertised,   I  sincerely  rejoice  that  there   is   so 


much  taste  remaining  in  the  world.  I  hope  your 
useful  pen  does  not  lie  idle.  Surely,  you  mean 
to  favour  the  public  with  something  more,  shortly. 
I  have  long  been  in  hopes  of  seeing  another  volume 
of  "Sacred  Dramas."  Indeed,  my  dear  madam, 
you  should  go  on  with  them ;  they  are  so  extremely 
engaging  to  young  minds,  and  the  sentiments  so 
agreeable  to  Scriptiu-e,  that  they  cannot  fail  of 
producing  the  happiest  efi'ects.  You  know  that  I 
read  the  sacred  volume  frequently ;  I  may  truly 
say,  it  is  my  highest  entertainment  to  do  so,  and  I 
can  assure  you  that  your  "Sacred  Dramas"  excite 
in  my  mind  the  same  kind  of  devotional  feeling  as 
the  Scriptures  themselves. 

I  avail  myself  of  your  kind  permission  to  submit 
the  beginning  of  my  new  edition  of  "  Sacred  His- 
tory" to  your  inspection,  and  should  esteem  my- 
self greatly  obliged  if  you  would  favour  me  Avith 
your  sincere  opinion  whether  I  have  improved 
upon  the  former  one  or  not.  I  send  with  it  a  spe- 
cimen of  the  Psalms,  which  I  mentioned  when  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  I  believe  I  must 
endeavour  to  do  them  in  a  more  concise  way  for 
Sunday-schools ;  but  at  present  the  revision  of 
"  Sacred  History"  employs  all  my  time. 

In  conformity  with  your  friendly  counsel,  I 
wrote  to  my  publisher  about  three  weeks  ago, 
desiring  that  he  would  settle  my  accoimt  in  the 
course  of  this  month,  which  he  has  promised  to  do 
without  fail.  At  present,  I  am  a  mere  bookseller's 
fag,  but  hope  to  have  resolution  enough  to  disen- 
tangle myself. 

When,  my  dear  madam,  may  I  hope  for  the 
favour  of  your  company  ?  I  long  to  introduce  my 
family  to  you ;  they  are  impatient  to  see  a  lady 
whose  character  and  wi'itings  they  so  highly  es- 
teem. I  wish  to  show  you  the  spinning-wheel; 
it  is  really  a  most  interesting  sight  to  see  twelve 
little  gii'ls  so  usefully  and  so  agreeably  employed. 
I  shall  experience  so  great  a  disappointment  if  I 
should  chance  to  be  out  when  you  come,  that  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  fix  the  time.  I  cannot 
be  satisfied  with  a  mere  call — surely  you  can  spare 
me  a  day.  I  have  a  bed  at  your  service,  if  you 
can  be  prevailed  on  to  accept  it. 

Mrs.  Trimmer  died  in  1810,  aged  sixty-nine. 


ULRICA,  ELEONORA, 
Second  daughter  of  Charles  XI.  of  Sweden,  was 
born  1688,  and  governed  the  kingdom  during  the 
absence  of  her  brother,  Charles  XII. ;  after  his 
death,  she  was  proclaimed  queen,  1719.  The  fol- 
lowing year  she  resigned  the  crown  to  her  hus- 
band, Frederic  of  Hesse-Cassel,  with  whom  she 
shared  the  honours  of  royalty ;  but  such  was  the 
ascendency  of  the  nobles,  that  they  obliged  their 
sovereigns  to  acknowledge  theii*  right  to  the  throne 
as  the  unbiassed  election  of  the  people.  Ulrica, 
by  a  wise  administration,  contributed  to  restore 
peace  and  prosperity  to  the  nation,  and  was  greatly 
beloved  and  respected.  She  died  in  17-11.  Her 
mother,  the  wife  of  Charles  XI.,  also  bore  the 

539 


UR 


UR 


name  of  Ulrica,  and  died  in  consequence  of  the 
chagrin  which  her  husband's  brutal  treatment  had 
occasioned. 

URSINS,    ANNE   MARIE    DE   LA 
TREMOUILLE,    PRINCESS, 

Married,  in  youth,  Tallegran,  prince  de  Cha- 
lais ;  and  afterwards,  the  duke  de  Bracciano,  of 
the  house  of  Orsino :  but  as  this  celebrated  woman 
has  always  borne  the  name  in  the  French  style, 
des  Ursins,  it  would  only  lead  to  uncertainty  to 
adopt  any  other.  She  became  a  widow,  for  the 
second  time,  in  1698 ;  and  the  dukedom  of  Brac- 
ciano being  sold  to  pay  the  debts  of  the  family, 
she  took  the  name  of  princess  des  Ursins.  At  the 
marriage  of  Philip  V.  of  Spain,  grandson  of  the 
French  king,  Louis  XII.,  with  the  daughter  of 
Victor  Amadeus,  of  Savoy,  the  princess  of  Ursins 
was  placed  in  the  household  of  the  new  queen,  by 
the  influence  of  Madame  de  Maiutenon,  who  flat- 
tered herself  she  could  direct  the  afi"airs  of  Spain 
through  a  correspondence  with  one  whom  she  con- 
sidered her  creature,  and  whose  domineering  and 
intriguing  spirit,  she  felt  assured,  would  soon  ob- 
tain unbounded  influence  over  Philip  and  his  young 
wife.  In  the  latter  particular  she  was  not  mis- 
taken. Philip  V.  was  not  without  natural  under- 
standing, but  his  education  had  been  worse  than 
neglected.  He  had,  in  common  with  all  the  junior 
members  of  the  royal  family  of  France,  been  taught 
to  distrust  his  own  judgment;  to  lean  upon  the 
opinions  of  others ;  and  never  to  fancy  himself 
capable  of  directing  the  most  trivial  matter,  with- 
out advice:  besides,  all  knowledge  of  business, 
or  of  anything  practical,  had  been  discouraged,  as 
almost  treasonable,  and  his  attention  had  been 
entirely  wasted  on  attainments  the  most  futile. 
This  was  a  bad  preparation  for  the  head  of  a  great 
nation,  and  left  the  young  sovereign  at  the  mercy 
of  any  artful  flatterer  who  might  be  near  his  per- 
son. Such  a  one  was  the  princess  des  Ursins. 
Supple,  insinuating,  entertaining,  resolute,  she 
soon  became  the  real  governor  of  the  kingdom  ; 
neither  the  king  nor  queen  could  live  without  her 
advice  and  companionship.  Inflated  by  her  new 
elevation,  her  insolence  and  enterprise  became 
unbounded.  Not  even  the  despatches  of  the  French 
ambassador  were  sacred  ;  she  searched  them,  and 
had  the  efi'rontery  to  add  marginal  comments,  and 
send  them  on.  The  extreme  boldness  of  this  mea- 
sure, in  a  Frenchwoman,  can  only  be  estimated, 
when  we  consider  how  Louis  idolized  his  dignity, 
and  how  unsparing  he  was  to  the  smallest  breach 
of  etiquette.  On  this  occasion  he  was  justly  in- 
censed, and  exacted  the  banishment  of  Madame 
des  Ursins  from  the  Spanish  court.  After  a  time, 
however,  Madame  de  Maintenon,  who  missed  her 
Spanish  correspondence,  persuaded  Louis  to  par- 
don the  offender.  The  king  and  queen  of  Spain 
evidently  longed  for  her  retui-n,  and  when  it  took 
place,  she  obtained  higher  authority  than  ever. 
When  she  made  a  journey,  she  was  escorted  by  a 
body  of  royal  guards.  No  affair  of  importance 
was  undertaken  without  her  suggestion,  and  no- 
thing signed  without  her  permission.  She  hin- 
dered the  ratification  of  a  treaty  of  peace,  which 


was  important  to  the  most  considerable  powers  of 
Europe,  merely  to  favour  an  underhanded  intrigue 
to  obtain  some  personal  advantages. 

The  queen  of  Spain  died  in  1714.  Madame  des 
Ursins  immediately  conceived  the  idea  of  stepping 
into  her  place ;  and  such  was  her  power  over  the 
feeble  mind  of  Philip,  that  her  bold  expectations 
might  have  been  answered,  but  for  the  interven- 
tion of  the  king's  confessor.  Madame  des  Ursins 
finding  her  views  defeated  of  placing  herself  on 
the  thi'one,  determined,  as  the  next  best  thing,  to 
choose  a  wife  for  Philip  who  should  be  entirely  in 
her  dependence ;  for  this  purpose,  she  thought  of 
Elizabeth  Farnese,  niece  of  the  duke  of  Parma. 
She  imagined  a  young  princess  brought  up  without 
education,  in  the  little  court  of  Parma,  would  be 
merely  a  tool  in  her  hands.  For  this  purpose, 
she  engaged  in  the  negotiation  the  abb6  Julio  Al- 
beroni,  agent  of  the  duke  of  Parma  at  Madrid. 
This  man,  afterwards  the  well-known  cardinal  Al- 
beroni,  saw,  at  a  glance,  to  what  this  marriage 
might  lead  him.  He  spoke  of  the  princess  of 
Parma  as  exactly  the  insignificant  person  de- 
manded ;  determining,  at  the  same  time,  his  own 
plan  of  conduct.  Madame  des  Ursins,  sure  of 
making  the  king  accept  whomsoever  she  wished, 
caused  the  proposal  to  be  made  in  form.  After 
it  had  gone,  and  matters  were  drawing  to  a  con- 
clusion, she  was  told  that  Elizabeth,  though  with- 
out education,  had  good  natural  abilities,  and  a 
decided  character.  This  alarmed  the  princess ; 
she  immediately  despatched  a  courier  to  suspend 
everything.  He  an-ived  the  very  day  that  the 
nuptials  were  to  be  celebrated  by  proxy.  The 
uncle  and  niece  determined  at  once  what  to  do. 
The  courier  was  arrested :  he  was  offered  the 
choice  of  instant  death,  or  a  considerable  sum  to 
remain  hidden  till  the  next  day,  and  then  to  ap- 
pear as  just  arrived.  Of  course  the  courier  did 
not  hesitate  as  to  his  choice.  The  marriage  was 
celebrated,  and  the  princess  of  Parma  set  out  for 
Spain.  On  arriving  at  Pampeluna  she  met  Albe- 
roni,  and  told  him  she  was  resolved  to  get  rid  of 
Madame  des  Ursins  the  moment  she  saw  her. 
Alberoni  bade  her  be  wary,  and  tried  to  dissuade 
her  from  this  bold  step ;  but  she  had  made  her 
determination,  and  abided  in  it.  The  king,  who 
knew  nothing  of  Madame  des  Ursin's  courier — 
whose  errand  had  so  deeply  incensed  the  queen — 
advanced  to  meet  her  at  Guadalaxara,  twelve  miles 
from  Madrid.  It  is  impossible  to  know  what 
apologies  Madame  des  Ursins  had  framed  to  ap- 
pease the  royal  bride ;  probably  she  had  been  so 
long  used  to  absolute  domination,  and  to  have  her 
reasonings  accepted  without  demur,  that  she 
thought  to  carry  everything  off  by  high-handed 
insolence :  she  seemed  to  think  herself  as  much 
above  attack  as  if  she  had  been  born  to  the  throne. 
Whatever  were  her  views,  she  constituted  herself 
camerera-mayor  of  the  new  queen,  as  she  had 
been  of  the  former,  and  went  to  pay  her  court,  to 
meet  her  at  Quadraca,  seven  miles  farther  onward 
than  Guadalaxara.  As  soon  as  she  presented  her- 
self, the  attendants  retired,  to  permit  a  free  con- 
versation. Very  soon,  loud  words  were  heard; 
the  queen  called  her  officers  to  arrest  this  imper- 

540 


VA 


VA 


tinent  woman,  who  behaved  to  her  with  disrespect. 
Madame  des  Ursins,  thunderstruck,  asked  in  what 
she  had  been  disrespectful — what  was  her  crime  ? 
The  queen,  without  answering  her,  ordered  the 
commandant  of  her  guards  to  put  this  woman  in 
a  carriage  with  two  trusty  officers,  to  set  out  im- 
mediately, and  to  convey  her  beyond  the  frontiers 
of  Spain.  The  commandant,  scarcely  believing 
wliat  he  heard,  timidly  represented  that  such  an 
order  could  only  come  from  the  king. 

"  And  has  he  not  given  you  one,"  said  the  queen, 
haughtily,  "to  obey  me  in  everything,  without 
reserve,  or  dispute?" 

He  had  such  an  order,  though  nobody  but  the 
queen  was  acquainted  with  it.  Madame  des  Ur- 
sins was  accordingly  placed  in  a  carriage,  with  a 
chambermaid  and  two  guards.  It  was  a  cold  night 
in  December;  she  was  allowed  no  preparations, 
nor  time  even  to  change  her  attire ;  but  in  the 
unseasonable  trappings  of  a  court  dress,  no  cover- 
ing for  her  arms  or  head,  travelled  the  whole 
night.  Too  proud  to  complain,  not  a  sigh,  not  a 
word  escaped  her — the  revolution  was  too  sudden 
for  belief — nor  did  she  cease  indulging  in  hopes 
that  the  king  would  send  after  her,  till  she  arrived 
at  Chalais,  where  she  was  joined  by  her  nephew, 
bearing  a  letter  from  Philip,  in  which  he  said  he 
was  very  sorry  for  her,  but  that  he  could  not  re- 
sist the  queen. 

Under  this  blow,  ]\Iadame  des  Uisins  at  least 
maiRtained  her  dignity,  for  she  preserved  an  un- 
altered mien,  and  said  nothing.  Her  conductors, 
who  were  accustomed  to  view  her  with  fear  and 
respect,  were,  though  with  different  emotions,  as 
much  confounded  as  herself:  they  set  her  free  at 
St.  Jean-de-Luz.  Finding  that  all  was  over  for 
her  in  Spain,  she  attempted  to  make  her  court  in 
France.  Louis,  who  was  at  the  close  of  his  career, 
consented  to  see  her,  at  the  request  of  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  but  received  her  coldly  ;  and  the  rising 
sun,  the  future  regent,  having  received  from  Spain 
ample  testimony  of  the  calumnies  with  which  the 
dethroned  favourite  had  aspersed  him,  obtained 
from  the  king  an  order  that  she  should  never  ap- 
pear in  his  presence,  or  in  that  of  any  of  his  fa- 
mily. Those  who  have  been  long  accustomed  to 
the  life  of  a  court,  can  only  live  in  its  atmosphere, 
at  whatever  expense  of  dignity.  Madame  des 
Ursins,  unable  to  obtain  the  reality,  caught  at  its 
image.  She  attached  herself  to  the  household  of 
the  pretender  James  III.,  where  she  did  the  ho- 
nours, and  regulated  the  etiquette.  She  died  in 
1722,  having  lived  more  than  eighty  years. 

UTTMAN,  BARBARA, 

A  German,  the  inventor  of  the  method  of  weav- 
ing lace,  in  1561.  Nothing  of  her  private  history 
is  recorded. 


V. 

VALLIERE,  LOUISE  FRANgOISE,  DUCHESSE 
DE  LA, 

A  French  lady  of  an  ancient  family,  and  maid 
of  honour  to  Henrietta  of  England,  wife  of  the 


duke  of  Orleans,  became  the  mistress  of  Louis 
XIV.  of  France,  by  whom  she  had  a  son  and  a 
daughter.  She  is  thus  described  by  contemporary 
writers.  "  She  was  a  most  lovely  woman ;  the 
lucid  whiteness  of  her  skin,  the  roses  on  her 
cheeks,  her  languishing  blue  eyes,  and  her  fine 
silver-coloured  hair  were  altogether  captivating." 
To  her  Choisy  applies  the  following  line : 

"And  grace  still  inoro  charming  than  beauty." 


"  That  La  Valliere,"  (says  Anguetil,  in  his  Me- 
moirs), "who  was  so  engaging,  so  winning,  so 
tender,  and  so  much  ashamed  of  her  tenderness  ; 
who  would  have  loved  Louis  for  his  own  sake  had 
he  been  but  a  private  man ;  and  who  sacrificed  to 
her  affection  for  him  her  honour  and  conscientious 
scruples,  with  bitter  regret."  In  a  fit  of  mingled 
repentance  and  jealousy,  she  one  day  left  the 
court,  and  retired  to  a  convent  at  St.  Cloud.  The 
king,  when  informed  of  this,  seized  the  first  horse 
that  came  to  hand,  and  rode  hastily  after  her.  He 
at  length  prevailed  over  her  pious  resolutions,  and 
carried  her  back  in  triumph.  "Adieu,  sister," 
said  she  to  the  nun  who  opened  the  gate  for  her ; 
"you  shall  soon  see  me  again."  From  that  time 
La  Valliere,  shunning  the  public  gaze,  lived  in  re- 
tirement ;  and  consequently  the  king  mingled  but 
little  with  the  circles  of  the  court.  In  16G6,  how- 
ever, in  obedience  to  her  lover,  and  from  tender- 
ness to  her  children,  she  ventured  once  more  to 
appear  in  public,  and  accepted  the  title  and  ho- 
nours of  duchess. 

Some  time  after,  the  beauty,  wit,  and  vivacity 
of  Madame  de  Montespan,  acqviired  for  her  such 
an  ascendency  over  the  fickle  monarch,  that  La 
Valliere  was  again  driven  by  her  jealousy  to  the 
convent ;  and  she  was  again  induced,  by  the  tears 
and  entreaties  of  Louis,  to  return.  But,  being 
convinced  that  his  affections  were  irretrievably 
lost,  she  resolved  finally  to  carry  out  her  purpose, 
and  took  the  vows  in  the  presence  of  the  whole 
court,  under  the  name  of  sister  Louise,  of  the 
order  of  Mercy,  June  4th,  1675.  She  survived 
this  sacrifice  for  thirty-six  years,  devoted  to  the 
performance  of  the  austerities  of  a  conventual 
life.     It  was  proposed  to  elevate  her  to  those  dig- 

541 


VA 


VA 


nities  consistent  -with  her  retirement,  but  she  de- 
clined, saying,  "  Alas  !  after  having  shown  myself 
incapable  to  regulate  my  own  conduct,  shall  I  pre- 
tume  to  direct  that  of  others?" 

Madame  de  Montespan  went  sometimes  to  see 
her.  "  Are  you  really  as  happy,"  asked  she,  at 
one  time,  "  as  people  say  ?" 

"  I  am  not  happy,"  replied  the  gentle  Carmelite, 
"but  content." 

Her  daughter,  Mademoiselle  de  Blois,  was  mar- 
ried to  the  prince  of  Conti;  her  son,  Louis  of 
Bourbon,  count  of  Vermandois,  died  at  the  siege 
of  Courtrai,  in  1683.  "Alas,  my  God!"  said  La 
Valli^re,  when  informed  of  her  misfortune,  "must 
I  weep  for  his  death,  before  my  tears  have  ex- 
piated his  birth?"  She  died  in  1710,  at  the  age 
of  sixty-six. 

She  was  much  beloved  for  her  meekness,  gentle- 
ness, and  beneficence.  She  is  considered  the  au- 
thor of  "  Reflexions  sur  la  Mis^ricorde  de  Dieu." 

VANHOMRIGH,  ESTHER,  or  VANESSA, 
The  name  given  in  playfulness  to  Miss  Van- 
homrigh,  by  Dean  Swift,  and  by  which,  through 
her  connexion  with  him,  she  will  descend  to  future 
times.  Esther  Vanhomrigh  was  the  daughter  of  a 
widow  lady  in  affluent  circumstances,  in  whose 
house  Swift  was  domesticated  when  he  was  in 
London.  Of  her  personal  charms  little  has  been 
said ;  Swift  has  left  them  unsung,  and  other  au- 
thorities have  rather  depreciated  them.  When 
Swift  became  intimate  in  the  family,  she  was  not 
twenty  years  old ;  lively  and  graceful,  yet  with  a 
greater  inclination  for  reading  and  mental  cultiva- 
tion, than  is  usually  combined  with  a  gay  temper. 
This  last  attribute  had  fatal  attractions  for  Swift, 
who,  in  intercourse  with  his  female  friends,  had  a 
marked  pleasure  in  directing  their  studies,  and 
acting  as  their  literary  mentor  ;  a  dangerous  cha- 
racter for  him  who  assumes  it,  when  genius,  doci- 
lity, and  gratitude  are  combined  in  a  young  and 
interesting  pupil.  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  in  the  mean- 
while, sensible  of  the  pleasure  which  Swift  re- 
ceived from  her  society,  and  of  the  advantages  of 
youth  and  fortune  which  she  possessed,  and  igno- 
rant of  the  peculiar  circumstances  which  bound  him 
to  another,  yielded  to  the  admiration  with  which 
he  had  inspired  her,  and  naturally  looked  forward 
to  becoming  his  wife.  Swift,  however,  according 
to  that  singular  and  mysterious  line  of  conduct 
which  he  had  laid  down  for  himself,  had  no  such 
intention  of  rewarding  her  affection ;  he  affected 
blindness  to  her  passion,  and  persisted  in  placing 
their  intercourse  upon  the  footing  of  friendship — 
the  regard  of  pupil  and  teacher. 

The  imprudence  —  to  use  no  stronger  term  —  of 
continuing  such  an  intercourse  behind  the  specious 
veil  of  friendship,  was  soon  exhibited.  Miss  Van- 
homrigh, a  woman  of  strong  and  impetuous  feel- 
ings, rent  asunder  the  veil,  by  intimating  to  Swift 
the  state  of  her  affections.  In  his  celebrated  poem, 
in  which  he  relates  this  fact,  he  has  expressed  the 
"shame,  disappointment,  guilt,  surprise,"  which 
he  experienced  at  this  crisis ;  but,  instead  of  an- 
swering it  with  a  candid  avowal  of  his  engage- 
ments with  Stella  —  or  other  impediments,  which 


prevented  his  accepting  her  hand  and  fortune  — 
he  answered  the  confession,  at  first  in  raillery, 
and  afterwards  by  an  offer  of  devoted  and  ever- 
lasting friendship,  founded  on  the  basis  of  vir- 
tuous esteem.  Vanessa  was  neither  contented  nor 
silenced  by  the  result  of  her  declaration ;  but, 
almost  to  the  close  of  her  life,  persisted  in  endea- 
vouring, by  entreaties  and  arguments,  to  extort  a 
more  lively  return  to  her  passion.  The  letters  of 
Vanessa  to  Swift,  after  his  return  to  Ireland,  are 
filled  with  reproaches  for  his  coldness  and  indif- 
ference, combined  with  the  most  open  and  pas- 
sionate expressions  of  attachment;  whilst  his 
replies  betray  evident  annoyance,  and  a  settled 
purpose  to  repress  these  unreserved  proofs  of  de- 
votion. It  is  impossible  to  read  these  letters  with- 
out feeling  the  profoundest  pity  for  the  woman 
who  could  so  far  lose  sight  of  all  self-respect  as 
to  continue  such  professions  of  regard  to  a  man 
whose  conduct  to  her  was  marked  by  such  cruel 
and  heartless  selfishness.  Her  passion  appears  to 
have  been  so  resistless  as  to  have  borne  before  it 
all  sense  of  humiliation — every  feeling  of  womanly 
pride. 

The  circumstances  of  Vanessa,  by  a  singular  co- 
incidence, were  not  dissimilar  to  those  of  Stella. 
Her  parents  died,  and  she  became  mistress  of  her 
own  fortune.  Some  of  her  estates  being  in  Ire- 
land, it  became  necessary  to  look  after  them ;  and 
she,  induced,  no  doubt,  as  much  by  a  desire  to  be 
near  Swift  as  by  this  object,  repaired  to  Ireland. 
This  step  placed  Swift  in  a  very  unpleasant  posi- 
tion ;  he  dreaded  having  the  rivals  on  the  same 
ground,  and  was  terrified  at  the  vehemence  of 
Vanessa's  passion,  which  she  was  at  no  pains  to 
conceal.  She  took  possession  of  her  small  pro- 
perty at  Cellbridge,  and  her  letters  to  Swift  be- 
came more  and  more  embarrassing  to  him.  The 
jealousy  of  Stella  was  now  awakened  by  rumours 
that  had  reached  her,  and  her  health  and  spii'its 
rapidly  declined.  The  mari'iage  of  Swift  and 
Stella,  is  still  a  disputed  question ;  but  the  most 
recent  researches  upon  the  subject,  serve  to  con- 
firm this  belief.  It  is  asserted,  that  alarmed  at 
the  state  of  Stella's  health,  Swift  employed  his 
friend,  the  bishop  of  Clogher,  to  ask,  what  he 
dared  not  question  himself,  the  cause  of  her  me- 
lancholy. The  answer  was  such  as  his  conscience 
must  have  anticipated.  Swift,  to  appease  her, 
consented  to  go  through  the  form  of  marriage 
with  her,  provided  it  was  kept  a  secret  from  the 
world,  and  that  they  should  continue  to  live  apart 
as  before ;  and  they  were  married  at  the  deanery, 
by  the  bishop  of  Clogher. 

Notwithstanding  the  new  obligation  which  he 
had  imposed  upon  himself,  to  act  with  uprightness 
to  Vanessa,  Swift  still  continued  to  visit  her  as 
before ;  he  professed  to  discourage  her  attach- 
ment, and  even  advised  her  to  marry  one  of  her 
suitors ;  but,  by  his  warm  interest  in  her  and  her 
affairs,  secretly  confirmed  her  feelings.  Vanessa 
had  now  become  aware  of  Swift's  connexion  with 
Stella,  whose  declining  health  alone  had  prevented 
her  asking  an  explanation  of  Swift,  as  to  the  real 
state  of  his  position  with  her.  Impatience  at 
length  prevailed ;  and,  in  an  evil  hour,  she  wrote 


VA 


VE 


to  Stella,  requesting  to  be  informed  of  the  true 
state  of  the  case.  Stella,  without  hesitation,  in- 
formed her  of  her  marriage  with  the  dean,  and 
enclosing  to  him  Vanessa's  letter,  she  left  her  own 
abode  in  indignation,  and  retired  to  the  house  of 
a  friend.  Enfuriated  against  the  woman  whose 
rashness  had  betrayed  his  treachery.  Swift  pro- 
ceeded to  the  dwelling  of  Vanessa ;  he  entered  her 
presence,  and  casting  upon  her  a  withering  glance 
of  scorn  and  rage,  threw  the  letter  which  she  had 
written  to  Stella  upon  the  table,  and,  without  a 
word,  rushed  from  the  house,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  returned  to  Dublin. 

Vanessa,  horror-stricken,  saw  that  her  fate  was 
sealed,  and  she  sanl:  under  the  weight  of  her 
despair.  This  cruel  act  of  her  lover,  however,  at 
last  restored  her  to  reason ;  she  revoked  a  will 
made  in  his  favour,  and  left  it  in  charge  to  her 
executors,  to  publish  all  the  correspondence  be- 
tween her  and  Swift ;  which,  however,  never  ap- 
peared. Vanessa  survived  this  fatal  blow  only 
fourteen  months ;  she  died  in  1723.  On  hearing 
of  her  death.  Swift,  it  is  said,  seized  with  remorse, 
and  overcome  with  shame  and  self-reproach,  with- 
drew himself  from  society,  and  for  two  months 
the  place  of  his  retreat  was  unknown.  Thus  two 
noble-hearted  women,  true  and  disinterested  in 
their  affection  for  him,  were  sacrificed  to  his  self- 
ish vanity  and  worldly  wisdom. 

VAN   NESS,    MARCIA, 

Was  the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  David 
Burns,  Esq.,  of  Maryland.  She  was  carefully  edu- 
cated, and  was  distinguished  for  her  loveliness  of 
person  and  her  benevolence  of  character.  In  1802, 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  she  married  the  Hon.  John 
P.  Van  Ness,  by  whom  she  had  only  one  child,  a 
daughter.  The  sudden  death  of  this  daughter, 
soon  after  her  marriage  to  Ai-thur  Middleton,  of 
South  Carolina,  was  a  sad  affliction ;  but  she  re- 
signed herself  to  the  will  of  God,  and  devoted  her 
energies  to  the  cause  of  charity.  She  was  the 
leader  in  those  plans  of  benevolence,  in  the  city 
of  Washington,  managed  by  ladies.  A  society  was 
incorporated  for  establishing  a  Female  Orphan 
Asylum,  and  Mrs.  Van  Ness  gave  the  grounds  ne- 
cessary for  the  erection  of  such  an  edifice ;  and 
she  was  one  of  the  most  eflScient  agents  in  pro- 
moting the  success  of  this  charitable  institution. 
United  with  lady-like  manners,  she  displayed 
sound  sense  and  great  decision  of  character,  and 
was  honoured  and  respected  by  all  classes  of 
people  who  knew  her  deeds,  and  were  admitted 
to  her  society. 

Mrs.  Van  Ness  died  on  the  ninth  of  September, 
1832,  and  the  announcement  of  her  decease  cast 
a  gloom  over  the  whole  city.  The  citizens,  with- 
out distinction  of  political  party  or  religious  creeds, 
had  a  meeting  to  express  their  grief  at  her  depar- 
ture from  her  labours  of  charity  and  piety,  and 
to  fix  on  some  method  of  bearing  testimony  to  her 
worth.  The  citizens  voted  to  procure  a  plate  to 
be  put  on  her  coffin,  with  an  inscription,  detailing 
her  virtues  and  expressing  their  gratitude.  This 
was  done ;  and  the  whole  city  may  be  said  to  have 
attended  her  funeral.     This  is  the  first  instance 


on  record  in  the  United  States,  in  which  the  people 
of  a  city  or  a  town  were  called  together  to  devise 
funeral  honours  for  a  woman. 

VAROTARI,    CHIARA, 

Was  born  at  Verona,  in  1582.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  artist,  Drio  Varotari, 
by  whom  she  was  instructed  in  the  art  of  painting. 
Her  portraits  were  considered  very  excellent.  She 
died  at  Verona,  in  1689. 

VARNHAGEN,    RACHEL   LEVIN,    or 
ROBERT, 

Was  born  at  Berlin,  in  1771.  She  was  a  Jewess 
by  birth ;  and  with  no  outward  advantages  to  com- 
pensate for  this  grand  mischance,  she  nevertheless 
raised  herself  by  degrees — and  without  seeking  it, 
but  by  sheer  instinctive  elasticity  —  to  be  a  queen 
of  thought  and  taste  in  the  most  intellectual  coun- 
try of  Europe.  Her  early  education  seems  to  have 
been  much  neglected ;  but,  with  the  strength  and 
compass  of  soul  with  which  she  was  gifted,  this 
absence  of  external  influence  only  caused  the  in- 
ternal might  to  develope  itself  with  more  fresh- 
ness and  originality. 

In  the  year  1815,  after  a  long-continued  strug- 
gle with  herself,  she  felt  constrained  to  make 
an  open  profession  of  Christianity;  in  the  same 
year,  she  married  K.  A.  Varnhagen  von  Ense, 
and  their  union  was  a  pre-eminently  happy  one, 
although  she  was  several  years  older  than  her 
husband.  Her  husband  published  her  letters  and 
biography  after  her  death.  As  an  authoress,  she 
is  only  known  through  her  letters ;  every  one  of 
which  breathes  a  spirit  of  purity,  devotion,  and 
Christian  humility,  that  makes  them  worthy  of  a 
place  in  every  Christian  library.  She  was  ac- 
quainted and  corresponded  with  most  of  the  dis- 
tinguished persons  in  Germany.  Schleienmacher, 
Frederick  Shlegel,  Prince  Loiiis  Ferdinand  of  Prus- 
sia, and  Gentz,  the  famous  historian,  all  knew  and 
acknowledged  the  Berlin  Jewess,  as  Pope  Paul  V. 
did  Cardinal  Perron:  —  "May  God  inspire  that 
man  with  good  thoughts,  for  whatsoever  he  says, 
we  must  do  it!"  She  was  noted  for  her  great 
strength,  vigour,  and  activity  of  mind ;  for  her 
ardent  love  of  truth,  and  her  strong,  resolute,  and 
vehement  contempt  for  falsehood  or  shams  of  all 
kinds  ;  and  also  for  the  truly  womanly  grace  and 
kindliness  which  marked  all  her  actions.  Amid 
the  horrors  of  war  in  Berlin  in  1813,  and  the 
greater  horrors  of  pestilence  in  1831,  she  moved 
about  like  a  beneficent  Valkyrie,  and  exclaimed 
triumphantly,  "  My  whole  day  is  a  feast  of  doing 
good !"     She  died  in  1833,  at  Berlin. 

VERDIER,  MADAME  DE, 
Was  a  French  poetess  from  Uz^s.  Her  poetical 
epistle  entitled  "The  Bondage  of  Love,"  was 
crowned  by  the  Academy  at  Toulouse,  in  1769, 
She  wrote  several  other  poems  which  were  highly 
praised. 

VERELST,    MADEMOISELLE, 
A  Flemish  historical  and  portrait  painter,  was 
born  in  1630.     She  was  niece  of  Simon  Verelst, 


VI 


VI 


and  was  taught  painting  by  her  father,  Herman  | 
Verelst,  but  afterwards  lived  entirely  with  her 
uncle,  who  gave  her  the  best  instructions  in  his 
power.  She  was  a  fine  performer  on  several  mu- 
sical instruments,  and  spoke  and  wrote  the  Ger- 
man, Italian,  Latin,  English,  and  French  languages 
with  fluency  and  elegance.  She  painted  with  genius 
and  spirit,  and  was  admired  for  the  delicacy  of  her 
touch,  and  the  neat  manner  of  her  finishing.  The 
time  of  her  decease  is  not  recorded. 

VERNEUIL,    CATHARINE   HENRIETTA   DE 
BALZAC,    MARQUISE   DE, 

A  French  lady,  who  so  captivated  Henry  IV. 
that  he  promised  to  marry  her.  His  subsequent 
marriage  with  Maria  de  Medicis,  so  offended  his 
haughty  mistress,  that  she  conspired  with  the 
Spanish  court  to  dethrone  him,  and  place  the 
crown  of  France  on  the  head  of  the  son  she  had 
borne  to  Henry.  Their  intrigues  were  discovered, 
and  her  accomplices  punished.  She  died  in  exile, 
1633,  aged  fifty-four. 

VERRUE,  COUNTESS  OF, 
Was  one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  beautiful 
women  of  Parisian  society.  She  belonged  to  the 
proud  and  ancient  family  of  Luynes,  and  was  early 
married  to  the  count  de  Verrue,  who  took  her  to 
Turin.  Her  great  beauty  attracted  the  attention 
of  Amad^e  Victor,  duke  of  Savoy  and  king  of 
Sicily.  She  long  resisted  his  addresses,  with  a 
constancy  and  virtue  rare  for  the  age  in  which  she 
lived.  The  persecution  of  her  husband's  relatives, 
whose  protection  she  implored  in  vain,  and  the 
temptation  of  ruling  over  a  court  where  her  virtue 
only  excited  ridicule,  at  length  proved  stronger 
than  her  scruples:  she  became  the  mistress  of  the 
prince.  His  love  was  very  ardent  and  sincere  ;  it 
only  increased  with  years ;  and  it  ended  by  heartily 
wearying  Madame  de  Verrue.  Her  children  by 
her  lover,  the  power  she  exercised  at  his  court, 
the  wealth  she  enjoyed,  could  not  fix  her  affections. 
She  eloped  with  her  brother.  A  great  quantity 
of  valuable  medals  disappeared  with  her  from  the 
Duke's  palace.  She  led  an  elegant  and  luxurious 
life  in  Paris.  She  was  rich  and  prodigal,  and 
spent  upwards  of  a  hundred  thousand  livres  a 
year  on  curiosities  and  rare  books.  Her  library 
was,  in  plays  and  novels,  the  most  complete  a 
private  person  had  then  possessed.  She  loved 
company ;  and  Voltaire  admired  and  flattered 
her.  It  is  said  that  she  never  spoke  of  her  former 
lover,  or  of  her  children,  or  expressed  the  least  re- 
gret for  the  step  she  had  taken.  She  was  gene- 
rally considered  attractive  and  agreeable,  and  was, 
probably,  as  much  so  as  a  heartless  woman  with- 
out faith,  love,  or  purity  can  ever  be. 

VIEN,  MADAME, 
Wife  and  pupil  of  the  celebrated  French  artist, 
Joseph  Marie  Vien,  was  a  distinguished  painter  of 
objects  of  still-life.  She  depicted  birds,  shells, 
and  flowers,  with  exquisite  skill.  Her  domestic 
virtues  equalled  her  talents.  She  died  in  1805, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-seven. 


VIGNE,   ANNE    DE   LA, 

Was  born  in  1634,  at  Vernon,  in  Normandy 
She  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  king's  physi- 
cians, and  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  in- 
tellectual persons  of  her  time.  Her  extreme  de- 
votion to  study  brought  on  a  disease  of  which  she 
died,  at  Paris,  in  1684.  She  belonged  to  the 
academy  of  the  Ricovrati  at  Padua ;  and  was  the 
intimate  friend  of  Mademoiselle  de  Scuderi  and 
Marie  Dapr6.  She  was  distinguished  for  her  po- 
etical talents,  and  her  scientific  attainments.  Her 
ode,  entitled  "  Monseigneur  le  Dauphin  au  Roi," 
obtained  great  reputation. 

VIGRI,    CATERINA, 

AVas  born  at  Bologna,  in  1413,  and  was  so  highly 
esteemed  for  her  piety,  as  well  as  her  talents,  that 
the  name  of  Santa  Catei-ina  di  Bologna  was  con- 
ferred upon  her.  She  seldom  painted  in  oil,  but 
was  principally  employed  in  illuminating  missals, 
and  executing  religious  subjects  in  miniature. 
She  died  in  1463. 

VILLEBRUNE,   MARY  DE, 

Was  a  portrait-painter,  of  whom  but  little  is 
known.  She  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  in 
London,  from  1770  to  1782.  She  is  supposed  to 
have  married  a  man  named  De  Noblet. 

VILLLEDIEU.   MARIE   CATHARINE 
HORTENSE   DE, 

Daughter  of  the  provost  of  Alenyon  in  France, 
was  born  there,  in  1632.  Her  second  husband 
was  M.  de  Chatte,  and  her  third,  M.  des  Jardins. 
This  lady  wrote  various  works,  both  in  prose  and 
verse ;  her  fugitive  poems  are  most  highly  esteemed. 
She  also  wrote  a  number  of  romances.  She  died 
in  1683.  The  following  is  a  specimen  of  her 
poetry : 

MADRIGAL. 
Quand  on  voit  deux  aniants  d'esprit  assez  vulgaire, 
Trouver  dans  leurs  discouis  de  quoi  se  salisfaire, 

Et  se  parler  incessament, 
Les  beaux  esprits,  de  langue  bien  disante, 

Disent  avec  6tonnenient: 

Que  peut  dire  cette  innocente? 

Et  que  r6pond  ce  sot  amant? 
Taisez-vous,  beaux  esprits,  votre  erreur  est  extreme ; 
lis  se  disent  cent  fois  tour  a  tour:  Je  vous  ainie. 
En  amour,  c'est  parler  assez  6I6gamment. 

VILLENEUVE,    GABRIELLE   SUSANNE 

BARBUT  DE, 
A  CELEBRATED  novcl-writer,  was  the  widow  of 
J.  B.  Gaalon  de  Villeneuve,  lieutenant-colonel  of 
infantry  in  the  service  of  France.  She  began  to 
write  late  in  life,  and  produced  about  twelve  vo- 
lumes. She  died  at  Paris,  December  29th,  1755. 
None  of  her  works  are  now  read  ;  the  fashion  of 
novels  changes  with  each  generation ;  and  works 
of  fiction  which  only  illustrate  the  manners  and 
sentiments  of  the  writer's  own  times  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  be  read  but  by  contemporaries. 

VIOT,   MARIE   ANNE   HENRIETTE, 

A  NATIVE  of  Dresden,  Prussia,  was  distinguished 

for  her  wit,  learning,  and  the  versatility  of  her 

544 


WA 

genius.  Her  father,  M.  de  I'Estang,  removed  to 
France  ■when  she  was  a  child.  At  the  age  of 
twelve  she  married  d'Antremont,  who  left  her  a 
widow  in  four  years.  She  then  married  de  Bour- 
dic,  of  Nismes.  After  his  decease  she  again  mar- 
ried ;  her  third  husband  was  M.  Viot,  commissary 
of  the  Interieures  at  Barcelona.  Madame  Viot 
was  honoured  with  a  seat  in  the  academy  of  Nismes, 
and  read,  on  her  admission,  an  eulogy  on  her 
favourite,  Montaigne.  She  wrote  an  "  Ode  to 
Silence,"  "The  Summer,"  "Fauvette,"  a  romance, 
"  La  Foret  de  Brama,"  an  opera,  &c.  This  ex- 
cellent and  accomplished  lady  died  near  Bagnols, 
in  1802,  aged  fifty-six. 


w. 

WALTERS,    HENRIETTA, 

An  artist,  was  born  at  Amsterdam,  in  1692. 
She  was  first  instructed  by  her  father,  Theodore 
Van  Pee,  but  afterwai-ds  by  the  best  artists  in  the 
city.  After  copying  some  of  the  works  of  Chris- 
topher Le  Blond,  she  became  desirous  of  having 
him  for  an  instructor,  which  favour,  with  great 
difficulty,  she  obtained ;  his  compliance  being  al- 
most entirely  owing  to  the  extraordinary  talents 
he  discovered  in  her.  In  the  manner  of  Le  Blond, 
she  painted  portraits  in  small ;  and  copied  a  por- 
trait and  a  St.  Sebastian,  after  Vandyck,  which 
exceedingly  advanced  her  reputation,  as  her  copies 
resembled  the  originals  to  an  astonishing  degree. 

She  gradually  rose  to  such  a  reputation,  that 
Peter  the  Great  of  Russia  offered  her  a  large  pen- 
sion, to  engage  her  in  his  service  at  St.  Peters- 
burgh  ;  but  no  inducements  were  sufficient  to 
make  her  leave  her  own  country,  where  she  was 
so  highly  esteemed.  The  czar  sat  to  her  for  his 
picture,  but  he  had  not  patience  to  have  it  finished, 
as  she  usually  required  twenty  sittings,  of  two 
hours  each,  for  every  portrait.  She  was  after- 
wards honoured  with  a  visit  from  the  king  of 
Prussia,  who  solicited  her  to  reside  at  his  court ; 
but  his  generous  proposal  was  also  rejected.  She 
died  at  Amsterdam,  in  1711,  aged  forty-nine  years. 

WAKEFIELD,    PRISCILLA, 

An  Englishwoman,  well  known  for  the  useful 
and  ingenious  works  she  has  written  for  the  in- 
struction of  youth.  She  is  said  to  be  the  original 
promoter  of  banks  for  the  savings  of  the  poor, 
which  are  now  so  general.  Some  of  her  woi-ks 
are,  "  Juvenile  Improvement,"  "  Leisure  Hours," 
"An  Introduction  to  Botany,"  "Mental  Improve- 
ment," "  Reflections  on  the  Present  Condition  of 
the  Female  Sex,  with  Hints  for  its  Improvement," 
"A  Familiar  Tour  through  the  British  Empire," 
"Excursions  in  North  America,"  "Sketches  of 
Human  Manners,"  "Variety,"  "Perambulations 
in  London,"  "Instinct  Displayed,"  "The  Traveller 
in  Africa,"  "Introduction  to  the  Knowledge  of 
Insects,"  and  "  The  Traveller  in  Asia."  Mrs. 
Wakefield  was  one  of  those  useful  writers,  whose 
talents,  devoted  to  the  cause  of  education,  have 
been  a  moral  blessing  to  the  youth  of  England. 
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Her  first  work  was  published  in  1795,  her  last  in 
1817;  thus,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  she  kept 
her  post  in  the  cause  of  improvement. 

WARE,  KATHARINE  AUGUSTA, 
Daughter  of  Dr.  Rhodes,  of  Quincy,  Massachu- 
setts, was  born  in  1797.  In  1819,  she  married 
Charles  A.  AVare,  of  the  navy.  She  is  principally 
known  as  a  poetical  contributor  to  periodicals. 
She  also  edited,  for  a  year  or  two,  a  magazine  called 
"  The  Bower  of  Taste,"  published  at  Boston.  She 
went  to  Europe,  in  1839,  and  died  at  Paris,  in 
1843.  A  collection  of  her  poems  was  published 
in  London,  not  long  before  her  death.  The  two 
following,  if  not  her  most  finished  poems,  are  the 
most  pleasing,  from  their  tender  and  true  wo- 
manly sentiment. 

A    NEW-YEAR  WISH. 
TO    A    CHILD    AGED    FIVE    YEAKS. 

Dear  one,  while  bending  o'er  thy  couch  of  rest, 
I've  looked  on  thee  as  thou  wert  calmly  sleeping, 

And  wished — Oh,  couldst  thou  ever  be  as  blest 
As  now,  when  haply  all  thy  cause  of  weeping 

Is  for  a  truant  bird,  or  faded  rose ! 
Though  these  light  griefs  call  forth  the  ready  tear, 

They  cast  no  shadow  o'er  thy  soft  repose- 
No  trace  of  care  or  sorrow  lingers  here. 

With  rosy  cheek  upon  the  pillow  prest. 

To  me  thou  seem'st  a  cherub  pure  and  fair. 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  gently  heaving  breast. 

And  the  bright  ringlets  of  thy  clustering  hair. 
What  shall  I  wish  thee,  little  one?     Smile  on 

Through  childhood's  morn  — through  life's  gay  spring— 
For  oh,  too  soon  will  those  bright  hours  be  gone!  — 

In  youth  time  flies  upon  a  silken  wing. 

May  thy  young  mind,  beneath  the  bland  control 

Of  education,  lasting  worth  acquire  ; 
May  Virtue  stamp  her  signet  on  thy  soul, 

Direct  thy  steps,  and  every  thought  inspire! 
Thy  parents'  earliest  hope— be  it  their  care 

To  guide  thee  through  youth's  path  of  shade  and  flowers, 
And  teach  thee  to  avoid  false  pleasure's  snare — 
Be  thine,  to  smile  upon  their  evening  hours. 

LOSS    OF    THE    FIRST-BORN. 

I  saw  a  pale  young  mother  bending  o'er 

Her  firstborn  hope.     Its  soft  blue  eyes  were  closed. 
Not  in  the  balmy  dream  of  downy  rest. 

In  Death's  embrace  the  shrouded  babe  reposed  ; 
It  slept  the  dreamless  sleep  that  wakes  no  more. 

A  low  sigh  struggled  in  her  heaving  breast, 
But  yet  she  wept  not :  hers  was  the  deep  grief 

The  heart,  in  its  dark  desolation,  feels  ; 
Which  breathes  not  in  impassioned  accents  wild. 

But  slowly  the  warm  pulse  of  life  congeals; 
A  grief  which  from  the  world  seeks  no  relief— 

A  mother's  sorrow  o'er  her  first-born  child. 
She  gazed  upon  it  with  a  steadfast  eye. 

Which  seemed  to  say,  "  Oh,  would  1  were  with  thi.'o !" 
As  if  her  every  earthly  hope  were  fled 

With  that  departed  cherub.     Even  he- 
ller young  heart's  choice,  who  breathed  a  father's  s4gh 

Of  bitter  anguish  o'er  the  unconscious  dead 
Felt  not,  while  weeping  by  its  funeral  bier, 
One  pang  so  deep  as  hers,  who  shed  no  tear. 

WARNE,    ELIZABETH, 

One  of  the  martyrs  to  religious  opinions,  during 
the  reign  of  Mary  of  England,  was  burned  at  Strat- 
ford-le-Bow,  August,  1555.  Her  husband  had 
been  executed  before. 

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WARREN,  MERCY, 
One  of  the  first  American  female  poets,  and 
a  historian  who  still  holds  a  high  place  among 
the  American  writers  of  her  day,  was  born  in 
Barnstable,  in  the  old  colony  of  Plymouth,  in  1728. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Colonel  James  Otis,  and 
received  her  instruction  principally  from  the  Rev. 


Jonathan  Russel,  the  clergyman  of  the  village,  as 
schools  were  then  almost  unknown.  About  1754, 
Miss  Otis  married  James  AVarren,  a  merchant  of 
Plymouth,  who  encouraged  her  in  literary  pur- 
suits. She  was  one  of  the  first  female  poets  of 
America,  and  many  of  her  poems,  especially  her 
satires,  received  great  applause,  and  were  said  to 
have  had  great  influence.  She  entered  warmly 
into  the  contest  between  England  and  America, 
and  corresponded  with  Samuel  and  John  Adams, 
Jefferson,  Dickinson,  Gerry,  Knox,  and  many  other 
leading  men  of  the  time ;  these  often  consulted  her, 
and  acknowledged  the  soundness  of  her  judgment, 
on  many  of  the  important  events  before  and  after 
the  war.  Mrs.  Warren  often  changed  her  resi- 
dence during  the  war,  but  always  retained  her 
habits  of  hospitality.  She  wrote  two  tragedies, 
"The  Sack  of  Rome,"  and  "The  Ladies  of  Cas- 
tile," many  of  her  other  poems,  and  a  satire  called 
"  The  Group,"  to  alleviate  the  pangs  of  suspense, 
while  her  friends  were  actively  engaged,  during 
the  revolution.  She  was  particularly  celebrated 
for  her  knowledge  of  history ;  and  Rochefoucauld, 
in  his  "  Travels  in  the  United  States,"  speaks  of 
her  extensive  reading.  Mrs.  Warren  died  October 
19th,  1814,  in  the  eighty-seventh  year  of  her  age. 
Her  writings  were  published  in  1805,  under  the 
title  of  "  The  History  of  the  Rise,  Progress,  and 
Termination  of  the  American  Revolution,  inter- 
spersed with  Biographical,  Political,  and  Moral 
Observations,"  in  three  volumes.  This  work  she 
dedicated  to  Washington ;  and  it  is  now  considered 
valuable  as  a  record  of  the  events  and  feelings  of 
those  revolutionary  times.  Mr.  Griswold,  in  his 
"  Female  Poets  of  America,"  makes  these  just 
remarks  on  his  selections  from  her  writings : 
"Her  tragedies  were  written  for  amusement,  in 


the  solitary  hours  in  which  her  friends  were 
abroad,  and  they  are  as  deeply  imbued  with  the 
general  spirit  as  if  their  characters  were  acting  in 
the  daily  experience  of  the  country.  They  have 
little  dramatic  or  poetic  merit,  but  many  passages 
are  smoothly,  and  some  vigorously  written — as  the 
following,  from  '  the  Sack  of  Rome.'  " 

SUSPICION. 

I  think  some  latent  mischief  lies  concealnd 
Beneath  the  vizard  of  a  fair  pretence; 
My  heart  ill  brooked  the  errand  of  the  day. 
Yet  I  obeyed— though  a  strange  horror  seized 
My  gloomy  mind,  and  shook  my  frame 
As  if  the  moment  murdered  all  my  joys 

REMORSE. 

The  bird  of  death  that  tiightly  pecks  the  roof. 
Or  shrieks  beside  the  caverns  of  the  dead  ; 
Or  paler  spectres  that  infest  the  tombs 
Of  guilt  and  darkness,  horror  or  despair. 
Are  far  more  welcome  to  a  wretch  like  me 
Than  yon  bright  rays  that  deck  the  opening  morn. 

FORTUNE. 

The  wheel  of  fortune,  rapid  in  its  flight, 
Lags  not  for  man,  when  on  its  swift  routine ; 
Nor  does  the  goddess  ponder  unresolved  ; 
She  wafts  at  once,  and  on  her  lofty  car 
Lifts  up  her  p\ippet — mounts  him  to  the  skies, 
Or  from  tiie  pinnacle  hurls  headlong  down 
The  steep  abyss  of  disappointed  hope. 


She  was,  for  innocence  and  truth, 
For  elegance,  true  dignity,  and  grace, 
The  fairest  sample  of  that  ancient  worth 
Th"  illustrious  matrons  boasted  to  the  world 
When  Rome  was  famed  for  every  glorious  deed. 

DECLINE  OF  PUBLIC  VIRTUE. 

That  dignity  the  gods  themselves  inspired. 
When  Rome,  inflamed  with  patriotic  zeal, 
Long  taught  the  world  to  tremble  and  admire, 
Lies  faint  and  languid  in  the  wane  of  fame. 
And  must  expire  in  Luxury's  lewd  lap 
If  not  supported  by  some  vigorous  arm. 

From  "  The  Ladies  of  Castile." 
CIVIL    WAR. 

'Mongst  all  the  ills  that  hover  o'er  mankind. 
Unfeigned,  or  fabled  in  the  poets  page. 
The  blackest  scrawl  the  sister  furies  hold, 
For  red-eyed  Wrath  or  Malice  to  fill  up, 
Is  incomplete  to  sum  up  human  wo, 
Till  Civil  Discord,  still  a  darker  fiend. 
Stalks  forth  unmasked  from  his  infernal  den, 
With  mad  Alecto's  torch  in  his  right  hand. 

THE    COURAGE    OF    VIRTUE. 

A  soul,  inspired  by  freedom's  genial  warmth, 
Expands,  grows  firm,  and  by  resistance,  strong  ; 
The  most  successful  prince  that  offers  life, 
And  bids  me  live  upon  ignoble  terms. 
Shall  learn  from  me  that  virtue  seldom  fears. 
Death  kindly  opes  a  thousand  friendly  gates. 
And  Freedom  waits  to  guard  her  votaries  through 

WARWICK,   MARY,    COUNTESS   OF, 
Was  the  thirteenth  of  the  fifteen  children  of  the 
great  earl  of  Cork,  founder  of  the  illustrious  house 
of  Boyle.     Mary  married  Charles,  earl  of  War- 
wick, whom  she  survived  five  years.     From  her 

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liberality  to  the  poor,  her  husband  was  said  to 
have  left  his  estate  to  charitable  uses.  The  fame 
of  her  hospitality  and  benevolence,  advanced  the 
rent  of  the  houses  in  her  neighbourhood,  where 
she  was  the  common  arbitress  of  all  differences. 
Her  awards,  by  the  judgment  and  sagacity  they 
displayed,  prevented  many  law-suits.  She  died 
April,  1678. 

WASHINGTON,    MRS.    MARY 

Mother  of  George  Washington,  the  hero  of  the 
American  revolutionary  war,  and  the  first  presi- 
dent of  the  United  States,  claims  the  noblest  dis- 
tinction a  woman  should  covet  or  can  gain,  that 
of  training  her  gifted  son  in  the  way  he  should  go, 
and  inspiring  him  by  her  example  to  make  the 
way  of  goodness  his  path  to  glory.* 

"Mrs.  Washington  was  descended  from  the  very 
respectable  family  of  Ball,  who  settled  as  English 
colonists,  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac.  Bred  in 
those  domestic  and  independent  habits,  which 
graced  the  Virginia  matrons  in  the  old  days  of 
Virginia,  this  lady,  by  the  death  of  her  husband, 
became  involved  in  the  cares  of  a  young  family, 
at  a  period  when  those  cares  seem  more  especially 
to  claim  the  aid  and  control  of  the  stronger  sex. 
It  was  left  for  this  eminent  woman,  by  a  method 
the  most  rare,  by  an  education  and  discipline  the 
most  peculiar  and  imposing,  to  form  in  the  youth- 
time  of  her  son  those  great  and  essential  qualities 
which  gave  lustre  to  the  glories  of  his  after-life. 
If  the  school  savoured  the  more  of  the  Spartan 
than  the  Persian  character,  it  was  a  fitter  school 
to  form  a  hero,  destined  to  be  the  ornament  of  the 
age  in  which  he  flourished,  and  a  standard  of  ex- 
cellence for  ages  yet  to  come. 

It  was  remarked  by  the  ancients,  that  the  mo- 
ther alwaj's  gave  the  tone  to  the  character  of  the 
child  ;  and  we  may  be  permitted  to  say,  that  since 
the  days  of  old  renown,  a  mother  has  not  lived 
better  fitted  to  give  the  tone  and  character  of  real 
greatness  to  her  child,  than  she  whose  remarkable 
life  and  actions  this  reminiscence  will  endeavour 
to  illustrate. 

At  the  time  of  his  father's  death,  George  Wash- 
ington was  only  ten  years  of  age.  He  has  been 
heard  to  say  that  he  knew  little  of  his  father,  ex- 
cept the  remembrance  of  his  person,  and  of  his 
parental  fondness.  To  his  mother's  forming  care 
he  himself  ascribed  the  origin  of  his  fortunes  and 
his  fame. 

The  home  of  Mrs.  Washington,  of  which  she  was 
always  mistress,  was  a  pattern  of  order.  There 
the  levity  and  indulgence  common  to  youth  was 
tempered  by  a  deference  and  well-regulated  re- 
straint, which,  while  it  neither  suppressed  nor 
condemned  any  rational  enjoyment  usual  in  the 
spring-time  of  life,  prescribed  those  enjoyments 
within  the  bounds  of  moderation  and  propriety. 
Thus  the  chief  was  taught  the  duty  of  obedience, 
which  prepared  him  to  command.    Still  the  mother 


♦  This  biography  was  written  by  George  W.  P.  Custis, 
grandson  of  Mrs.  Martha  Washington.  ."Vs  Mr.  Custis  had 
the  best  opportunities  of  Itnowing  the  cliaracter  anil  merits 
of  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  we  give  his  own  publislied  tes- 
liinony  of  her  rare  merits. 


held  in  reserve  an  authority  which  never  departed 
from  her,  even  when  her  son  had  become  the  most 
illustrious  of  men.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  your 
mother,  the  being  who  gave  you  life,  the  guide 
who  directed  your  steps  when  they  needed  a  guar- 
dian ;  my  maternal  affection  drew  forth  your  love ; 
my  authority  constrained  your  spirit ;  whatever 
may  be  your  success  or  your  renown,  next  to  your 
God,  your  reverence  is  due  to  me."  Nor  did  the 
chief  dissent  from  these  truths ;  but  to  the  last 
moments  of  his  venerable  parent,  j'ielded  to  her 
will  the  most  dutiful  and  implicit  obedience,  and 
felt  for  her  person  and  character  the  highest  re- 
spect, and  the  most  enthusiastic  attachment. 

Such  were  the  domestic  influences  under  which 
the  mind  of  Washington  was  formed  ;  and  that  he 
not  only  profited  by,  but  fully  appreciated  their 
excellence  and  the  character  of  his  mother,  hig 
behaviour  towards  her  at  all  times  testified.  Upon 
his  appointment  to  the  command-in-chief  of  the 
American  armies,  previously  to  his  joining  the 
forces  at  Cambridge,  he  removed  his  mother  from 
her  country  residence  to  the  village  of  Fredericks- 
burg, a  situation  remote  from  danger,  and  conti- 
guous to  her  friends  and  relatives. 

It  was  there  the  matron  remained  during  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  trying  period  of  the  revolution. 
Directly  in  the  way  of  the  news,  as  it  passed  from 
north  to  south,  one  courier  would  bring  intelligence 
of  success  to  our  arms  ;  another,  •'  swiftly  coursing 
at  his  heels,"  the  saddening  reverse  of  disaster 
and  defeat.  While  thus  ebbed  and  flowed  the  for- 
tunes of  our  cause,  the  mother,  trusting  to  the 
wisdom  and  protection  of  divine  providence,  pre- 
served the  even  tenour  of  her  life ;  affording  an 
example  to  those  matrons  whose  sons  were  alike 
engaged  in  the  arduous  contest ;  and  showing  that 
unavailing  anxieties,  however  belonging  to  nature, 
were  unworthy  of  mothers,  whose  sons  were  com- 
bating for  the  inestimable  rights  of  man,  and  the 
freedom  and  happiness  of  the  world. 

AVhen  the  comforting  and  glorious  intelligence 
arrived  of  the  passage  of  the  Delaware,  (Decem- 
ber, '76,)  an  event  which  restored  our  hopes  from 
the  very  brink  of  despair,  a  number  of  her  friends 
waited  upon  the  mother  with  congratulations.  She 
received  them  with  calmness,  observed  that  it  waa 
most  pleasurable  news,  and  that  George  appeared 
to  have  deserved  well  of  his  country  for  such  sig- 
nal services ;  and  contiuvied,  in  reply  to  the  gratu- 
lating  patriots,  (most  of  whom  held  letters  in  their 
hands,  from  which  they  read  extracts,)  "  But,  my 
good  sirs,  here  is  too  much  flattery  —  still  George 
will  not  forget  the  lessons  I  early  taught  him — he 
will  not  forget  himself,  though  he  is  the  subject  of 
so  much  praise." 

During  the  war,  and  indeed  during  her  useful 
life,  up  to  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-two,  until 
within  three  years  of  her  death,  (when  an  afflictive 
disease  prevented  exertion,)  the  mother  set  a  most 
valuable  example  in  the  management  of  her  do- 
mestic concerns,  carrying  her  own  keys,  bustling 
in  her  household  affairs,  providing  for  her  family, 
and  living  and  moving  in  all  the  pride  of  inde 
pendence.  She  was  not  actuated  by  that  ambition 
for  show  which  pervades  lesser  minds ;   and  the 

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peculiar  plainness  and  dignity  of  her  manners  be- 
came in  nowise  altered,  when  the  sun  of  glory 
arose  upon  her  house.  There  are  some  of  the 
aged  inhabitants  of  Fredericksburg,  who  well  re- 
member the  matron,  as  seated  in  an  old-fashioned 
open  chaise,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting,  almost 
daily,  her  little  farm  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town. 
When  there,  she  would  ride  about  her  fields,  giving 
her  orders,  and  seeing  that  they  were  obeyed. 

Her  great  industry,  with  the  well-regulated 
economy  of  all  her  concerns,  enabled  the  matron 
to  dispense  considerable  charities  to  the  poor,  al- 
though her  own  circumstances  were  always  far 
from  rich.  All  manner  of  domestic  economies,  so 
useful  in  those  times  of  privation  and  trouble,  met 
her  zealous  attention  ;  while  everything  about  her 
household  bore  marks  of  her  care  and  manage- 
ment, and  very  many  things  the  impress  of  her 
own  hands.  In  a  very  humble  dwelling,  and  suf- 
fering under  an  excruciating  disease,  (cancer  of 
the  breast,)  thus  lived  this  mother  of  the  first  of 
men,  preserving  unchanged  her  peculiar  nobleness 
and  independence  of  character. 

She  was  always  pious,  but  in  her  latter  days 
her  devotions  were  performed  in  private.  She 
was  in  the  habit  of  repairing  every  day  to  a  se- 
cluded spot,  formed  by  rocks  and  trees,  near  her 
dwelling,  where,  abstracted  from  the  world  and 
worldly  things,  she  communed  with  her  Creator, 
in  humiliation  and  prayer. 

After  an  absence  of  nearly  seven  years,  it  was 
at  length,  on  the  return  of  the  combined  armies 
from  Yorktown,  permitted  to  the  mother  again  to 
see  and  embrace  her  illustrious  son.  So  soon  as 
he  had  dismounted,  in  the  midst  of  a  numerous 
and  brilliant  suite,  he  sent  to  apprise  her  of  his 
arrival,  and  to  know  when  it  would  be  her  plea- 
sure to  receive  him.  And  now  mark  the  force  of 
early  education  and  habits,  and  the  supei-iority  of 
the  Spartan  over  the  Persian  school,  in  this  inter- 
view of  the  great  Washington  with  his  admirable 
parent  and  instructor.  No  pageantry  of  war  pro- 
claimed his  coming,  no  trumpets  sounded,  no  ban- 
ners waved.  Alone  and  on  foot,  the  marshal  of 
France,  the  general-in-chief  of  the  combined  ar- 
mies of  France  and  America,  the  deliverer  of  his 
country,  the  hero  of  the  age,  repaired  to  pay  his 
humble  duty  to  her  whom  he  venerated  as  the  au- 
thor of  his  being,  the  founder  of  his  fortune  and 
his  fame.  For  full  well  he  knew  that  the  matron 
would  not  be  moved  by  all  the  pride  that  glory 
ever  gave,  nor  by  all  the  "  pomp  and  circumstance" 
of  power. 

The  lady  was  alone,  her  aged  hands  employed 
in  the  works  of  domestic  industry,  when  the  good 
news  was  announced ;  and  it  was  further  told  that 
the  victor  chief  was  in  waiting  at  the  threshold. 
She  welcomed  him  with  a  warm  embrace,  and  by 
the  well-remembered  and  endearing  name  of  his 
childhood  ;  enquiring  as  to  his  health,  she  remark- 
ed the  lines  which  mighty  cares  and  many  trials 
had  made  on  his  manly  countenance,  spoke  much 
of  old  times  and  old  friends,  but  of  his  glory — 
not  one  word! 

Meantime,  in  the  village  of  Fredericksburg,  all 
was  joy  and  revelry ;  the  town  was  crowded  with 


the  officers  of  the  French  and  American  armies, 
and  with  gentlemen  from  all  the  country  around, 
who  hastened  to  welcome  the  conquerors  of  Corn- 
wallis.  The  citizens  made  arrangements  for  a 
splendid  ball,  to  which  the  mother  of  Washington 
was  specially  invited.  She  observed,  that  although 
her  dancing  days  were  pretty  well  over,  she  should 
feel  happy  in  contributing  to  the  general  festivity, 
and  consented  to  attend. 

The  foreign  officers  were  anxious  to  see  the 
mother  of  their  chief.  They  had  heard  indistinct 
rumours  respecting  her  remarkable  life  and  cha- 
racter; but,  forming  their  judgments  from  Euro- 
pean examples,  they  were  prepared  to  expect  in 
the  mother  that  glare  and  show  which  would  have 
been  attached  to  the  parents  of  the  great  in  the 
old  world.  How  were  they  surprised,  when  the 
matron,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  son,  entered 
the  room !  She  was  arrayed  in  the  very  plain, 
yet  becoming  garb  worn  by  the  Virginia  lady  of 
the  olden  time.  Tier  address,  always  dignified 
and  imposing,  was  courteous,  though  reserved. 
She  received  the  complimentary  attentions,  which 
were  profusely  paid  her,  without  evincing  the 
slightest  elevation  ;  and,  at  an  early  hour,  wishing 
the  company  much  enjoyment  of  their  pleasures, 
observing  that  it  was  time  for  old  people  to  be  at 
home,  retired. 

The  foreign  officers  were  amazed  to  behold  one 
whom  so  many  causes  contributed  to  elevate,  pre- 
serving the  even  tenour  of  her  life,  Avhile  such  a 
blaze  of  glory  shone  upon  her  name  and  offspring. 
The  European  world  furnished  no  examples  of 
such  magnanimity.  Names  of  ancient  lore  were 
heard  to  escape  from  their  lips ;  and  they  observed, 
that,  "if  such  were  the  matrons  of  America,  it 
was  not  wonderful  the  sons  were  illustrious." 

It  was  on  this  festive  occasion  that  general 
Washington  danced  a  minuet  with  Mrs.  Willis.  It 
closed  his  dancing  days.  The  minuet  was  much 
in  vogue  at  that  period,  and  was  peculiarly  calcu- 
lated for  the  display  of  the  splendid  figure  of  the 
chief,  and  his  natural  grace  and  elegance  of  air 
and  manner.  The  gallant  Frenchmen  who  were 
present,  of  which  fine  people  it  may  be  said  that 
dancing  forms  one  of  the  elements  of  their  exist- 
ence, so  much  admired  the  American  performance, 
as  to  admit  that  a  Parisian  education  could  not 
have  improved  it.  As  the  evening  advanced,  the 
commander-in-chief,  yielding  to  the  gaiety  of  the 
scene,  went  down  some  dozen  couple  in  the  contra- 
dance,  with  great  spirit  and  satisfaction. 

The  marquis  de  Lafayette  repaired  to  Frede- 
ricksburg, previous  to  his  departure  for  Europe, 
in  the  fall  of  1784,  to  pay  his  parting  respects  to 
the  mother,  and  to  ask  her  blessing. 

Conducted  by  one  of  her  grandsons,  he  ap- 
proached the  house,  when  the  j'oung  gentleman 
observed,  "  There,  sir,  is  my  grandmother."  La- 
fayette beheld,  working  in  the  garden,  clad  in 
domestic-made  clothes,  and  her  grey  head  covered 
in  a  plain  straw  hat,  the  mother  of  "his  hero  I" 
The  lady  saluted  him  kindly,  observing — "Ah, 
marquis  !  you  see  an  old  woman — but  come,  I  can 
make  you  welcome  to  my  poor  dwelling,  without 
the  parade  of  changing  my  dress." 

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The  marquis  spoke  of  the  happy  effects  of  the 
revolution,  and  the  goodly  prospect  which  opened 
upon  independent  America ;  stated  his  speedy  de- 
parture for  his  native  land ;  paid  the  tribute  of 
his  heart,  his  love  and  admiration  of  her  illustrious 
son  ;  and  concluded  by  asking  her  blessing.  She 
blessed  him ;  and  to  the  encomiums  which  he  had 
lavished  upon  his  hero  and  paternal  chief,  the 
matron  replied  in  these  words :  "I  am  not  sur- 
prised at  what  George  has  done,  for  he  was  always 
a  very  good  boy." 

In  her  person,  Mrs.  Washington  was  of  the 
middle  size,  and  finely  formed  ;  her  features  pleas- 
ing, yet  strongly  marked.  It  is  not  the  happiness 
of  the  writer  to  remember  her,  having  only  seen 
her  with  infant  eyes.  The  sister  of  the  chief  he 
perfectly  well  remembers.  She  was  a  most  ma- 
jestic woman,  and  so  strikingly  like  the  brother, 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  frolic  to  throw  a  cloak 
around  her  and  place  a  military  hat  upon  her 
head ;  and,  such  was  the  perfect  resemblance, 
that,  had  she  appeared  on  her  brother's  steed, 
battalions  would  have  presented  arms,  and  senates 
risen  to  do  homage  to  the  chief. 

In  her  latter  days,  the  mother  often  spoke  of 
her  own  good  boy ;  of  the  merits  of  his  early  life ; 
of  his  love  and  dutifulness  to  herself;  but  of  the 
deliverer  of  his  country,  the  chief  magistrate  of 
the  great  republic,  she  never  spoke.  Call  you 
this  insensibility  ?  or  want  of  ambition  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
her  ambition  had  been  gratified  to  overflowing. 
She  had  taught  him  to  be  good;  that  he  became 
great  when  the  opportunity  presented,  was  a  con- 
sequence, not  a  cause. 

Mrs.  Washington  died,  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
seven,  soon  after  the  decease  of  her  illustrious 
son.  She  was  buried  at  Fredericksburg,  and  for 
many  years  her  grave  remained  without  a  memo- 
rial-stone. But  the  heart  of  the  nation  acknow- 
ledged her  worth,  and  the  noble  spirit  of  her  na- 
tive Virginia  was  at  length  aroused  to  the  sacred 
duty  of  perpetuating  its  respect  for  the  merits  of 
its  most  worthy  daughter.  On  the  seventh  of  May, 
1833,  at  Fredericksburg,  the  corner-stone  of  her 
monument  was  laid  by  Andrew  Jackson,  then  the 
President  of  the  United  States.  The  public  ofificers 
of  the  general  government,  and  an  immense  con- 
course of  people  from  every  section  of  the  country, 
crowded  to  witness  the  imposing  ceremonies.  Mr. 
Barrett,  one  of  the  Monument  Committee  of  Vir- 
ginia, delivered  the  eulogy  on  Mrs.  Washington, 
and  then  addressed  the  President  of  the  United 
States.  In  his  reply.  General  Jackson  paid  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  deceased, 
which,  for  its  masterly  exposition  of  the  elfect  of 
maternal  example,  and  of  the  importance  of  female 
influence,  deserves  to  be  preserved  in  this  "Record 
of  Women."     AVe  give  a  few  sentences  : — 

"  In  tracing  the  recollections  which  can  be 
gathered  of  her  principles  and  conduct,  it  is  im- 
possible to  avoid  the  conviction,  that  these  were 
closely  interwoven  with  the  destiny  of  her  son. 
The  great  points  of  his  character  are  before  the 
world.  He  who  runs  may  read  them  in  his  whole 
career,  as  a  citizen,  a  soldier,  a  magistrate.  He 
possessed  an  unerring  judgment,  if  that  term  can 


be  applied  to  human  nature;  great  probity  of 
purpose,  high  moral  principles,  perfect  self-pos- 
session, untiring  application,  an  enquiring  mind, 
seeking  information  from  every  quarter,  and  arriv- 
ing at  its  conclusions  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the 
subject;  and  he  added  to  these  an  inflexibility  of 
resolution,  which  nothing  could  change  but  a  con- 
viction of  error.  Look  back  at  the  life  and  con- 
duct of  his  mother,  and  at  her  domestic  govern- 
ment, and  they  will  be  found  admirably  adapted 
to  form  and  develop  the  elements  of  such  a  cha- 
racter. The  power  of  greatness  was  there ;  but 
had  it  not  been  guided  and  directed  by  maternal 
solicitude  and  judgment,  its  possessor,  instead  of 
presenting  to  the  world  examples  of  virtue,  pa- 
triotism, and  wisdom,  which  will  be  precious  in  all 
succeeding  ages,  might  have  added  to  the  number 
of  those  master  spirits,  whose  fame  rests  upon  the 
faculties  they  have  abused,  and  the  injuries  they 
have  committed. 

"How  important  to  the  females  of  our  country, 
are  these  reminiscences  of  the  early  life  of  Wash- 
ington, and  of  the  maternal  care  of  her  upon 
whom  its  future  course  depended !  Principles  less 
firm  and  just,  an  aft'ection  less  regulated  by  dis- 
cretion, might  have  changed  the  character  of  the 
son,  and  with  it  the  destinies  of  the  nation.  AVe 
have  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  virtue  and  intelli- 
gence of  our  women.  As  mothers  and  sisters,  as 
wives  and  daughters,  their  duties  are  performed 
with  exemplary  fidelity.  They,  no  doubt,  realize 
the  great  importance  of  the  maternal  character, 
and  the  powerful  influence  it  must  exert  upon  the 
American  youth.  Happy  is  it  for  them  and  our 
country,  that  they  have  before  them  this  illus- 
trious example  of  maternal  devotion,  and  this 
bright  reward  of  filial  success !  The  mother  of  a 
family,  who  lives  to  witness  the  virtues  of  her 
children  and  their  advancement  in  life,  and  who 
is  known  and  honoured  because  they  are  known 
and  honoured,  should  have  no  other  wish,  on  this 
side  the  grave,  to  gratify.  The  seeds  of  virtue 
and  vice  are  early  sown,  and  we  may  often  antici- 
pate the  harvest  that  will  be  gathered.  Changes, 
no  doubt,  occur,  but  let  no  one  place  his  hope 
upon  these.  Impressions  made  in  infancy,  if  not 
indelible,  are  effaced  with  difliculty  and  renewed 
with  facility;  and  upon  the  mother,  therefore, 
must  frequently,  if  not  generally,  depend  the  fate 
of  the  son. 

"Fellow-citizens — At  your  request,  and  in  your 
name,  I  now  deposit  this  plate  in  the  spot  destined 
for  it;  and  when  the  American  pilgrim  shall,  in 
after  ages,  come  up  to  this  high  and  holy  place, 
and  lay  his  hand  upon  this  sacred  column,  may 
he  recall  the  virtues  of  her  who  sleeps  beneath, 
and  depart  with  his  afi"ections  purified  and  his 
piety  strengthened,  while  he  invokes  blessings 
upon  the  Mother  of  Washington." 

This  monument  bears  the  simple  but  touching 
inscription,  Mary,  the  Mother  of  Washington. 

WASHINGTON,    MARTHA, 
Wife  of  General  George  AVashington,  was  born 
in  the  county  of  New  Kent,  Virginia,  in  May,  1732. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Martha  Dandridge ;  at  the 

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age  of  seventeen,  she  married  Colonel  Daniel  Parke 
Custis,  of  the  White  House,  county  of  New  Kent, 
by  whom  she  had  four  children :  a  girl,  who  died 
in  infancy;  a  son  named  Daniel,  whose  early  death 
is  supposed  to  have  hastened  his  father's;  Martha, 
who  arrived  at  womanhood,  and  died  in  1770;  and 
John,  who  perished  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
at  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  aged  twenty-seven. 


]\Irs.  Custis  was  left  a  young  and  very  wealthy 
widow,  and  managed  the  extensive  landed  and 
pecuniary  concerns  of  the  estates  with  surprising 
ability.  In  1759,  she  was  married  to  George 
AVashington,  then  a  colonel  in  the  colonial  service, 
and  soon  after,  they  removed  permanently  to 
Mount  Yernon,  on  the  Potomac.  Upon  the  elec- 
tion of  her  husband  to  the  command-in-chief  of 
the  armies  of  his  country,  Mrs.  or  Lady  Washing- 
ton, as  she  was  generally  called,  accompanied  the 
general  to  the  lines  before  Boston,  and  witnessed 
its  siege  and  evacuation ;  and  was  always  constant 
in  her  attendance  on  her  husband,  when  it  was 
possible.  After  General  Washington's  election  to 
the  presidency  of  the  United  States,  in  1787,  Mrs. 
AVashington  performed  the  duties  belonging  to  the 
wife  of  a  man  in  that  high  station,  with  great 
dignity  and  ease  ;  and  on  the  retirement  of  Wash- 
ington, she  still  continued  her  unbounded  hos- 
pitality. The  decease  of  her  venerated  husband, 
who  died  December  14tli,  1799,  was  the  shock 
from  which  she  never  recovered,  though  she  bore 
the  heavy  sorrow  with  the  most  exemplary  resig- 
nation. She  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  his  bed 
when  he  expired,  and  when  she  found  he  was 
gone,  she  said,  in  a  calm  voice,  "  'Tis  well ;  all  is 
now  over;  I  shall  soon  follow  him;  I  have  no  more 
trials  to  pass  through."  Her  children  were  all 
deceased — her  earthly  treasures  were  withdrawn ; 
but  she  held  tirm  her  trust  in  the  Divine  Mercy 
which  had  ordered  her  lot.  For  more  than  half  a 
century,  she  had  been  accustomed  to  passing  an 
hour  every  morning  alone  in  her  chamber,  en- 
gaged in  reading  the  Bible  and  in  prayer.  She 
survived  her  husband  a  little  over  two  years,  dying 
at  Mount  Yernon,  aged  seventy. 

In  person  ^Irs.  Washington  was  well  formed, 


though  somewhat  below  the  middle  size.  A  por- 
trait, taken  previous  to  her  marriage,  shows  that 
she  must  have  been  vei-y  handsome  in  her  youth ; 
and  she  retained  a  comeliness  of  countenance,  as 
well  as  a  digniiied  grace  of  manner,  during  life.  In 
her  home  she  was  the  presiding  genius  that  kept 
action  and  order  in  perfect  harmony ;  a  wife  in 
whom  the  heart  of  her  husband  could  safely  trust. 
The  example  of  this  illustrious  couple  ought  to 
have  a  salutary  influence  on  every  American 
family ;  the  marriage  union,  as  it  subsisted  be- 
tween George  and  Martha  AVashington,  is  shown 
to  be  the  happiest,  as  well  as  holiest,  relation  in 
which  human  beings  can  be  united  to  each  other. 
The  delicacy  of  Mrs.  AVashington's  nature,  which 
led  her,  just  before  her  decease,  to  destroy  the 
letters  that  had  passed  between  her  husband  and 
herself,  proves  the  depth  and  purity  of  her  love 
and  reverence  for  him.  She  could  not  permit  that 
the  confidences  they  had  shared  together  should 
become  public ;  it  would  be  desecrating  their 
chaste  loves,  and,  perhaps,  some  word  or  expres- 
sion might  be  misinterpreted  to  his  disadvantage. 
One  only  letter  from  AA'ashington  to  his  wife  was 
found  among  his  papers; — the  extracts  we  give 
from  this  letter  indicate  clearly  the  chai-acter  of 
their  correspondence. 

Philadelphia,  June  18th,  1775. 

Mt  Dearest, — I  am  now  set  down  to  write  you 
on  a  subject  which  fills  me  with  inexpressible  con- 
cern ;  and  this  concern  is  greatly  aggravated  and 
increased,  when  I  reflect  upon  the  uneasiness  I 
know  it  will  give  you.  It  has  been  determined  in 
Congress,  that  the  whole  army  raised  for  the  de- 
fence of  the  American  cause  shall  be  put  under 
my  care,  and  that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  proceed 
immediately  to  Boston,  and  take  upon  me  the 
command  of  it. 

You  may  believe  me,  dear  Patsy,  when  I  assure 
you,  in  the  most  solemn  manner,  that,  so  far  from 
seeking  this  appointment,  I  have  used  every  en- 
deavour in  my  power  to  avoid  it,  not  only  from 
my  unwillingness  to  part  with  you  and  the  family, 
but  from  a  consciousness  of  its  being  a  trust  too 
great  for  my  capacity,  and  that  I  should  enjoy 
more  real  happiness  in  one  month  with  you  at 
home,  than  I  have  the  most  distant  prospect  of 
finding  abroad,  if  my  stay  were  to  be  seven  times 
seven  years.  But  as  it  has  been  a  kind  of  destiny 
that  has  thrown  me  upon  this  service,  I  shall  hope 
that  my  undertaking  it  is  designed  to  answer  some 
good  purpose. 

***** 

I  shall  rely,  therefore,  confidently  on  that  Pro- 
vidence, which  has  heretofore  preserved  and  been 
bountiful  to  me,  not  doubting  but  that  I  shall  re- 
turn safe  to  you  in  the  fall.  I  shall  feel  no  pain 
from  the  toil  or  the  danger  of  the  campaign ;  my 
uuhappiness  will  flow  from  the  uneasiness  I  know 
you  will  feel  from  being  left  alone.  I  therefore 
beg  that  you  will  summon  your  whole  fortitude, 
and  pass  your  time  as  agreeably  as  you  can. 
Nothing  will  give  me  so  much  sincere  satisfaction 
as  to  hear  this,  and  to  hear  it  from  your  own  pen. 


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He  then  goes  on  to  siiy  that,  as  life  was  always 
uncertain,  he  had  had  his  will  drawn  up,  and  en- 
closed the  draft  to  her;  by  this  will  he  gave  her 
the  use  and  control  of  all  his  estates  and  property 
during  her  life-time  ;  which  will  was  observed  on 
his  decease.  Such  was  the  love  the  greatest  man 
the  world  ever  saw,  cherished  towards  his  wife ; 
and  she  was  worthy  of  his  love.  What  higher 
celebrity  could  a  woman  desire  ? 

WASSER,  ANNA, 
Was  born  at  Zurich,  in  Switzerland,  in  1679 ; 
being  the  daughter  of  Rodolph  Wasser,  a  person 
of  considerable  note  in  his  own  country,  and  a 
member  of  the  council  of  Zurich.  Anna  had  the 
advantage  of  a  polite  education ;  and  as  she  showed 
a  lively  genius,  particularly  in  Qesigning,  she  was 
placed  under  the  direction  of  Joseph  Werner,  at 
Berne.  He  made  her  study  after  good  models, 
and  copy  the  best  paintings  he  could  procure. 
After  having  instructed  her  for  some  time,  on  see- 
ing a  copy  which  she  had  finished  of  a  flora,  it 
astonished  him  to  find  such  correctness  and  colour- 
ing in  so  young  an  artist,  she  being  then  but  thir- 
teen years  of  age.  She  painted  at  first  in  oil,  but 
afterwards  applied  herself  entirely  to  miniature, 
for  which,  indeed,  nature  seemed  to  have  furnished 
her  with  peculiar  talents.  Her  works  in  that 
style  procured  her  the  favour  of  most  of  the 
princes  of  Germany ;  and  the  duke  of  Wirtemberg, 
in  particular,  sent  his  own  portrait  and  that  of  his 
sister  to  be  copied  in  miniature  by  her  hand ;  in 
which  performance  she  succeeded  so  admirably, 
that  her  reputation  was  effectually  established 
through  all  Germany.  The  Margrave  of  Baden- 
Durlach  was  another  of  her  early  patrons ;  and 
she  also  received  many  commissions  from  the  first 
personages  in  the  Low  Countries.  Though,  by  the 
influence  of  her  father,  she  was  prevailed  upon  to 
devote  most  of  her  time  to  portrait  painting,  yet 
her  favourite  subjects  were  those  of  the  pastoral 
kind,  in  which  she  displayed  the  delicacy  of  her 
taste  in  invention  and  composition,  in  the  elegance 
of  her  manner  of  designing,  and  in  giving  so  much 
harmony  to  the  whole,  as  invariably  to  afiTord 
pleasure  to  the  most  judicious  beholders.  In  all 
her  subjects,  indeed,  she  discovered  a  fine  genius, 
an  exceedingly  good  taste,  and  an  agreeable  co- 
louring.    She  died,  unmarried,  in  1713. 

WATTS,  JANE, 
Was  the  daughter  of  George  Waldie,  Esq.,  of 
Hendersyde  Park,  Scotland.  Before  she  was  five 
years  old  she  showed  much  fondness  for  drawing, 
and  she  very  early  painted  landscapes  in  oil,  which 
were  greatly  admired.  She  was  almost  wholly 
self-taught,  yet  her  pictures,  when  exhibited  at 
the  Royal  Academy  and  the  British  Institution, 
commanded  universal  applause.  In  literature  she 
displayed  equal  talent.  This  "accomplished  woman 
died  in  1826,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven. 

WEISSERTHURN,  JOHANNA  F.  V.  VON, 

BoEN  1773,  at  Coblenz,  was  the  daughter  of 
the  play-actor,  Griinberg.     Before  she  was  twelve 


years  old,  she  became,  encouraged  by  her  step- 
father, Teichman,  the  director  of  a  little  troup, 
the  members  of  which  were  her  brothers  and 
sisters  and  cousins,  and  with  it  she  performed,  at 
a  private  theatre,  a  number  of  pieces  expressly 
wi-itten  for  children.  In  1787,  an  engagement 
was  ofl"ered  to  her  at  the  Munich  theatre;  in  1789, 
she  exchanged  this  for  one  that  was  offered  to  her 
by  her  step-brother,  the  director  of  the  theatre  at 
Baden;  in  1790,  she  was  called  to  the  Imperial 
Court  Theatre,  at  Vienna.  Here  she  married,  in 
1791,  Von  Weisserthurn.  Shortly  after  her  mar- 
riage, she  published  a  few  plays,  which  were  so 
well  received,  that,  encouraged  by  it,  she  con- 
tinued to  write  for  the  stage,  and  became  quite  a 
prolific  author.  In  1817,  she  lost  her  husband; 
and  in  1841,  she  withdrew  from  the  stage,  and 
died  in  1845. 

Her  dramatic  writings  have  been  published  in 
three  parts :  the  first,  in  Vienna,  1804,  under  the 
title  of  "Plays,"  six  volumes ;  the  second,  1817, 
imder  the  title  "New  Plays,"  two  volumes;  the 
third,  1823-81,  under  the  title  "Latest  Plays," 
five  volumes.  Her  best  pieces  are,  "  The  Forest 
near  Hermanstown,"  "Which  is  the  Bridegroom," 
"  The  Heirs,"  and  "  The  Last  Resort." 

WELSER,    PHILIPPINA, 

Daughter  of  Francis,  and  niece  of  Bartholomew 
Welser,  the  opulent  privy-councillor  of  Charles  V. 
of  Germany,  was  a  beautiful  and  accomplished 
woman.  Ferdinand,  son  of  the  archduke  (after- 
wards emperor)  Ferdinand,  and  nephew  of  Charles 
v.,  fell  violently  in  love  with  her,  in  1547,  at 
Augsburg.  She  refused  all  his  offers,  except  on 
condition  of  marriage,  and  the  ceremony  was  per- 
formed privately,  in  1550.  When  the  archduke 
heard  of  it,  he  was  very  much  incensed,  and  for 
eight  years  he  refused  to  see  his  son.  Philippina 
died  in  1580,  at  Innspruck.  Her  husband  had  a 
medal  struck  in  her  honour,  with  the  inscription, 
DivcE  Philippince.  She  had  two  sons,  who  both 
died  without  children. 

WEST,    ELIZABETH, 

Was  born  at  Edinburgh,  1672,  of  respectable 
parents,  and  was  well  educated.  In  youth,  she 
imbibed  notions  somewhat  similar  to  those  of  the 
mystics,  and  was  frequently  led  into  extrava- 
gancies. She  was  reputed  the  female  saint  of  her 
day,  and  married  Mr.  Brie,  minister  of  Saline,  in 
Fifeshire  ;  but  she  did  not  live  happily  with  him. 
She  wrote  her  own  memoirs,  and  died  in  Saline, 
in  1785,  aged  sixty-three. 

WEST,    JANE, 

Was  the  wife  of  a  farmer,  in  Northamptonshire, 
England.  She  received  but  a  scanty  education ; 
still  she  applied  herself  very  closely  to  study,  and 
was  known  as  an  amusing  and  moral  writer.  She 
lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth,  and  the 
early  part  of  the  present  century.  Her  principal 
work§  are,  "A  Gossip  Story,"  "a  Novel,"  "A 
Tale  of  the  Times,"  "  Poems  and  Plays,"  "  Letters 
to  a  Young  Man,"  "  Letters  to  a  Young  Lady,"  &c. 

551 


WH 


WH 


WESTMORELAND,   JANE,    COUNTESS   OF, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Henry,  earl  of  Surrey,  ■who 
was  beheaded  in  1547,  was  the  wife  of  Charles, 
earl  of  Westmoreland,  by  whom  she  had  four 
daughters.  This  lady  made  such  progress  in 
Latin  and  Greek,  under  the  instruction  of  Fox, 
the  martyrologist,  that  she  might  compete  with 
the  most  learned  men  of  the  age.  The  latter  part 
of  her  life  was  rendered  very  unhappy  by  her 
husband's  conduct ;  for  he  was  engaged  in  an  in- 
surrection, in  1569,  and,  in  consequence,  his  pro- 
perty was  confiscated,  and  he  himself  sentenced  to 
death,  which  he  escaped  by  leaving  the  country, 
and  remaining  a  long  time  in  exile. 

WESTON,  ELIZABETH  JANE, 
Was  born  about  1558.  She  left  England  very 
young,  and  settled  at  Prague,  in  Bohemia,  where 
she  passed  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  was  a  woman 
of  fine  talents,  which  were  highly  cultivated ;  she 
was  skilled  in  various  languages,  especially  Latin, 
in  which  she  wrote  several  works,  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  highly  esteemed  by  some  of  the  most 
learned  men  of  her  time.  They  were  published 
in  1606.  She  was  married  to  John  Leon,  a  gen- 
tleman belonging  to  the  emperor's  court,  and  was 
living  in  1605,  as  appears  by  a  letter  written  by 
her  in  that  year.  Slie  was  commended  by  Scali- 
ger,  and  complimented  by  Nicholas  INIay  in  a  Latin 
epigram.  She  is  ranked  with  Sir  Thomas  Moore, 
and  the  best  Latin  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

WHARTON,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF, 
Daughter  of  Sir  Henry  Lee,  of  Oxfordshire, 
England,  married  Thomas,  earl  of  Wharton,  and 
distinguished  herself  by  her  learning  and  poetical 
works.  She  died  in  1685.  One  of  her  plays  was 
entitled,  "  Love's  Martyr,  or  Wit  above  Crowns." 
Many  of  her  poems  are  printed  in  the  collections 
of  Dryden  and  Nichols.     She  had  no  children. 


WHEAT  LEY,    PHILLIS, 
Was  brought  from  Africa,  to  Bostoiti,   Massa- 
chusetts, in  1 761,  when  she  was  six  years  old,  and 


sold  in  the  slave-market,  to  Mrs.  John  Wheatley, 
wife  of  a  merchant  of  that  city.  This  lady,  per- 
ceiving her  natural  abilities,  had  her  carefully 
educated,  and  she  acquired  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  English  and  Latin  languages.  She  wrote 
verses  with  great  ease  and  fluency,  frequently 
rising  in  the  night  to  put  down  any  thought  that 
had  occurred  to  her.  In  1772,  she  accompanied 
a  son  of  Mr.  Wheatley  to  England,  for  her  health, 
where  she  received  a  great  deal  of  attention  from 
the  people  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life.  Her  poems 
were  published  in  London,  1773,  while  she  was  in 
that  city.  She  was  then  nineteen  years  of  age. 
The  volume  was  dedicated  to  the  countess  of  Hun- 
tingdon ;  and  in  the  preface  are  the  names  of  the 
governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  several  other  emi- 
nent gentlemen,  bearing  testimony  to  their  belief 
of  her  having  been  the  genuine  writer.  Mr. 
Sparks,  who  gives  these  particulars  in  his  "Life 
and  Writings  of  George  AVashington,"  from  which 
the  letter  quoted  below  is  taken,  observes:  "In 
whatever  oi-der  of  merit  these  poems  may  be 
ranked,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  they  exhibit  the 
most  favourable  evidence  on  record,  of  the  capa- 
city of  the  African  intellect  for  improvement.  The 
classical  allusions  are  numerous,  and  imply  a  wide 
compass  of  reading,  a  correct  jvidgment,  good 
taste,  and  a  tenacious  memory'.  Her  deportment 
is  represented  to  have  been  gentle  and  unpretend- 
ing, her  temper  amiable,  her  feelings  refined,  and 
her  religious  impressions  strong  and  constant." 

After  her  return,  Phillis  married  a  coloured 
man,  named  Peters,  who  proved  iinworthy  of  her, 
and  made  the  rest  of  her  life  very  tinhappy.  She 
died  at  Boston,  in  great  poverty,  in  1784,  leaving 
three  children.  She  was  but  thirty-one  years  old 
at  the  time  of  her  decease.  An  edition  of  her 
poems  was  published  in  1773,  and  another,  with  a 
biography  of  her,  in  1835.  Besides  these  poems, 
she  wrote  many  which  were  never  published  ;  and 
one  of  these,  addressed  and  sent  to  General  Wash- 
ington, soon  after  he  took  command  of  the  American 
army,  gives  her  a  more  enduring  fame  than  all  her 
printed  pieces.  In  the  following  letter  from  that 
great  man,  we  see  how  kind  was  the  soul  whose 
energies  were  then  carrying  forward  the  destinies 
of  the  new  world,  and  shaking  the  dynasties  of 
the  old. 

Cambridge,  February  28th,  1776. 

Miss  Phillis  :  Your  favovir  of  the  26th  of  Oc- 
tober did  not  reach  my  hands  till  the  middle  of 
December.  Time  enough,  you  will  say,  to  have 
given  an  answer  ere  this.  Granted.  But  a  variety 
of  important  occurrences,  continually  interposing 
to  distract  the  mind  and  withdraw  the  attention, 
I  hope  will  apologize  for  the  delay,  and  plead  my 
excuse  for  the  seeming  but  not  real  neglect.  I 
thank  you  most  sincerely  for  your  polite  notice  of 
me,  in  the  elegant  lines  you  enclosed  ;  and  how- 
ever undeserving  I  may  be  of  such  encomium  and 
panegyric,  the  style  and  manner  exhibit  a  striking 
proof  of  your  poetical  talents  ;  in  honour  of  which, 
and  as  a  tribute  justly  due  to  you,  I  would  have 
published  the  poem,  had  I  not  been  apprehensive 
that,  while  I  only  meant  to  give  the  world  this 
new  instance  of  your  genius,  I  might  have  incurred 

652 


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the  imputation  of  vanity.  This,  and  nothing  else, 
determined  me  not  to  give  it  place  in  the  public 
prints.  If  you  should  ever  come  to  Cambridge, 
or  near  head-quarters,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  a 
person  so  favoured  by  the  muses,  and  to  whom 
Nature  has  been  so  liberal  and  beneficent  in  her 
dispensations.  I  am,  with  great  respect,  your 
obedient,  humble  servant, 

George  Washington. 

Phillis  Wheatley's  poems  have  little  literary 
merit ;  their  worth  arises  from  the  extraordinary 
circumstance  that  they  are  the  productions  of  an 
African  womaii ;  the  sentiment  is  true  always,  but 
never  new.  The  elegy  and  acrostic  were  her  fa- 
vourite modes  of  composition.  The  following  is 
among  her  best  pieces : 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  GEORGE  WHITFIELD. 


Tliou,  moon,  hast  seen,  and  all  the  stars  of  light, 
How  he  has  wrestled  with  his  God  by  nirht. 
He  prayed  that  grace  in  every  heart  might  dwell ; 
He  longed  to  see  America  excel; 
He  charged  its  youth  that  every  grace  divine 
Should  with  full  lustre  in  their  conduct  shine. 
That  Saviour,  which  his  soul  did  first  receive, 
The  greatest  gift  that  even  a  God  can  give, 
He  freely  offered  to  the  numerous  throng 
That  on  his  lips  with  list'ning  pleasure  hung. 

"Take  him.  ye  wretched,  for  your  only  good. 
Take  him.  ye  starving  sinners,  for  your  food ; 
Ve  thirsty,  come  to  this  life-giving  stream, 
Ye  preachers,  take  him  for  your  joyful  theme; 
Take  him,  my  dear  Americans,"  he  said, 
"  Be  30ur  complaints  on  his  kind  bosom  laid: 
Take  him,  ye  Africans,  he  longs  for  you  ; 
Impartial  Saviour,  is  his  title  due: 
Washed  in  the  fountain  of  redeeming  blood, 
Yon  shall  be  sons,  and  kings,  and  priests  to  God.' 

But  though  arrested  by  the  hand  of  death, 
Whitfield  no  more  exerts  his  lab'ring  breath, 
Yet  let  us  view  him  in  the  eternal  skies. 
Let  every  heart  to  this  bright  vision  rise; 
While  the  tomb  safe  retains  its  sacred  trust. 
Till  life  divine  reanimates  his  dust. 

WILKINSON,    ELIZA, 

Whose  published  letters  give  a  lively  and  gra- 
phic account  of  the  situation  of  the  people,  and 
the  events  that  occurred  during  that  part  of  the 
war  of  the  revolution  which  was  carried  on  in  the 
section  of  the  country  in  which  she  resided,  was  a 
daughter  of  Francis  Yrage,  a  Welsh  emigrant, 
who  had  settled  on  Yrage's  Island,  about  thirty 
miles  from  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  She  mar- 
ried Mr.  Wilkinson,  who  died  six  months  after 
their  union,  leaving  her  a  young  and  beautiful 
widow.  She  was  noted  for  her  wit,  and  her  kind- 
ness to  the  American  soldiers. 

WILKINSON,  JEMIMA, 
A  RELIGIOUS  impostor,  was  born  in  Cumberland, 
Rhode  Island,  about  1753.  Recovering  suddenly 
from  an  apparent  suspension  of  life,  she  announced 
that  she  had  been  raised  from  the  dead,  and 
claimed  supernatural  power.  She  made  a  few 
proselytes,  and  removed  with  them  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Crooked  Lake,  in  New  York,  where 
she  died,  in  1819. 


WILLIAMS,  ANNA, 
AVas  the  daughter  of  a  surgeon  and  physician, 
in  South  Wales,  where  she  was  born,  in  1706. 
She  went  with  her  father  to  London,  in  1730, 
when,  from  some  failure  in  his  undertakings,  he 
was  reduced  to  great  poverty.  In  1740,  Miss 
AVilliams  lost  her  sight  by  a  cataract,  which  pre- 
vented her,  in  a  great  measure,  from  assisting  her 
father;  but  she  still  retained  her  fondness  for 
literature,  and  what  is  more  extraordinary,  her 
skill  in  the  use  of  her  needle.  In  1746,  she  pub- 
lished the  "  Life  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  with 
Notes,  translated  from  the  French."  She  was  as- 
sisted by  her  friends,  in  this  woi-k,  and  it  does  not 
appear  that  she  derived  much  pecuniary  advan- 
tage from  it.  Soon  after  this.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  .John- 
son became  interested  in  her,  and  at  Dr.  Johnson's 
request  an  operation  was  performed  on  her  eyes, 
but  without  success ;  and  from  that  time,  even 
after  his  wife's  death,  she  remained  almost  con- 
stantly an  inmate  of  Johnson's  house.  Her  cir- 
cumstances were  improved  in  the  last  years  of  her 
life,  by  the  publication  of  a  volume  of  prose  and 
verse,  and  by  some  other  means,  and  the  friend- 
ship and  kindness  of  Johnson  continued  unalter- 
able. She  died  at  his  house  in  Bolt-Court,  Fleet 
street,  aged  seventy-seven.  The  following  is  a 
good  specimen  of  her  poetry,  which  never  rises 
above  the  sentimental : 

ON    A    L.\DT    SINGING. 

When  Delia  strikes  the  trembling  string. 

She  charms  our  list'ning  ears; 
But  when  she  joins  her  voice  to  sing. 

She  emulates  the  spheres. 

The  feathered  songsters  round  her  throng, 

And  catch  the  soothing  notes; 
To  imitate  her  matchless  song. 

They  strain  their  little  throats. 

Tlie  constant  mournful-cooing  doves, 

Attentive  to  her  strain, 
All  mindful  of  their  tender  loves, 

By  list'ning  soothe  their  pain. 

Soft  were  the  notes  by  Orpheus  played. 

Which  once  recalled  his  bride  ; 
But  had  he  sung  like  thee,  fair  maid, 

Tlie  nymph  had  scarcely  died. 

WILLIAMS,    HELEN   MARIA, 

Was  born,  in  1762,  in  the  north  of  England, 
and  was  ushered  into  public  notice  by  Dr.  Kippis, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen.  Between  1782  and  1788, 
slie  published  "  Edwin  and  Eltrada,"  "  An  Ode  to 
Peace,"  and  other  poems.  In  1790  she  settled  in 
Paris,  and  became  intiitiate  with  the  most  eminent 
of  the  Girondists,  and,  in  1794,  was  imprisoned, 
and  nearly  shared  their  fate.  She  escaped  to 
Switzerland,  but  returned  to  Paris  in  1796,  and 
died  there  in  1827. 

She  wrote  "Julia,  a  Novel,"  "Letters  from 
France,"  "  Travels  in  Switzerland,"  "A  Narrative 
of  Events  in  France,"  and  "  A  Translation  of 
Humboldt  and  Bonpland's  Personal  Narrative." 
Miss  Williams  possessed  a  strong  mind,  much  his- 
torical acumen,  and  great  industry,  though  her 

553 


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WI 


religious  sentiments  were  not  free  from  some 
errors  of  the  period.  As  a  poetess  slie  liad  little 
more  than  some  facility  and  the  talent  inseparable 
from  a  cultivated  taste.  One  of  her  pieces  has 
much  favour  as  a  devotional  hymn : 

TKUST    IN    PROVIDENCE. 

Whilst  thee  1  seek,  protecting  Power  ! 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled: 
And  may  this  consecrated  liour 

With  belter  hopes  be  filled. 

Thy  love  the  power  of  thought  bestowed, 
To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar: 

Thy  mercy  o'er  my  lite  has  flowed  ; 
That  mercy  I  adore. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  most  dear, 

Because  conferred  by  thee. 

In  ev'ry  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  ev'ry  pain  1  bear. 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise. 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favoured  hour, 

Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill : 
Resigned,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 

My  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye  without  a  tear 

The  gath'ring  storm  shall  see: 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear; 

That  heart  will  rest  on  thee. 


PART    OF    A    PARAPHRASE. 

In  every  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
Or  tuneful  stream  that  cheers  the  vale, 
The  cavern's  depth,  or  echoing  grove, 
A  voice  is  heard  of  praise  and  love. 

As  o'er  God's  works  the  seasons  roll, 
And  soothe  with  change  of  bliss  the  soul, 
Oh,  never  may  their  smiling  train 
Pass  o'er  the  human  scene  in  vain. 

But  oft,  as  on  the  charm  we  gaze, 
Attune  the  wondering  soul  to  praise  ; 
And  be  the  joys  that  most  we  prize 
The  joys  that  from  His  favor  rise. 


WINCHELSEA,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Kingsmill,  of 
Sidmonton,  in  the  county  of  Soutliampton,  Eng- 
land. She  was  maid  of  honour  to  the  duchess  of 
York,  second  wife  of  James  II.,  and  married  He- 
neage,  second  son  of  Heneage,  earl  of  Winchelsea, 
who  afterwards  succeeded  to  the  title  of  earl  of 
Winchelsea.  She  died  August  5th,  1720,  without 
leaving  any  children.  Wordsworth  speaks  highly 
of  her  poem  called  "  A  Nocturnal  Reverie."  An- 
other of  her  poems  was  addressed  to  "  The  Spleen." 
A  collection  of  the  countess's  poems  was  printed 
in  London,  together  with  a  tragedy,  never  acted, 
entitled  "  Aristomenes."  Mr.  Chambers  remarks 
of  her  poetry,  and  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that 


she  was  the  first  Englishwoman  who  attempted 
to  ascend  the  Parnassian  heights — "  Her  lines  are 
smoothly  versified,  and  possess  a  tone  of  calm  and 
contemplative  feeling." 


A    NOCTURNAL    REVERIE. 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 

Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confined, 

And  only  gentle  zephyr  fans  his  wings. 

And  lonely  Philomel  still  waking  sings; 

Or  from  some  tree,  famed  for  the  owl's  delight. 

She,  holloaing  clear,  directs  the  wanderer  right : 

In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give  place. 

Or  thinly  veil  the  heaven's  mysterious  face; 

When  in  some  river  overhung  with  green. 

The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  aie  seen  ; 

When  freshened  grass  now  bears  itself  upright, 

And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite, 

Wlience  springs,tbe  woodbine,  and  the  bramble  rose. 

And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  sheltered  grows  ; 

Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes. 

Yet  chequers  still  with  red  the  dusky  brakes ; 

When  scattered  glow-worms,  but  in  twilight  fine, 

Show  trivial  beauties  watch  tlieir  hour  to  shine; 

Whilst  Salisbury  stands  the  test  of  every  light, 

In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright : 

When  odours  which  declined  repelling  day. 

Through  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray; 

When  darkened  groves  their  softest  shadows  wear, 

And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear; 

When  through  the  gloom  more  venerable  shows 

Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose; 

While  sunburnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks  conceal, 

And  swelling  haycocks  thicken  up  the  vale: 

When  the  loosed  horse  now,  as  his  pasture  leads. 

Comes  slowly  grazing  through  the  adjoining  meads, 

Whose  stealing  pace  and  lengthened  shade  we  fear, 

Till  tornup  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear; 

When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  food. 

And  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud; 

When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village  walls. 

And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls; 

Their  shortlived  jubilee  the  creatures  keep, 

Which  but  endures  while  tyrant  man  does  sleep  : 

When  a  sedate  ..ontent  the  spirit  feels. 

And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  «  hilst  it  reveals; 

But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 

Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak  ; 

Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness  charmed. 

Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarmed. 

O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 

Joys  in  the  inferior  world,  and  thinks  it  like  her  own • 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain, 

Till  morning  breaks,  and  all's  confused  again; 

Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamours  are  renewed, 

Or  pleasures  seldom  reached  again  pursued. 

The  following  is  another  specimen  of  the  cor- 
rect and  smooth  versification  of  the  countess,  and 
seems  to  us  superior  to  the  "  Nocturnal  Reverie  :" 


LIFE  S    PROGRESS. 

How  gaily  is  at  first  begun 

Our  life's  uncertain  race; 
Whilst  yet  that  sprightly  morning  sun. 
With  which  we  just  set  out  to  run. 

Enlightens  all  the  place. 

How  smiling  the  world's  prospect  lies. 

How  tempting  to  go  through  I 
Not  Canaan  to  the  prophet's  eyes. 
From  Pisgah,  with  a  sweet  surprise. 

Did  more  inviting  show. 

How  soft  the  first  ideas  prove 

Which  wander  through  our  minds i 
How  full  the  joys,  how  free  the  love, 
Which  does  that  early  season  move, 
As  flowers  the  western  winds! 

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Our  sighs  are  then  but  veinal  air, 

But  April  drops  our  tears. 
Which  swiftly  passing,  all  grows  fair, 
Whilst  beauty  compensates  our  care 

And  youth  each  vapour  clears. 

But  oh!  too  soon,  alas!  we  climb. 

Scarce  feeling  we  ascend 
The  gently-rising  hill  of  Time, 
From  whence  with  grief  we  see  that  prime. 

And  all  its  sweetness  end. 

The  die  now  cast,  our  station  known. 

Fond  expectation  past : 
The  thorns  which  former  days  had  sown, 
To  crops  of  late  repentance  grown. 

Through  which  we  toil  at  last. 

Whilst  every  care's  a  driving  harm. 

That  helps  to  bear  us  down  ; 
Which  faded  smiles  no  more  can  charm, 
But  every  tear's  a  winter  storm,     . 

And  every  look's  a  frown. 

WINCKEL,  THERESA  EMILIA  HENRIETTA, 

AVas  bora  at  Dresden,  in  1784,  aaid  was  cele- 
brated for  her  copies  of  the  old  masters.  She  is 
said  to  have  been  unequalled  in  the  copies  she 
made  of  Correggio's  works.  She  went  to  Paris, 
with  her  mother,  in  1808,  and  spent  her  time  while 
in  that  city  in  studying  the  works  of  art  with 
which  it  abounds.  Her  letters  from  Paris  have 
been  published,  and  site  also  wrote  many  articles 
for  periodicals.  She  began  the  study  of  the  art  of 
painting,  at  first,  for  her  own  gratification ;  but 
her  mother  losing  her  fortune,  Henrietta  supported 
them  both  by  her  own  exertions. 

WILSON,    MRS., 

An  Englishwoman,  who  deserves  an  honoured 
place  among  the  distinguished  of  her  sex,  for  her 
noble  self-sacrifice  in  going  out  to  India,  to  intro- 
duce the  light  of  female  education  into  that  region 
of  moral  darkness.  She  also  founded  the  first 
orphan  refuge,  or  asylum,  for  native  female  chil- 
dren, established  under  the  British  sceptre  in  the 
East.  This  beginning  of  female  instruction  was 
introduced  only  twenty-nine  years  ago  ;  the  Eng- 
lish East  India  Company  had  held  rich  possessions 
and  controlling  power  in  India  for  more  than  a 
century,  yet  no  man  had  sought  to  remedy  or  re- 
move the  horrible  degradation  and  ignorance  of 
the  female  sex.  The  spirit  of  selfishness  or  sin 
reigned  paramount  in  the  hearts  of  men ;  and  their 
"enmity"  to  the  moral  or  intellectual  influence 
of  women  was,  and  is  still,  there  wrought  out  in 
the  most  awful  oppressions,  and  brutal  practices, 
the  corrupt  mind  can  devise.  And  never  will  the 
chains  of  sin  be  broken,  or  the  Gospel  make  pro- 
gress in  that  "clime  of  the  sun,"  till  the  female 
sex  are  instructed,  and  raised  from  their  social 
degradation.  Mrs.  Wilson  has  done  much,  for  she 
made  the  beginning.  AVe  give  the  history  as  we 
find  it  in  Chambers's  Journal,  written,  evidently, 
by  a  lady.  She  tells  us  that  Mrs.  Wilson,  then 
Miss  Cook,  went  out  to  India  in  1821. 

"  Up  till  this  time,  the  education  of  natives  had 
been  confined  to  boys,  for  whom  a  number  of 
schools  had  been  opened ;  and  as  no  attempt  at 
conversion  was  allowed,  there  was  no  prejudice 


against  them.  One  of  the  most  benevolent  founders 
of  schools  for  boys  in  Calcutta  w^s  David  Hare,  a 
person  who,  having  amassed  a  considerable  fortune 
in  that  city,  determined  to  spend  it  there  instead 
of  his  native  land ;  and  not  only  did  he  spend  his 
money,  but  his  life,  in  benefitting  the  city  where 
he  had  so  long  resided.  These  attempts,  as  we 
have  said,  met  with  no  opposition  on  the  part  of 
the  natives ;  on  the  contrary,  they  warmly  seconded 
them,  and  the  schools  were  crowded  with  boys 
willing  to  learn  after  the  English  fashion  instead 
of  their  own  ;  but  the  prejudices  against  educating 
females  were  not  to  be  so  easily  overcome.  For 
the  woman,  no  education  of  any  kind  but  such  as 
related  to  making  a  curry  or  a  pillau  had  ever 
been  deemed  necessary.  As  long  as  infancy  and 
childhood  lasted,  she  was  the  pet  and  plaything 
of  the  family ;  and  when,  with  girlhood,  came  the 
domestic  duties  of  the  wife,  she  entered  on  them 
unprepared  by  any  previous  moral  training.  All 
intellectual  acquirements  were  out  of  place  for  one 
who  was  not  the  companion,  but  the  drudge  and 
slave  of  her  husband ;  and  the  more  ignorant  she 
was,  the  less  intolerable  would  be  the  confinement 
and  monotony  of  her  life.  In  India,  all  females 
above  the  very  lowest  ranks,  and  of  respectable 
character,  are  kept  m  seclusion  after  betrothment; 
and  after  marriage,  none  of  any  rank,  except  the 
very  highest,  are  exempt  from  those  duties  which 
we  should  consider  menial,  though  not  really  so 
when  kept  in  due  bounds.  A  wife  can  never  be 
degraded  by  preparing  her  husband's  repast ;  but 
it  is  humiliating  to  be  considered  unworthy  to 
partake  of  it  with  him,  and  not  even  to  be  per- 
mitted to  enliven  it  with  her  conversation.  Those 
females,  again,  whose  station  is  not  high  enough 
to  warrant  the  iDrivileges  of  seclusion,  present  a 
picture  painful  to  contemplate ;  the  blessing  of 
liberty  cannot  make  up  for  the  incessant  toil  and 
drudgery  to  which  they  are  invariably  condemned  ; 
and  the  alternations  of  the  climate,  added  to  the 
exposure,  render  the  woman  in  the  prime  of  life  a 
withered  crone,  either  depressed  into  an  idiot  or 
irritated  into  a  virago.  Though  in  the  present 
day  something  has  been  effected  in  the  way  of 
elevating  the  social  position  of  the  Hindoo  female, 
thirty  years  ago  even  that  little  was  considered 
unattainable.  It  was  evident  that  while  one  en- 
tire sex  remained  so  utterly  uncared  for,  the  in- 
struction of  the  other  would  fail  to  produce  the 
desired  effects ;  and  that  if  India  was  to  be  rege- 
nerated, her  female  as  well  as  her  male  population 
must  be  instructed.  The  task  was  difficult ;  for 
whilst  the  government  was  indifferent,  the  natives 
of  India  were  all  strongly  opposed  to  any  measures 
for  ameliorating  the  condition,  social  or  intellec- 
tual, of  their  women.  One  zealous  friend,  how- 
ever, devoted  herself  to  the  task.  The  work  was 
to  be  done,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  did  it. 

Animated  with  a  determination  to  spare  no  per- 
sonal exertion,  she  had  herself  trained  to  the 
business  of  general  instruction,  and  did  not  fear 
the  effects  of  an  Indian  climate.  Physically, 
morally,  and  intellectually,  she  was  fitted  for  her 
task.  Her  health  was  excellent;  Iter  spirits 
elastic  ;  her  temper  even ;  her  mind  clear,  quick, 

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and  shrewd  ;  her  manners  most  engaging,  though 
dignified ;  and  her  will  indomitable.  On  arriving 
in  India,  her  first  efforts  were  devoted  to  acquiring 
a  knowledge  of  Bengalee,  the  language  of  the  na- 
tive of  Calcutta ;  and  as  soon  as  she  could  make 
herself  understood  by  those  around  her,  she  took 
up  her  abode  in  the  midst  of  the  native  population, 
and  courted  and  encouraged  pupils.  Slowly  and 
suspiciously  they  came  in,  attracted  by  a  small 
gratuity  each  received  as  a  reward  for  daily  at- 
tendance. In  time  others  followed  their  example ; 
and  a  school  which  could  scarcely  be  said  to  aspire 
to  the  dignity  of  ragged,  being  literally  a  naked 
one,  was  established.  The  premises  occupied  by 
Mrs.  Wilson  were  so  confined,  that  when  the  pice, 
not  the  learning,  attracted  more  pupils,  she  was 
obliged  to  open  classes  in  various  parts  of  the 
bazaar,  and  go  from  one  to  the  other.  This  oc- 
casioned much  loss  of  time ;  and  none  but  those 
of  the  very  lowest  rank  could  be  enticed  even  by 
a  fee  to  attend  the  school.  Any  one  less  earnest 
would  have  lost  heart,  and  been  disgusted  to  find 
that  all  her  eff"orts  were  to  be  so  confined.  But  Miss 
Cook  hoped,  and  trusted,  and  determined  to  remedy 
what  appeared  remediable.  She  was  convinced 
that  a  large  house,  in  a  more  respectable  part  of 
the  native  town,  would  be  one  means  of  attracting 
pupils  of  rather  a  higher  caste  ;  and  she  determined 
to  secure  this.  A  rajah,  who  at  that  time  was 
anxious  to  pay  court  to  the  government,  presented 
the  "Ladies'  Society  for  Promoting  Native  Female 
Education"  with  a  piece  of  ground  in  a  very  eli- 
gible situation ;  a  European  gentleman  furnished 
the  plan,  and  kindly  superintended  the  erection 
of  the  buildings  ;  and  in  about  five  years  after  her 
first  arrival  in  Calcutta,  Mrs.  Wilson  took  posses- 
sion of  the  Central  School,  a  large,  airy,  and  hand- 
some abode.  Five  years  had  accustomed  the 
natives  to  the  anomaly  of  teaching  girls,  and  a 
somewhat  better  class  than  had  at  first  attended 
were  now  to  be  seen  congregated  round  their  en- 
ergetic teacher,  seated  cross-legged  on  the  floor, 
tracing  their  crabbed  characters  on  a  slate  ;  read- 
ing in  sonorous  voices  the  translations  of  the  pa- 
rables and  miracles ;  or  even  chanting  hymns,  also 
translated.  Still  none  came,  unless  brought  by  the 
women  who  were  employed  to  go  the  rounds  of 
the  bazaar  in  the  morning,  and  who  received  so 
much  for  each  child :  bribery  alone  ensured  at- 
tendance ;  and  none  of  the  pupils  remained  more 
than  two  or  three  years  at  the  most.  As  for  the 
natives  of  the  upper  class,  all  attempts  to  gain  a 
footing  amongst  them  proved  total  failures.  The 
examinations  of  the  school  were  attended  by  all 
the  native  gentlemen  of  rank  who  professed  to 
take  an  interest  in  education  ;  but  none  of  them 
favoured  it  sufficiently  to  desire  its  benefits  for  his 
own  daughters,  though  Mrs.  AVilson  offered  to  at- 
tend them  irrivatdy,  when  not  engaged  in  the 
duties  of  the  school.  At  length  the  same  rajah 
who  had  given  the  ground  informed  her  that  his 
young  wife  insisted  on  learning  English.  She  had 
already  learned  to  read  and  write  Bengalee  ;  but 
as  this  did  not  satisfy  her,  he  requested  Mrs. 
Wilson's  services,  which  were  immediately  given  ; 
and  she  found  her  pupil  a  very  apt  scholar,  eager 


for  information  of  all  kinds.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  weeks,  the  lady  succeeded  in  obtaining  her 
husband's  permission  to  visit  Mrs.  AVilson  at  the 
Central  School,  and  to  be  introduced  to  some  more 
English  ladies.  It  was  not  without  much  per- 
suasion that  this  boon  was  granted ;  and  even 
when  we  were  all  seated  expecting  her  arrival, 
(for  the  writer  of  this  was  present,)  we  scarcely 
believed  that  anything  so  contrary  to  etiquette 
would  be  permitted.  At  length,  however,  the 
rapid  tread  of  many  feet  was  heard,  a  closed  pa- 
lanquin, surrounded  by  chaprasseys,  entered  the 
veranda,  and  panting  after  it  were  two  old  crones. 
The  vehicle  was  set  down  in  the  inner  veranda,  or, 
as  it  would  be  called  here,  lobby,  from  which  all 
the  male  servants  were  then  excluded,  and  the 
doors  closed ;  and  then  a  figure  enveloped  in  a 
large  muslin  sheet  was  taken  out  of  the  convey- 
ance, and  guided  up  stairs  by  the  duennas.  As 
soon  as  she  was  in  the  sitting-room,  the  envelope 
was  removed,  and  disclosed  a  very  pretty  young 
creature,  dressed  in  a  pink  muslin  sorharee  and 
white  muslin  jacket,  both  spotted  with  silver, 
slippers  richly  embroidered,  and  her  thick  plait 
of  dark  glossy  hair  fastened  by  a  richly  ornamented 
pin.  She  had  gold  bangles  on  her  neck  and  arms ; 
but  no  display  of  jewellery,  though  her  husband 
was  reputed  very  wealthy. 

I  may  mention  that  the  soi'haree  is  all  the  cloth- 
ing of  the  Hindoo  female.  It  is  about  seven  yards 
long  and  one  wide,  the  width  forming  the  length 
of  the  garment.  It  is  wound  round  the  figure  as 
often  as  convenient,  and  the  remainder  brought 
over  the  head  a  sa  veil.  The  boddice  is  an  occa- 
sional addition,  never  adopted  by  the  lower  classes, 
and  their  sorharees  are  scanty  and  coarse.  It  is 
but  an  ungraceful  costume,  as  there  are  no  folds. 
Our  visitor's  countenance  was  very  animated,  and 
her  extreme  youth — for  she  was  not  more  than 
sixteen — gave  a  charm  to  features  not  distinguished 
for  regularity.  Secluded  as  her  life  had  been,  the 
young  creature  was  far  from  being  timid.  She 
was  quite  at  her  ease,  and  ready  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  any  one  who  understood  Ben- 
galee. She  could  not  converse  in  English;  but 
was  proud  of  displaying  her  acquirements  in  read- 
ing and  spelling,  and  told  us  that  she  had  prevailed 
on  the  rajah  to  hear  her  repeat  her  lessons  every 
evening. 

'  Of  course  our  dresses  excited  her  curiosity,  for 
she  had  never  seen  any  of  European  make,  except 
Mrs.  Wilson's  widow's  garb.  She  made  many  en- 
quiries about  our  children,  but  would  have  con- 
sidered it  indelicate  even  to  name  our  husbands. 
After  replying  to  all  our  queries,  she  became  so 
familiar  that  she  offered  to  sing  to  us,  regretting 
that  she  had  not  her  instrument  (a  very  simple 
sort  of  guitar)  to  accompany  her  voice.  The  me- 
lody was  simple,  and  her  voice  very  sweet.  All 
this  time  the  old  women  who  had  accompanied 
their  lady  were  crouching  down  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  watching  her  intently ;  and  at  last,  as 
if  they  thought  her  freedom  had  lasted  long  enough, 
they  rose,  and  told  her  it  was  the  maharajah's 
orders  she  should  go.  She  unwillingly  complied, 
and  left  us  to  our  great  regret ;  for  there  was  a 

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confiding  naivete  about  her  which  was  very  win- 
ning. In  a  few  weeks  the  lessons  were  discon- 
tinued ;  her  husband  fell  into  well-merited  dis- 
grace ;  and  this  was  the  first  and  last  pupil  Mrs. 
Wilson  had  in  the  highest  ranks.  This  disap- 
pointment, however,  was  more  than  compensated 
by  the  accomplishment  of  another  scheme,  perhaps 
more  important,  for  the  amelioration  of  the  native 
female  character. 

I  have  said  that  the  attendance  of  the  day  scholar 
seldom  exceeded  three  years ;  and  much  as  Mrs. 
Wilson  desired  to  believe  that  the  bread  cast  upon 
the  waters  would  not  be  lost,  no  well-authenticated 
evidence  ever  reached  her  that  the  brief  school- 
days produced  any  permanently  beneficial  effects, 
sufficient  to  counteract  the  superstition  and  igno- 
rance with  which  her  pupils  were  necessarily  sur- 
rounded. Feeling  the  impossibility  with  day- 
schools  of  obviating  infection  from  such  sources, 
she  had  always  cherished  the  idea  of  rearing  some 
children  from  their  very  infancy,  uncontaminated 
by  the  evil  examples  of  a  native  home  ;  but  it  was 
not  till  just  before  she  moved  into  the  Central 
School  that  she  had  an  opportunity  of  carrying 
her  plan  into  execution.  Her  durzie  (tailor)  feel- 
ing himself  dying,  sent  for  her,  and  implored  her 
to  take  charge  of  his  only  child ;  he  said  he  could 
not  be  a  Christian  himself,  but  he  wished  her  to 
be  one ;  and  that  if  Mrs.  Wilson  would  promise  to 
keep  her,  he  would,  in  the  presence  of  his  rela- 
tives, make  over  the  little  girl  to  that  lady.  The 
assurance  was  as  readily  given  as  her  task  was 
conscientiously  fulfilled  ;  and  no  first-fruits  could 
have  been  more  promising,  or  could  have  ripened 
more  satisfactorily  ;  no  commencement  could  have 
been  followed  by  more  complete  success.  In  a 
very  few  weeks  another  orphan,  totally  destitute, 
was  thrown  in  Mrs.  AVilson's  way ;  and  much 
about  the  same  time  she  was  requested  to  receive 
as  a  boarder  a  little  slave  girl,  the  charge  of  whom 
had,  by  very  peculiar  circumstances,  devolved  on 
a  lady  whose  health  and  position  prevented  her 
training  the  poor  castaway  satisfactorily.  "  That 
there  needs  only  a  beginning,"  was  never  more 
fully  verified  than  in  the  case  of  the  Orphan  Asy- 
lum. That  which  for  several  years  had  been  the 
chief  wish  of  Mrs.  AVilson's  heart  was  accomplished 
in  a  few  months ;  and  before  she  had  a  home  to 
shelter  them,  she  found  herself  surrounded  by 
twenty-five  dependent  little  creatures.  The  or- 
phans were  entirely  and  exclusively  Mrs.  Wilson's 
own  charge ;  the  ladies'  committee  had  no  control 
over  them.  From  the  first,  the  pupils  were  trained 
to  contribute  by  their  labour  to  their  own  support; 
and  she  was  never  without  large  orders  for  worsted 
work,  which  paid  well.  She  was  assisted  in  all 
her  labours,  but  more  particularly  in  this  depart- 
ment, by  a  young  lady  who  had  joined  her  from 
England  ;  and  before  this  very  interesting  person 
fell  a  victim  to  the  climate,  some  of  the  elder  girls 
under  her  tuition  had  become  so  expert  in  the  use 
of  the  needle,  (another  innovation  on  the  privileges 
of  the  male  sex,)  that  they  were  able  to  copy 
fancy-work  of  all  kinds,  from  the  sale  of  which  a 
considerable  sum  was  realized  yearly.  All  the 
orphans,  hower,  were  not  entirely  dependent  on 


Mrs.  Wilson ;  many  of  them  were  boarded  with 
her  by  individuals  who  were  only  too  thankful  to 
find  such  a  refuge  for  any  poor  stray  sheep  thrown 
upon  their  charity.  Indeed,  considering  the  fre- 
quency of  such  cases,  it  seems  wonderful  that  so 
many  years  were  required  to  carry  out  a  plan  so 
beneficial  to  so  many.  Thus  one  girl  was  the  child 
of  a  wretched  woman  executed  for  a  most  inhuman 
murder ;  the  benevolence  of  the  judge's  wife  res- 
cued the  unfortunate  child  from  starvation,  and 
supported  her  in  the  Orphan  Refuge :  another 
boarder  was  a  girl  from  the  Goomsur  country, 
whose  limbs  for  months  retained  the  marks  of  the 
ligatures  with  which  she  had  been  bound  previous 
to  sacrifice ;  another  was  a  fine,  handsome  New 
Zealand  gii-1,  who  was  found  in  the  streets  of  Cal- 
cutta, having  been  concealed  on  board  the  vessel 
that  had  brought  her  till  its  departure,  and  then 
left  to  live  or  die,  as  might  happen.  There  was 
also  one  boarder  of  quite  another  class;  she  was 
the  wife  of  a  young  Hindoo,  who,  whilst  studying 
at  Bishop's  College  after  his  conversion,  was 
anxious  to  rescue  his  young  wife  from  heathenism, 
and  placed  her  with  Mrs.  Wilson,  to  be  educated 
as  a  Christian.  He  died  early,  and  I  am  not 
aware  of  the  fate  of  his  wife. 

The  building  in  which  Mrs.  Wilson  resided  was 
admirably  calculated  for  day-schools,  as  it  was  in 
the  centre  of  the  native  population.  This  proxi- 
mity was  essential  to  secure  day-scholars,  who 
might  be  seen,  just  returned  from  their  bath  in 
the  not  very  distant  Hoogly,  as  early  as  six  in  the 
morning  beginning  their  studies,  which  continued 
till  ten.  The  situation,  however,  that  was  the 
best  for  day-scholars,  was  the  worst  for  those 
whom  it  was  desirable  to  wean  from  their  old 
paths  —  to  obliterate  all  they  knew  already  that 
was  demoralizing — and,  if  possible,  to  present  no- 
thing but  what  was  pure  and  lovely  for  their  imi- 
tation. As  long  as  the  orphans  were  in  daily 
contact  with  the  out-pupils,  these  objects  could 
not  be  obtained ;  and  it  became  evident  a  separa- 
tion must  be  made,  or  that  the  day-schools,  as 
being  of  minor  importance,  should  be  sacrificed, 
and  the  Central  School  converted  into  an  Orphan 
Refuge.  It  seemed  hopeless  to  attempt  carrying 
on  both  from  funds  collected  on  the  spot.  For  all 
that  had  in  the  first  instance  been  raised  in  Britain 
and  India  for  the  purposes  of  native  female  educa- 
tion, and  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  ladies'  com- 
mittee, had  been  swallowed  up  in  the  ruin  of  one 
of  the  large  houses  of  agencj'  in  which  they  had 
been  placed  bj'  the  treasurer ;  and  the  expenses 
attendant  on  the  day-schools  had  since  been  de- 
frayed by  subscriptions  and  donations  from  the 
benevolent  in  Calcutta ;  which,  however  liberal, 
sometimes  left  the  secretary  without  a  rupee  in 
hand.  Mrs.  Wilson  at  once  negatived  the  plan  of 
sacrificing  the  one  scheme  for  the  other ;  she  said 
both  should  be  accomplished ;  and  what  seemed 
impracticable  to  all  consulted  on  the  matter,  was 
eff"ected  by  the  strong  will  and  determined  energy 
of  one  woman.  She  individually  raised  money  to 
purchase  ground  at  Agiparah,  a  retired  spot  on 
the  banks  of  the  Hoogly,  about  fourteen  miles 
from  Calcutta,  which  she  obtained  on  very  advan- 

657 


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WO 


tageous  terms.  She  immediately  commenced  the 
erection  of  suitable,  but  simple  buildings,  within 
three  walls  so  high  as  to  exclude  all  the  outer 
world,  and  with  the  river  for  the  other  boundary. 
Just  at  the  time  the  ground  was  obtained,  one  of 
those  dreadful  inundations  which  sometimes  depo- 
pulate Cuttack,  occurred,  and  boat-loads  of  half- 
drowned  women  and  children  arrived  off  Calcutta. 
Mrs.  Wilson  gave  a  home  to  all  who  would  take  it ; 
and  although  many  came  only  to  die,  her  number 
in  a  few  weeks  amounted  to  one  hundred  likely  to 
live.  Many  of  those  past  youth  were  unwilling  to 
conform  to  the  rules ;  those  that  remained  were 
generally  very  young — some  mere  infants.  When 
all  this  large  accession  of  numbers  was  thus  sud- 
denly thrown  upon  her,  Mrs.  Wilson  was  still  in 
Calcutta,  and  was  obliged  to  erect  temporary 
buildings  for  shelter,  and  to  make  a  great  effort  to 
feed  such  a  host  of  famishing  creatures.  Her 
energies  were  equal  to  the  emergency,  and  funds 
were  never  wanting. 

As  soon  as  the  buildings  at  Agiparah  were  com- 
pleted, Mrs.  Wilson  removed  thither  with  her  large 
orphan  family,  and  discontinued  her  attendance  at 
the  day-schools,  and  almost  her  connexion  with 
the  outer  world.  All  within  the  precincts  of  the 
establishment  professed  Christianity ;  and  no  more 
enticing  example  to  follow  its  precepts  could  have 
been  afforded  than  Mrs.  AVilson's  conduct  display- 
ed. Her  great  aim  and  object  in  educating  the 
native  girl  was  to  elevate  the  native  woman  ;  not 
merely  to  teach  reading,  wi'iting,  arithmetic,  the 
use  of  the  needle,  &c.,  but  to  purify  the  mind,  to 
subdue  the  temper,  to  raise  her  in  the  scale  of  be- 
ing, to  render  her  the  companion  and  helpmate  of 
her  husband,  instead  of  his  slave  and  drudge. 
Many  of  the  European  patronesses  of  distinction, 
as  soon  as  they  heard  of  the  plan  of  an  Orphan 
Refuge,  hailed  it  as  a  most  admirable  one  for 
rearing  a  much  better  class  of  ladies'-maids  or 
ayahs  than  was  generally  to  be  found  in  Calcutta, 
and  who  could  speak  English  withal;  but  they 
little  comprehended  Mrs.  Wilson's  scheme.  She 
did  not  educate  for  the  benefit  of  the  European, 
but  of  the  native.  A  few  of  the  most  intelligent 
were  taught  to  read  and  write  English,  but  all 
knowledge  was  conveyed  through  the  medium  of 
their  own  language ;  and  none  were  allowed  to 
quit  the  Refuge  until  they  were  sought  in  marriage 
by  suitable  native  Christians,  or  till  their  services 
were  required  to  assist  in  forming  other  orphan 
retreats.  As  soon  as  the  dwellings  were  finished, 
a  place  of  worship  was  erected,  and  steps  taken 
to  induce  a  missionary  and  his  wife  to  proceed  to 
India  to  preside  over  this  singular  establishment. 
For  all  these  undertakings  funds  were  never  want- 
ing; and  though  their  avowed  purpose  was  to 
spread  Christianity,  many  rich  and  influential  na- 
tives contributed  to  them ;  and  one  Brahmin  of 
high  caste,  when  bequeathing  a  handsome  sum, 
said  he  did  so  under  the  conviction  that  their 
originator  was  more  than  human.  Before  all  Mrs. 
Wilson's  plans  were  brought  to  maturity,  many 
had  gone  and  done  likewise  ;  and  influential  socie- 
ties of  various  denominations  were  formed  to  pro- 
mote female  education  in  the  East.    There  are  now 


several  Orphan  Refuges  in  Calcutta,  and  one  in 
almost  every  large  station  in  India.  It  is  not  my 
purpose  to  speak  of  these :  I  wish  only  to  record 
whence  they  all  sprung,  and  who  led  the  way  in 
the  good  and  great  work.  Mrs.  Wilson  is  no  longer 
with  her  lambs,  but  her  deeds  do  follow  her ;  and 
wherever  the  despised  and  outcast  native  female 
child  may  hereafter  find  a  Christian  home,  and 
receive  a  Christian  training,  she  should  be  taught 
to  bless  the  name  of  Mrs.  Wilson,  as  the  first  ori- 
ginator of  the  philanthropic  scheme. 

WINTER,  LUCRETIA  WILHELMINA, 

(Her  maiden  name  was  Van  Merken,)  was  born 
in  1745,  in  Amsterdam,  Holland.  She  was  married 
to  the  poet  Nicolaus  Simon  AVinter,  with  whose 
writings  a  great  deal  of  her  poetry  was  published. 
She  was  a  poetess  of  the  Dutch  school ;  all  her 
verses  bear  the  impress  of  labour,  and  the  marks 
of  a  great  deal  of  polishing.  She  wrote  the  two 
epics,  "David,"  and  "Germanicus,"  and  a  number 
of  miscellaneous  poems,  published  in  1793.  She 
died  in  1795,  at  Leyden,  Holland. 

AVOFFINGTON,   MARGARET, 

An  actress,  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  elegance, 
and  talent,  was  born  at  Diiblin  in  1718.  She  acted 
in  the  London  and  Dublin  theatres,  and  was  very 
much  admired.  She  was  sprightly,  good-humour- 
ed, and  charitable  ;  and  her  society  was  sought  by 
the  gravest  and  most  learned  persons.  She  died 
in  London,  in  1760. 

WOLF,  ARNOLDINA, 
A  NATIVE  of  Cassel,  in  Germany,  was  born  in 
1769.  Her  father  was  an  officer  in  the  Hessian 
government;  but  he  died  while  she  was  quite 
young.  AVhen  she  was  about  eighteen,  she  was 
attacked  by  a  very  painful  disease,  which  pre- 
vented her  from  sleeping  for  nearly  twenty-six 
weeks.  She  alleviated  her  sufferings  by  repeating 
and  composing  poetry.  The  poems  she  composed 
while  in  this  state  were-  published  in  1788.  At 
length  she  fell  into  an  apparent  state  of  insensi- 
bility, in  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  live ;  but 
she  could  hear,  and  was  conscious  of  a  great  dread 
lest  she  should  be  buried  alive.  In  four  weeks 
she  began  to  recover,  and  in  time  regained  her 
health.  She  married,  in  1791,  Mr.  Wolf,  by  whom 
she  had  nine  children.  She  died,  in  1820,  at 
Smalcalden.  Her  poems,  and  an  account  of  *her 
illness,  were  published  by  Dr.  AViss. 

AVOLF,  MRS., 
A  German  actress,  who,  like  her  husband,  im- 
mortalized herself  on  the  stage,  and,  like  him, 
enjoyed,  during  her  lifetime,  the  most  glorious 
triumph.  She  united  to  a  tall  figure,  an  expres- 
sive physiognomy,  and  a  noble,  dignified  carriage. 
Her  pliant  organs  of  speech  rendered  her  utter- 
ance very  easy,  and  she  had  cultivated  highly  this 
part  of  her  art.  Thus  she  was  peculiarly,  adapted 
to  tragedy,  in  which  she  represented  with  success 
the  first  heroines.  Instances  of  her  characters 
are  :  Iphigenia,  Stella,  Mary  Stuart,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth ;  the  Princess,  in  Schiller's  "Bride  of  Mes- 

558 


wo 


YA 


sina;"  Clara,  in  Goethe's  "Egmont;"  Adelheid, 
in  Goetlie's  "  Goetz  von  Berlicliingen  ;"  Leonore, 
in  Goiitlie's  "  Tasso ;"  Eboli,  in  Schiller's  "Don 
Carlos;"  Sappho,  in  Grillpai-zfer's  drama  of  this 
name;  and  others.  But  she  has  also  succeeded 
in  cheerful  and  naif  parts.  Everywhere,  she 
betrayed  a  deep  study  of  her  part,  a  true  con- 
ception of  the  whole,  and  a  delicate  taste  for 
poetical  beauties ;  moreover,  her  gestures  were 
animated  by  charming  grace,  and  she  knew  how 
to  transport  the  spectator  in  those  moments  which 
the  poet  had  chosen  for  his  peculiar  triumphs. 
Her  declamation  was  not  to  be  excelled,  and  still 
did  not  at  all  appear  like  art;  she  was  also 
able,  by  her  costume,  to  beautify  and  call  into 
existence  the  artificial  character  which  she  repre- 
sented. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wolf  were  engaged  at  the 
theatre  at  Berlin ;  and  the  public,  though  accus- 
tomed to  Fleck  and  ZoflBand,  and  Mrs.  Bethmann, 
knew  how  to  appreciate  this  rare  couple,  and  re- 
warded them  with  those  distinguished  marks  of 
approbation  which  they  so  richly  deserved. 

WOOD,   JEAN, 

AVas  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  John  Moncure, 
a  Scotch  clergj'man  of  the  Episcopal  church,  who 
emigrated  to  America,  and  was  the  first  progeni- 
tor of  the  numerous  Virginia  families  bearing  his 
name.  He  possessed  considerable  talents,  which 
his  third  daughter,  Jean,  inherited.  She  was  very 
intellectual,  and  highly  gifted  with  poetical  and 
musical  genius.  Of  poetry,  she  has  left  some 
beautiful  specimens,  which  it  is  in  contemplation 
to  publish,  as  they  are  sufficiently  numerous  to 
constitute  a  small  volume,  and  well  worth  being 
put  into  such  a  form. 

Though  entirely  self-taught,  she  played  with 
taste  and  skill  on  the  guitar,  the  piano,  and  the 
spinet,  an  instrument  much  in  vogue  in  her  day ; 
indeed,  so  thoroughly  did  she  make  herself  ac- 
quainted with  it,  that  she  has  been  known  to  em- 
ploy her  ingenuity  very  successfully  in  restoring 
an  injured  one  to  complete  order  and  harmony ; 
and  such  was  her  energy  of  character  and  perse- 
verance in  whatever  she  undertook,  that  when  she 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  overset  in  a  carriage,  and 
break  her  right  wrist,  she  quickly  learned  to  use 
her  left  hand  in  working,  and  even  to  write  with 
it,  not  only  legibly  but  ncathj,  and  this  when  she 
was  past  sixty ! 

The  eai'ly  part  of  Mrs.  Wood's  life  was  tinged 
with  romance.  At  seventeen,  she  reciprocated  the 
ardent  attachment  of  a  young  gentleman  from 
Maryland,  and  they  became  engaged ;  but  their 
union  was  prevented  by  her  relations,  because  of 
his  being  a  Roman  Catholic.  V/hen  they  sepa- 
rated, they  exchanged  vows  never  to  wed  with 
others ;  so  that  years  afterwards,  when  addressed 
by  General  James  Wood  (once  Governor  of  Vir- 
ginia), she  declined  his  proposals,  and  bidding 
her,  as  he  thought,  "a  long  and  last  adieu,"  he 
proceeded  to  the  west,  intending  to  join  in  the 
war  against  the  Indians.  Before  his  departure, 
he  made  a  will,  bequeathing  her,  in  case  of  his 
death,  all  his  property.  Fate,  however,  allotted 
him  a  brighter  destiny ;  for  Miss  Moncure  having 


been  informed  that  her  first  lover  had  broken  his 
pledge  and  wedded  another,  yielded  to  the  advice 
of  a  cousin,  with  whom,  since  the  death  of  her 
parents,  she  frequently  resided,  and  consented  to 
marry  Mr.  Wood ;  and  not  until  after  their  union, 
did  she  discover  that  she  had  been  deceived ! 

In  the  meanwhile,  Mr. hearing  of  her  mar- 
riage, considered  himself  absolved  from  his  pro- 
mise, and  also  entered  the  bands  of  matrimony; 
and  here  it  is  worth  while  to  mention  a  remarkable 
coincidence  in  their  subsequent  history, 

Mrs.  AVood  had  an  only  child — a  daughter — who 
was  extremely  intelligent  until  four  years  old,  but 
was  then  seized  with  convulsions,  and,  owing  to 
their  frequent  occurrence,  grew  up  an  idiot ;  and 

Mrs.  Wood's  first  lover,  Mr. ,  of  Maryland. 

had  a  son  in  a  similar  state ! 

Mrs.  Wood  devoted  herself  to  this  ill-fated 
daughter  with  all  of  a  mother's  tenderness  and 
zeal,  and  many  of  her  poetical  effusions  allude 
most  touchingly  to  the  deep  affection  she  bore  her, 
and  the  anxiety  she  suffered  on  her  account.  She 
lost  her  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  bewailed  her 
death  as  bitterly  as  if  she  had  been  of  those  whom 
God  endows  with  the  blessings  of  intellect  and 
beauty.  After  this  event,  and  the  decease  of 
General  Wood,  she  removed  from  the  pleasant 
shades  of  Chelsea  to  Richmond,  and  there  spent 
the  remainder  of  her  days  in  works  of  usefulness 
and  charity.  There,  aided  by  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Samuel  Pleasants,  and  by  Mrs.  Chapman,  the  lady 
of  a  British  officer,  she  founded  a  society  for  as- 
sisting indigent  widows  and  children.  It  was 
termed,  the  "  Female  Humane  Association  of  the 
City  of  Richmond,"  and  under  that  title  was  in- 
corporated by  the  Legislature  of  Virginia,  in  1811. 
Some  yeai's  afterwards  it  changed  its  purpose,  and 
exclusively  appropriated  its  efforts  and  finances  to 
the  care  and  maintenance  of  female  orphan  chil- 
dren. Mrs.  AVood  was  elected  president,  and  con- 
tinued untiringly  and  faithfully  to  discharge  the 
arduous  duties  of  that  station  until  her  death,  in 
the  sixty-eighth  year  of  her  age. 

After  the  decease  of  Mrs.  AVood,  her  pastor  and 
friend,  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  H.  Rice,  formed  a  so- 
ciety of  ladies  to  work  for  the  benefit  of  poor  stu- 
dents of  divinity  in  Hampden-Sydney  College,  and 
gave  it  the  appellation  of  the  "  Jean  AVood  Asso- 
ciation." 

AVORONZOFF,  ELIZABETH, 
A  LADY  belonging  to  a  distinguished  Russian 
family,  was  the  mistress  of  Peter  III.,  emperor  of 
Russia.  She  afterwards  married  the  senator  Po- 
lanski.  The  countess  Butterlin  and  the  princess 
Daschkoff  both  belonged  to  the  same  family. 


Y. 

YATES,  MARY, 
A  CELEBKATED  actress,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Graham,  was  born  about  1737.  She  made  her 
theatrical  debut  at  Dublin,  in  1752;  but  succeeded 
so  ill,  that  Mr.  Sheridan,  the  manager,  was  glad 
to  dissolve  her  engagement  by  a  present.     Neces- 

559 


YE 


Zl 


sity  urged  her  to  another  attempt ;  and  in  1754, 
she  appeared  at  Drury  Lane,  London,  but  was  not 
very  successful.  On  her  marriage  with  Mr'.  Yates, 
under  wliose  instruction  her  talents  first  developed 
themselves,  Mr.  Garrick  received  her  again  at 
Drury-Lane,  and  she  soon  became  the  first  tragic 
actress  of  the  day.  She  also  excelled  in  comedy. 
She  was  very  attractive  in  her  appearance.  Mrs. 
Yates  retired  from  the  stage  in  1785,  and  died  in 
London  in  1787. 

YEARSLEY,    ANNE, 

A  POETESS,  novel-writer,  and  dramatist,  born  at 
Bristol  about  1756.  Her  mother  was  a  milkwoman 
in  that  city,  and  she  for  some  time  exercised  the 
same  occupation.  She  was  taught  by  her  mother 
and  brother  to  read  and  write  ;  and  having  had 
opportunities  of  perusing  Young's  Night  Thoughts, 
and  some  of  the  works  of  Pope,  Milton,  Dryden, 
and  Shakspeare,  her  talents  were  called  forth,  and 
she  produced  several  pieces  of  poetry  which  excited 
the  attention  of  Mrs.  Hannah  More.  To  the  as- 
sistance and  advice  of  that  lady,  she  was  much 
indebted  for  the  improvement  of  her  abilities ;  and 
under  her  patronage,  she  published  by  subscrip- 
tion a  volume  of  poems  in  1785.  The  profits  of 
this  work  enabled  her  to  relinquish  her  business, 
for  the  congenial  employment  of  keeping  a  circu- 
lating library  at  Bristol  Hot  Wells.  Her  subse- 
quent publications  were,  a  second  collection  of 
•'Poems  on  Various  Subjects,"  1787;  a  short 
poem  "On  the  Inhumanity  of  the  Slave  Trade," 
1788;  "  Stanzas  of  Woe,"  addressed  to  Levi  Ames, 
Esq.,  mayor  of  Bristol,  1790;  "Earl  Godwin,"  an 
historical  tragedy,  which  was  performed  at  the 
Bristol  and  Bath  theatres ;  and  a  novel,  entitled 
"The  Pioyal  Captive,"  1795,  four  volumes,  12mo., 
founded  on  the  history  of  the  man  with  the  iron 
mask,  imprisoned  in  the  Bastile,  whom  she  sup- 
poses to  have  been  a  twin-brother  of  Louis  XIV. 
She  experienced  great  encouragement  from  the 
public  in  the  course  of  her  literary  career;  but 
an  unfortunate  quarrel  with  her  patroness,  Mrs. 
More,  which,  like  most  affairs  of  the  kind,  was 
carried  on  in  a  manner  by  no  means  creditable  to 
either  party,  tended  somewhat  to  injure  her  popu- 
larity. Some  years  before  her  death,  she  retired 
from  trade,  and  resided  with  her  family  at  Melk- 
sham,  in  Wiltshire,  in  a  state  of  almost  absolute 
seclusion.  She  died  May  8th,  180G,  leaving  a  son 
and  two  daughters.  Another  son,  who  had  studied 
painting  as  a  profession,  and  who  appeared  to  be 
a  talented  individual,  was  cut  off  by  a  pulmonary 
disease,  two  or  three  years  previously  to  the  death 
of  his  mother.  As  her  name  is  connected  with 
that  of  Hannah  More,  and  our  readers  may,  on 
that  account,  be  curious  to  see  some  specimen  of 
the  Lactilla  style  of  poetry,  we  insert  one  written 
to  her  patroness  in  the  summer  of  their  friendship, 
before  the  frosts  of  suspicion  on  one  side,  and  self- 
conceit  on  the  other,  had  blighted  their  trust  and 
hope  in  each  other.  INIrs.  More  overrated  her 
protogee  at  the  beginning,  but  Mrs.  Yearsley  had 
talents  of  considerable  power,  as  she  proved,  by 
continuing  to  write  after  her  patroness  had  given 
her  up. 


TO    STELLA. 

(on  tier  accusing  the  author  of  flattery.) 

Excuse  me,  Stella:  sunk  in  humble  state, 

VVilh  more  than  needful  awe  1  view  the  great; 

No  glossy  diction  o'er  can  aid  the  thought 

First  stamped  in  ignorance  with  error  fraught. 

My  friends  1  've  praised  —  they  stood  in  heavenly  guise. 

When  first  I  saw  thee,  and  my  mental  eyes 

Shall  in  that  heavenly  rapture  view  thee  still  ; 

For  mine  's  a  stubborn  and  a  savage  will ; 

No  customs,  manners,  nor  soft  arts  1  boast. 

On  my  rough  soul  your  nicest  rules  are  lost. 

Yet  shall  unpolished  gratitude  be  mine. 

While  Stella  deigns  to  nurse  the  spark  divine. 

A  savage  pleads —  let  e'en  her  errors  move. 

And  your  forgiving  spirit  melt  in  love. 

O  cherish  gentle  Pity's  lambent  flame, 

Frftm  Heaven's  own  bosom  the  soft  pleader  came. 

Then  deign  to  bless  a  soul,  who'll  ne'er  degrade 

Your  gift,  tho'  sharpest  miseries  invade. 

You  I  acknowledge  next  to  bounteous  heaven. 

Like  his,  your  influence  cheers  whene'er  'tis  given  . 

Blest  in  dispensing,  gentle  Stella,  hear 

My  only  short,  but  pity-moving  prayer. 

That  thy  great  soul  may  spare  the  rustic  muse. 

Whom  science  ever  scorned,  and  errors  still  abuse. 


z. 


ZANARDI,    GENTILE, 

Was  an  artist,  a  native  of  Bologna,  and  flou- 
rished in  the  seventeenth  century.  She  was  in- 
structed by  Marc  Antonio  Franceschini,  and  had 
an  extraordinary  talent  in  copying  the  works  of 
the  great  masters.  She  also  painted  historical 
subjects  of  her  own  design  with  equal  taste  and 
delicacy.    The  time  of  her  death  is  not  mentioned. 

ZANWISKI,  CONSTANTIA,  PRIN- 
CESS CZARTONYSKA, 

A  NOBLE  and  accomplished  woman,  was  the  wife 
of  Andrzey  Zanwiski,  a  distinguished  defender  of 
the  rights  of  Poland.     She  died  in  1797. 

ZAPPI,    FAUSTINA, 

Was  daughter  of  the  painter  Carlo  Mazatti,  and 
wife  of  Giambattista  Zappi,  who  was  born  in  1668, 
and  died  in  1719.  Faustina  was  beautiful,  and  a 
poetess.  Some  of  her  sonnets  are  very  fine.  She 
resided  principally  at  Rome. 

ZINGA,  ANNA. 
A  MORE  odious  spirit,  licentious,  blood-thirsty, 
and  cruel,  never  inhabited  the  form  of  woman  I 
And  yet  she  is  deserving  of  a  place  in  this  Record  ; 
for  she,  in  understanding  and  ability,  stepped  far 
beyond  her  countrymen,  and  the  circumstances 
under  which  she  lived.  Zinga  was  born  in  Ma- 
taniba,  in  Africa,  in  1582.  Her  father  was  what 
the  European  travellers  and  writers  chose  to  term 
a  king.  AVhat  state  or  elevation  could  be  assumed 
by  a  chief  of  negroes  and  cannibals,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  define ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  was  the 
principal  personage  of  his  tribe.  Nothing  can  be 
said  about  a  throne,  where  a  bench  or  chair  was  a 
rare  and  inappreciable  luxury.  Zinga  manifested 
a  craft  and  management  by  which  she  soon  got 
the  better  of  her  brothers ;  and,  upon  the  death 

560 


ZI 


ZI 


of  her  father,  inyesting  herself  with  the  sacred 
character  of  priestess,  became  the  leading  spring 
of  the  people.  At  that  time,  the  Dutch  and  Por- 
tuguese were  attempting  a  rival  influence  on  the 
coast  of  Africa  for  commercial  purposes  ;  religious 
difficulties  became  involved  in  this  rivalship ;  there 
were  no  doubt  many  missionaries  of  high  and  pure 
motives ;  while  others,  forgetting  their  message 
of  peace,  served  to  exacerbate  the  opposition 
among  Christians. 


Zinga  had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  the  ad- 
vantages she  could  derive  from  the  Christians ; 
she  visited  the  Portuguese  settlement,-  ingratiated 
herself  with  the  governor,  and  was  baptized.  AVith 
their  aid,  she  soon  made  herself  predominant 
among  all  the  tribes  of  the  neighbourhood ;  and, 


as  soon  as  she  had  destroyed  all  whom  she  might 
have  feared,  she  abjured  her  new  faith,  and  re- 
turned to  her  idols.  For  some  time  she  lived 
feared  and  respected  among  her  own  people ;  but, 
perpetrating  acts  of  despotic  cruelty  too  terrible 
for  detail,  she  soon  became  wearied  of  reigning 
over  a  race  of  trembling  savages.  Her  intercourse 
with  the  Portuguese  had  taught  her  the  advantages 
of  civilization,  and  her  own  sagacity  perceived 
that  the  introduction  of  Christianity  could  alone 
improve  her  nation.  She  sent  for  priests,  and 
again  became  a  nominal  member  of  the  Christian 
church.  She  was  now  sixty-five  years  old,  and 
determined  to  remain  faithful  to  the  injunctions 
of  the  missionaries.  Her  example  was  followed 
by  those  who  surrounded  her ;  and,  had  she  lived, 
the  spirit  of  the  Gospel  might  have  tempered  this 
savage  race  ;  but  a  sudden  sickness  put  an  end  to 
her  existence  in  1663. 

Her  courage  and  vigour  were  remarkable ;  she 
was  naturally  formed  for  government ;  and  hei 
native  capacity  and  energy  would,  in  a  different 
country  and  with  suitable  education,  have  made  a 
great  queen ;  while  her  extreme  hardness  of  heart 
must  have  rendered  her  hateful  and  repulsive  as 
a  woman.  Still,  she  exhibited  better  dispositions 
than  any  king  of  her  race  had  ever  done ;  and 
she  was  the  first  of  her  tribe  who  made  any  at- 
tempt to  adopt  Christianity.  Had  she  been  born 
and  brought  up  under  its  blessed  light,  how  dif- 
ferent would  have  been  her  character  and  her 
destiny  !  When  such  instances  of  the  capacity  of 
the  coloured  race  are  brought  before  us,  we  should 
be  awakened  to  the  importance  of  sending  the 
Gospel  and  the  means  of  instruction  to  the  wretched 
millions  of  women  and  children  in  Africa. 


2L 


661 


REMARKS  ON  THE  FOURTH  ERA. 


This  period  is  a  record  of  the  living— the  time  comprised  being  about  thirty  years,  or  from 
1820  to  1850. 

Some  readers  may  think  I  have  given  undue  prominence  to  sketches  and  selections  designat- 
ing those  still  on  the  stage  of  humanity,  moving  and  acting  among  us.  It  is  my  purpose  to 
attract  attention  to  these  writers  and  doers  in  the  present,  who  are  now  infusing  vitality  into 
the  "  soul  of  goodness,"  thereby  depriving  evil  of  its  power  to  deceive.  The  Past  is  dead;  it 
may  teach  like  a  tomb-stone ;  it  cannot  persuade  like  the  living  voice. 

Open  before  me  an  herbarium  of  choice  specimens,  gathered  from  fields  of  modern  fame,  and 
places  of  old  renown:  I  may  admire  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  and  the  skill  that  has  preserved 
their  forms  and  colours ;  but  I  never  inquire  how  the  plants  were  cultivated,  nor  do  I  try  to 
train  my  own  to  become  like  them. 

But  show  me  a  living,  blossoming  plant,  that  has  healing  leaves  and  odour-breathing  flowers, 
blessing  alike  the  sunshine  and  the  shade,  and  I  am  in  earnest  to  learn  the  manner  of  its 
growth,  and  tlie  mode  of  its  culture.  Thus  the  Fourth  Era  of  this  Record  will  be  of  more 
benefit,  as  afibrding  examples  for  the  young,  and  encouragement  to  those  who  are  waiting  some 
way  to  be  opened  to  their  endeavours,  than  all  the  histories  in  the  preceding  pages. 

One  of  the  most  subtle  devices  of  the  powers  of  darkness  to  perpetuate  sin,  is  to  keep  women 
in  restraint  and  concealment  — hidden,  as  it  were,  behind  the  shadow  of  the  evil  world.  They 
may  not  even  express  openly  their  abhorrence  of  vice— it  is  unfeminine;  and  if  they  seek  to 
promote  good,  it  must  be  by  stealth,  as  though  it  were  wrong  for  them  to  be  recognised  doing 
anything  which  has  a  high  aim. 

The  Saviour  gave  no  precept,  and  left  no  example,  thus  restraining  the  sex.  On  the  contrary, 
He  was  constantly  bringing  forward  female  examples  of  faith  and  love,  encouraging  the  exer- 
tions and  commending  the  piety  of  his  female  followers.  Thus,  when  at  Bethany  Mary  came  to 
the  feast  made  for  Him,  opened  her  box  of  "  very  precious  ointment,  and  poured  it  on  his  head 
as  he  sat  at  meat,"  and  the  disciples  were  angry  at  this  public  display  of  her  zeal,  then  Jesus 
signally  rebuked  their  selfishness,  declaring,  "  She  hath  wrought  a  good  work,"  and  emphatic- 
ally announcing  her  undying  fame— "Verily,  I  say  unto  you.  Wheresoever  this  gospel  shall  be 
preached  in  the  whole  world,  there  shall  also  this,  that  this  woman  hath  done,  be  told  for  a 
memorial  of  her." 

What  signal  honour  was  conferred  openly  on  the  sex,  when  a  woman  was  thus  praised  by  the 
Son  of  God !  Let  this  console  us  when  men  undervalue  the  female  mind,  and  strive  to  stifle  the 
female  soul.  Let  us  do  what  we  can ;  trust  in  God,  and  He  will  make  our  memorial  sure.  His 
Word  will  finally  overcome  the  powers  of  darkness.  Good  men  will  yet  follow  the  example  of 
Christ,  and  accord,  publicly,  praise  and  honour  to  the  work  of  woman. 

This  high  standard  of  society  is  even  now  approximated  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  which  will 
soon  rule  the  world— the  only  people  who  have  the  true  light.  Every  false  religion  may  be 
known  by  this— it  represents  woman  as  inferior  to  man;  it  sacrifices  her  honour,  happiness, 
and  glory,  to  his  brute  appetites,  sensuous  passions,  and  selfish  pride.  In  such  an  atmosphere, 
the  animal  lives,  the  angel  perishes,  till  humanity  is  morally  dead.  In  this  galaxy  of  living 
female  genius,  there  is  not  a  single  ray  from  the  wide  horizon  of  heathendom.  There,  the 
mother  mind  is  shrouded  in  the  pall  of  ignorance,  and  therefore  men  are  in  the  gross  darkness 
of  idolatry  and  sin. 

The  same  low  ideas  concerning  the  office  and  destiny  of  woman  govern,  in  a  degree,  all  those 
nations  where  Christianity  is  a/or«t  of  words  and  ceremonies,  and  not  ihe  quickening  spirit  of 
holiness  in  the  soul— of  purity  in  the  life  of  the  believer.     Throughout  the  continent  of  Europe, 

(563) 


564  REMARKS    ON    THE    FOURTH   ERA. 

the  feminine  mind  is  considered  inferior  to  the  masculine,  and  woman's  genius  is  only  appre- 
ciated as  it  ministers  to  the  sensuous  gratification  of  man.  Hence,  the  gifted  daughters  of  those 
lands  are  romance-writers,  public  singers,  dancers,  artists ;  while  every  higher  effort  of  their 
mental  powers  is,  alike  by  potentates,  priests  and  philosophers,  discouraged,  disparaged,  and 
nearly  annihilated.  There  is  not  now  an  example  among  them  of  great  feminine  genius  devoted 
to  the  noblest  pursuits  of  the  human  mind — namely,  seeking  Truth  and  teaching  Duty.  Doubt- 
less there  are  excellent  women  in  those  countries,  and  some  of  rare  talents ;  but  their  souls 
have  no  expression,  their  virtues  no  voice.  Military  force  extinguishes  moral  feeling.  Where 
nearly  two  millions  of  men  are  soldiers,  much  of  the  out-door  work  they  should  do  is  devolved 
on  the  females ;  which  circumstance  alone  deteriorates  society.  But  the  sins  and  sufferings 
caused  by  wars,  where  these  are  fought,  add  the  deepest  woe  to  the  wrongs  of  woman. 

In  truth,  when  we  look  over  the  world,  with  the  exception  of  two  nations,  it  still  bears  that 
shadow  of  gloom  which  fell  vfhen  the  ground  first  drank  human  blood ;  and  Man  the  Murderer, 
Woman  the  Mourner,  is  still  the  great  distinction  between  the  sexes ! 

Thank  God !  there  is  hope.  The  Anglo-Saxon  race  in  Europe  numbers  about  twenty  millions, 
living  on  a  little  island  in  the  stormy  Northern  Ocean.  But  there,  for  the  last  hundred  years, 
the  sounds  of  battle  have  not  been  heard ;  the  Salic  Law  never  shamed  the  honour  of  their 
royal  race ;  the  Holy  Bible  has  been  for  three  centuries  their  household  book,  and  a  free  press 
now  disseminates  truth  among  the  people.  Those  twenty  millions  hold  the  mastery  of  mind 
over  Europe  and  Asia ;  if  we  trace  out  the  causes  of  this  superiority,  they  would  centre  in  that 
moral  influence,  which  true  religion  confers  on  the  female  sex. 

Therefore  the  Queen  of  Great  Britain  is  the  greatest  and  most  honoured  sovereign  now 
enthroned  ;  female  genius  is  the  grace  and  glory  of  British  literature  ;  female  piety  the  purest 
light  of  the  Anglican  Church ;  and  this  Era  is  made  brilliant  by  the  distinguished  women  of 
the  British  Island. 

There  is  still  a  more  wonderful  example  of  this  uplifting  power  of  the  educated  female  mind.  It 
is  only  seventy-five  years  since  the  Anglo-Saxons  in  the  New  World  became  a  nation,  then  num- 
bering about  tJiree  millions  of  souls.  Now,  this  people  form  the  Great  American  Republic,  with 
a  population  of  twenty-three  millions  ;  and  the  destiny  of  the  world  will  soon  be  in  their  keep- 
ing !  The  Bible  has  been  their  "  Book  of  books"  since  the  first  Puritan  exile  set  his  foot  on 
Plymouth  Rock.  Religion  is  free ;  and  the  soul,  which  woman  always  influences  where  God 
is  worshipped  in  spirit  and  truth,  is  untrammelled  by  code,  or  creed,  or  caste.  No  blood  has 
been  shed  on  the  soil  of  this  nation,  save  in  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom  and  self-defence ;  there- 
fore, the  blasting  evils  of  war  have  scarcely  been  felt ;  nor  has  the  female  ever  been  subjected  to 
the  hard  labour  imposed  by  God  on  the  male  sex — that  of  "  subduing  the  earth."  The  advan- 
tages of  primary  education  have  been  accorded  to  girls  equally  with  boys,  and,  though  the  latter 
have,  in  their  endowed  colleges,  enjoyed  the  special  benefit  of  direct  legislation,  yet  public  sen- 
timent has  always  been  favourable  to  female  education,  and  private  liberality  has  supplied,  in  a 
good  degree,  the  means  of  instruction  to  the  daughters  of  the  republic.  The  result  is  before 
the  world, — a  miracle  of  national  advancement.     American  mothers  train  their  sons  to  be  Men! 

The  Old  Saxon  stock  is  yet  superior  to  the  New  in  that  brilliancy  of  feminine  genius,  the  arti- 
ficial state  of  social  life  in  England  now  fosters  and  elicits — surpassing  every  nation  in  its  list 
of  learned  ladies  ;  yet  in  all  that  contributes  to  popular  education  and  pure  religious  sentiment 
among  the  masses,  the  women  of  America  are  in  advance  of  all  others  on  the  globe.  To  prove 
this,  we  need  only  examine  the  list  of  American  female  missionaries,  teachers,  editors,  and 
authors  of  works  instructive  and  educational,  contained  in  this  "  Record." 

But,  after  all,  it  is  not  so  much  what  women  do  for  themselves,  as  what  men  do  for  them, 
which  marks  the  real  state  of  both.  Now,  the  men  of  America  uphold  the  honour  of  the  gentle 
sex  by.  the  tenderest  care  and  most  respectful  observance,  acknowledging  with  warm  praises  the 
talents  of  their  countrywomen.  And,  what  is  of  higher  significance,  American  men  believe  in 
the  natural  excellence  of  the  female  mind.  Hence  the  most  learned  and  noble  in  the  land  united 
in  the  experiment  of  developing  the  intellect  of  a  poor  little  girl  —  deaf,  dumb,  blind !  And 
these  great  men  are  proud  to  measure  the  powers  of  the  human  soul  by  its  wonderful  capacity 
as  shown  in  this  delicate  female  form. 

The  true  progress  of  every  race  is  marked  in  the  condition  of  the  women.  The  most  distin- 
guished exponent  of  the  remarkable  progress  of  the  Anglo-Saxons — the  governing  race  of  the 
world — is  Laura  Bridgman. 


FOURTH  EEA. 


OF   LIVING   FEMALE  WRITERS, 


AGNOULT,  COUNTESS  D', 
Is  only  known  as  a  writer  by  the  name  of  Daniel 
Stern.  Madame  Dudevant,  a  woman  of  unques- 
tionable, though  very  ill-directed,  genius,  among 
other  eccentricities,  adopted  the  undignified  mea- 
sure of  renouncing  her  sex,  as  far  as  possible,  by 
not  only  entering  the  lists  of  fame  under  a  mascu- 
line name,  but  often  assuming  masculine  apparel. 
False  shows  and  seemings  are  always  unworthy 
of  a  strong  or  healthy  mind ;  unless  there  are 
extraordinary  circumstances  making  concealment, 
for  a  time,  justifiable  ;  but  for  one  who  might  be 
a  champion,  to  desert  his  or  her  party,  merely 
because  it  is  physically  the  weakest,  to  appear 
in  the  uniform  of  the  more  powerful,  shows 
certainly  a  want  of  "spirit,  taste,  and  sense." 
To  repeat  this  unwomanly  and  senseless  proceed- 
ing was  a  fault  in  Madame  d'Agnoult :  it  has  lost 
even  the  grace  of  novelty,  and  the  talent  of  the 
authoress  —  author,  if  she  wish  it,  —  causes  a 
regret  that  she  is  not  satisfied  to  be  herself.  This 
lady  belongs  to  a  family  of  rank,  and  is  distin- 
guished not  only  for  literary  abilities,  but  possesses 
a  fine  taste  in  the  arts,  which  has  been  developed 
by  her  travels  in  Italy.  Reversing  the  career  of 
most  imaginative  writers,  she  began  as  a  critic  — 
having  contributed,  in  "La  Presse"  of  1842  and 
'43,  several  articles  that  attracted  much  attention. 
The  novel  "N^lida,"  which  appeared  in  1846,  has 
been  received  by  the  reading  pu^blic  with  great 
favour — having  been  translated  into  German, 
English,  and  Spanish.  She  has  also  produced 
several  political  and  critical  essays,  besides  various 
romances. 

ALBERETTI,  VERDONI  THERESE, 

Of  Verona,  Italy.  This  lady,  eminently  distin- 
guished for  her  graces  and  accomplishments,  is 
the  authoress  of  poems  that  are  admired  alike  for 
a  delicacy  of  thought  and  expression.  The  Abb6 
Giuseppe  Barbresi,  well  known  in  Italy  for  his 
success  in  works  of  elegant  literature,  has  inserted 
some  of  the  poems  of  this  admired  authoress  in 
the  collection  of  his  own  works. 


AMELIA   MARIA   FREDERICA  AUGUSTA, 

Duchess  and  princess  of  Saxony,  was  born  in 
1794.  Her  father.  Prince  Maximilian,  was  the 
youngest  son  of  the  Elector  Frederic  Christian. 
His  eldest  brother,  Frederic  Augustus,  Elector, 
and  afterwards  king  of  Saxony,  ruled  this  country 
sixty-four  years,  from  1763  to  1827.  His  reign  was 
one  of  much  vicissitude,  as  it  embraced  the  period 
of  Napoleon's  career.  An  allusion  to  the  political 
events  of  that  day  is  not  foreign  to  the  present 
subject,  as  the  literary  abilities  and  consequent 
fame  of  the  Princess  Amelia  could  never  have 
been  developed  under  the  old  order  of  things  in  a 
contracted  German  court ;  neither  could  she  have 
acquired  that  knowledge  of  life  essential  to  the 
exercise  of  her  dramatic  talent :  born  fifty  years 
sooner,  she  would  have  ranked  merely  among  the 
serene  highnesses  of  whom  "  to  live  and  die " 
forms  all  the  history.  Fortunately  for  Amelia, 
the  storms  that  were  to  clear  the  political  atmo- 
sphere began  before  her  birth :  from  the  age  of 
twelve  till  that  of  twenty-three  she  saw  her  family 
suflfering  exile ;  then  enjoying  return  and  sove- 
reignty; her  uncle  prisoner  —  again  triumphant. 
During  this  period  her  opportunities  for  observa- 
tion, her  suggestions  for  thought,  her  mental 
education,  were  most  various  and  extensive. 
Scenes  and  characters  were  studied  fresh  from 
life  —  "not  obtained  through  books."  In  1827, 
her  uncle.  King  Frederic  Augustus,  died,  and  was 
succeeded  by  his  brother  Anthony  —  a  rather  jolly 
old  person,  but  exceedingly  fond  of  his  niece 
Amelia.  She  possessed  much  influence  over  him, 
and  exercised  it  in  a  way  that  gained  her  great 
favour  with  high  and  low.  In  1830,  a  revolution 
changed  the  government  from  a  despotism  to  a 
limited  monarchy.  Anthony  died  in  1836,  when 
the  brother  of  Amelia  became  sovereign.  Under 
her  uncle's  reign  it  would  have  scarcely  been 
possible  for  her  to  appear  as  the  authoress  of 
acted  dramas ;  but  her  brother  had  been  brought 
up  under  a  new  order  of  things,  and  considered  it 
no  derogation  for  a  scion  of  royalty  to  extend  the 
influence  of  virtue  and  elevated  morality  by  the 

5f5 


AM 


AM 


aid  of  an  art  that  makes  its  way  to  the  general 
public  with  a  peculiar  force. 

It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that  her  first  drama, 
which  was  offered  under  the  name  of  Amelia 
Heiter,  was  refused  by  the  managers  of  the  court- 
theatre,  and  only  appeared  there  after  its  confirmed 
success  on  the  stage  of  Berlin.  Mrs.  Jamieson, 
from  whom  this  sketch  is  principally  derived,  ob- 
serves that  the  German  drama  was  in  an  abyss  of 
stupidity  at  the  most  flourishing  epoch  of  the 
French  and  English  stage.  It  was  in  the  zenith 
of  Garrick's  reputation  at  London  that  the  first 
efforts  were  made  to  give  something  like  sense  and 
taste  to  the  representations  of  Germany,  and 
these  efforts  were  made  by  a  woman,  Johanna 
Neuber,  a  manager  and  director  of  the  best  com- 
pany in  Germany ;  she  it  was  who  enabled  Lessing 
to  produce  his  great  works,  and  thus  to  awaken 
his  countrymen  to  a  sense  of  beauty  and  utility 
in  dramatic  poetry.  Two  or  three  women  had 
manifested  some  ability  in  this  branch  of  art 
before  the  Princess  Amelia  began  her  career. 
Johanna  Von  Weisserthurn  of  Vienna,  an  actress, 
has  left  twelve  or  fourteen  volumes  of  jilays ;  some 
of  which  are  still  performed,  and  retain  public 
favour.  Another  once  popular  writer  was  Char- 
lotte Birch-Pfeiffer,  who  produced  dramas  depict- 
ing the  life  of  the  burghers  and  artisans :  one  of  her 
pieces,  called  "  Giittenberg,"  is  a  series  of  tableaux 
of  the  most  extraordinary  nature,  illustrating  the 
fortunes  of  the  inventor  of  printing  —  a  subject 
that  would  scarcely  strike  a  modern  dramatist  in 
a  poetical  point  of  view.  The  Princess  Amelia 
has  gained  by  her  plays  a  popularity  deservedly 
exceeding  any  of  her  predecessors  or  contempo- 
raries in  the  kind  she  has  undertaken ;  for  it 
must  be  remembered  she  is,  though  a  woman  of 
genius,  no  poet ;  her  mind  is  elevated,  truth-loving, 
and  eager  to  convey  useful  lessons ;  she  possesses 
a  delicate  discrimination  of  character,  and  infinity 
of  gentle  humours ;  her  style  is  refined,  and,  at 
all  times,  as  elegant  as  the  attention  to  proprieties 
of  the  dramatis  personae  will  permit.  She  attacks 
selfishness  and  deception  with  an  unflinching  hos- 
tility, and  her  instructions  are  conveyed  by  such 
amusing  and  natural  delineations  that  they  cannot 
fail  to  excite  a  detestation  of  these  vices  ;  and 
even  when  such  emotions  are  transient,  they  are  a 
refreshing  dew  to  the  hard  soil  they  cannot  pene- 
trate. 

Before  leaving  the  account  of  this  illustrious 
lady,  it  may  be  remarked  that  her  family  are  dis- 
tinguished by  something  more  than  "  leather  and 
prunella"  from  the  merely  "monarch  crowned." 
The  present  king,  Amelia's  brother,  has  published 
a  work  on  botany  and  mineralogy,  and  Prince 
John  the  Younger  has  translated  Dante  into 
German  poetry.  She  had  a  grandmother  too, 
another  Princess  Amelia,  whose  biography  is  to 
be  found  in  a  preceding  part  of  this  work,  who 
composed  operas. 

Mrs.  Jamieson,  in  adverting  to  the  possibility  of 
this  princess  swaying  the  "reins  of  empire"  in 
default  of  a  taale  heir,  speaks  of  the  infinitely 
wider  sway  she  now  exercises  by  her  individual 
goodness  and  talent.     Some  of  these  observations 


may  be  quoted,  so  perfectly  do  they  agree  with 
every  idea  our  own  efforts  would  inculcate. 

"  I  respect  her  for  the  good  she  has  done,  and  I 
think  it  honour  to  be  the  means  of  making  her  far- 
ther known.  In  this  kind  of  spiritual  influence, 
however  and  wherever  exercised,  be  it  in  a  larger 
or  smaller  circle,  lies  the  true  vocation,  the  undis- 
puted empire  of  the  intellectual  woman  —  not  in 
any  of  those  political  jDowers  and  privileges  which 
have  been  demanded  for  us  by  eloquent  pens,  and 
"  most  sweet  voices,"  but  which  every  woman  who 
has  looked  long  upon  life,  and  well  considered  her 
own  nature,  and  the  purposes  for  which  she  came 
into  the  world,  would  at  once  abjui-e  if  offered." 


AMELIE   MARIE,   EX-QUEEN   OF 
THE   FRENCH, 

Daughter  of  Ferdinand  I.,  king  of  the  Two  Sici- 
lies, was  married  to  Louis  Philippe,  then  the  exiled 
duke  d'Orleans,  November,  1809.  It  was,  appa- 
rently, a  marriage  of  affection  with  the  duke,  but 
on  her  side  of  that  absorbing  love  which  seemed  to 
seek  nothing  beyond  the  content  of  her  husband  — 
except  his  salvation  —  to  complete  her  felicity.  In 
all  the  changes  of  his  life,  she  was  with  him  as  his 
wife;  sensible  to  the  smiles  or  frowns  of  fortune 
only  as  these  affected  her  husband. 

In  1814,  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  the  duke  of 
Orleans  with  his  family  removed  to  Paris ;  and  the 
immense  estates  of  his  father  were  restored  to 
him.  At  Neuilly  he  resided  in  a  superb  palace, 
surrounded  with  every  luxury ;  yet  amid  all  this 
magnificence  the  simple  tastes,  order,  and  economy 
which  distinguish  the  presence  of  a  good  wife, 
were  predominant.  They  had  nine  children  born 
to  them;  the  training  of  these  wliile  young  was 
their  mother's  care,  and  her  example  of  obedience 
and  reverence  towards  her  husband,  deepened  and 
decided  his  influence  over  his  family,  which  was  a 
model  of  union,  good  morals,  and  domestic  virtues. 

By  the  events  of  July,  1830,  Louis  Philijipe  be- 
came King  of  the  French ;  but  this  honour  seems 
only  to  have  increased  the  cares  of  his  wife  by  her 
fears  on  his  account ;  she  never  appears  to  have 
valued  the  station  for  any  accession  of  dignity  and 
importance  it  gave  to  her.     Indeed,  it  is  asserted 

566 


AN 


AN 


that  she  was  very  adverse  to  his   assuming  the 
sceptre  ;  with  the  instinct  of  a  true  woman's  love, 
she  probably  felt  that  his  happiness,  if  not  his  good 
name  and  his  life,  might  be  perilled ;  but  he  de- 
cided to  be  king,  and  she  meekly  took  her  place 
by  his  side,  sharing  his  troubles,  but  not  seeking 
to  share  his  power.     The  French  nation  respected 
her  character,  and  never  imputed  any  of  the  king's 
folly,  treachery,  and  meanness,  to  her ;  still  the 
fervid  truth  of  her  soul  was  never  surmised  till  she 
descended  from  the  throne.     Then  she  displayed 
what  is  far  nobler  than  royalty  of  birth  or  station, 
the   innate   moral   strength   of  woman's   nature, 
when,   forgetting  self  and  sustaining  every  trial 
with  a  calm  courage,  she  devotes  her  energies  for 
the  salvation  of  others.     It  has  been  said,  that  the 
queen  endeavoured  to  prevent  the  abdication  of 
Louis  Philippe,  that  kneeling  before  him  she  ex- 
claimed —  "  C'est  le  devoir  d'un  roi  de  mourir  par- 
mi  son  peuple !"     But  when  he  resolved  on  flight, 
it  is  known  that  her  presence  of  mind  sustained 
and  guided  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  child. 
The  sequel  is  familiar  to  all  the  woi-ld.     They  fled 
to  England ;  Louis  Philippe  left  Paris  for  the  last 
time  and  for  ever,  on  the  26th  of  February,  1848. 
Supported  on  the  arm  of  his  noble  wife,  he  reached 
the  carriage  that  bore  them  from  their  kingdom, 
and  on  the  26th  of  August,  1850,  he  passed  from 
this  world  —  forgiven  of  his  sins,  let  us  hope.     He 
had  been  all  his  life  a  philosopher,  that  is  to  say, 
an  infidel ;  but  at  the  closing  scene  the  piety  and 
prayers  of  his  wife  seem  to  have  been  heard ;  the 
old    king   became  a  young   penitent,   performing 
with  earnestness  those  holy  rites  his  wife  believes 
necessary  to  salvation.     And  she,  who  ccruld  never 
be  happy  if  parted  from  him  even  for  a  day,  re- 
signed him  to  God  without  a  murmur; — and  now 
devotes  herself  to  the  interests  her  deceased  hus- 
band considered  important,  calmly  and  cheerfully 
as  though  he  was  still  by  her  side.     Well  might 
that  husband  feel  what  one  of  his  biographers  ob- 
serves he  manifested  so  strongly,  that  "  It  was 
impossible  to  be  in  the  company  of  Louis  Philippe 
for  half  an  hour,  without  some  indication  of  his 
remarkable  respect  for  his  wife."     And  it  should 
always  be  remembered  to  his  honour,  that  in  his 
domestic  life,  as  husband  and  father,  he  deserves 
the  highest  regard.    This  purity  of  private  morals, 
so  rare  in  the  stations  he  occupied,  was  undoubt- 
edly owing  to  the  excellence  of  his  early  educa- 
tion,  almost   entirely  conducted  by  a  woman 

hence  his  respect  for  the  sex. 

We  place  the  name  of  Amelie,  ex-Queen  of  the 
French,  in  our  record,  not  because  she  has  worn  a 
crown,  or  displayed  great  talents,  or  performed 
any  distinguished  deed ;  but  because  she  has  been 
the  perfect  example  of  a  good  wife. 

ANCELOT,  VIRGINIE, 
Wife  of  the  celebrated  M.  Ancelot,  author  of 
"Marie  Padilla,"  and  many  other  tragedies  and 
dramas  of  great  popularity,  has  a  literary  reputa- 
tion little  inferior  to  that  of  her  husband.  As  an 
author  of  vaudevilles  —  that  species  of  writing  in 
which  the  French  excel,  she  is  regarded  as  having 
surpassed  her  husband;  while   her  novels   have 


displayed  no  small  degree  of  talent.  She  resides 
in  Paris,  where  her  works  are  highly  prized  by 
that  increasing  class  of  novel-readers,  who  are 
willing  to  be  amused  and  interested  with  portrait- 
ures of  the  bright  side  of  nature,  the  good  which 
may  be  found  in  humanity,  and  hoped  for  in  the 
future  of  our  race. 


-\-*.^\%s*-- 


Madame  Ancelot  exhibits  artistic  skill  in  the  plot 
of  her  stories ;  her  style  is  unexceptionable,  and 
above  all  she  has  the  merit  of  purity  of  thought,  and 
soundness  of  moral  principle.  The  most  noted  of 
her  novels  are  "Gabrielle;"  "Emerance;"  and 
"  M^dferine."  The  first  named  has  been  included 
in  the  "  Biblioth^que  de'  Elite,"  and  passed  through 
several  editions.  The  spirit  and  style  of  this  work 
are  in  accordance  with  the  sentiment  of  the  popu- 
lar English  novels ;  those  who  admire  Mrs.  Gore's 
writings  will  find  as  much  to  amuse  and  interest 
them  in  "  Gabrielle,"  with  a  more  elevated  tone  of 
moral  feeling.  We  will  select  our  specimen  of 
this  authoress  from  the  opening  chapter  of  "  Ga- 
brielle." 

AN    OLD    PEERESS. 

—  "  There  are  no  longer  any  women  !  no,  my  dear 
Count,  there  are  no  longer  any  women,"  mourn- 
fully exclaimed  the  Marchioness  de  Fontenay- 
Mareuil,  turning  towards  the  Count  de  Rhinville, 
seated  by  her  side  in  the  carriage.  The  count 
sighed,  but  did  not  appear  at  all  disposed  to  ques- 
tion or  oppose  a  proposition  which  might,  at  first, 
seem  singular  and  rash. 

The  marchioness,  not  meeting  any  contradiction, 
was  forced  to  renounce  the  pleasure  of  an  argu- 
ment. Was  M.  de  Rhinville,  who  had  been  so 
long  familiar  with  her  ideas,  cpnvinced,  or  did  he 
fear  lest  she  should  try  to  convince  him  ?  He  did 
not  answer,  nor  even  show  any  surprise,  when  the 
marchioness  uttered  this  phrase,  which  occurred, 
it  is  true,  often  enough  in  her  conversation,  for 
him  to  be  accustomed  to  it. 

They  both  then  remained  silent,  whilst  the 
carriage  continued  to  proceed  with  rapidity  — 
they  had  but  little  to  say,  for  both  had  reached 
an  advanced  age  —  then  words  are  slow,  sad,  and 

567 


AN 


AN 


unfrequent.  The  ardent  expressions  of  youth 
always  unfold  wholly  or  in  part  their  ideas,  plans, 
hopes,  sorrows,  and  pleasures.  They  have  so  much 
to  say  that  they  speak  often  without  knowing  it, 
and  all  together;  hut  two  old  people,  on  the 
contrary,  would  naturally  be  silent  if  they  had 
not  resolved  to  converse  ;  and  even  then,  in  spite 
of  their  determination,  their  sentences  are  often 
unfinished.  Sometimes,  even  when  on  the  point 
of  speaking,  if  they  look  at  each  other,  they  are 
silent;  for  they  see  those  whitened  locks,  those 
furrowed  brows,  those  traces  of  time  and  grief 
imprinted  upon  theii-  countenances.  They  read 
there  the  sorrows  and  regrets  of  the  past ;  the 
sadness  of  the  present ;  and  the  few  hopes  which 
the  future  can  offer,  at  least  for  this  life. 

The  Marchioness  de  Fontenay-Mareuil,  notwith- 
standing her  seventy  years,  seemed  now  agitated 
by  some  great  project,  for  she  resumed  the  con- 
versation with  vivacity:  "  And  it  is  because  there 
are  no  longer  any  women,  Count  de  Rhinville, 
that  France  is  ruined  —  that  the  young  men  are 
ruined,  and  that  my  grandson  — — -" 

Here  she  stopped,  fearing  to  utter  a  precise 
complaint  against  the  object  of  her  pride  and 
tenderness. 

M.  de  Rhinville  could  not  repress  a  smile  while 
saying : 

"  I  should  have  thought  jvist  the  contrary." 

She,  the  marchioness,  was  not,  at  this  time, 
inclined  to  jest,  so  she  remained  grave  and  sad 
while  adding:  "Undoubtedly,  there  are  still 
young  girls,  married  women  and  mothers.  Men 
still  marry  women  who  are  rich,  and  love  those 
who  are  pretty ;  but  their  power  is  limited  exclu- 
sively to  these  rights  !  Saloons  exist  no  longer ; 
conversation  has  ceased ;  good  taste  has  disap- 
peared with  it,  and  mind  has  lost  all  its  influence. 
You  have  a  king  who  appoints  and  dismisses 
ministers ;  a  house  of  deputies  which  makes  and 
abolishes  laws ;  a  house  of  peers  which  neither 
makes  nor  abolishes  anything ;  but  is  there  any 
power  to  create  agreeable  men  ?  to  accustom 
young  men  to  refined  habits  ?  to  teach  them  that 
good  taste  is  the  proof  of  a  good  understanding, 
and  noble  manners  the  consequence  of  noble 
feelings  ?  to  impose  upon  them,  by  public  opinion, 
those  laws  of  politeness  and  good  sense  which  are 
not  found  in  the  civic  code  ?  What  power  will 
induce  them  to  doubt  their  own  perfections  suffi- 
ciently to  endeavour  to  become  men  of  merit 
without  ceasing  to  be  agreeable  men  ?  Still,  my 
friend,  this  power,  now,  with  so  many  others, 
extinct,  formerly  existed !  —  it  was  the  power  of 
women.  Then,  fear  of  the  opinion  of  the  saloons 
in  which  the  Duke  Yves  de  INIauleon  would  live, 
would  have  prevented  him  from  separating  so 
entirely  from  his  family ;  that  he,  the  last  scion 
of  two  noble  houses,  the  heir  of  so  great  a  name, 
should  live  in  the  midst  of  a  society  which  is  not 

ours,  and  there  act "      She  stopped  again; 

she  seemed  unable  to  utter  the  words  which  were 
on  her  lips. 

"  The  rumour  is  true  then,"  enquired  the  coimt, 
"  which  I  have  heard  ? " 

"What  have  you  heard?     Who  has  told  you? 


Speak !  Tell  me  !  I  wish  to  know  all !"  asked 
the  marchioness  apprehensively. 

"Nothing  very  serious;  nothing  which  could 
compromise  the  honour  of  a  family,"  replied 
M.  de  Rhinville. 

"I  wish  to  know  every  thing,"  repeated  she  impe- 
riously. Notwithstanding  the  anxiety  and  trouble 
depicted  on  the  countenance  of  the  marchioness,  the 
coimt  could  not  repress  a  slight  smile  in  saying : 

"  Merely  some  youthful  follies  which  are  laugh- 
ingly related,  with  which  the  world  is  amused, 
and  which  it  very  soon  forgets.  They  say,  that 
having  attained  his  majority,  and  being  put  in 
possession  of  an  income  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
thousand  livres,  all  that  remained  of  the  immense 
wealth  of  his  ancestors,  M.  de  Maul^on,  finding 
this  moderate  fortune  too  small  to  suit  his  rank 
and  wishes,  and,  as  he  said,  not  willing  to  live,  at 
twenty  and  a  duke,  like  an  old  grocer  retired  from 
business,  sold  his  property,  and  dividing  into  four 
parts  the  four  hundred  thousand  francs  which  he 
had  received,  determined,  four  years  ago,  to  live 
as  if  he  had  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand 
livres.  They  add  that  your  son  was  so  faithful  to 
his  word,  that  yesterday  saw,  at  the  same  time, 
the  end  of  the  four  years  and  of  the  four  hundred 
thousand  livres." 

ANGOULEME,  MARIE  THERESA 
CHARLOTTE, 

Duchess  d',  dauphiness,  daughter  of  Louis 
XVI.  and  Marie  Antoinette,  born  December  19th, 
1778,  at  Versailles,  displayed  in  early  youth  a 
penetrating  understanding,  an  energetic  will,  and 
the  tenderest  feelings  of  compassion.  She  was 
about  eleven  years  old  when  the  revolution  com- 
menced ;  its  horrors,  and  the  sufferings  her  royal 
parents  underwent,  stamped  their  impress  upon 
her  soul,  and  tinged  her  character  with  a  melan- 
choly never  to  be  effaced  in  this  life.  The  indig- 
nities to  which  her  mother  was  subjected  never 
could  be  forgotten  by  the  daughter.  The  whole 
family  were  imprisoned,  August  10th,  1792,  in 
the  Temple.  In  December,  1795,  the  princess 
was  exchanged  for  the  deputies  whom  Dumou- 
rier  had  surrendered  to  the  Austrians.  Her  in- 
come at  this  time  was  the  interest  of  400,000 
francs,  bequeathed  to  her  by  the  archduchess 
Christina  of  Austria.  During  her  residence  at 
Vienna,  she  was  married  by  Louis  XVIII.,  to  her 
cousin,  the  duke  of  Angouleme,  June  10,  1799, 
at  Mittau.  The  emperor  of  Russia  signed  the 
contract.  In  1801,  the  political  situation  of  Rus- 
sia obliged  all  the  Bourbons  to  escape  to  Warsaw. 
In  1805,  they  returned,  by  permission  of  the  empe- 
ror Alexander,  to  Mittau.  Towards  the  end  of 
1816,  the  successes  of  Napoleon  obliged  them  to 
flee  to  England.  Here  the  princess  lived  a  very 
retired  life  at  Hartwell,  till  1814,  when  on  the  re- 
storation of  the  Bourbons,  she  made  her  entrance 
May  4th,  into  Paris  with  the  king.  On  the  return 
of  Napoleon  from  Elba,  she  was  at  Bordeaux  with 
her  husband.  Her  endeavours  to  preserve  this 
city  for  the  king  being  ineffectual,  she  embarked 
for  England,  went  to  Ghent,  and  on  Napoleon's 
final  expulsion,  returned   again  to  Paris.     From 

568 


AR 


AR 


this   city   she  was  driven  by  the  revolution   of 
1830,  which  placed  Louis  Philipe  on  the  throne 
of  the  French.     She  fled  with  her  husband,  the 
unfortunate   Charles   X.,  first  to  England;  from 
thence   the    royal    fugitives   went    to    Germany, 
where  she  now  resides.     She  had  realized  almost 
every  turn  of  fortune's  wheel,  and  endured  sor- 
rows and  agonies  such  as  very  seldom  are  the  lot 
of  humanity.     In  every  situation  she  has  exhibited 
courage  and  composure,  the  indubitable  evidence 
of  a  strong  mind.     And  she  also  displayed  the  true 
nobility  of  soul  which  forgives  injuries  and  does 
good  whenever  an  opportunity  presents.     Napo- 
leon once  remarked  that  the  "  Duchess  d'Angou- 
leme  was  the  only  man  of  her  family,"  and  cer- 
',ainly  she  was  in   every  respect  superior  to  her 
lusband,  whose  qualities  were  rather  sound  than 
brilliant ;  he  had  good  sense,  was  of  a  generous 
disposition,  had  studied  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and 
uiderstoed  the  concessions  which  were  due ;  but 
he  cherished  the  doctrine  that   the  heir  of  the 
thrme  should  be  the  first  to  evmce  the  most  im- 
plici  obedience  to  the  king ;  and  thus  sanctioned 
the  adoption  of  measures  he  wanted  the  courage  to 
oppoa.     "  The  duchess  was  of  a  character  more 
firm," says  a  writer,  describing  the  causes  which 
led  to  he  revolution  of  1830.     "She  evinced  no 
longer,  ir  but  feebly,  that  haughty  expression  of 
feeling  vith  which  she  had  been  reproached  at 
the  first  lestoi-ation.     The  necessity  of  concession 
had  alrealy  wrought  many  changes  in  her  mind. 
Without  ary  liberal  tendencies,  she  saw  that  when 
once  a  revJution  has  pervaded  a  nation  it  has 
scattered  ih  seeds  of  both  good  and   evil;  and 
that  to  rule,  we  must  learn  how  to  respect  not 
only  common^r-acquired  rights,  but  conquests  the 
most  opposed  to    our   own   convictions,    even  as 
Henry  IV.  had  done.     All  opinions,  then  so  pre- 
valent upon  he  character,  were   erroneous.     It 
was  said  that  sh.-was  excessively  religious;  true; 
but  her  piety  wasreal  and  enlightened,  and  sought 
not   to   be    distinj^iished   by   a   courtly  train  of 
bishops  and  of  prists.     As  her  misfortunes  had 
been  infinite,  so  hti  they  left  their  impression; 
she  could  not  abandoi  herself  to  a  careless  gaiety 
of  life,  and  for  this  ke  was  reproached ;  but  yet 
there  was  still  minglev  with  this  an  asperity  both 
of  manner  and  of  speech,  and  when  excited,  and 
reassumiug  then  all  the  ncient  pride  of  her  house, 
her  opinions  were  imperi^ively  expressed.    Never- 
theless, her  firm  and  coi-ect  understanding,  and 
the  recollections  of  her  mifortunes  ever  exercised 
a  great  influence  over  the  \n<y." 

ARNIM,    BETT'NA   VON, 

Best  known  to  us  by  her'etters,  published  as 
the  "  Con-espondence  of  Goete  with  a  Child,"  is 
considered  by  the  Germans  one>f  their  most  gifted 
female  writers.  The  very  remakable  intercourse 
between  the  great  "poetical  .j-tist"  and  the 
"  Child,"  is  of  a  character  which  ^uld  never  have 
happened  but  in  Germany,  whery  Philosophy  is 
half-sister  to  Romance,  and  Romany  appears  half 
the  time  in  the  garb  of  Philosophy. 

Bettina  Brentano,  grand-daughtei'Sf  Sophia  de 
la  Roche,  (see  page  489,)  was  born  i  Frankfort 


on  the  Maine,  about  the  year  1791.  Her  father, 
General  Brentano,  died  of  wounds  received  in  the 
Prussian  service ;  his  wife  did  not  long  survive 
him,  and  their  children,  of  whom  Bettina  was  the 
youngest,  were  left  orphans  at  an  early  age. 
There  were  two  sons :  Clement  Brentano  became 
celebrated  in  Germany  for  his  work,  "  Bes  Kna- 
ben  Wunderhorn,"  (The  Boy's  Wondrous  Horn,)  a 
collection  of  German  popular  songs;  and  Chris- 
tian is  mentioned  in  Bettina's  letters;  she  had 
also  a  sister  Sophia.  Little  Bettina,  soon  after  the 
decease  of  her  parents,  became  the  favourite  of 
Goethe's  mother,  who  resided  at  Frankfort.  It 
was  his  birth-place  —  Bettina's  mother  had  been 
one  of  his  devoted  friends ;  so  that  from  here  arli- 
est  remembrance,  the  "Child"  had  heard  the 
praises  of  the  "Poet;"  —  and  now  his  mother, 
whose  love  for  him  was  little  short  of  idolatry, 
completed  the  infatuation  of  Bettina.  She  had 
an  ardent  temperament;  the  name  of  Wolfgang 
Goethe  acted  as  the  spell  of  power  to  awaken  her 
genius,  and  what  was  more  remarkable,  to  deve- 
lop the  sentiment  of  love  in  a  manner  which 
seems  so  nearly  allied  to  j9«.5s?'o«,  that  we  cannot 
read  her  burning  expressions  without  sadness, 
when  reflecting  that  she,  a  maiden  of  sixteen  sum- 
mers, thus  lavished  the  rich  treasures  of  her  vir- 
gin affections  on  a  man  sixty  years  old,  whose 
heart  had  been  indui-ated  by  such  a  long  course  of 
gross  sensuality,  as  must  have  made  him  impene- 
trable in  his  selfish  egotism  to  any  real  sympathy 
with  her  enthusiam.  And,  moreover,  he  was  a 
married  man,  if  the  ceremony  which  gave  hia 
house-keeper  a  legal  right  to  call  herself  his  wife, 
after  living  for  sixteen  years  as  his  mistress,  de- 
serves the  holy  name  of  marriage.  Goethe  did 
not  love  Bettina ;  but  her  admiration  flattered  his 
vanity, — and  he  drew  her  on  to  make  those  pas- 
sionate confessions  which  seem  more  like  the  rav- 
ings of  an  opium-eater,  than  the  acknowledged 
feelings  of  a  female  soul. 

The  correspondence  with  Goethe  commenced  in 
1807,  when  Bettina  was,  as  we  have  stated,  about 
sixteen,  and  continued  till  1824.  Soon  after  that 
period  she  was  married  to  Ludwig  Achim  von  Ar- 
nim,  who  is  celebrated  in  Germany  as  a  poet  and 
novelist.  He  was  born  and  resided  at  Berlin; 
thither  he  removed  his  lovely  but  very  romantic 
wife ;  and  Bettina  became  the  star  of  fashion,  as 
well  as  a  literary  star,  in  the  brilliant  circles  of 
that  metropolitan  city.  The  sudden  death  of  her 
husband,  which  occurred  in  1881,  left  Bettina 
again  to  her  own  guidance ;  but  she  had  learned 
wisdom  from  sufi'ering,  and  did  not  give  up  her 
soul,  as  formerly,  to  the  worship  of  genius. 
Since  her  widowhood  she  has  continued  to  reside 
in  Berlin,  dividing  her  time  between  literature  and 
charities.  The  warm  enthusiasm  of  her  nature 
displays  itself  in  her  writings,  as  well  as  in  her 
deeds  of  benevolence.  One  of  her  works,  "Dim 
Buck  gehoert  dem  Eonige,"  (The  King's  Book,) 
was  so  bold  in  its  tone,  and  so  urgent  on  behalf 
of  the  "  poor  oppressed,"  that  many  of  her  aris- 
tocratic friends  took  alarm,  and  avoided  the 
author,  expecting  she  woidd  be  frowned  upon  by 
the  king ;  but  Frederick  William  is  too  politic  to 

669 


AR 


AR 


persecute  a  woman  who  only  pleads  that  he  will 
do  good,  and  Madame  von  Arnim  retains  his 
favour,  apparently,  though  his  flatterers  look 
coldly  on  her.  The  work  has  gained  her  great 
popularity  with  the  people.  Another  work  of 
hers,  "-Die  Giindcrode,"  a  romance  in  letters,  is 
also  very  much  admired,  especially  by  young 
ladies ;  it  is  wild  and  extravagant,  as  are  all  her 
writings,  but,  at  the  same  time,  full  of  fine 
thoughts  and  beautiful  feelings.  All  the  natural 
impulses  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  Bettina  are 
good  and  pure  ;  what  she  needed  was  and  is  a 
higher  standard  of  morality,  a  holier  object  of 
adoration.  The  ^Esthetic  philosophy,  referring 
the  soul  to  the  Beautiful  as  the  perfection  of  art 
or  human  attainments,  this,  and  not  the  Divine 
philosophy  of  the  Bible,  was  the  subject  of  her 
early  study :  the  first  bowed  down  her  nature  to 
worship  Goethe  —  the  last  would  have  exalted  her 
spirit  to  worship  God !  How  the  sweet  fountain 
of  her  aflFections  was  darkened  by  the  shadow  of 
Goethe,  and  how  this  consciousness  of  his  presence, 
as  it  were,  constantly  incited  her  to  thoughts  and 
expressions  foreign  to  her  natural  character,  must 
be  evident  to  all  who  read  the  "  Correspondence 
with  a  Child."  We  shall  make  our  extracts  from 
this  work,  and  wish  our  limits  permitted  us  to 
give  more  of  Goethe's  letters ;  these  are  short, 
and  seem  to  have  been  written  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  drawing  out  her  replies,  that  he  might 
study  her  young  fresh  heart  as  an  entomologist 
would  the  colours  of  a  butterfly  he  had  fastened 
with  his  pin,  and  gain  the  rejuvenescence  of  his 
blas^  nature  from  the  full  life  of  hers.  That  he 
intended  to  use  her  thoughts  in  his  own  writings 
he  acknowledged  to  her ;  and  his  later  works  show 
that  he  did  thus  use  them.  Our  first  extract  is  a 
letter  to  Goethe's  mother. 

BETTINA    TO    FRAU    RATH.* 

■  March  15th,  1807. 
It  is  true  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Wolfgang 
here  in  Rheingau ;  he  writes,  '  Keep  my  mother 
warm,  and  hold  me  dear.'  These  sweet  lines  have 
sunk  into  me  like  the  first  Spring  rain ;  I  am  very 
happy  that  he  desires  me  to  love  him ;  I  know 
well  that  he  embraces  the  whole  world ;  I  know 
that  all  men  wish  to  see  and  speak  with  him,  that 
all  Germany  says  '  Our  Goethe.'  But  I  can  tell 
you  that,  up  to  this  day,  the  general  inspiration 
of  his  greatness  and  his  name  has  not  yet  arisen 
within  me.  My  love  to  him  is  confined  to  that 
little  white-walled  room,  where  I  first  saw  him ; 
where  the  vine,  trained  by  his  own  hand,  creeps 
up  the  window;  where  he  sits  on  the  straw 
hassock,  and  holds  me  in  his  arms — there  he  lets 
in  no  stranger,  and  knows  of  nothing  but  me 
alone.  Frau  Rath,  you  are  his  mother,  and  to 
you  I  will  tell  it.  When  I  saw  him  for  the  first 
time,  and  returned  home,  I  found  that  a  hair  from 
his  head  had  fallen  upon  my  shoulder ;  I  burnt  it 
at  the  candle,  and  my  heart  was  so  touched  that 
it  also  flamed,  but  merrily  and  joyfully,  as  flames 
in  the  blue  sun-lit  air,  of  which  one  is  scarcely 
aware,  and  which  consume  their  sacrifice  without 

*  Goethe's  mother  was  always  known  by  this  title. 


smoke:  so  will  it  be  with  me;  I  shall  flutter 
joyfully  my  life  long  in  the  air,  and  no  one  will 
know  whence  the  joy  comes ;  it  is  only  because  I 
know  that,  when  I  come  to  him,  he  will  be  alone 
with  me,  and  forget  his  laurels. 
Farewell,  and  write  to  him  of  me. 

BETTINA    TO    GOETHE. 

When  the  sun  shines  hottest,  the  blue  sky  is 
often  clouded ;  we  fear  the  storm  and  tempest ;  a 
sultry  air  oppresses  the  breast,  but  at  last  the  sun 
conquers,  and  sinks  tranquil  and  burnished  in 
the  lap  of  evening. 

Thus  was  it  with  me  after  wi'iting  to  you ;  I  was 
oppressed,  as  when  a  tempest  gives  warning  of  itf 
approach,  and  I  often  blushed  at  the  thought  that 
you  would  find  it  wrong ;  at  last  my  mistrust  wts 
dispelled  by  words  which  were  few,  but  how  dea" ! 
If  you  only  knew  what  quick  progress  my  coifi- 
dence  made  in  the  same  moment  that  I  knew  'ou 
were  pleased  with  it !  Kind,  friendly  man !  J  am 
so  unskilled  in  interpreting  such  delicious  wards 
that  I  doubted  their  meaning,  but  your  nuther 
said,  '  Do  n't  be  stupid,  let  him  have  writter  what 
he  will,  the  meaning  is,  you  shall  write  to  jim  as 
often  as  you  can,  and  what  you  like.'  01,  I  can 
impart  nothing  to  you  but  that,  alone,  whuh  takes 
place  in  my  heart.  Oh,  methought,  corld  I  now 
be  with  him,  my  sun  of  joy  should  illuuine  him 
with  as  bright  a  glow  as  the  frieudlylook  with 
which  his  eye  met  mine !  Yes,  splendd  indeed ! 
A  purple  sky  my  mind,  a  warm  Icve-dew  my 
words,  the  soul  must  come  forth  like  i  bride  from 
her  chamber,  without  evil,  and  avov  herself.  0, 
Master !  in  future  I  will  see  thee  Img  and  often 
by  day,  and  often  shall  it  be  cloed  by  such  an 
evening. 

I  promise  that  that  which  pf«ses  within  me, 
untouched  by  the  outward  world  shall  be  secretly 
and  religiously  offered  to  him  who  so  willingly 
takes  interest  in  me,  and  w^ose  all-embracing 
power  promises  the  fulness  tf  fruitfvd  nourish- 
ment to  the  young  germs  of  ry  breast. 

Without  trust,  the  mind'slot  is  a  hard  one  ;  it 
grows  slowly  and  needily,  li'e  a  hot  plant  betwixt 
rocks:  thus  am  I  —  thus  ^  as  I  till  to-day;  and 
the  fountain  of  the  heat  which  could  stream 
nowhere  forth,  finds  sudduly  a  passage  into  light, 
and  banks  of  balsam-b^athing  fields,  bloom'ing 
like  paradise,  accompaiy  its  course. 

Oh,  Goethe!  my  IfJgings,  my  feelings,  are 
melodies  which  seek  -  song  to  which  they  may 
adapt  themselves.  Dre  I  do  so  ?  then  shall  these 
melodies  ascend  higi  enough  to  accompany  your 
songs. 

Your  mother  wt'^G)  as  from  me,  that  I  laid  no 
claim  to  an  answe  to  my  letters,  and  that  I  would 
not  rob  that  tim  which  would  produce  for  eter- 
nity :  but  so  it  i'Dot ;  my  soul  cries  like  a  thirsty 
babe  •  all  this  time,  past  and  future,  I  would 
drink  into  myflf)  and  my  conscience  would  make 
me  but  smal"  reproach,  Jf  the  world,  from  this 
time  forth,  s'oviid  learn  but  little  from  you,  and  I 
more.  Rerdiiit>6i"j  in  the  mean  time,  that  only  a 
few  words  rom  you  fill  up  a  greater  measure  of 
joy  than  Jexpect  from  all  futui-ity. 

570 


AR 


AE 


From  Several  Letters. 

GOETHE    TO    BETTINA. 

Thou  art  a  sweet-minded  child ;  I  read  thy  dear 
letters  with  inward  pleasure,  and  shall  surely 
always  read  them  again  with  the  same  enjoyment. 
Thy  pictures  of  what  has  happened  to  thee,  with 
all  inward  feelings  of  tenderness,  and  what  thy 
witty  demon  inspires  thee  with,  are  real  original 
sketches,  which,  in  the  midst  of  more  serious 
occupations,  cannot  be  denied  their  high  interest ; 
take  it,  therefore,  as  a  hearty  truth,  when  I  thank 
thee  for  them.  Preserve  thy  confidence  in  me, 
and  let  it,  if  possible,  increase.  Thou  wilt  always 
be  and  remain  to  me  what  thou  now  art.  How 
can  one  requite  thee,  except  by  being  willing  to 
be  enriched  with  all  thy  good  gifts.  Thou,  thy- 
self, kuowest  how  much  thou  art  to  my  mother ; 
her  letters  overflow  with  praise  and  love.  Con- 
tinue to  dedicate  lovely  monuments  of  remem- 
brance to  the  fleeting  moments  of  thy  good 
fortune.  I  cannot  promise  thee  that  I  will  not 
presume  to  work  out  themes  so  high-gifted  and 
full  of  life,  if  they  still  speak  as  truly  and 
warmly  to  the  heart. 

*  *  *  *  * 

You  are  an  unparalleled  child,  whom  I  joyfully 
thank  for  every  enjoyment,  for  every  bright 
glance  into  a  spiritual  life,  which,  without  you,  I 
should,  perhaps,  never  have  experienced. 

*  *  *  *  * 

All  that  you  write  is  a  spring  of  health  to  me, 
whose  crystal  drops  impart  to  me  a  well-being. 
Continue  to  me  this  refreshment,  upon  which  I 
place  my  dependence. 

*  *  *  -x-  * 

Your  clear  views  upon  men  and  things,  upon 
past  and  future,  are  useful  to  me,  and  I  deserve, 
too,  that  you  grant  me  the  best.  [Such  was  the 
egotism  of  Goethe,  who  had  given  Bettina  nothing, 
tyliile  he  was  using  her  very  heart-strings  to  make 
him  music  !] 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  wish  to  have  your  thoughts  on  art  in  general, 
and  particularly  on  music,  transmitted  to  me. 
Your  solitary  hours  you  can  spend  in  no  better 
way  than  in  meditating  on  your  dear  caprice,  and 
to  entrust  me  with  it. 

***** 

By  no  means  let  slip  the  theme  upon  music,  but 
on  the  contrary,  continue  to  vary  it  in  every 
possible  manner.  Continue  to  love  me  till  happy 
stars  bring  us  once  more  together. 

From  a  Number  of  Letters. 
BETTINA  TO  GOETHE. 

Talent  strikes  conviction,  but  genius  does  not 
convince;  to  whom  it  is  imparted,  it  gives  fore- 
bodings of  the  immeasurable  and  infinite,  while 
talent  sets  certain  limits,  and  so  because  it  is  un- 
derstood, is  also  maintained. 

The  infinite  in  the  finite  —  genius  in  every  art 
is  music.  In  itself  it  is  the  soul,  when  it  touches 
tenderly,  but  when  it  masters  this  afi"ection,  then 
it  is  spirit  which  warms,  nourishes,  bears  and  re- 
produces the  own  soul  —  and,  therefore,  we  per- 


ceive music :  otherwise  the  sensual  ear  would  no 
hear  it,  but  only  the  spiritual;  and  thus  ever) 
art  is  the  body  of  music,  which  is  the  soul  of  every 
art :  and  so  is  music,  too,  the  soul  of  love,  which 
also  answers  not  for  its  working ;  for  it  is  the  con- 
tact of  divine  with  human.  Love  expresses  no- 
thing through  itself,  but  that  it  is  sunk  in  har- 
mony. Love  is  fluid  ;  it  flows  in  its  own  element, 
and  that  element  is  harmony. 

***** 

I  wish  for  you,  Goethe,  and  believe  it  firmly,  too, 
that  all  your  enquiry,  your  knowledge,  and  that 
which  the  muse  teaches  you,  and  lastly  also  thy 
love,  may,  united,  form  a  glorified  body  for  thy 
spirit,  that  it  may  no  longer  be  subject  to  the 
earthly  body,  when  it  puts  it  off,  but  may  already 
have  passed  over  into  the  spiritual  body.  Die  you 
must  not,  he  only  must  die  whose  spirit  does  not 
find  the  outlet.  Thought  wings  the  spirit,  the 
winged  spirit  does  not  die,  it  finds  not  back  the 
way  to  death.  — 

***** 

In  love  you  are  with  the  heroine  of  your  new 
novel,  and  this  makes  you  so  retiring  and  cold  to 
me.  —  God  knows  what  model  has  served  you  here 
for  an  ideal ;  ah !  you  have  a  unique  taste  in  wo- 
men ;  Werther's  Charlotte  never  edified  me ;  had 
I  then  been  at  hand,  Werther  would  never  have 
shot  himself,  and  Charlotte  should  have  been 
piqued  that  I  could  console  him  so  well. 

I  feel  the  same  in  William  Meister ;  there,  all 
the  women  are  disgusting  to  me,  I  could  "drive 
them  all  out  of  the  temple,"  and  I  had  built, 
too,  upon  it,  that  you  have  loved  me  as  soon 
as  you  knew  me,  because  I  am  better  and  more 
amiable  than  the  whole  female  assemblage  in  your 
novels  —  yes,  (and,  really,  this  is  not  saying  much) 
for  you  I  am  more  amiable,  if  you  the  Poet  will 
not  find  it  out,  for  no  other  am  I  born ;  am  I  not 
the  bee  which  flies  forth,  bringing  home  to  you 
the  nectar  of  each  flower  ? 

***** 

The  moon  is  shining  high  above  the  hills,  the 
clouds  drive  over  like  herds.  I  have  already  stood 
awhile  at  the  windows,  and  looked  at  the  chasing 
and  driving  above.  Dear  Goethe,  good  Goethe,  I 
am  alone,  it  has  raised  me  out  of  myself,  up  to 
thee !  Like  a  new-born  babe,  must  I  nurse  this 
love  between  us ;  beautiful  butterflies  balance 
themselves  upon  the  flowers  which  I  have  planted 
about  its  cradle,  golden  fables  adorn  its  dreams,  I 
joke  and  play  with  it,  I  try  every  stratagem  in  its 
favour.  But  you  rule  it  without  trouble,  by  the 
noble  harmony  of  your  mind  —  with  you  there  is 
no  need  of  tender  expressions  or  protestations. 
While  I  take  care  of  each  moment  of  the  present, 
a  power  of  blessing  goes  forth  from  you,  which 
reaches  beyond  all  sense  and  above  all  the  world. 


Yes  I  Christian  Schlosser  said,  that  you  under- 
stood nothing  of  music,  that  you  fear  death,  and 
have  no  religion ;  what  shall  I  say  to  this  ?  I  am 
as  stupid  as  I  am  mute,  when  I  am  so  sensibly 
hurt.  Ah!  Goethe,  if  one  had  no  shelter,  which 
could   protect  in   bad  weathei",   the  cold  loveless 

571 


AR 


AR 


■wind  might  harm  one,  but  I  know  you  to  be  shel- 
tered within  yourself;  but  these  three  riddles  are 
a  problem  to  me.  I  would  fain  explain  to  you 
music  in  all  its  bearings,  and  yet  I  myself  feel, 
that  it  is  beyond  sense  and  not  understood  by  me ; 
nevertheless  I  cannot  retire  from  this  Indissoluble, 
and  I  pray  to  it;  no,  the  Inconceivable  is  ever  — 
God ;  and  there  is  no  medium  world,  in  which 
other  secrets  can  be  hidden.  Since  music  is  in- 
conceivable, so  is  it  like  God ;  this  I  must  say, 
and  you  will,  with  your  notion  of  the  "  terz"  and 
the  "  quint,"  laugh  at  me  !  No !  you  are  too  good, 
you  will  not  laugh;  and  then  you  are  also  too 
wise ;  you  will  surely  willingly  give  up  your  stu- 
dies and  your  conquered  ideas,  for  such  an  all- 
hallowing  mystery  of  the  Divine  Spirit  in  music. 
What  could  repay  the  pains  of  enquiry,  if  it  were 
not  this?  after  what  could  we  enquire,  which 
moves  us,  except  the  Divine  only  ?  And  what  can 
others,  the  well-studied,  say  better  or  higher  upon 
it;  —  and  if  one  of  them  should  bring  something 
forward  against  it,  must  he  not  be  ashamed  ?  If 
one  should  say,  "  Music  is  there,  only  that  the 
human  spirit  may  perfect  itself  therein."  Well, 
yes  !  we  should  perfect  ourselves  in  God !  If  one 
say,  it  is  only  the  connecting  link  with  the  Divine, 
but  not  God  himself!  No,  ye  false  voices,  your 
vain  song  is  not  divinely  imbued !  Ah !  Divinity 
itself  teaches  us  to  understand  the  signs,  that  like 
it  by  our  own  powers,  we  may  learn  to  govern  in 
the  realm  of  Divinity.  All  learning  in  art  is  only, 
that  we  may  lay  the  foundation  of  self-dependence 
within  us,  and  that  it  may  remain  our  conqiiest. 
Some  one  has  said  of  Christ,  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  music :  to  this  I  could  answer  nothing ;  in  the 
first  place  I  am  not  nearly  enough  acquainted 
with  his  course  of  life,  and  then  what  struck  me 
at  the  time,  I  can  say  only  to  you,  although  I  do 
not  know  what  you  may  answer  to  it.  Christ 
says:  "  Your  body  also  shall  be  gloritied."  Is  not 
music  now  the  glorifying  of  sensual  nature  ?  Does 
not  music  so  touch  our  senses,  that  we  feel  them 
melted  into  the  harmony  of  the  tones  which  you 
choose  to  reckon  by  terz  and  quint  ?  Only  learn 
to  understand !  You  will  wonder  so  much  the 
more  at  the  Inconceivable.  The  senses  flow  on 
the  stream  of  inspiration,  and  that  exalts  them. 
All  which  spiritually  lays  claim  on  man,  here  goes 
over  to  the  senses ;  therefore  is  it  that  through 
them  he  feels  himself  moved  to  all  things.  Love 
and  friendship,  and  warlike  courage,  and  longing 
after  the  Divinity,  all  boil  in  the  blood ;  the  blood 
is  hallowed  ;  it  inflames  the  body,  that  it  becomes 
of  one  instinct  with  the  spirit.  This  is  the  efi'ect 
of  music  on  the  senses,  this  is  the  glorifying  of 
the  body ;  the  senses  of  Christ  were  dissolved  in 
the  Divine  Spirit ;  they  were  of  one  instinct  with 
him ;  he  said :  "  What  ye  touch  with  the  spirit  as 
with  the  senses  must  be  divine,  for  then  your  body 
becomes  also  spirit."  Look!  this  I  myself  almost 
felt  and  thought,  when  it  was  said,  that  Christ 
knew  nothing  about  music. 

Pardon  me,  that  I  thus  speak  with  you,  nearly 
without  substantial  ground,  for  I  am  giddy,  and  I 
scarcely  perceive  that  which  I  would  say,  and 
forget  all  so  easily  again ;  but  if  I  could  not  have 


confidence  in  you,  to  confess  that  which  occm'S  to 
me,  to  whom  else  should  I  impart  it  ? 

This  winter  I  had  a  spider  in  my  room ;  when 
I  played  upon  the  guitar  it  descended  hastily  into 
a  web  which  it  had  spun  lower  down.  I  placed 
myself  before  it,  and  drew  my  fingers  across  the 
strings ;  it  was  clearly  seen  how  it  vibrated 
through  its  little  limbs ;  when  I  changed  the 
chord,  it  changed  its  movements,  —  they  were 
involuntary;  by  each  diiferent  Arpeggio,  the 
rhythm  in  its  motions  was  also  changed ;  it  can- 
not be  otherwise,  —  this  little  being  was  joy-pene- 
trated, or  spirit-imbued,  as  long  as  my  music 
lasted ;  when  that  stopped  it  retired.  Another 
little  playfellow  was  a  mouse,  but  he  was  more 
taken  by  vocal  music  :  he  chiefly  made  his  appear- 
ance when  I  have  sung  the  gamut ;  the  fuller  I 
swelled  the  tones,  the  nearer  it  came ;  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  it  remained  sitting;  my 
mother  was  much  delighted  by  the  little  animal ; 
we  took  great  care  not  to  disturb  him.  When  I 
sung  songs  and  varying  melodies  he  seemed  to  be 
afraid ;  he  could  not  endure  it,  and  ran  hastily 
away.  Thus,  then,  the  gamut  seemed  fitted  for 
this  little  creature;  prevailed  over  it,  and  (who 
can  doubt?)  prepared  the  way  for  something 
loftier  within  it ;  these  tones,  given  with  the 
utmost  purity, —  beautiful  in  themselves,  touched 
these  organs  ;  this  swelling  and  sinking  to  silence 
raised  the  little  creature  into  another  element. 
Ah,  Goethe  !  what  shall  I  say  ?  everything  touches 
me  so  nearly  —  I  am  so  sensitive  to-day  I  could 
weep :  who  can  dwell  in  the  Temple  upon  pure 
and  serene  heights,  ought  he  to  wish  to  go  forth 
into  a  den  of  thieves  ?  These  two  little  animals 
resigned  themselves  up  to  music ;  it  was  their 
Temple,  in  which  they  felt  their  existence  elevated 
by  the  touch  of  the  Divine,  and  thou  who  feelest 
thyself  touched  by  the  eternal  pulsation  of  the 
Divine  within  thee,  thou  hast  no  religion  ?  Thou, 
whose  words,  whose  thoughts  are  ever  directed  to 
the  muse,  thou  not  to  live  in  the  element  of  exalta- 
tion, in  connection  with  God  ?  0  yes !  the  ascend- 
ing from  out  unconscious  life  into  revelation,  — 
that  is  music  I 

ON    ART. 

I  have  spent  a  cold  night,  Goethe,  listening  io 
my  thoughts ;  because  you,  in  such  a  friendly 
mannei",  wish  to  know  all ;  yet  I  could  not  write 
all,  these  thoughts  are  too  volatile.  Ay,  Goethe ! 
should  I  wi'ite  down  all,  how  odd  would  that  be  ! 
Be  contented  with  these  ;  supply  them  in  my  mind, 
in  which  thou  hast  a  home.  You  —  no  other  — 
have  ever  reminded  me  to  impart  my  soul  to  you, 
and  I  would  withhold  you  nothing,  therefore  I 
would  come  forth  to  light  out  of  myself,  because 
you  alone  enlighten  me. 

Ah !  I  have  not  studied  it ;  I  know  nothing  of 
its  origin,  of  its  history,  its  condition ;  how  is  its 
influence,  how  men  understand  it,  —  that  seems 
unreal  to  me. 

Art  is  the  hallowing  sensual  nature,  and  that  is 
all  I  know  about  it.  What  is  beloved  shall  serve 
to  love:  spirit  is  the  beloved  child  of  God, — 
chosen  by  God  for  the  service  of  sensual  nature ; 

572 


AR 


AR 


tMs  is  art ;  intuition  of  the  spirit  into  the  senses 
is  art.  AVhat  you  feel  becomes  thought,  and  what 
you  think,  what  you  strive  to  invent,  that  becomes 
sensual  feeling.  What  men  compile  in  arts ;  what 
they  produce  in  it ;  how  they  force  their  way 
through  it ;  wliat  they  do  more  or  less,  that  would 
be  submitted  to  many  contradictions,  but  yet  is  it 
ever  a  spelling  of  the  Divine.     Let  it  be. 

Ah !  what  do  you  ask  about  art  ?  I  can  say 
nothing  that  shall  satisfy  you.  Ask  about  love, 
this  is  my  art ;  in  it  I  am  to  perform ;  in  it  I  shall 
recollect  myself  and  rejoice. 

I  am  afraid  of  you ;  I  am  afraid  of  the  spirit 
which  you  bid  to  arise  within  me,  because  I  am 
not  able  to  express  it.  In  your  letter  you  say : 
'  the  whole  internal  spirit  shall  come  forth  to  light 
out  of  itself;'  never  before  has  this  simple  infalli- 
ble command  been  obvious  to  me,  and  now,  when 
your  wisdom  calls  me  forth  to  light,  what  have  I 
to  display  as  only  faults  against  the  internal 
genius  ;  look  there  !  misused  and  oppressed  it  was. 
But  this  breaking  forth  of  the  mind  to  light,  is  it 
not  art  ?  This  inner  man  asking  for  light,  to  have 
by  the  finger  of  God  loosened  his  tongue ;  untied 
his  hearing ;  awakened  all  senses  to  receive  and 
to  spend :  and  is  love  here  not  the  only  master, 
and  we  its  disciples  in  every  work  which  we  form 
by  its  inspiration  ? 

Works  of  art,  however,  are  those  which  alone 
are  called  art,  through  which  we  think  to  perceive 
and  enjoy  art ;  but  as  far  as  the  producing  of  God 
in  heart  and  mind  overpowers  the  idea  we  make  to 
ourselves  of  him  and  his  laws,  which,  in  temporal 
life,  are  of  value,  even  so  does  art  overpower 
men's  valuing  of  it.  They  who  fancy  to  under- 
stand it  will  perform  no  more  than  what  is  ruled 
by  understanding ;  but  when  senses  are  submitted 
to  its  spirit,  he  has  revelation. 

To  improve  the  advantages  of  experiences  as 
they  ought  to  be,  is  mastership  ;  to  transfer  them 
on  the  scholar  is  teaching ;  has  the  scholar  com- 
prehended all,  and  understands  how  to  employ  it, 
then  he  becomes  absolved ;  this  is  the  school  by 
which  art  will  be  transplanted.  To  one  in  such 
a  manner  absolved  all  ways  of  error  are  open,  but 
never  the  right  one.  Once  released  from  the  long 
frequented  school  in  which  system  and  experience 
had  enclosed  him,  the  labyrinth  of  errors  becomes 
his  world,  from  which  he  may  never  escape. 
Every  way  he  will  choose  is  a  misguided  path  of 
error;  void  of  divine  spirit,  misled  by  prejudices, 
he  tries  to  employ  all  his  artificial  craft  to  bring 
the  object  of  his  labour  to  a  good  issue.  More 
will  never  be  attained  by  the  endeavours  of  an 
artist  educated  in  the  school  of  art.  Whoever 
is  come  to  something  in  art,  did  forget  his  crafti- 
ness, his  load  of  experience,  became  shipwreck, 
and  despair  led  him  to  land  on  the  right  shore. 
What  from  such  a  violent  epoch  will  proceed  is, 
indeed,  often  captivating,  but  not  convincing, 
because  the  scale  of  judgment  and  of  perception 
is  no  other  than  those  experiences  and  artifices, 
which  never  suit  where  production  will  not  be 
made  up  by  means  of  them ;  then,  also,  because 
the  prejudice  of  an  obtained  mastership  will  not 
allow  anything  to  be  that  depends  on  its  authority ; 


and  because  the  presentiment  of  a  higher  world 
will  thus  remain  closed  to  it.  The  invention  of 
the  mastership  is  justified  by  the  principle,  that 
there  is  nothing  new ;  that  all  is  invented  before 
imagination  ;  such  productions  are  partly  in  abuse 
of  that  which  is  invented  to  new  inventions,  partly, 
apparent  inventions,  where  the  work  of  art  has 
not  the  thought  within  itself,  but  must  make  up 
for  its  want  by  the  devices  and  experience  of  the 
school  of  art,  and,  finally,  productions  which  go 
just  as  far  as  thought,  by  improvement,  is  allowed 
to  comprehend ;  the  more  prudent  balancing  the 
more  faultless  and  secure ;  the  more  comprehen- 
sible, too,  they  are  for  the  multitude ;  these  we 
call  works  of  art. 

In  music,  producing  is,  itself,  a  wandering  of 
the  divine  idea,  which  enlightens  the  mind  without 
object,  and  man,  himself,  is  conception.  In  all  is 
union  of  love;  a  joining  of  mental  forces  one  in 
another. 

Excitement  becomes  language,  a  summons  to 
the  spirit ;  it  answers,  and  this  is  invention :  the 
faculty  of  mind  to  answer  a  demand  which  has  no 
fixed  object  as  problem,  but  is  the,  perhaps,  un- 
conscious tendency  of  production. 

All  motions  of  mental  events  in  life  have  such 
a  deep,  hidden  basis ;  thus,  as  the  breath  of  life 
sinks  into  the  breast,  to  draw  breath  anew,  so  the 
procreating  spirit  sinks  i  to  the  soul,  again  to 
ascend  to  the  higher  regions  of  eternal  creative 
power. 

The  soul  breathes  bj'  spirit ;  spirit  breathes  by 
inspiration ;  and  this  is  the  breathing  of  the 
divinity.    ■ 

To  inhale  the  divine  spirit  is  to  engenerate,  to 
produce ;  to  exhale  the  divine  breath  is  to  breed 
and  nourish  the  mind :  —  thus  the  divine  engene- 
rates,  breeds,  and  nourishes  itself  in  the  spirit,  — 
thus  through  the  spirit  in  the  soul  —  thus  through 
the  soul  in  the  body.  Body  is  art,  art  is  the 
sensual  nature  engenerated  into  the  life  of  the 
spirit. 

In  the  style  of  art  they  say :  nothing  that  is 
new  is  to  be  invented,  all  has  existed  before :  — 
yes !  we  can  but  invent  in  mankind,  nothing  is 
without  them,  for  spirit  is  not  without  man,  for 
God  himself  has  no  other  harbour  but  the  spirit  of 
man ;  the  inventor  is  love ;  and  because  embrac- 
ing love  alone  is  the  foundation  of  existence,  there- 
fore beyond  this  embraced  one,  there  is  no  being, 
no  invention.  Invention  is  only  perceiving  how 
the  genius  of  love  rules  in  the  being  founded  by 
love. 

Man  cannot  invent,  only  feel  himself,  only  con- 
ceive, learn  what  the  genius  of  love  speaks  to  him, 
how  it  nourishes  itself  in  him,  and  how  it  teaches 
him  by  itself.  Without  transforming  its  percep- 
tions of  divine  love  into  the  language  of  know- 
ledge, there  is  no  invention. 

Late  yesterday  evening,  I  walked  by  moonlight 
in  the  beautiful,  blooming  Linden-walk,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine  ;  there  I  heard  a  clapping  and 
soft  singing.  Before  her  cottage  beneath  the 
blooming  linden-tree,  sat  the  mother  of  twins: 
one  she  had  upon  her  breast,  and  the  other  she 
rocked  with  her  foot,  in  measure  to  the  song. 

573 


BA 


BA 


B.. 

BAILLIE,    JOANNA, 

Sister  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Baillie,  was  born 
in  Bothwell,  Scotland,  of  an  honourable  family, 
about  1765.  She  has  spent  the  greater  part  of 
her  life  at  Hampstead,  near  London,  where  she 
now  resides.  Her  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  a 
series  of  dramas,  have  made  her  famous.  Scott 
compares  her  to  Shakspeare ;  while  eminent  critics 
place  her  name  at  the  head  of  the  living  dramatic 
writers  of  England. 

The  social  sphere  in  which  this  favoured  daugh- 
ter of  the  muse  has  ever  moved,  was  peculiarly 
suited  to  her  character  and  genius ;  it  was  one  in 
which  taste,  and  literature,  and  the  highest  moral 
endowments  were  understood  and  appreciated. 
She  had  no  need  to  resort  to  her  pen  from  pecu- 
niary motives,  and  her  standing  in  society  made 
fame  of  little  moment  to  her.  But  the  spii-it 
prompted,  and  she  obeyed  its  voice  —  always,  we 
think,  with  that  loftiest  motive  of  human  action  or 
purpose,  the  desire  of  doing  good. 

To  accomplish  those  reforms  which  she  felt  so- 
ciety needed,  she  detemiined  to  attempt  the  re- 
form of  that  mimic  world,  the  stage,  by  furnishing 
dramas  whose  representation  should  have  a  salu- 
tary effect  on  morals.  In  pursuance  of  this  idea, 
she  planned  her  celebrated  "Plays  on  the  Pas- 
sions"—  love,  hatred,  fear,  religion,  jealousy,  revenge 
and  remorse,  she  has  portrayed  with  the  truth, 
power,  and  feeling  which  richly  entitle  her  to  the 
honour  of  having  her  fame  as  a  dramatic  writer 
associated  with  that  of  Shakspeare.  The  parallel 
which  was  drawn  by  Scott  is  true,  so  far  as  plac- 
ing the  name  of  Joanna  Baillie  in  the  same  rela- 
tion to  the  dramatic  poets  of  her  own  sex,  which 
the  name  of  Shakspeare  bears  to  that  of  men.  In 
such  compositions  she  is  unrivalled  by  any  female 
writer,  and  she  is  the  only  woman  whose  genius, 
as  displayed  in  her  works,  appears  competent  to 
the  production  of  an  Epic  poem.  Would  that  she 
had  attempted  this! 

In  the  portraiture  of  female  characters,  and  the 
exhibition  of  feminine  virtues,  she  has  been  very 


successful.  Jane  de  Montfort  is  one  of  the  most 
sublime,  yet  womanly,  creations  of  poetic  art. 

The  power  of  Miss  Baillie's  genius  seems  con- 
centrated in  one  burning  ray  —  the  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart.  She  has  illustrated  this  know- 
ledge with  the  cool  judgment  of  the  philosopher, 
and  the  pure  warm  feelings  of  the  Christian.  And 
she  has  won  fame,  the  highest  which  the  critic  has 
awarded  to  woman's  lyre.  Yet  we  have  often 
doubted  whether,  in  selecting  the  drama  as  her 
path  of  literature,  she  judged  wisely.  We  have 
thought  that,  as  an  essayist,  or  a  novelist,  she 
might  have  made  her  great  talents  more  effective 
in  that  improvement  of  society,  which  she  evi- 
dently has  so  deeply  at  heart,  and  have  won  for 
herself,  if  not  so  bright  a  wreath  of  fame,  a  more 
extensive  and  more  popular  influence.  And  even 
had  she  chosen  poetry  as  the  vehicle  of  instruc- 
tion, we  still  think  that  she  would  better  and  more 
generally  have  accomplished  her  aim,  by  shorter 
effusions,  and  more  simple  plans. 

The  remark  of  Goethe  on  the  danger  of  a  poet's 
"  devoting  himself  to  some  great  work,"  and  neg- 
lecting present  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  all  the 
touching  incidents  of  the  actual  world  passing  be- 
fore him,  is  strikingly  true  of  female  writers.  It 
seems  the  very  soul  of  woman's  genius  to  seize  on 
the  passing  moment,  and  give  to  the  common 
and  the  actual  that  beauty  and  interest  which 
their  tiner  imagination  and  more  delicate  taste  can 
discover  or  invent.  In  this  way,  too,  their  moral 
power  is  brought  to  bear  on  the  popular  mind  at 
once.  The  sweet  lyrics  of  Mrs.  Hemans  have 
moved  the  hearts  of  millions  of  the  unlearned,  and 
moulded  their  affections  to  love  the  beautiful  and 
the  good ;  while  the  sublime  and  searching  truths 
taught  in  the  "  Plays  on  the  Passions,"  have  been 
a  sealed  book  to  all  but  the  learned  and  critical. 
True,  many  of  the  greatest  poets  who  have  writ- 
ten since  these  "Plays"  appeared,  have  drawn 
from  this  mine  of  genius  much  to  enrich  their  own 
stores.  Even  Byron  had  not  read  Miss  Baillie 
without  advantage,  as  a  comparison  between  the 
"Ethwald"  of  the  latter,  and  "Manfred,"  will 
clearly  show. 

But,  although  it  is  a  proud  station  which  this 
gifted  sister  of  the  lyre  has  won,  thus  to  become, 
as  it  were,  a  teacher  of  genius,  a  beacon  in  the 
path  of  intellectual  glory,  yet  we  would  prefer 
that  our  own  sex  should  rather  be  admirers  of  the 
fame  of  Joanna  Baillie  than  followers  in  her  own 
peculiar  and  chosen  sphere.  At  least  since  she, 
with  her  splendid  talents,  bold  and  vigorous  fancy, 
and  that  calm,  persevering  energy  of  purpose, 
which  none  but  minds  of  the  iiighest  order  dis- 
play, has  failed  to  reform  the  stage,  let  no  other 
woman  flatter  herself  with  a  hope  of  succeeding. 
It  may  be  within  the  scope  of  female  powers  to  pu- 
rify and  exalt  dramatic  literature ;  but  then  these 
pattern  plays  will  not  be  popular  on  the  stage, 
and  meretricious  dances  or  spectacles  of  some  kind 
will  be  substituted  to  draw  the  multitude.  Thus 
the  moral  effect  of  a  good  play  will  be  destroyed. 
It  will  be  found  more  effectual  for  the  gentle  pur- 
pose of  winning  hearts  to  follow  virtue  and  piety, 
which  should  be  the  aim  of  female  literature,  to 

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address  the  mind  through  the  moral  and  domestic 
feelings,  rather  than  through  the  stern,  dark,  and 
wild  workings  of  passion,  in  its  conflicts  with  the 
woi'ld.  One  sweet  song  of  home  will  be  more 
effectual  in  securing  the  return  of  the  prodigal, 
than  all  the  pathetic  scenes  in  Rayner  and  the 
penitence  of  Count  Zaterloo. 

There  is  in  the  "  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Litera- 
ture," a  very  clever  and  candid  criticism  on  Miss 
Baillie's  peculiar  style  of  constructing  her  dramas ; 
it  is  appropriate  to  our  plan  of  showing,  whenever 
possible,  the  opinions  of  literary  men  concerning 
the  genius,  and  productions  of  women.  After 
stating  that  the  first  volume  of  Joanna  Baillie's 
"Plays  on  the  Passions"  was  published  in  1798; 
that  she  had,  in  her  theory,  "  anticipated  the  dis- 
sertations and  most  of  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth," 
and  that  her  volume  passed  through  two  editions 
in  a  few  months,  he  goes  on: — "  Miss  Baillie  was 
then  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  her  age.  In 
1802  she  published  a  second  volume,  and  in  1812 
a  third.  In  the  interval  she  had  produced  a 
volume  of  miscellaneous  dramas  (1804),  and  "  The 
Family  Legend"  (1810),  a  tragedy  founded  on  a 
Highland  tradition,  and  brought  out  with  success 
at  the  Edinbui'gh  theatre.  In  1836,  this  authoress 
published  three  more  volumes  of  plays,  her  career 
as  a  dramatic  writer  thus  extending  over  the  long 
period  of  thirty-eight  years.  Only  one  of  her 
dramas  has  ever  been  performed  on  the  stage : 
De  Montfort  was  brought  out  by  Kemble  shortly 
after  its  appearance,  and  was  acted  eleven  nights. 
It  was  again  introduced  in  1821,  to  exhibit  the 
talents  of  Kean  in  the  character  of  De  Montfort ; 
but  this  actor  remarked  that,  though  a  fine  poem, 
it  would  never  be  an  acting  play.  The  design  of 
Miss  Baillie  in  restricting  her  dramas  each  to  the 
elucidation  of  one  passion,  appears  certainly  to 
have  been  an  unnecessary  and  unwise  restraint,  as 
tending  to  circumscribe  the  business  of  the  piece, 
and  exclude  the  interest  arising  from  varied  emo- 
tions and  conflicting  passions.  It  cannot  be  said 
to  have  been  successful  in  her  own  case,  and  it 
has  never  been  copied  by  any  other  author.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  has  eulogized  '  Basil's  love  and  Mont- 
fort's  hate,'  as  something  like  a  revival  of  the  in- 
spired strain  of  Shakspeare.  The  tragedies  of 
Count  Basil  and  De  Montfort  are  among  the  best 
of  Miss  Baillie's  plays ;  but  they  are  more  like  the 
works  of  Shirley,  or  the  serious  parts  of  Massin- 
ger,  than  the  glorious  dramas  of  Shakspeare,  so 
full  of  life,  of  incident,  and  imagery.  Miss  Bail- 
lie's  style  is  smooth  and  regular,  and  her  plots  are 
both  original  and  carefully  constructed ;  but  she 
has  no  poetical  luxuriance,  and  few  commanding 
situations.  Her  tragic  scenes  are  too  much  con- 
njected  with  the  crime  of  murder,  one  of  the  easi- 
est resources  of  a  tragedian  ;  and  partly  from  the 
delicacy  of  her  sex,  as  well  as  from  the  restric- 
tions imposed  by  her  theory  of  composition,  she  is 
deficient  in  that  variety  and  fulness  of  passion, 
the  '  form  and  pressure'  of  real  life,  which  are  so 
essential  on  the  stage.  The  design  and  plot  of 
her  dramas  are  obvious  almost  from  the  first  act  — 
a  circumstance  that  would  be  fatal  to  their  suc- 


cess in  representation.  The  unity  and  intellectual 
completeness  of  Miss  Baillie's  plays  are  their  most 
striking  characteristics.  Her  simple  masculine 
style,  so  unlike  the  florid  or  insipid  sentimental- 
ism  then  prevalent,  was  a  bold  innovation  at  the 
time  of  her  two  first  volumes  ;  but  the  public  had 
fortunately  taste  enough  to  appreciate  its  excel- 
lence. Miss  Baillie  was  undoubtedly  a  great  im- 
prover of  our  poetical  diction." 

Besides  these  many  volumes  of  Plays,  Miss  Bail- 
lie  has  written  miscellaneous  poetry  and  songs 
sufiicient  to  fill  a  volume,  which  was  published  in 
18-41.  Her  songs  are  distinguished  for  "  a  pecu- 
liar softness  of  diction,  yet  few  have  become 
favourites  in  the  drawing-room."  In  truth,  it  is 
when  alone,  in  the  quiet  sanctuary  of  one's  own 
apartment,  that  the  works  of  Miss  Baillie  should 
be  studied.  She  addresses  the  heart  through  the 
understanding,  not  by  moving  the  fancy  or  even 
the  passions  in  any  sti'ong  degree ;  she  writes  to 
mind,  not  to  feeling ;  and  the  mind  of  the  reader 
must  become  concentrated  on  the  drama  at  first, 
by  an  effort  of  the  will,  before  its  singular  merit 
will  be  fully  apparent;  even  the  best  of  all,  "  De 
Montfort,"  requires  this  close  attention.  We  shall 
make  our  selections  chiefly  from  the  tragedies. 

FROM    DE    MONTFORT. 
\Jave,  in  disguise,  meets  her  brother.'] 

De  Montfort.    Yes,  it  is  ever  thus.     Undo  that  veil, 
And  give  thy  countenance  to  the  cheerful  light. 
Men  now  all  soft  and  female  heauty  scorn. 
And  mock  the  gentle  cares  which  aim  to  please. 
It  is  most  terrible!  undo  thy  veil, 
And  think  of  him  no  more. 

Jane.    I  know  it  well,  even  to  a  proverb  grown. 
Is  lovers'  faith,  and  I  had  borne  such  slight ; 
But  he,  who  has,  alas  !  forsaken  me. 
Was  the  companion  of  my  early  days. 
My  cradle's  mate,  mine  infant  play-fellow. 
Within  our  opening  minds,  with  riper  years. 
The  love  of  praise  and  generous  virtues  sprung: 
Thiough  varied  life  our  pride,  our  joys  were  one ; 
At  the  same  tale  we  wept:  he  is  my  brother. 

De  Mon.    And  he  forsook   thee?— No,  I  dare   not  curse 
him: 
My  heart  upbraids  me  with  a  crime  like  his. 

Jane.    Ah  !  do  not  thus  distress  a  feeling  heart. 
All  sisters  are  not  to  the  soul  entwined 
With  equal  bands  ;  thine  has  not  watched  for  thee. 
Wept  for  thee,  cheered  thee,  shared  thy  weal  and  wo. 
As  I  have  done  for  him. 

De  Mon.  {eagerly.)    Ah  !  has  she  not  ? 
By  heaven  !  the  sum  of  all  thy  kindly  deeds 
Were  but  as  chaff  poised  against  massy  gold, 
Compared  to  that  which  I  do  owe  her  love. 
Oh  pardon  me!   1  mean  not  to  offend — 
I  am  too  warm— but  she  of  whom  I  speak 
Is  the  dear  sister  of  my  earliest  love; 
In  noble,  virtuous  worth  to  none  a  second; 
And  though  behind  those  sable  folds  were  hid 
As  fair  a  face  as  ever  woman  owned. 
Still  would  I  say  she  is  as  fair  as  thou. 
How  oft  amidst  the  beauty-blazing  throng, 
1  've  proudly  to  th'  enquiring  stranger  told 
Her  name  and  lineage  !  yet  within  her  house. 
The  virgin  mother  of  an  orphan  race 
Her  dying  parents  left,  this  noble  woman 
Did  like  a  Roman  matron,  proudly  sit. 
Despising  all  the  blandishments  of  love; 
Whilst  many  a  youth  his  hopeless  love  concealed, 
Or  humbly  distant  wooed  her  like  a  queen. 
Forgive,  I  pray  you  !    O  forgive  this  boasting; 
In  faith,  I  mean  you  no  discourtesy. 

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DESCRIPTION    OF    JANE    DE    MONTFOET. 

[Tlie  following  has  been  pronounced  to  he  a  perfect  picture  of 
Mrs.  Siddons,  the  tragic  aclress.~\ 

Page.    Madam,  there  is  a  lady  in  your  hall 
Who  begs  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 

Lady.    Is  it  not  one  of  our  invited  friends  ? 

Page.   No;  far  unlike  to  them.     It  is  a  stranger. 

Lady.   How  looks  her  countenance  ? 

Page.    So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 
I  shrunk  at  first  in  awe  ;  but  when  she  smiled, 
Methought  I  could  have  compassed  sea  and  land 
To  do  her  bidding. 

Lady.    Is  she  young  or  old  ? 

Page.    Neither,  if  right  I  guess  ;  but  she  is  fair, 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her. 
As  he,  too,  had  been  awed. 

Lady.    The  foolish  stripling! 
She  has  bewitched  thee.    Is  she  large  in  stature? 

Page.   So  stately  and  so  graceful  is  her  form, 
I  thought  at  first  her  stature  was  gigantic ; 
But  on  a  near  approach,  I  found  in  truth, 
She  scarcely  does  surpass  the  middle  size. 

Lady.   What  is  her  garb  ? 

Page.    I  cannot  well  describe  the  fashion  of  it . 
She  is  not  decked  in  any  gallant  trim, 
But  seems  to  me  clad  in  her  usual  weeds 
Of  high  habitual  state  ;  for  as  she  moves, 
Wide  flows  her  robe  in  many  a  waving  fold, 
As  1  have  seen  unfurled  banners  play 
With  the  soft  breeze. 

Lady.    Thine  eyes  deceive  thee,  boy  ; 
It  is  an  apparition  thou  hast  seen. 

Frebcrg.    [Starting  from  his  seat,  where  he  has  been  sitting 
during  the  conversation  between  the  Lady  and  the 
Page] 
It  is  an  apparition  he  has  seen. 
Or  it  is  Jane  de  Monfort. 

From  Henriquez:  A  Tragedy. 
TRUE    LOVE. 

.Antonio.    O  blessed  words  !  my  dear,  my  generous  love! 
My  heart  throbs  at  the  thought,  but  cannot  thank  thee. 
And  thou  wilt  follow  me  and  share  my  fortune. 
Or  good  or  ill ! 

Ah!  what  of  good  can  with  a  skulking  outlaw 
In  his  far  wanderings,  or  his  secret  haunts, 
E'er  be?  O  no  I  thou  shall  not  follow  me. 

JHeneia.    Good  may  be  found  for  faithful,  virtuous  love. 
In  every  spot;  and  for  the  wandering  outlaw 
The  very  sweetest  nooks  o'  the  earth  are  his. 
And  be  his  passing  home  the  goatherd's  shed. 
The  woodman's  branchy  hut,  or  fishers'  cove. 
Whose  pebbly  threshold  by  the  rippling  tide 
Is  softly  washed,  he  may  contented  live. 
Ay,  thankfully  :  fed  like  the  fowls  of  heaven 
With  daily  food  sent  by  a  Father's  hand. 

.^nt.    Thou  shalt  not  follow  me,  nor  will  I  fly. 
Severed  from  thee  I  will  not  live,  sweet  love; 
Nor  shalt  thou  be  the  mate  of  one  disgraced. 
And  by  the  good  disowned.    Here  I  'II  remain. 
And  Heaven  will  work  for  me  a  fair  deliverance. 

From  Orra. 
A    woman's    picture    of    a    COUNTRY    LIFE. 
Even  now  methinks 
Each  little  cottage  of  my  native  vale 
Swells  out  its  earthen  sides,  upheaves  its  roof. 
Like  to  a  hillock  moved  by  lab'ring  mole. 
And  with  green  trail-weeds  damb'ring  up  its  walls, 
Roses  and  every  gay  and  fragrant  plant. 
Before  my  fancy  stands,  a  fairy  bower. 
Ay,  and  within  it,  too,  do  fairies  dwell. 
Peep  thro'  its  wreathed  window,  if  indeed 
The  flowers  grow  not  too  close  ;  and  there  within 
Thou'lt  see  some  half  a  dozen  rosy  brats. 
Eating  from  wooden  bowls  their  dainty  milk  :— 
Those  are  my  mountain  elves.    See'st  thou  not 
Their  very  forms  distinctly  ? 

I  'II  gather  round  my  board 
All  that  heav'n  sends  to  me  of  way-worn  folks, 
And  noble  travellers,  and  neighb'ring  friends. 


Both  young  and  old.    Within  my  ample  hall. 
The  worn-out  man  of  arms  shall  o'  tiptoe  tread, 
Tossing  his  grey  locks  from  his  wrinkled  brow 
With  cheerful  freedom,  as  he  boasts  his  feats 
Of  days  gone  by. — Music  we'll  have  ;  and  oft 
The  bick'ring  dance  upon  our  oaken  floors 
Shall  thund'ring  loud  strike  on  the  distant  ear 
Of 'nighted  travellers,  who  shall  gladly  bend 
Their  doubtful  footsteps  towards  the  cheering  din. 
Solemn,  and  grave,  and  cloistered,  and  demure 
We  shall  not  be.     Will  this  content  ye,  damsels  ? 

Ev'ry  season 
Shall  have  its  suited  pastime:  even  winter 
In  its  deep  noon,  when  mountains  piled  with  snow, 
And  choaked  valleys  from  our  mansion  bar 
All  entrance,  and  nor  guest  nor  traveller 
Sounds  at  our  gate  ;  the  empty  hall  forsaking. 
In  some  warm  chamber,  by  the  crackling  fire. 
We'll  hold  our  little,  snug,  domestic  court. 
Plying  our  work  with  song  and  tale  between. 

From  the  Legend  of  Lady  Griseld  Baillie. 

THE    -WIFE. 

Their  long-tried  faith  in  honour  plighted. 

They  were  a  pair  by  Heaven  united, 

Whose  wedded  love,  through  lengthened  years. 

The  trace  of  early  fondness  wears. 

Her  heart  first  guessed  his  doubtful  choice, 

Her  ear  first  caught  his  distant  voice. 

And  from  afar  her  wistful  eye 

Would  first  his  graceful  form  descry. 

Even  when  he  hied  him  forth  to  meet 

The  open  air  in  lawn  or  street, 

She  to  her  casement  went. 
And  after  him,  with  smile  so  sweet. 

Her  look  of  blessing  sent. 
The  heart's  affection  —  secret  thing! 
Is  like  the  cleft  rock's  ceaseless  spring, 
Which  free  and  independent  flows 
Of  summer  rains  or  winter  snows. 
The  fo.xglove  from  its  side  may  fall. 
The  heath-bloom  fade,  or  moss  flower  white, 
But  still  its  runlet,  bright  though  small. 
Will  issue  sweetly  to  the  light. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  CHILDREN. 

With  her  and  her  good  lord,  who  still 

Sweet  union  held  of  mated  will. 

Years  passed  away  with  lightsome  speed; 

But  oh !  Iheir  bands  of  bliss  at  length  were  riven, 

And  she  was  clothed  in  widow's  sable  weed, 

—  Submitting  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

And  then  a  prosperous  race  of  children  good 

And  tender,  round  their  noble  mother  stood. 

And  she  the  while,  cheered  with  Iheir  pious  love. 

Waited  her  welcome  summons  from  above. 

But  whatsoe'er  the  weal  or  wo 

That  Heaven  across  her  lot  might  throw 

Full  well  her  Christian  spirit  knew 

Its  path  of  virtue  straight  and   rue. 

Good,  tender,  generous,  firm,  and  sage. 

Through  grief  and  gladness,  shade  and  sheen. 

As  fortune  changed  life's  motley  scene, 

Thus  passed  she  on  to  reverend  age, 

And  when  the  heavenly  summons  came, 

Her  spirit  from  its  mortal  frame. 

And  weight  of  mortal  cares  to  free, 

It  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see. 

The  parting  saint  her  state  of  honour  keeping. 

In  gifted,  dauntless  faith,  whilst  round  her,  weeping, 

Her  children's  children  mourned  on  bended  knee. 

From  Poems 

THE    TOMB    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Oh  !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
Whilst  in  that  sound  there  is  a  charm 
The  nerve  to  brace,  the  heart  to  warm. 


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As,  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead. 
The  young  from  slothful  couch  will  start. 
And  vow,  with  lifted  hands  outspread. 
Like  them  to  act  a  noble  part  ? 

Oh !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name! 
When,  but  for  those,  our  mighty  dead, 
All  ages  past  a  blank  would  be. 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  murky  bed, — 
A  desert  bare,  a  shipless  sea ; 
They  are  the  distant  objects  seen,  — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

O!  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  ! 
When  memory  of  the  mighty  dead 
To  earth-worn  pilgrim's  wistful  eye 
The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed, 
That  point  to  immortality  ? 

A  twinkling  speck,  but  fixed  and  bright. 
To  guide  us  through  the  dreary  night, 
Each  hero  shines,  and  lures  the  soul 
To  gain  the  distant  happy  goal. 
For  is  there  one  who,  nmsing  o'er  the  grave 
Where  lies  interred  the  good,  the  wise,  the  brave, 
Can  poorly  think,  beneath  the  mouldering  heap, 
That  noble  being  shall  for  ever  sleep  ? 
No :  saith  the  generous  heart,  and  proudly  swells, — 
"  Though  his  cered  corse  lies  here,  with  God  his  spirit 
dwells." 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS  AGNES  BAILLIE  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

[In  order  thoroughly  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  following 
verses,  the  reader  must  be  aware  that  the  author  and  her  sister 
have  lived  to  an  advanced  age  constantly  in  each  other's  society.] 

Dear  Agnes,  gleamed  with  joy  and  dashed  with  tears 

O'er  us  have  glided  almost  si.tty  years 

Since  we  on  Bothwell's  bonny  braes  were  seen. 

By  those  whose  eyes  long  closed  in  death  have  been  — 

Two  tiny  imps,  who  scarcely  stooped  to  gather 

The  slender  harebell  on  the  purple  heather ; 

No  taller  than  the  fo.\-glove's  spiky  stem, 

That  dew  of  morning  studs  with  silvery  gem. 

Then  every  butterfly  that  crossed  our  view 

With  joyful  shout  was  greeted  as  it  flew  ; 

And  moth,  and  lady-bird,  and  beetle  bright. 

In  sheeny  gold,  were  each  a  wondrous  sight. 

Then  as  we  paddled  barefoot,  side  by  side. 

Among  the  sunny  shallows  of  the  Clyde,* 

Minnows  or  spotted  parr  with  twinkling  fin. 

Swimming  in  mazy  rings  the  pool  within. 

A  thrill  of  gladness  through  our  bosoms  sent, 

Seen  in  the  power  of  early  wonderment. 

A  long  perspective  to  my  mind  appears, 
Looking  behind  me  to  that  line  of  years; 
And  yet  through  every  stage  I  still  can  trace 
Thy  visioned  form,  from  childhood's  morning  grace 
To  woman's  early  bloom — changing,  how  soon  ! 
To  the  e.xpressive  glow  of  woman's  noon; 
And  now  to  what  thou  art,  in  comely  age. 
Active  and  ardent.    Let  what  will  engage 
Thy  present  moment  —  whether  hopeful  seeds 
In  garden-plat  thou  sow,  or  noxious  weeds 
From  the  fair  flower  remove,  or  ancient  lore 
In  chronicle  or  legend  rare  explore, 
Or  on  the  parlour  hearth  with  kitten  play, 
Stroking  its  tabby  sides,  or  take  thy  way 
To  gain  with  hasty  steps  some  cottage  door. 
On  helpful  errand  to  the  neighbouring  poor  — 
Active  and  ardent,  to  my  fancy's  eye 
Thou  still  art  young,  in  spite  of  time  gone  by. 
Though  oft  of  patience  brief  and  temper  keen, 
Well  may  it  please  me,  in  life's  latter  scene, 
To  think  what  now  thou  art  and  long  to  me  hast  been. 


*The  Manse  of  Bothwell  was  at  some  considerable  dis- 
tance  from  the  Clyde,  but  the  two  little  girls  were  some- 
limes  sent  there  in  summer  to  bathe  and  wade  about. 
2M 


From  Romiero :  A  Tragedy. 

JEALOUSY. 

Romiero.    So  late  !  the  first  night  too  of  my  return  ! 
Is  it  the  tardiness  of  cold  aversion  ? 
'Tis  more  than  that — some  damned  conference 
Elsewhere  detains  her.     Ay,  that  airy  fool 
Wore  at  the  supper  board  a  conscious  look. 
Glancing  in  concert  with  the  half  checked  smile 
That  moved  his  quivering  cheek,  too  well  betraying 
His  inward  triumph  ;  'twas  a  cursed  smile  ; 
I  would  have  cast  my  javelin  at  his  throat, 
But  shame  withheld  me, 

[Zorada  enters,  and  stops  short  to  wipe  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  as  if  preparing  to  appear  composed,  while  Romiero,  in 
the  shade,  after  eyeing  her  suspiciously,  bursts  suddenly 
upon  her,  and,  with  great  violence,  upbraids  her  for  want  of 
conjugal  aff'ection.  The  conversation  that  ensues  is  very 
affecting,  Zorada  showing  that  she  is  conscious  of  what 
must  have  seemed  unkindness,  yet  never  for  a  moment 
thinking  that  her  fidelity  is  suspected,  and  thus,  in  her  inno- 
cence, alternately  soothing  and  exasperating  the  passion  of 
her  moody  lor<l.] 

Rom.    Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  answer  me? 

Zor.    You  frighten  me.  Romiero,  as  I  reckon 
'Tis  little  past  our  usual  hour  of  rest. 

Rom.    Thou  dost  evade  the  question.     Not  the  time; 
Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Zor.    Have  patience  !  oh!  have  patience  ; 
Where  I  have  been  I  have  done  thee  no  wrong; 
Let  that  suffice  thee. 

Rom.    Ha!  thou'rt  quick,  methinks. 
To  apprehend  suspicion.     Done  no  wrong! 
What  call'st  thou  wrong?  Yea,  by  that  sacred  band. 
Which  linketh  soul  to  soul  in  wedded  love. 
Pure,  fervent,  and  confiding — every  thought, 
Fancy,  and  consciousness,  that  from  thy  husband, 
Unfitting  for  his  ear,  must  be  withheld, 
Is  wrong  to  him,  and  is  disgrace  to  thee. 

Zor.     Then   woe  is  me!   Since   wives  must  be  so  per- 
fect. 
Why  didst  thou  wed  Zorada  de  Mcdinez  ? 

Rom.    Dost  thou  upbraid  me  for  it  ?    Then  too  well 
1  see  the  change.     Ves.    I  will  call  it  change, 
For  I  must  still  believe  thou  loved'st  me  once. 

Zor.    Yes,  yes,  I  loved  thee  once,  I  love  thee  now. 
And  will  for  ever  love  thee,  dear  Romiero, 
If  thou  wilt  suffer  me. 

Rom.    Suffer  thee,  dear  Zorada !    It  is  paradise 
To  think  thou  lovest  me,  hell  to  doubt  of  it. 

Zor.    Then  doubt  it  not.     If  I  am  cold  and  sad, 
I  have  a  cause — I  must  repeat  my  words — 
Which  does  to  thee  no  wrong.    Some  few  days  hence 
Thou  Shalt  know  all,  and  thou  wilt  pity  me. 
Did  I  e'er  tell  thee  that  which  afterwards 
Thou  foundest  to  be  untrue  ? 

Rom.    Thou  never  didst. 

Zor.    Then  why  suspect  me  now  ? 

Rom.    Give   me   thy  dear,   dear    hand,   my   own    sweet 
wife. 
Yes,  I  will  trust  thee,  and  do  thou  the  while 
Think  charitably  of  my  stern  rebuke. 
Love  can  be  stern  as  well  as  tender,  yet 
Be  all  the  while  most  true  and  fervent  love. 
But  go  to  rest,  dear  child  !  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
For  it  indeed  is  late. 

****** 
A  half  corrupted  woman! 
If  it  be  come  to  this,  who  shall  restrain 

The  hateful  progress,  which  is  rapidly 

Restrain  it.    No  !  to  hell's  profoundest  pit 
Let  it  conduct  her,  if  she  hath  so  far 
Debased  her  once  pure  mind,  and  injured  me. 
I  dare  not  think  on't,  yet  I  am  compell'd  ; 
And  at  the  very  thought  a  raging  fire 
Burns  in  my  head,  my  heart,  through  every  vein 
Of  this  distracted  frame.     I'll  to  the  ramparts. 
And  meet  the  chilliness  of  the  midnight  wind  ; 
I  cannot  rest  beneath  this  hateful  roof 

577 


BE 


BE 


BATTISTATI,  LOUISA, 

A  NATIVE  of  Stradella,  Sardinia,  and  a  mautua- 
maker  at  Milan,  displayed  remarkable  courage 
during  the  five  days  of  the  Revolution  at  Milan, 
in  1848.  On  Sunday,  March  10th,  she  disarmed 
a  cavalry  soldier,  though  he  carried  a  carbine. 
She  placed  herself  at  the  head  of  the  Poppietti 
bridge,  and  steadily  continued  there,  fighting 
against  the  enemy  during  the  20th,  21st,  and 
22d  days,  heading  a  valiant  band  of  young  men, 
and  killing  a  Croate  at  every  shot.  She  defended 
the  large  establishment  at  Vettabia,  which  con- 
tained 580  persons,  being  the  edifice  in  -which  the 
widows  and  their  children,  and  other  females  took 
refuge  when  Barbaressa  stormed  Milan.  This 
young  woman  was,  in  1850,  married,  and  doing 
duty  in  the  civic  guard. 


BEECHER,  ESTHER  CATHERINE, 
Daughter  of  the  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  D.  D., 
was  born  September  6th,  1800,  at  East  Hampton, 
Long  Island,  where  she  resided  till  she  was  about 
ten  years  of  age.  Being  the  eldest  of  thirteen 
children,  (ten  are  now  living,  all  of  whom  have 
displayed  good  talents  and  some  marked  genius,) 
her  education  was,  by  her  wise  parents,  considered 
of  essential  importance.  They  knew,  that  if  the 
eldest  child  was  trained  to  go  in  the  right  way, 
the  others  would  be  almost  sure  to  follow.  On  the 
removal  of  the  family  to  Litchfield,  Connecticut, 
in  1810,  the  little  Catherine  was  placed  at  the  best 
school  for  young  ladies  there  to  be  found  —  that 
of  Miss  Sally  Pierce ;  and  the  pupil  was  soon  to 
excel  the  teacher. 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend.  Miss  Beecher  thus  sketches 
herself  at  the  age  when,  her  education  "  finished," 
as  the  term  is,  she  was  preparing  to  take  her  part 
in  the  usual  routine  of  woman's  life ;  she  says : 

"  The  prominent  traits  of  my  natural  character, 
as  developed  in  childhood  and  youth,  were  great 
activity  of  body  and  mind,  great  cheerfulness  of 
spirits,  a  strong  love  of  the  ludicrous,  and  my 
imagination  teeming  with  poetry  and  romance. 
I  had  no  taste  for  study  or  anything  that  demanded 


close  attention.  All  my  acquisitions  were  in  the 
line  of  my  tastes,  so  that  at  twenty,  no  habits  of 
mental  discipline  had  been  formed." 

It  was  about  this  time  an  event  occurred  that 
for  ever  ended  all  Miss  Beecher's  youthful  dreams 
of  poeti-y  and  romance,  and  changed  the  whole 
course  of  thought  and  feeling  as  regarded  her 
destiny  in  this  life.  But  the  Providence  that 
withdrew  her  heart  from  the  world  of  woman's 
hopes,  has  proved  a  great  blessing  to  her  sex 
and  her  country.  In  1822,  she  opened  a  Female 
Seminary  at  Hartford,  Connecticvit,  which  received 
pupils  from  every  State  in  the  Union,  and  soon 
numbered  from  100  to  160  of  these  treasures  of 
home,  committed  to  her  care  and  guidance.  In 
discharging  the  important  duties  thus  devolved  on 
her,  she  not  only  leai-ned  to  understand  her  own 
deficiencies  of  education,  but  also  those  of  all  the 
systems  hitherto  adopted  for  female  pupils ;  and 
a  wish  to  remedy  the  want  of  suitable  text-books 
for  her  school,  called  forth  her  first  printed  work, 
an  "Arithmetic;"  her  second  work  was  on  the 
more  difficult  points  of  Theology ;  and  her  third, 
an  octavo,  on  "  Mental  and  Moral  Philosophy." 
This,  like  the  others,  was  prepared  for  her  own 
pupils,  and  though  it  has  been  printed  and  intro- 
duced into  one  of  our  Colleges  for  young  men  as  a 
text-book,  has  never  yet  been  published.  These 
works  are  important  as  showing  the  energy  of 
mind,  and  entire  devotion  to  the  duties  she  under- 
takes, which  characterize  Miss  Beecher.  In  truth 
her  school  duties  were  then  so  arduous  that  her 
health  gave  way,  and  for  a  season,  she  was  com- 
pelled to  retire  from  the  work. 

In  1832,  her  father,  with  his  family,  removed 
to  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  She  accompanied  them,  and 
there  for  two  years  superintended  an  Institution 
for  Female  Education,  opened  in  that  city.  Since 
then  Miss  Beecher  has  been  engaged  in  maturing 
and  carrying  into  effect  a  great  plan  for  the  educa- 
tion of  all  the  children  in  our  country.  For  this 
end  she  has  written  and  journeyed,  pleaded  and 
laboured,  and  for  the  last  ten  years  made  it  the 
chief  object  of  her  thoughts  and  efforts.  We  will 
quote  her  own  interesting  description,  given  in  a 
letter  to  a  friend,  as  this  best  elucidates  her  views, 
and  shows  the  feasibility  of  a  plan  which,  in  its 
results,  promises  such  benefits  to  humanity. 

"  The  grand  aim  of  this  plan  has  been  to  unite 
American  women  in  an  effort  to  provide  a  Chris- 
tian education  for  two  million  children  in  our 
country  who  were  destitute  of  schools. 

This  plan  embraced  three  departments.  The 
first  was  designed  to  secure  the  immediate  services 
of  a  great  body  of  educated  women,  already  quali- 
fied as  it  respects  their  own  education  for  the 
duties  of  a  teacher,  but  having  no  opportunity  to 
enter  the  profession.  For  this  department  I  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  the  aid  and  co-operation  of 
the  "Board  of  National  Popular  Education,"  with 
Governor  Slade  as  its  general  agent,  and  during 
the  first  three  years  of  the  operation  more  than 
two  hundred  teachers  have,  by  this  agency,  been 
placed  in  this  field  of  usefulness. 

But  the  second  department  has  been  regarded 
as  still  more  important,  and  that  is  the  effort  to 

578 


BE 


BE 


raise  up  prominent  institutions  for  the  education 
of  female  teachers.  Resigning  all  direct  con- 
nection with  the  Board  of  National  Popular  Educa- 
tion, I  first  received  the  funds  needed,  secured  an 
Association  of  gentlemen  in  Jacksonville,  to  aid  me 
by  managing  the  financial  matters,  and  then  went 
forward  to  do  myself  what  I  had  hoped  would 
have  been  done  by  Governor  Slade.  It  is  my 
expectation  that  the  two  operations  ere  long  will 
be  merged  in  one,  and  then  I  shall  hope  to  retire 
from  any  direct  agency  in  the  work,  and  devote  my- 
self to  the  preparation  of  school  books.  In  this  last, 
I  believe,  is  my  most  appropriate  field  of  labour. 

The  method  of  establishing  these  prominent 
institutions  is  this.  First  an  offer  is  made  to 
some  town  or  city,  that  is  lacking  in  good  schools, 
of  a  Library  and  Apparatus  and  four  superior 
teachers,  on  condition  that  the  citizens  give  a 
reliable  pledge  that  there  shall  be  pupils  enough 
to  support  the  teachers,  and  the  current  expenses 
of  the  school.  This  pledge  is  made  by  an  associa- 
tion of  the  citizens,  who  subscribe  a  certain  amount 
to  be  used  by  Trustees  of  their  own  appointment 
in  case-  the  income  of  the  school  fails  to  sup- 
port it. 

Next,  the  institution  thus  established  is  organiz- 
ed on  the  college  plan  instead  of  the  plan  usually 
adopted  for  high  schools — that  is,  instead  of 
one  Principal  to  sustain  the  whole  responsibility 
and  to  employ  subordinate  teachers  entirely  sub- 
ject to  the  control  of  this  principal,  the  responsi- 
bilities of  instruction  and  government  are  di^^ded 
among  at  least /o?<r  teachers,  each  of  whom  is  the 
head  of  a  given  department,  while  the  vote  of  a 
majority  instead  of  the  will  of  an  individual  de- 
cides every  question.  At  the  same  time  a  regular 
plan  of  study  is  instituted  as  is  done  in  colleges. 
Thus  the  removal  of  any  one  teacher  never  inter- 
rupts the  prosperity  of  the  institution,  as  is  always 
the  case  when  a  High  School  changes  from  the 
control  of  one  principal  to  that  of  another. 

It  has  been  my  part  to  find  the  proper  teachers 
and  to  organize  the  two  first  institutions  on  this 
plan  —  one  in  Milwaukee,  Michigan,  and  the  other 
at  Quincy,  Illinois.  In  both  these  places  the  citi- 
zens have  met  the  proposal  very  cordially,  and 
more  than  100  pupils  in  each  place  are  engaged 
or  already  entered  on  their  course  of  study. 

After  these  High  Schools  have  progressed  one 
year  successfully,  it  is  designed  to  add  a  Normal 
Department  expressly  for  the  education  of  teachers. 
A  fifth  teacher  will  then  be  added  to  superintend 
this  department.  The  class  of  Normal  pupils  will 
consist  chiefly  of  the  daughters  of  home  mission- 
aries and  poor  ministers.  Other  young  females  of 
promising  abilities  will  also  be  received,  especial- 
ly orphans.  The  salary  of  the  teachers  of  the 
Normal  Department  and  most  of  the  expenses  of 
the  pupils  of  that  department  will  be  defrayed  by 
funds  collected  for  the  purpose.  This  department 
will  be  under  the  control  of  the  association  at 
Jacksonville,  Illinois,  who  also  will  hold  in  trust 
all  the  Libraries  and  Apparatus  employed. 

In  case  any  institution  fails  from  the  neglect  of 
the  citizens  to  furnish  the  requisite-  support  from 
pupils  and  the  fund,  the  Library  and  Apparatus 


and  Teachers  will  be  removed   to  another  place 
which  will  give  the  requisite  pledge. 

Thus  there  are  two  parties  to  co-operate  in  the 
efi"ort,  viz :  the  Educational  Association  at  Jackson- 
ville that  furnishes  the  instrumeyits  of  education  — 
that  is,  apparatus,  library  and  good  teachers,  and 
the  citizens  who  give  a  reliable  pledge  securing  the 
requisite  number  of  pupils. 

Those  who  are  the  best  friends  of  education 
and  the  best  judges  of  the  West,  say  this  plan 
will  work  wonders.  Each  of  these  High  and 
Normal  Schools  will  be  a  centre  for  sending  out 
the  best  class  of  teachers  to  all  the  vicinity.  And 
there  are  twenty  large  towns  or  cities  which  would 
readily  welcome  such  an  opportunity  within  my 
own  sphere  of  observation.  I  expect  that  the 
services  of  a  gentleman  of  high  character  and 
abilities  will  soon  be  secured,  and  then  I  shall  re- 
sign, and  the  plan  will  go  forward  on  a  great  scale." 

Such  are  the  noble  views  of  this  patriotic. 
Christian  woman ;  surely,  her  own  sex  —  the  whole 
nation  will  respond  to  her  great  idea,  and  assist 
in  its  development,  till  the  work  is  perfect,  the 
female  mind  prepared  for  its  office  of  Christian 
educator,  and  every  child  in  our  wide  land, 
brought  under  this  enlightened  and  enlightening 
influence. 

The  example  of  Miss  Beecher  is  of  singular  in- 
terest in  manifesting  the  power  of  female  talent 
directed,  as  hers  has  ever  been,  to  objects  clearly 
within  the  allowed  orbit  of  woman's  mission.  She 
has  never  overstepped  nature  ;  she  gives  authority 
and  reverence  to  the  station  of  men ;  she  hastens 
to  place  in  their  hands  the  public  and  governing 
offices  of  this  mighty  undertaking,  which  is  des- 
tined to  become  of  more  importance  to  our  coun- 
try's interests  than  any  projected  since  America 
became  a  nation.  Next  to  having  free  institutions, 
stands  Christian  education,  which  makes  the  whole 
people  capable  of  sustaining  and  enjoying  them. 
It  is  only  by  preparing  woman  as  the  educator, 
and  giving  her  the  office,  that  this  end  can  be 
attained. 

The  printed  writings  of  Miss  Beecher  have  been 
connected  with  her  governing  idea  of  promoting 
the  best  interests  of  her  own  sex,  and  can  scarce- 
ly be  considered  as  the  true  index  of  what  her 
genius,  if  devoted  to  literary  pursuits,  might  have 
produced.  Her  chief  intellectual  efi"orts  seem  to 
have  been  in  a  direction  exactly  contrary  to  her 
natural  tastes;  hence  the  romantic  girl,  who,  till 
the  age  of  twenty,  was  a  poet  only,  has  since 
aimed  at  writing  whatever  she  felt  was  most  re- 
quired for  her  object,  and,  of  course,  has  chosen 
that  style  of  plain  prose  which  would  be  best  un- 
derstood by  the  greatest  number  of  readers.  Be- 
sides the  three  works  named,  Miss  Beecher  has 
prepared  an  excellent  book  on  "  Domestic  Econo- 
my, for  the  use  of  Young  Ladies  at  Home  and  at 
School,"  which  has  a  wide  popularity.  Many  of 
those  who  have  studied  this  work  will  probably 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  author  has  ever  wor- 
shipped the  muse,  and  so  we  will  here  insert  two 
poems  of  Miss  Beecher's,  and  then  an  extract  from 
her  "  Mental  and  Moral  Philosophy."  Her  great- 
est work  has  yet  to  be  written. 

579 


BE 


BE 


THE   EVENING   CLOUD. 

See  yonder  cloud  along  the  west 
In  gay  fantastic  splendour  dressed  ; 
Fancy's  bright  visions  charm  the  eye, 
Sweet  fairy  bowers  in  prospect  lie, 
And  blooming  fields  smile  from  the  sky 
Decked  in  the  hues  of  even  ; 

But  short  its  evanescent  stay, 

Its  brilliant  masses  fade  away, 

The  breeze  floats  off  its  visions  gay, 

And  clears  the  face  of  heaven. 

•     Thus  to  fond  man  does  Life's  fair  scene 
Delusive  spread  its  cheerful  green  ; 
Before  his  path  shine  pleasure's  boviers. 
Each  smiling  field  seems  drest  in  flowers, 
Hope  leads  him  on,  and  shows  his  hours 
For  peace  and  pleasure  given. 

But  one  by  one  his  hopes  decay. 

Each  flattering  vision  fades  away, 

Each  cheering  scene  charms  to  betray, 

And  naught  remains  but  heaven. 

TO    THE    MONOTEOPA,    OR    GHOST    FLOWER. 

This  flower  grows  in  shaded  places,  and  has  a  singular 
appearance,  with  its  white  stem  clasped  with  pale  and  livid 
leaves,  and  its  single  drooping  white  petal.  A  lovely  young 
friend,  who,  after  mourning  the  loss  of  parents,  sisters, 
fi-iend  and  lover,  was  herself  fast  passing  away,  one  day 
espied  this  flower  in  a  shaded  nook  :  "  Poor  thing !"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  it  has  lost  all  its  friends  !  Write  some  poetry  for 
it  and  for  me!"  The  following  was  in  obedience  to  this 
request. 

Pale,  mournful  flower,  that  hidest  in  shade 
Mid  dewy  damps  and  murky  glade. 

With  moss  and  mould, 
Why  dost  thou  hang  thy  ghastly  head, 

So  sad  and  cold? 

No  freshness  on  thy  petal  gleams. 
Gone  the  bright  hues  like  sunny  dreams, 

Thy  balmy  breath. 
Lost!  and  thy  livid  covering  seems 

The  garb  of  Death. 

Do  ills  that  wring  the  human  breast. 
The  blooming  buds  of  spring  infest 

And  fade  their  bloom  ? 
And  bend  they  too,  with  griefs  oppressed. 

To  the  cold  tomb  ? 

Is  thy  pale  bosom  chilled  with  woe  ? 
Has  treachery  hushed  the  genial  flow 

Of  life's  young  morn  ? 
Have  all  who  woke  thy  bosom's  glow 

Left  thee  forlorn  ? 

Perchance  the  wailing  night-bird's  song 
That  mortal  cares  and  griefs  prolong 

At  midnight  hour. 
Wakes  thy  full  tide  of  feeling  strong 

With  thrilling  power. 

Perchance  thy  paly  earth-bowed  head 
Is  bending  now  above  the  dead 

With  dewy  eye. 
Soft  moaning  o'er  thy  treasure  fled 

In  evening's  sigh. 

And  this  thy  plaint  to  reason's  ear; 
In  every  scene  grief  will  appear 

An*!  Death's  cold  hour. 
As  spring'  .nid  beauties  of  the  year. 

Owe  pale,  cold  flower. 

OBKDIENCE    TO    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

ThusT'a.son  would  sustain  the  belief,  that  obe- 
dience  t-  :>e  divine  law  is  the  surest  mode  for  se- 
curing every  species  of  happiness,  attainable  in 
this  state  of  existence. 

To  this  may  be  added  the  evidence  of  the  re- 


corded experience  of  mankind.     To  exhibit  this, 
some  specific  cases  will  be  selected,  and  perhaps  o 
fairer  illustration  cannot  be   presented  than  the 
contrasted  records   of  two   youthful   personages 
who  have  made  the  most  distinguished  figure  in 
the  Christian,  and  in  the  literary  world;  Henry 
Martyn,  the  Missionary,  and  Lord  Byron,  the  Poet. 
The  first  was  richly  endowed  with  ardent  feel- 
ings, keen  susceptibilities,  and  superior  intellect. 
He  was  the  object  of  many  affections,  and  in  the 
principal  university  of  Great  Britain,  won  the  high- 
est honours,  both  in  classic  literature  and  mathe- 
matical science.     He  was  flattered,  caressed,  and 
admired ;  the  road  of  fame  and  honour  lay  open 
before  him ;  and  the  brightest  hopes  of  youth  seem- 
ed ready  to  be  realized.     But  the  hour  came  when 
he  looked  upon  a  lost  and  guilty  world  in  the  light 
of  eternity ;  when  he  realized  the  full  meaning  of 
the  sacrifice  of  our  Incarnate  God;  when  he  as- 
sumed his  obligations  to  become  a  fellow-worker  in 
redeeming  a  guilty  world  from  the  dominion  of 
selfishness,  and  all  its  future  woes.     "  The  love  of 
God  constrained  him ;"  and  without  a  murmur,  for 
wretched  beings,  on  a  distant  shore,  whom  he  never 
saw,  of  whom  he  knew  nothing  but  that  they  were 
miserable  and  guilty,  he  gave  up  the  wreath  of 
fame  ;  forsook  the  path  of  worldly  honour ;  severed 
the  ties  of  kindred  and  still  dearer  ties  that  bound 
him  to  a  heart  worthy  of  his  own ;  he  gave  up 
friends,  and  country,  and  home,  and  with  every 
nerve  throbbing  in  anguish  at  the  sacrifice,  went 
forth  alone,  to  degraded  heathen  society,  to  sor- 
row and  privation,  to  weariness  and  painfulness, 
and  to  all  the  trials  of  missionary  life. 

He  spent  his  days  in  teaching  the  guilty  and  de- 
graded, the  way  of  pardon  and  peace.  He  lived 
to  write  the  law  of  his  God  in  the  wide  spread 
character  of  the  Persian  nation,  and  to  place  a 
copy  in  the  hands  of  its  king.  He  lived  to  con- 
tend with  the  chief  Moullahs  of  Mahomet  in  the 
mosques  of  Shiraz,  and  to  kindle  a  flame  in  Per- 
sia, more  undying  than  its  fabled  fires.  He  lived 
to  sufi"er  rebuke  and  scorn,  to  toil  and  suffer  in  a 
fervid  clime,  to  drag  his  weary  steps  over  burning 
sands,  with  the  every  day  dying  hope,  that  at  last 
he  might  be  laid  to  rest  among  his  kindred,  and 
on  his  native  shore.  Yet  even  this  was  not  at- 
tained, but  after  spending  all  his  youth  in  cease- 
less labours  for  the  good  of  others,  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty-two,  he  was  laid  in  an  unknown  and 
foreign  grave. 

He  died  alo7ie  —  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  — 
with  no  friendly  form  around  to  sympathize  and 
soothe.  "  Composihis  est  paucioribus  lachn/mis." 
Yet  this  was  the  last  record  of  his  dying  hand :  "  I 
sat  in  the  orchard  and  thought  with  sweet  comfort 
and  peace  of  my  God !  in  solitude,  my  company  ! 
my  friend!  my  comforter !" 

And  in  reviewing  the  record  of  his  short  yet 
blessed  life,  even  if  we  forget  the  exulting  joy 
with  which  such  a  benevolent  spirit  must  welcome 
to  heaven  the  thousands  he  toiled  to  redeem ;  if 
we  look  only  at  his  years  of  self-denying  trial,  we 
can  find  more  evidence  of  true  happiness,  than  is 
to  be  found  in  the  records  of  the  youthful  Poet, 
who  was  gifted  with  every  susceptibility  of  happi- 


BE 


BE 


ness,  who  spent  his  days  in  search  of  selfish  en- 
joyment, who  had  every  source  of  earthly  bliss 
laid  open,  and  drank  to  the  very  dregs. 

His  woi-ks  present  one  of  the  most  mournful 
exhibitions  of  a  noble  mind  in  all  the  wild  chaos 
of  ruin  and  disorder.  He  also  was  naturally 
endowed  with  overflowing  affections,  keen  sensi- 
bilities, quick  conceptions,  and  a  sense  of  moral 
rectitude.  He  had  all  the  constituents  of  a  master 
mind.  But  he  passed  through  existence  amid  the 
wildest  disorder  of  a  ruined  spirit.  His  mind 
seemed  utterly  unbalanced,  teeming  with  rich 
thoughts  and  overbearing  impulses,  the  sport  of 
the  strangest  fancies,  and  the  strongest  passions ; 
bound  down  by  no  habit,  restrained  by  no  princi- 
ple ;  a  singular  combination  of  noble  concep- 
tions and  fantastic  caprices,  of  manly  dignity  and 
childish  folly,  of  noble  feeling  and  babyish  weak- 
ness. 

The  lord  of  Newstead  Abbey  —  the  heir  of  a 
boasted  line  of  ancestry  —  a  peer  of  the  realm  — 
the  pride  of  the  social  circle  —  the  leading  star  of 
poesy  —  the  hero  of  Greece  —  the  wonder  of  the 
gaping  world,  can  now  be  followed  to  his  secret 
haunts.  And  there  the  veriest  child  of  the  nur- 
sery might  be  amused  at  his  silly  weakness  and 
ridiculous  conceits.  Distressed  about  the  make 
of  a  collar,  fuming  at  the  colour  of  his  dress,  in- 
tensely anxious  about  the  whiteness  of  his  hands, 
deeply  engrossed  with  monkeys  and  dogs,  and  fly- 
ing about  from  one  whim  to  another  with  a  reck- 
less earnestness  as  ludicrous  as  it  is  disgusting. 

At  times  this  boasted  hero  and  genius  seemed 
nought  but  an  overgrown  child,  that  had  broken 
its  leading  strings  and  overmastered  its  nurses. 
At  other  times  he  is  beheld  in  all  the  rounds  of 
dissipation  and  the  haunts  of  vice,  occasionally 
filling  up  his  leisure  in  recording  and  disseminat- 
ing the  disgusting  minutiae  of  his  weakness  and 
shame,  and  with  an  effrontery  and  stupidity  equal- 
led only  by  that  of  the  friend  who  retails  them  to 
the  insulted  world.  Again  we  behold  him  philoso- 
phizing like  a  sage,  and  moralizing  like  a  Chris- 
tian ;  while  often  from  his  bosom  bursts  forth  the 
repinings  of  a  wounded  spirit.  He  sometimes 
seemed  to  gaze  upon  his  own  mind  with  wonder, 
to  watch  its  disordered  powers  with  curious  en- 
quiry, to  touch  its  complaining  strings,  and  start 
at  the  response ;  while  often  with  maddening 
sweep  he  shook  every  chord,  and  sent  forth  its 
deep  wailiugs  to  entrance  a  wondering  world. 

Both  Henry  Martyn  and  Lord  Byi-on  shared  the 
sorrows  of  life,  and  their  records  teach  the  dif- 
ferent workings  of  the  benevolent  and  the  selfish 
mind.  Byron  lost  his  mother,  and  wlien  urged 
not  to  give  way  to  sorrow,  he  burst  into  an  agony 
of  grief,  saying,  "  I  had  but  one  friend  in  the 
world,  and  now  she  is  gone  !  "  On  the  death  of 
some  of  his  early  friends,  he  thus  writes :  "  My 
friends  fall  around  me,  and  I  shall  be  left  a  lonely 
tree  before  I  am  withered.  I  have  no  resource  but 
my  own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  prospect 
here  or  hereafter,  except  the  selfish  satisfac- 
tion of  surviving  my  betters.  I  am  indeed  most 
wetched ! " 


And  thus  Henry  Martyn  mourns  the  loss  of  one 
most  dear.  "Can  it  be  that  she  has  been  lying 
so  many  months  in  the  cold  grave !  Would  that 
I  could  always  remember  it,  or  always  forget  it ; 
but  to  think  a  moment  on  other  things,  and  then 
feel  the  remembrance  of  it  come,  as  if  for  the  first 
time,  rends  my  heart  asunder.  0  my  gracious 
God,  what  should  I  do  without  Thee !  But  now 
thou  art  manifesting  thyself  as  '  the  God  of  all 
consolation.'  Never  was  I  so  near  thee.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  for  which  I  could  wish  to 
live,  except  because  it  may  please  God  to  appoint 
me  some  work.  0  thou  incomprehensibly  glorious 
Saviour,  what  hast  thou  done  to  alleviate  the  sor- 
rows of  life ! " 

It  is  recorded  of  Byron,  that  in  society  he 
generally  appeared  humorous  and  prankish ;  yet, 
when  rallied  on  his  melancholy  tui'n  of  writing, 
his  constant  answer  was,  that  though  thus  merry 
and  full  of  laughter,  he  was  at  heart  one  of  the 
most  miserable  wretches  in  existence.  And  thus 
he  writes:  "Why,  at  the  very  height  of  desire 
and  human  pleasure,  worldly,  amorous,  ambitious, 
or  even  avai-icious,  does  there  mingle  a  certain 
sense  of  doubt  and  sorrow  —  a  fear  of  what  is  to 
come  —  a  doubt  of  what  is.  If  it  were  not  for 
Hope,  what  would  the  future  be  —  a  hell!  as  for 
the  past,  what  predominates  in  memory  —  hopes 
baffled!  From  whatever  place  we  commence,  we 
know  ivhere  it  must  all  end.  And  yet  what  good 
is  there  in  knowing  it  ?  It  does  not  make  men 
wiser  or  better.  If  I  were  to  live  over  again,  I 
do  not  know  what  I  would  change  in  my  life, 
unless  it  were  for  —  not  to  have  lived  at  all.  All 
history,  and  experience,  and  the  rest  teach  us, 
that  good  and  evil  are  pretty  equally  balanced  in 
this  existence,  and  that  what  is  7nost  to  be  desired 
is  an  east/  passage  out  of  it.  What  can  it  give  us 
but  years  ?  and  these  have  little  of  good  hut  their 
ending." 

And  thus  Martyn  writes:  "I  am  happier  here 
in  this  remote  land,  where  I  seldom  hear  what 
happens  in  the  world,  than  I  was  in  England, 
where  there  are  so  many  calls  to  look  at  things 
that  are  seen.  The  precious  Word  is  now  my 
only  study,  by  means  of  translations.  Time  flows 
on  with  great  rapidity.  It  seems  as  if  life  would 
all  be  gone  before  anything  is  done.  I  sometimes 
rejoice  that  I  am  but  twenty-seven,  and  that  un- 
less God  should  ordain  it  otherwise,  I  may  double 
this  number  in  constant  and  successful  labour. 
But  I  shall  not  cease  from  my  happiness  and 
scarcely  from  my  labour,  by  passing  into  the 
other  world." 

And  thus  they  make  their  records  at  anniversa- 
ries, when  the  mind  is  called  to  review  life  and 
its  labours.  Byron  writes:  "At  12  o'clock  I 
shall  have  completed  thirty-three  years!  I  go 
to  my  bed  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  at  having 
lived  so  long  and  to  so  little  purpose.  It  is  now 
3  minutes  past  12,  and  I  am  33  ! 

Eheu  fugaces,  Posthume,  Posthume, 

Labuntur  anni ; 
But  I  do  not  regret  them  so  much  for  what  I 
have  done,  as  for  what  I  might  have  done." 

581 


BE 


BE 


And  thus  Martyn:  "  I  like  to  find  myself  em- 
ployed usefully,  in  a  way  I  did  not  expect  or 
foresee.  The  coming  year  is  to  be  a  perilous  one, 
but  my  life  is  of  little  consequence,  whether  I 
finish  the  Persian  New  Testament  or  not.  I  look 
back  with  pity  on  myself,  when  I  attached  so 
much  importance  to  my  life  and  labours.  The 
more  I  see  of  my  own  works,  the  more  I  am 
ashamed  of  them,  for  coarseness  and  clumsiness 
mar  all  the  works  of  man.  I  am  sick  when  I 
look  at  the  wisdom  of  man,  but  am  relieved  by 
reflecting,  that  we  have  a  city  whose  builder  and 
maker  is  God.  The  least  of  his  works  is  refresh- 
ing. A  dried  leaf,  or  a  sti^aw,  make  me  feel  in 
good  company,  and  complacency  and  admiration 
take  the  place  of  disgust.  What  a  momentary 
duration  is  the  life  of  man !  '  Labitur  ei  labetiir 
in  omne  volubilis  wvum,'  may  be  afiirmed  of  the 
river ;  but  men  pass  away  as  soon  as  they  begin 
to  exist.     Well,  let  the  moments  pass ! 

'  Tliey  waft  us  sooner  o'er  this  life's  tempestuous  sea, 
Soon  we  shall  reach  the  peaceful  shore 
Of  blest  eternity!'  " 

Such  was  the  experience  of  those  who  in  youth 
completed  their  course.  The  Poet  has  well  de- 
scribed his  own  career : 

"A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 
A  pathless  comet  and  a  curse. 
The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 
Still  rollins;  on  with  innate  force. 
Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 
A  bright  deformity  on  high, 
The  monster  of  the  upper  sky  1" 

In  Holy  Writ  we  read  of  those  who  are  "raging 
waves  of  the  sea  foaming  out  their  own  shame  ; 
wandering  stars  to  whom  is  reserved  the  blackness 
of  darkness  forever."  The  lips  of  man  may  not 
apply  these  terrific  words  to  any  whose  doom  is 
yet  to  be  disclosed ;  but  there  is  a  passage  which 
none  can  fear  to  apply.  "  Those  that  are  wise 
ghall  shine  as  the  brightness  of  the  firmament, 
and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteousness,  as  stars 
forever  and  ever!" 

To  these  youthful  witnesses  may  be  added  the 
testimony  of  two  who  had  fulfilled  their  years.  The 
first  was  the  polished,  the  witty,  the  elegant  and 
admired  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  who  tried  every 
source  of  earthly  enjoyment,  and  at  the  end  makes 
this  acknowledgment:  —  "  I  have  seen,"  says  he, 
"the  silly  rounds  of  business  and  of  pleasure,  and 
have  done  with  them  all.  I  have  enjoyed  all  the 
pleasures  of  the  world,  and  consequently  know 
their  futility,  and  do  not  regret  their  loss.  I  ap- 
praise them  at  their  real  value,  which  is,  in  truth, 
very  low.  AVhereas  those  that  have  not  experi- 
enced, always  over-rate  them.  They  only  see 
their  gay  outside,  and  are  dazzled  at  the  glare. 
But  I  have  been  behind  the  scenes.  I  have  seen 
all  the  coarse  pulleys  and  dirty  ropes  which  ex- 
hibit and  move  the  gaudy  machines ;  and  I  have 
seen  and  smelt  the  tallow  candles  which  illumin- 
ated the  whole  decoration,  to  the  astonishment 
and  admiration  of  the  ignorant  audience.  When 
1  reflect  on  what  I  have  seen,  what  I  have  heard, 


and  what  I  have  done,  I  can  hardly  persuade  my- 
self that  all  that  frivolous  hurry  of  bustle  and 
pleasure  of  the  world,  had  any  reality;  but  I 
look  upon  all  that  is  passed  as  one  of  those 
romantic  dreams,  which  opium  commonly  occa- 
sions ;  and  I  do  by  no  means  desire  to  repeat  the 
nauseous  dose,  for  the  sake  of  the  fugitive  dream. 
Shall  I  tell  you  that  I  bear  this  melancholy  situa- 
tion with  that  meritorious  constancy  and  resigna- 
tion, which  most  people  boast  of?  No,  for  I  really 
cannot  help  it.  I  bear  it,  because  I  must  bear  it, 
whether  I  will  or  no  !  I  think  of  nothing  but  of 
killing  time  the  best  way  I  can,  now  that  he  is 
become  my  enemy.  It  is  my  resolution  to  sleep  in 
the  carriage  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey 
of  life." 

The  other  personage  was  Paul,  the  Aged.  For 
Christ  and  the  redemption  of  those  for  whom  He 
died,  he  "  sufl'ered  the  loss  of  all  things;"  and 
this  is  the  record  of  his  course :  "In  labours 
abundant,  in  stripes  above  measure,  in  prisons 
more  frequent,  in  deaths,  oft;  in  journeyings 
often,  in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils  of  robbers, 
in  perils  by  the  heathen,  in  perils  in  the  city, 
in  perils  in  the  wilderness,  in  perils  among  false 
brethren.  In  weariness  and  painfulness,  in  watch- 
ings  often,  in  hunger  and  thirst,  in  fastings  often, 
in  cold  and  nakedness,  —  and  that  which  cometh 
daily  upon  me,  the  care  of  all  the  churches.  AVe 
are  troubled  on  every  side,  yet  not  distressed  ;  we 
are  perplexed,  yet  not  in  despair ;  persecuted, 
but  not  forsaken ;  cast  down,  but  not  destroyed. 
For  though  our  outward  man  perish,  yet  the  in- 
ward man  is  renewed  day  by  day.  For  our  light 
aflBliction,  which  is  but  for  a  moment,  worketh  for 
us  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of 
glory ;  while  we  look  not  at  the  things  which  are 
seen ;  for  the  things  which  are  seen,  are  temporal, 
but  the  things  which  are  not  seen,  are  eternal." 
And  when  the  time  drew  near  that  he  was  to  be 
"  ofi"ered  up,"  and  he  looked  back  on  the  past 
course  of  his  life,  these  are  his  words  of  triumph- 
ant exultation :  "I  have  fought  a  good  fight !  I 
have  finished  my  course  !  I  have  kept  the  faith  ! 
from  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown 
of  righteousness,  which  Christ,  the  righteous  judge 
shall  give ! " 

To  this  testimony  of  experience,  may  be  added 
that  of  Scripture.  "  Whoso  trusteth  in  the  Lord, 
happy  is  he  !  The  fear  of  the  Lord,  that  is  wisdom, 
and  to  depart  from  evil  is  understanding.  AVisdom 
is  better  than  rubies,  and  all  the  things  that  may 
be  desired  are  not  to  be  compared  to  it.  Her  ways 
are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  are 
peace.  Keep  sound  wisdom,  so  shall  it  be  life  to 
thy  soul.  Then  shalt  thou  walk  in  thy  way  safely, 
and  when  thou  liest  down  thou  shalt  not  be  afraid, 
yea,  thou  shalt  lie  down  and  thy  sleep  shall  be 
sweet."  And  thus  the  Redeemer  invites  to  his 
service:  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Take 
my  yoke  upon  you,  and  learn  of  me,  for  I  am 
meek  and  lowly  in  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest 
unto  your  souls  !  " 


582 


BE 


BE 


BELLOC,    LOUISE    SAVANTON, 

Resides  in  Paris,  where  she  is  favourably  known 
for  her  zeal  in  promoting  female  education.  She 
is  one  of  that  class  of  literary  women,  now,  as  we 
trust,  fast  increasing  in  France,  who  believing  in 
God  and  his  revealed  Word,  are  devoting  their 
time  and  talents  to  the  great  work  of  popular 
instruction.  As  the  basis  of  this,  female  educa- 
tion is  indispensable,  and  those  who,  with  pious 
hearts  and  delicate  hands,  toil  in  this  portion  of 
the  vineyard  of  truth,  deserve  a  high  place  among 
the  philanthropists  of  our  era. 


Madame  Belloc  is  happy  in  having  an  ally  — 
Adelaide  Montgolfier,  daughter  of  the  celebrated 
seronaut ;  their  good  works  are  so  interwoven  that 
we  cannot  well  separate  their  names  in  this  sketch. 
One  of  their  plans  for  the  moral  benefit  of  society 
is  thus  described  by  Mademoiselle  Montgolfier,  in 
a  letter  to  an  American  friend. 

"  We  have  established  a  choice  circulating  library, 
designed  to  counterbalance,  as  much  as  possible, 
the  bad  effects  produced  by  the  numerous  reading 
rooms,  which  place  in  all  hands,  and  spread  every 
where,  the  most  dangerous  works,  and  the  sad 
consequences  of  bad  reading.  Especially  women 
who  have  not  the  active  life  of  men,  and  cannot 
therefore  correct  the  visions  of  imagination  as 
easily,  are  becoming  more  and  more  sensible  of 
this  fact  in  our  country.  We  wish  therefore  to 
succour  these  children,  young  persons,  young  wo- 
men, and  parents,  and  form  a  choice  library  of 
sound  and  healthy  reading,  which  will  develop 
and  enkindle  the  soul,  enlighten  the  mind,  and 
vivify  and  direct  the  imagination.  We  do  not 
allow  any  book  to  enter  this  library  whose  tend- 
ency is  dangerous.  We  issue  to  subscribers  a  leaf 
of  the  catalogue  every  month,  giving  tie  title  of 
the  works  and  a  short  account  of  their  moral  and 
literary  character,  as  well  as  the  eS'ect  they  will 
probably  produce  on  the  intelligence,  character, 
and  taste  of  the  people.  As  may  be  practicable, 
we  submit  these  opinions  to  the  consideration  of 
those  who  are  generally  known  as  good  judges." 

But  previous  to  the  formation  of  this  plan,  and 


soon  after  the  Revolution  of  Les  trois  Jours, 
Madam  Belloc  was  appointed  by  the  Government 
of  France  to  assist  General  Lafayette  in  establish- 
ing public  libraries ;  but  owing  to  various  obstacles 
the  design  was  never  encouraged,  and  finally  was 
abandoned.  Then  the  select  circulating  library  was 
planned, — we  do  not  know  what  its  success  has 
been ;  but  the  idea  illustrates  the  noble  character 
of  these  women.  Another  work  of  their  united 
care  was  very  successful.  They  edited  and  pub- 
lished a  monthly  Magazine  —  "ia  Ruche,  Journal 
d'  etudes  Familiire," — devoted  to  the  education  of 
girls. 

The  principal  works  of  both  have  been  prepared 
for  the  young.  "Pierre  et  Pierrette,"  by  Madame 
Belloc,  was  crowned  (or  obtained  the  prize)  by 
the  French  Academy ;  and  "  Corbeille  de  I'Ann^e, 
or  Melodies  de  Printemps,"  by  Mademoiselle 
Montgolfier,  was  adopted,  by  the  University,  in 
the  primary  and  high  schools  for  girls.  She  has 
written  many  other  works  for  the  young,  among 
which  are  "  Piccolissima,"  and  "  Contes  devenus 
Histoires." 

Madame  Belloc  has  translated  many  useful 
works  for  the  youth  of  her  own  fair  land,  from  the 
English  language,  and  from  American  authors. 
Miss  Sedgwick's  writings  are  among  her  favourites. 
She  also  translated  Dr.  Channing's  "Essay  upon 
the  actual  State  of  Literature  in  the  United  States, 
and  the  importance  of  a  National  Literature,"  to 
which  Madame  Belloc  prefixed  an  "Essai  sur 
la  vie  publique  et  privie  de  1'  Auteur,"  written  with 
much  disci'imination  and  good  sense. 

But  the  lofty  patriotism  and  noble  sentiments 
of  Madame  Belloc  are  strikingly  expressed  in  a 
work  published  in  1826,  at  Paris,  entitled  "Bona- 
parte and  the  Greeks:" — those  who  would  become 
acquainted  with  the  mind  of  a  gifted  and  true 
woman  should  read  this  work.  It  breathes  the 
assurance  of  moral  renovation  in  France,  —  a 
nation  must  struggle  upward  if  the  souls  of  its 
women  hold  the  truth  steadfast ;  and  France  has 
daughters  worthy  of  this  encomium. 

M.  Jullien,  the  distinguished  editor  of  the  Revue 
Encyclop6dique,  in  speaking  of  Madame  Belloc  to 
an  American  lady  *  who  visited  France  in  1830,  said 
she  —  Madame  Belloc  —  was  introduced  to  him  by 
the  Marquise  de  Villette,  as  a  young  person  of  bril- 
liant talents.  She  first  wrote  for  the  Revue,  from 
the  mere  impulse  of  an  active  and  benevolent 
mind,  and  her  writings  had  been  much  admired 
and  spoken  of,  before  she  would  allow  her  name 
to  be  made  public.  He  told  her  this  was  a  course 
unworthy  of  her.  She  was  responsible  for  the 
talent  God  had  given  her,  and  why  shrink  from 
that  responsibility?  Fame  would  increase  her 
power  for  doing  good  to  the  unfortunate,  and  of 
being  useful  to  the  world  —  and  for  these  reasons, 
she  should  encounter  its  inconveniences,  and  over- 
come her  own  delicate  though  mistaken  feelings. 

He  spoke  of  her  piety,  her  filial  tenderness  and 
sacrifices,  the  constancy  of  her  attachments,  and 
gave  instances  to  illustrate  her  compassionate  zeal 
for  the  unfortunate. 

*  See  Journal  of  Travels  in  France  and  Great  Britain,  by 
Mrs.  Emma  Willard. 

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She  is  described  as  "majestic  in  figure,  -with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  benevolence  and  intelli- 
gence ;"  a  Minerva  in  form,  as  well  as  in  wisdom 
and  goodness. 

The  likeness  we  give  of  Madame  Belloc,  is  from 
an  engraving  taken  from  a  picture  painted  by  her 
husband. 

BLACKWELL,    ELIZABETH, 

Deserves  to  have  her  name  recorded  for  the 
earnest  eiForts  she  is  making  to  prepare  herself  to 
be  a  physician  for  her  own  sex.  The  reform  of 
the  practice  which  has  confined  all  medical  and 
even  physiological  science  to  men  is,  we  trust, 
approaching.  The  example  of  this  young  heroic 
woman  has  already  had  a  salutary  etfect.  AVe  give 
her  history,  as  written  by  one  well  qualified  to 
judge  of  her  character,  and  the  fitness  of  the  pur- 
suit she  has  chosen.  Having  been  a  physician,  he 
knows  and  feels  that  some  branches  of  medical  prac- 
tice ought  to  be  exclusively  in  the  hands  of  women. 

"  The  public,  through  the  newspapers,  has  been 
pretty  generally  informed  that  Elizabeth  Black- 
well  was  a  regular  student  of  Geneva  Medical 
College,  and  received  the  diploma  of  that  institu- 
tion at  its  commencement  in  1849.  As  she  is  the 
first  Medical  Doctor  of  her  sex  in  the  United 
States,  the  case  is,  naturally  enough,  one  of  those 
questionable  matters  upon  which  there  must  be  a 
great  variety  of  opinions ;  and  the  public  sentiment 
is,  besides,  influenced  by  the  partial  and  inaccu- 
rate statements  of  facts  and  conjectures  which 
usually  supply  the  place  of  correct  information. 

Elizabeth  Blackwell  was  born  about  1820,  in 
the  city  of  Bristol,  England.  Her  father  settled 
with  his  family  in  New  York  when  she  was  about 
eleven  years  old.  After  a  residence  there  of  five 
or  six  years,  he  failed  in  business,  and  removed  to 
Cincinnati.  A  few  weeks  after  his  arrival  there, 
he  died,  leaving  his  widow  and  nine  children  in 
very  embarrassed  circumstances.  Elizabeth,  the 
third  daughter,  was  then  seventeen  years  of  age. 
During  the  ensuing  seven  years,  she  engaged  with 
two  of  her  sisters  in  teaching  a  young  lady's  semi- 
nary. By  the  joint  eiforts  of  the  elder  children, 
the  younger  members  of  the  family  were  supported 
and  educated,  and  a  comfortable  homestead  on 
IValnut  Hill  was  secured  for  the  family.  The 
property  which,  in  the  midst  of  their  first  difii- 
culties,  they  had  the  forecast  to  purchase,  has 
already  quadrupled  the  price  which  it  cost  them. 
I  give  this  fact  for  the  illustration  of  character 
which  it  affords. 

It  was  in  1843  that  Miss  Blackwell  first  enter- 
tained the  idea  of  devoting  herself  to  the  study  of 
medicine.  Having  taken  the  resolution,  she  went 
vigorously  to  work  to  effect  it.  She  commenced 
the  study  of  Greek,  and  persevered  until  she  could 
read  it  satisfactorily,  and  revived  her  Latin  by 
devoting  three  or  four  hours  a  day  to  it,  until  she 
had  both  sufiiciently  for  all  ordinary  and  profes- 
sional purposes.  French  she  had  taught,  and 
studied  German  to  gratify  her  fondness  for  its 
modern  literature.  The  former  she  speaks  with 
fluency,  and  translates  the  latter  elegantly,  and 
can  manage  to  read  Italian  prose  pretty  well. 


Early  in  the  spring  of  1845,  for  the  purpose  of 
making  the  most  money  in  the  shortest  time,  she 
set  out  for  North  Carolina,  and,  after  some  months 
teaching  French  and  music,  and  reading  medicine 
with  Dr.  John  Dickson,  at  Asheville,  she  removed 
to  Charleston.  Here  she  taught  music  alone,  and 
read  industriously  under  the  direction  of  Dr. 
Samuel  H.  Dickson,  then  a  resident  of  Charleston, 
and  now  Professor  of  Practice  in  the  University 
of  New  York.  In  1847,  she  came  to  Philadelphia, 
for  the  pui'pose  of  pursuing  the  study.  That 
summer.  Dr.  J.  M.  Allen,  Professor  of  Anatomy, 
afforded  her  excellent  opportunities  for  dissection 
in  his  private  anatomical  rooms.  The  winter  fol- 
lowing, she  attended  her  first  full  course  of  lectures 
at  Geneva,  N.  Y.  The  next  summer,  she  resided 
at  the  Blockley  Hospital,  Philadelphia,  where  she 
had  the  kindest  attentions  from  Dr.  Benedict,  the 
Principal  Physician,  and  the  very  large  range  for 
observation  which  its  great  variety  and  number 
of  cases  afford.  The  succeeding  winter,  she  at- 
tended her  second  course  at  Geneva,  and  grad- 
uated regularly  at  the  close  of  the  session.  Her 
thesis  was  upon  Ship  Fever,  which  she  had  am- 
ple opportunities  for  observing  at  Blockley.  It 
was  so  ably  written,  that  the  Faculty  of  Geneva 
determined  to  give  it  publication. 

It  is  in  keeping  with  my  idea  of  this  story  to 
add,  that  the  proceeds  of  her  own  industry  have 
been  adequate  to  the  entire  expense  of  her  medi- 
cal education  —  about  eight  hundred  dollars. 

My  purpose  in  detailing  these  particulars  is,  to 
give  the  fullest  notion  of  her  enterprise  and  object. 
She  gave  the  best  summary  of  it  that  can  be  put 
into  words  in  her  reply  to  the  President  of  the 
Geneva  College,  when  he  presented  her  diploma. 
Departing  from  the  usual  form,  he  rose  and  ad- 
dressed her  in  a  manner  so  emphatic  and  unusual, 
that  she  was  surprised  into  a  response.  "  I  thank 
you,  sir,"  said  she.  "With  the  help  of  the  Most 
High,  it  shall  be  the  study  of  my  life  to  shed  honour 
on  this  diploma." 

Her  settled  sentiment  was  perhaps  unconscious- 
ly disclosed  in  this  brief  speech.  She  had  fought 
her  way  into  the  profession,  openly,  without  dis- 
guise, evasion,  or  any  indirection,  steadily  refusing 
all  compromises  and  expediencies,  and  under  bet- 
ter impulses  and  with  higher  aims  than  personal 
ambition  or  tlie  distinction  of  singularity.  Her 
object  was  not  the  honour  that  a  medical  degree 
could  confer  upon  her,  but  the  honour  that  she 
resolved  to  bestow  upon  it ;  and  that  she  will 
nobly  redeem  this  pledge  is,  to  all  who  know  her, 
rather  more  certain  than  almost  any  other  un- 
arrived  event. 

Those  who  will  form  opinions  about  Miss  Black- 
well  herself,  from  their  own  views  of  her  enter- 
prise, run  a  very  great  risk  of  making  mistakes. 
It  is  natural  enough  for  them  to  ask,  '  What  sort 
of  a  woman  is  she  ? '  and  it  is  likely  that  each  will 
answer  it  for  himself,  but  it  is  not  likely  that 
one  in  a  dozen  will  hit  the  truth.  Manifest  con- 
siderations of  propriety  forbid  such  a  description 
in  this  "  Record,"  and  especially  due  respect  for 
her  own  feelings  checks  the  inclination  which  I 
feel  to  draw  her  personal  character.     She  seeks 

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no  notoriety  that  can  be  avoided,  though  she 
shrinks  from  no  necessary  exposure.  She  has  not 
given  lier  name  to  any  of  the  publications  by 
which  she  has  been  earning  money  for  the  achieve- 
ment of  her  great  undertaking,  and  her  avoidance 
of  the  occasions  of  notoriety  which  court  her  at 
every  turn  amounts  almost  to  a  fault.  In  manner 
and  spirit  she  is  as  quiet  and  retiring  as  she  is 
inflexible  in  purpose  and  determined  in  action. 
The  spirit  of  adventure  never  had  a  more  gentle 
and  tranquil  lodgment  in  woman's  nature. 

In  two  or  three  years,  she  has  solicited  perhaps 
fifty  medical  men,  and  at  least  a  dozen  medical 
schools,  for  the  privilege  of  studying  the  profes- 
sion, and  was  refused  by  all  except  those  which  I 
have  mentioned.  I  heard  her  say  that  she  had 
found  in  the  Union  four  medical  schools  willing  to 
admit  black  men,  and  only  two  that  would  extend 
the  same  courtesy  to  white  women.  I  have  seen 
her  often  after  her  successive  repulses,  but  in  no 
instance  heard  a  word  of  complaint  or  reproach, 
or  observed  the  slightest  indication  of  dejection. 
Her  conclusion  always  was,  "There  is  some  place 
in  the  world  for  me,  and  I'll  find  it."  There  are 
doubtless  other  physicians,  and  perhaps  other 
schools,  that  would  have  received  her,  but  she 
always  took  the  first  acceptable  grant,  and  in- 
stantly availed  herself  of  it,  with  an  industry  and 
promptitude  that  I  never  saw  equalled.  The  fact 
is,  that  the  faith  in  which  she  lives  and  works  has 
the  tone  and  all  the  force  of  religious  confidence. 
The  secret  of  her  efficiency  and  her  success  is  in 
that  patience  which  rests  upon  the  Divine  Provi- 
dence. Her  construction  of  the  resistance  whish 
she  was  constantly  encountering  was  always  kinder 
and  perhaps  truer  than  any  friend  would  allow  or 
any  opponent  could  fairly  ask. 

She  entertains  no  particular  respect  for  the 
science  of  medicine,  and  disavows  any  natjural 
taste  for  its  pursuit ;  and  the  incidents  of  the 
study  I  believe  are  as  repugnant  to  her  as  to  any 
sensitive  woman  who  would  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  them.  But  she  difl'ers  in  the  matter  of  nerves 
from  those  who  shudder  at  anything  which  comes 
in  the  shape  of  duty  and  noble  enterprise.  She 
devoted  herself  to  her  novel  undertaking  at  twen- 
ty-three years  of  age,  because  she  had  then  worked 
herself  into  the  spirit  of  victory,  and  the  tone  of 
an  earnest  life  that  could  not  be  smothered  in  her 
merely  personal  interests.  Heroes  are  not  made 
of  the  metal  that  is  liable  to  rust. 

Will  she  succeed?  Those  who,  knowing  her, 
do  not  know  that  now,  are  just  the  kind  of  geniuses 
who  will  not  know  the  fact  when  it  is  fulfilled  be- 
fore their  eyes. 

AVomen  will  decide  whether  they  must  forever 
remain  only  sufl"erers  and  subjects  of  medical  in- 
delicacy, if  they  are  once  wakened  up  to  the  dis- 
cussion." 

Miss  Blackwell  sailed  for  Europe  on  the  18th 
April,  1849.  She  spent  a  couple  of  weeks  in  Lon- 
don, Dudley  and  Birmingham.  In  Birmingham, 
(near  which  her  uncle  and  cousins,  large  iron 
manufacturers,  reside,  oneof  her  cousins  now  being 
Government  Geologist  for  Wales,)  she  was  freely 
admitted  to  all  the  hospitals  and  other  privileges 


of  medical  visitors.  They  called  her  in  England, 
"  The  Lady  Surgeon."  Provided  with  letters  to 
London,  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  best 
known  medical  men  there ;  among  others,  Dr. 
Carpenter,  author  of  a  standard  work  on  Physi- 
ology, much  in  use  in  the  United  States,  gave  her 
a  soiree,  where  she  met  the  faculty  of  the  highest 
rank  generally.  When  she  visited  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's hospital  (it  is  the  largest  in  England,  and 
its  annual  income  is  £30,000,)  the  Senior  Sui-geon 
met  her,  and  said  that,  heai'ing  she  would  visit  the 
hospital  that  day,  though  it  was  not  his  day  for 
attending,  he  thought  it  due  to  her  that  he  should 
do  the  honours  of  the  establishment,  and  accord- 
ingly he  lectured  to  the  classes  (clinical  lectures) 
in  her  presence. 

Moreover,  early  in  the  spring  of  1850,  the  dean 
of  the  Faculty  of  St.  Bartholomew's  hospital,  Lon- 
don, tendered  to  Miss  Dr.  Blackwell  the  privileges 
of  their  institution,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  due 
to  her,  and  added  that  he  doubted  not  all  the 
other  schools  of  the  city  would  do  the  same. 

In  Paris,  she  resided  as  an  elhve  at  the  Hospital 
Maternity,  in  the  Rue  du'  Port  Royal.  It  is,  as 
its  name  indicates,  a  maternity  hospital,  and  offers 
gi-eat  opportunities  in  that  department,  as  well  as 
in  the  diseases  of  women  and  children. 

None  of  the  French  physicians  seem  to  have 
extended  any  particular  courtesy  towards  Miss 
Blackwell,  except  M.  Blot,  of  the  Maternity  — 
and  his  was  characteristic  of  French  delicacy, 
where  they  hide  every  thing  which  ought  to  be 
thrown  open,  and  display  just  what  they  should 
conceal. 

In  England  no  difficulty  was  made  or  felt  about 
Miss  Blackwell's  presence  at  the  hospitals  and  be- 
fore the  classes.  In  Paris,  M.  Blot  proposed  to  her 
to  assume  male  attire, — then  she  might  visit  these 
places !  Her  indignant  reply  was,  that  she  would 
not  thus  dishonour  her  womanhood,  nor  seek  her 
object  by  any  indirection,  for  all  they  could  offer 
her. 

In  personal  appearance  Miss  Blackwell  is  rather 
below  the  middle  size,  lady-like  in  manners,  and 
very  quiet,  almost  reserved,  in  company.  That 
her  example  is  destined  to  work  out  a  great  and 
beneficial  change  in  the  medical  practice  of  Ame- 
rica, we  confidently  hope ;  and  that  England  will 
soon  follow  this  change,  we  will  not  doubt.  Is  it 
not  repugnant  to  reason,  as  well  as  shocking  to 
delicacy,  that  men  should  act  the  part  of  midwivesi 
Who  believes  this  is  necessary?  that  woman  could 
not  acquire  all  the  requisite  physiological  and 
medical  knowledge,  and  by  her  sympathy  for  the 
sufierer,  which  men  cannot  feel,  become  a  far  more 
congenial  helper  ? 

God  has  sanctioned  this  profession  of  Female 
Physicians;  He  "built  houses"  for  the  Hebrew 
midwives,  and  he  will  bless  those  who  go  forward 
to  rescue  their  sex  from  subjection  to  this  un- 
natural and  shocking  custom  of  employing  men  in 
their  hour  of  sorrow.  We  trust  tlie  time  is  not 
far  distant  when  the  women  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  will  be  freed  from  such  a  sad  servitude  to 
the  scientific  knowledge  of  man,  which  neither 
God  nor  nature  sanctions. 

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BREMER,   FREDERIKA, 

A  NAME  that  has  a  true  feminine  celebrity,  be- 
cause it  awakens  pleasant  thoughts  and  bright 
hopes  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  have  read  her  heart, 
as  it  gushes  forth  from  her  pen,  like  a  clear,  sweet 
fountain  in  the  sunshine  of  a  summer  day.  We 
Americans  love  her  name,  as  we  do  those  who 
have  contributed  to  our  happiness ;  and  she  has 
done  this  by  opening  new  sources  of  innocent  en- 
joyment, and  a  wider  field  of  benevolent  feeling. 
She  has  brought  the  dim,  old,  Scandinavian  world, 
that  seemed  completely  hidden  by  the  cloud  of 
fable  and  curtain  of  time  from  the  Western  hemi- 
sphere, before  us  as  with  an  enchanter's  wand. 
Her  little  white  hand  has  gently  led  us  up  among 
primeval  mountains  covered  with  eternal  forests 
of  pine,  and  along  the  banks  of  deep  lakes,  where 
the  blue  waters  have  slept  since  the  creation ; 
guiding  us  now  to  bowers  of  summer  loveliness, 
where  morning  folds  evening  to  her  bosom  with  a 
kiss  that  leaves  her  own  blushing  lustre  on  the 
brow  of  her  dusky  sister ;  then  we  are  set  down 
among  the  snow-hills  and  ice-plains  of  the  Norland 
winter,  where  the  "  dark  night  entombs  the  day." 
She  has  done  more:  she  has  led  us  "over  the 
threshold  of  the  Swede,"  introduced  us  into  the 
sanctuary  of  their  cheerful  homes,  made  us  friends 
with  her  friends ;  and  awakened  in  our  people 
an  interest  for  the  people  of  Sweden,  which  we 
have  never  felt  for  any  other  nation  on  the  conti- 
nent of  Europe.  She  has  thus  pi'epared  the  way 
for  the  success  of  another  gifted  daughter  of  Swe- 
den, who  comes  like  a  new  St.  Cecilia,  to  make 
manifest  the  heavenly  influence  of  song  when 
breathed  from  a  pure  and  loving  heart. 


Frederika  Bremer  was  born  in  Finland  while  it 
formed  a  portion  of  the  Swedish  kingdom ;  and 
about  the  time  of  its  cession  to  Russia,  in  1808, 
she  was  taken  by  her  parents  to  Stockholm.  Of 
these  events,  which  were  of  much  influence  in 
giving  her  mind  its  peculiar  tone,  we  will  quote 
her  own  beautiful  description,  as  communicated 
to  us  by  her  friend  and  sister  spirit,  Mary  Howitt 
of  London. 


"  If  it  should  so  happen  that,  as  regards  me,  any 
one  should  wish  to  cast  a  kind  glance  behind  the 
curtain  which  conceals  a  somewhat  eventful  life, 
he  may  discover  that  I  was  born  on  the  banks  of 
the  Aura,  a  river  which  flows  through  Abo,  and 
that  several  of  the  venerable  and  learned  men  of 
the  university  were  even  my  godfathers.  At  the 
age  of  three,  I  was  removed,  with  my  family,  from 
my  native  country  of  Finland.  Of  this  part  of  my 
life,  I  have  only  retained  one  single  memory. 
This  memory  is  a  word,  a  mighty  name,  which,  in 
the  depths  of  Paganism,  was  pronounced  by  the 
Finnish  people  with  fear  and  love  ;  and  is  still  so 
pronounced  in  these  days,  although  perfected  by 
Christianity.  I  still  fancy  that  I  often  hear  this 
word  spoken  aloud  over  the  trembling  earth  by 
the  thunder  of  Thor,  or  by  the  gentle  winds  which 
bring  to  it  refreshment  and  consolation.  That 
word  is  —  Jumala:  the  Finnish  name  for  God, 
both  in  Pagan  and  Christian  times. 

If  any  one  kindly  follows  me  from  Finland  into 
Sweden,  where  my  father  purchased  an  estate 
after  he  had  sold  his  property  in  Finland,  I  would 
not  trouble  him  to  accompany  me  from  childhood 
to  youth,  with  the  inward  elementary  chaos,  and 
the  outward,  uninteresting,  and  common-place  pic- 
ture of  a  family,  which  every  autumn  removed,  in 
their  covered  carriage,  from  their  estate  in  the 
country  to  their  house  in  the  capital ;  and  every 
spring  trundled  back  again  from  their  house  in 
the  capital  to  their  country-seat ;  nor  how  there 
were  young  daughters  in  the  family  who  played 
on  the  piano,  sang  ballads,  read  novels,  drew  in 
black  chalk,  and  looked  forward,  with  longing 
glances,  to  the  future,  when  they  hoped  to  see  and 
do  wonderful  things.  With  humility,  I  must  con- 
fess, I  always  regarded  myself  as  a  heroine. 

Casting  a  glance  into  the  family  circle,  it  would 
be  seen  that  they  collected,  in  the  evening,  in  the 
great  drawing-room  of  their  country  house,  and 
read  aloud ;  that  the  works  of  the  German  poets 
were  read,  especially  Schiller,  whose  Don  Carlos 
made  a  profound  impression  upon  the  youthful 
mind  of  one  of  the  daughters  in  particular. 

A  deeper  glance  into  her  soul  will  show  that  a 
heavy  reality  of  sorrow  was  spreading,  by  degrees, 
a  dark  cloud  over  the  splendour  of  her  youthful 
dreams.  Like  early  evening,  it  came  over  the  path 
of  the  young  pilgrim  of  life  ;  and  earnestly,  but  in 
vain,  she  endeavoured  to  escape  it.  The  air  was 
dimmed  as  by  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  darkness  in- 
creased, and  it  became  night.  And  in  the  depth 
of  that  endless  winter  night,  she  heard  lamenting 
voices  from  the  east,  and  from  the  west;  from 
plant  and  animal ;  from  dying  nature  and  despair- 
ing humanity ;  and  she  saw  life,  with  all  its  beauty, 
its  love,  its  throbbing  heart,  buried  alive  beneath 
a  chill  covering  of  ice.  Heaven  seemed  dark  and 
void  ;  — there  seemed  to  her  no  eyes,  even  as  there 
was  no  heart.  All  was  dead,  or,  rather,  all  was 
dying  —  excepting  pain. 

There  is  a  significant  picture,  at  the  commence- 
ment, in  every  mythology.  In  the  beginning, 
there  is  a  bright,  and  warm,  and  divine  principle, 
which  allies  itself  to  darkness ;  and  from  this 
union  of  light  and  darkness  —  of  fire  and  tears — 

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proceeds  a  God.  I  believe  that  something  similar 
to  this  takes  place  in  every  human  being  who  is 
born  to  a  deeper  life ;  and  something  similar  took 
place  in  her  who  writes  these  lines. 

Lookmg  at  her  a  few  years  later,  it  will  be  seen 
that  a  great  change  has  taken  place  in  her.  Her 
eyes  have  long  been  filled  with  tears  of  unspeaka- 
ble joy ;  she  is  like  one  who  has  arisen  from  the 
grave  to  a  new  life.  What  has  caused  this  change  ? 
Have  her  splendid  youthful  dreams  been  accom- 
plished ?  Is  she  a  heroine  ?  Has  she  become  vic- 
torious in  beauty,  or  in  renown  ?  No  ;  nothing  of 
this  kind.  The  illusions  of  youth  are  past  —  the 
season  of  youth  is  over.  And  yet  she  is  again 
young ;  for  there  is  freedom  in  the  depth  of  her 
soul,  and  "let  there  be  light"  has  been  spoken 
above  its  dark  chaos ;  and  the  light  has  penetrated 
the  darkness,  and  illumined  the  night,  whilst,  with 
her  eye  fixed  upon  that  light,  she  has  exclaimed, 
with  tears  of  joy,  "Death,  where  is  thy  sting? 
Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?" 

Many  a  grave  since  then  has  been  opened  to  re- 
ceive those  whom  she  tenderly  loved ;  many  a 
pang  has  been  felt  since  then ;  but  the  heart 
throbs  joyfully,  and  the  dark  night  is  over.  Yes, 
it  is  over ;  but  not  the  fruit  which  it  has  borne  ; 
for  there  are  certain  flowers  which  first  unfold  in 
the  darkness  ;  so  is  it  also  in  the  midnight  hours 
of  great  suffering ;  the  human  soul  opens  itself  to 
the  light  of  the  eternal  stars. 

If  it  be  desired  to  hear  anything  of  my  writings, 
it  may  be  said  that  they  began  in  the  eighth  year 
of  my  age,  when  I  apostrophized  the  moon  in 
French  verses,  and  that  during  the  greater  part  of 
my  youth  I  continued  to  wi'ite  in  the  same  sublime 
strain.  I  wrote  under  the  impulse  of  restless 
youthful  feelings  —  I  wrote  in  order  to  write.  Af- 
terwards, I  seized  the  pen  under  the  influence  of 
another  motive,  and  wrote  —  that  which  I  had  read. 

At  the  present  time,  when  I  stand  on  the  verge 
of  the  autumn  of  my  life,  I  still  see  the  same  ob- 
jects which  surrounded  me  in  the  early  days  of 
my  spring,  and  I  am  so  happy  as  still  to  possess, 
out  of  many  dear  ones,  a  beloved  mother  and  sis- 
ter. The  mountains  which  surround  our  dwell- 
ing, and  upon  which  Gustavus  Adolphus  assem- 
bled his  troops  before  he  went  as  a  deliverer  to 
Germany,  appear  to  me  not  less  beautiful  than 
they  were  in  the  days  of  my  childhood  ;  they  have 
increased  in  interest,  for  I  am  now  better  ac- 
quainted with  their  grass  and  their  flowers." 

An  American  friend  of  Miss  Bremer  thus  con- 
cludes her  sketch. 

"The  Countess  Hahn-Hahn,  who  visited  Miss 
Bremer  at  her  country  residence  of  Arsta  a  few 
years  since,  speaks  of  it  as  being  remarkable  in 
an  historical  point  of  view.  The  house  is  of  stone, 
built  during  the  Thirty  Years'  AVar,  with  large 
and  lofty  apartments,  overlooking  the  meadow 
where  Gustavus  Adolphus  reviewed  the  army  with 
which  he  marched  into  Livonia.  It  is  surrounded 
with  magnificent  trees,  the  dark  waters  of  the 
Baltic  lying  in  the  distance.  Here  Miss  Bremer, 
with  a  beloved  mother  and  sister,  resides  for  a 
part  of  the  year,  and  here  many  of  our  country- 
men have  had  the  pleasure  of  visiting  her,  and 


enjoying  her  hospitality.  One  of  these  remarks 
of  her,  that  in  every  thought  and  act,  she  seems 
to  have  but  one  object  —  that  of  making  her  fel- 
low-beings contented  and  happy.  She  is  possess- 
ed of  an  ample  fortune,  and  devotes  her  income 
mostly  to  charitable  objects.  In  a  recent  severe 
winter,  when  the  poor  were  dying  with  hunger 
and  cold,  hundreds  through  her  means  were  warm- 
ed and  fed,  who  would  otherwise  have  perished." 

The  writings  of  Miss  Bremer  were  first  made 
known  to  the  British  and  American  public  by  the 
Howitts, — William  and  Mary,  —  who  translated 
"  The  Neighbours,"  her  first,  and  in  many  respects 
her  most  remarkable  work.  This  was  published 
in  1842,  at  New  York,  and  soon  made  its  way,  as 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  our  land.  Every  where  it  was  welcomed 
as  a  messenger  bird,  that  brought  good  tidings 
from  a  far  country. 

While  the  soul  of  the  Christian  yearns  over  the 
heathen,  the  heart  will  revolt  from  their  unspeak- 
able pollutions; — we  cannot  love  their  homes. 
But  nations  who  have  the  Bible  are  naturally 
brought  together,  the  moment  the  barrier  of  lan- 
guage is  removed.  "  The  Neighbours  "  were  "  Our 
Neighbours  "  as  soon  as  dear  Mary  Howitt  had 
presented  them  in  English.  The  warm  welcome 
the  work  received  induced  the  translator  to  bring 
out  the  other  works  of  Miss  Bremer,  and  in  quick 
succession,  we  read  "  Home  ;"  "  The  H.  Family;" 
"The  President's  Daughters;"  "Nina;"  "The 
Strife  and  Peace;"  "  The  Diary;"  "  Life  in  Dela- 
carlia ;"  "  The  Midnight  Sun  ;"  and  other  shorter 
sketches  from  periodicals. 

In  the  autumn  of  1849,  Miss  Bremer,  whose  in- 
tention of  visiting  America  had  been  previously 
announced,  arrived  in  New  York:  she  was  wel- 
comed to  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  American 
people  with  a  warmth  of  afi"ection  her  genius 
could  never  have  inspired,  had  she  not  devoted 
her  talents  to  the  cause  of  humanity.  Americans 
felt  that  she  would  understand  the  moral  power, 
which  in  its  development  here,  enables  the  people 
to  govern  themselves  without  "  Cresar,  or  his 
sword."  The  following  remarks  which  she  made 
to  an  American,  show  that  she  does  comprehend 
it ;  she  said :  — 

"  I  have  more  than  once  heard  you  esteem  your- 
self fortunate  in  being  born  a  citizen  of  the  North 
American  republic.  I  have  listened  to  your  en- 
thusiastic words  respecting  that  empire,  founded 
—  so  unlike  all  others, — not  by  the  powers  of 
war,  but  by  those  of  peace  ;  its  wealth  and  great- 
ness, acquired  by  bloodless  victories ;  its  etforts 
to  become  a  great  and  powerful  community  in  a 
Christian  meaning,  by  raising  every  one  to  an 
equal  degree  of  enlightenment  and  equal  rights, 
efforts  which  now  so  powerfully  attract  the  eyes 
of  Europe  and  America :  and  I  have  understood 
your  love.  Will  you  also  be  able  to  understand 
mine  ?  It  belongs  exclusively  to  a  poor  country, 
an  inconsiderable  people,  nurtured  in  necessity 
and  warlike  deeds,  but  under  whose  blood-stained 
laurels  there  dwells  a  spirit,  powerful  and  pro- 
found as  their  ancient  mythology.  This  is  now 
no  more,  or  lives  but  as  a  remembrance  in  the 

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breasts  of  our  people,  or  as  an  echo  in  our  valleys ; 
corn  grows  in  our  fields,  and  the  Linnaea  blooms 
in  our  woods,  protected  by  many  years  of  peace. 
Travellers  who  come  to  Sweden  from  more  popu- 
lous countries  exclaim,  '  How  still ;  how  silent  and 
lifeless! '  Has  that  life,  then,  formerly  so  power- 
ful, become  extinct  ?  No ;  but  it  has  retired  into 
silence.  And  in  the  silence  of  nature,  in  Sweden, 
where  primeval  mountains,  covered  with  pine 
forests,  surround  deep,  tranquil  lakes,  the  con- 
templative spirit  lives  more  profoundly  than  else- 
where ;  the  listening  ear  can,  better  than  amid 
the  tumults  of  the  world,  become  acquainted  with 
the  secrets  of  nature  and  the  human  heart,  and 
comprehend  the  revelations  of  a  life  peculiar  to 
that  people,  beside  whose  cradle  the  prophetess 
Vala  sang  her  wonderful  song  of  the  origin,  de- 
struction, and  regeneration  of  all  things." 

In  this  reference  to  Sweden,  Miss  Bremer,  un- 
consciously to  herself,  accounts  for  all  those  blem- 
ishes in  her  works,  which  English  Reviewers  have 
so  severely  condemned  ;  and  which  the  moral  and 
religious  public  in  America  have  lamented.  We 
see  by  her  own  admission,  that  what  Mr.  Laing 
stated  in  his  "  Observations  on  Sweden,"  is  true  — 
"  that  Christianity  there  is  a  matter  of  form ; " 
that,  "  the  old  gods  of  the  land  have  still  a  half- 
unconscious  worship;"  and  that,  "in  no  Chris- 
tian community  has  religion  less  influence  on  the 
state  of  public  morals."  *  And  now  beai'ing  in 
mind  these  things,  should  we  wonder  that  Miss 
Bremer  describes  dancing  and  merry  making  on 
Sundays ;  and  love-scenes  with  married  women 
as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  even  that  shocking, 
incestuous  passion  between  the  niece  and  uncle 

which  made  "The  H Family"  a  proscribed 

book  ?  An  uncle  can  intermarry  with  his  niece  in 
Sweden;  the  church  permits  festivities  on  Sun- 
days; and  Mr.  Laing  shows  from  authentic  re- 
cords the  deplorable  state  of  the  people. | 

But  it  is  remarkable,  and  in  the  highest  degree 
honourable  to  the  delicacy  of  Miss  Bremer's  moi-al 
nature,  that  when  she  v/rites  from  her  heart,  every- 
thing with  which  she  deals  becomes  pure  and 
instructive.  When  drawing  characters  she  must 
show  them  in  the  light  by  which  to  her  human 
nature  has  been  developed  in  Sweden ;  the  evils 

*  "  It  is  a  singular  and  embarrassing  fact,  that  the  Swedish 
nation,  isolated  from  the  mass  of  the  European  people,  and 
almost  entirely  agricultural  or  pastoral;  having  in  about 
3,000,000  of  individuals  only  ]4,9'25  employed  in  manufacto- 
ries, and  these  not  congregated  in  one  or  two  places,  but  scat- 
tered among  2037  factories;  having  no  great  standing  army 
or  navy  ;  no  extended  commerce;  no  afflux  of  strangers  ;  no 
considerable  city  but  one;  and  having  schools  and  universi- 
ties in  a  fair  proportion,  and  a  powerful  and  complete  church 
establishment  undisturbed  in  its  labours  by  sect  or  schism  ; 
IS  notwithstanding  in  a  more  demoralized  state  than  any 
nation  in  Europe  —more  demoralized  even  than  any  equal 
portion  of  the  dense  manufacturing  population  of  Great 
Brilain"  —  Laing^s  ObneT^ations  on  Sweden. 

t "  Figures  do  not  bring  homo  to  our  imagination  the  moral 
condition  of  a  population  so  depraved  as  that  of  Stockholm. 
*  *  *  *  Suppose  a  traveller  standing  in  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh  (as  he  might  in  Stockholm)  and  able  to  say  from 
undeniable  public  returns,  "  One  out  of  every  three  persons 
passing  me  is,  on  an  average,  the  offspring  of  illicit  inter- 
course ;  and  one  out  of  every  forty-nine  has  been  convicted 
within  these  twelve  months  of  some  criminal  offence."  — 
Laing's  Observations  on  Sweden. 


apparent  are  in  the  system  of  government,  both 
of  church  and  state,  not  in  the  mind  that  paints 
their  results. 

In  order  to  do  justice  to  Miss  Bremer,  we  shall 
select,  chiefly,  from  such  passages  as  display 
her  good  heart,  rather  than  the  more  striking 
passages  where  her  genius  in  the  descriptive  ap- 
pears, or  where  her  peculiar  talent  of  giving  to 
the  conversations  of  her  ideal  characters  a  fresh 
racy  and  original  flow  is  so  graceful  and  charming. 
From  the  selections  we  make,  the  holy  aspirings 
of  her  soul  are  apparent,  and  though  she  has 
already  done  so  much  for  literature,  her  country, 
and  her  sex,  yet  we  hope  a  wider  vista  is  opening 
before  her,  and  we  believe  she  has  power  to  reach 
even  a  higher  and  a  holier  fame.  AVith  the  Bible 
as  her  rule  of  faith  and  morality,  she  would  be 
more  and  more  able  to  answer  that  prayer  of  the 
British  friend  of  Sweden. 

"  Many  of  her  best  writers  (says  he)  are  more 
and  more  devoting  themselves  to  domestic  subjects. 
All  who  know  the  bold  and  honest  and  ingenuous 
Swedish  yeomanry,  must  love  and  esteem  them. 
As  yet,  in  spite  of  the  floods  of  demoralization 
flowing  from  the  towns,  they  are  sound  at  the  core. 
May  God  raise  up  at  least  one  spirit  with  cour- 
age great  enough,  and  views  extensive  enough, 
and  a  life  and  heart  pure  enough,  to  urge  him  on 
to  a  public  avowal  and  defence  of  those  great, 
simple,  solid,  everlasting  principles  of  private  and 
national  morals,  of  truth  and  justice  and  mercy, 
of  law  and  of  liberty,  which  shall  turn  the  stream 
of  public  opinion  in  that  country,  into  a  more 
healthy  channel,  and  restore  to  this  ancient  and 
brave  and  distinguished  people  that  home  right, 
and  those  home  manners,  that  sound  hearty  north- 
ern gladness,  and  that  unafi"ected  purity  which 
foreign  corruptions  and  unfortunate  government 
politics  have  shaken,  till  the  very  foundations 
thereof  do  tremble." 

The  hope  of  Sweden  seems  now  to  rest  on  her 
women ;  let  the  sweet  singer  be  able  to  realize 
her  plan  of  founding  the  common  school  system 
for  the  children ;  and  let  Miss  Bremer  awaken  in 
the  hearts  of  her  readers  the  enthusiastic  love  of 
virtue,  truth,  and  justice,  which  from  her  heart 
flows  through  her  works  —  and  with  the  blessing 
of  God,  the  victory  of  Good  over  Evil  will  be  won. 

Selections  from  "  The  Neighbours." 

ADVICE    OF    MA    CHEEE    MEBE    TO    A    TOUNG   WIFE. 

A  young  woman  —  lay  my  words  to  heart  — 
cannot  be  too  circumspect  in  her  conduct.  She 
must  take  heed  of  herself,  my  dear  Franziska,  take 
heed  of  herself.  I  grant  you  that  this  our  age  is 
more  moral  than  that  of  my  youth,  when  King 
Gustave  III.,  of  blessed  memory,  introduced 
French  manners  and  French  fashions  into  our 
country ;  and  I  believe  now,  that  there  are  much 
fewer  Atheists  and  Asmodeuses  in  the  world.  But 
as  I  said  before,  you  must  take  heed  of  yourself, 
Franziska,  for  the  tempter  may  come  to  you,  just 
as  well  as  to  many  another  one;  not  because  you 
are  handsome  —  for  you  are  not  handsome,  and  you 
are  very  short  —  but  your  April  countenance  has 
its  own  little  charm,  and  then  you  sing  very  pret- 

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tily ;  as  one  may  say,  you  have  your  ovm  little 
attractions.  And  some  day  or  other  a  young  cox- 
comb will  come  and  figure  away  before  you ;  now 
mind  my  advice,  keep  him  at  a  distance,  keep  him 
at  a  distance  by  your  own  proper  behaviour.  But 
if  this  should  not  suffice  for  him  —  should  he  still 
make  advances,  and  speak  fulsome  seductive  words, 
then  you  must  look  at  him  with  a  countenance  of 
the  highest  possible  astonishment,  and  say :  '  Sir, 
you  are  under  a  great  mistake,  I  am  not  such  a 
one  as  you  suppose  !'  Should  this  not  answer  the 
purpose,  but  he  still  continue  to  make  advances, 
then  go  you  directly  to  your  husband,  and  say : 
•  My  friend,  so  and  so  has  occurred,  and  so  and 
so  have  I  acted ;  now  you  must  just  act  as  you 
think  proper !'  Then,  my  dear  Franziska,  depend 
upon  it,  the  Corydon  will  soon  discover  that  the 
clock  has  struck,  and,  no  little  ashamed,  he  will 
go  about  his  own  business ;  while  you  will  have 
no  shame,  but  on  the  contrary,  honour  from  the 
affair,  and  beyond  this,  will  find  that  a  good  con- 
science makes  a  happy  conscience,  and  that  '  a 
conscience  light  gives  rest  by  night.' 

***** 
I  will  tell  you  how  you  must  conduct  yourself 
to  your  husband.  You  will  always  find  him  an 
honourable  man,  therefore  I  give  you  this  one 
especial  piece  of  advice — never  have  recourse  to 
untruths  with  him,  be  it  ever  so  small,  or  to  help 
yourself  out  of  ever  so  great  a  difficulty ;  for  un- 
truth leads  ever  into  greater  difficulty,  and  besides 
this  it  drives  confidence  out  of  the  house. 

«  *  «  *  * 

When  all  this  rummaging  about  and  this  thorough 
house  inspection  was  brought  to  an  end,  we  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  to  rest,  and  Ma  chfere  mfere  ad- 
dressed me  in  the  following  manner :  '  It  is  only 
now  and  then,  my  dear  Franziska,  that  I  make 
such  a  house  review,  but  it  keeps  every  thing  in 
order,  and  fills  the  domestics  with  respect.  Set 
the  clock  only  to  the  right  time,  and  it  will  go 
right  of  itself,  and  thus  one  need  not  go  about 
tick-tacking  like  a  pendulum.  Keep  this  in  mind, 
my  Franziska.  Many  ladies  affect  a  great  deal, 
and  make  themselves  very  important  with  their 
bunch  of  keys,  running  for  ever  into  the  kitchen 
and  store-room ;  all  unnecessary  labour,  Franziska; 
much  better  is  it  for  a  lady  to  govern  her  house 
with  her  head  than  with  her  heels ;  the  husband 
likes  that  best,  or  if  he  do  not  he  is  a  stupid  fel- 
low, and  the  wife  ought  then  in  heaven's  name  to 
box  him  on  the  ears  with  her  bunch  of  keys ! 
Many  ladies  will  have  their  servants  for  ever  on 
their  feet :  that  does  no  good  ;  servants  must  have 
their  liberty  and  rest  sometimes;  one  must  not 
muzzle  the  ox  that  treads  out  the  corn.  Let  your 
people  be  answerable  for  all  they  do  ;  it  is  good 
for  them  as  well  as  the  mistress.  Have  a  hold 
upon  them  either  by  the  heart  or  by  honour,  and 
give  them  ungrudgingly  whatever  by  right  is  theirs, 
for  the  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  But  then, 
three  or  four  times  a  year,  but  not  at  any  regular 
time,  come  down  upon  them  like  the  day  of  judg- 
ment; turn  every  stone  and  see  into  every  corner, 
storm  like  a  thunder  tempest,  and  strike  down 


here  and  there  at  the  right  time ;  it  will  purify 
the  house  for  many  weeks. 

RESOLUTIONS    OF    A   TOUNG    WIFE. 

How  is  it  that  the  flame  is  so  soon  extinguished 
on  the  altar  of  love  ?  Because  the  married  pair 
forget  to  supply  materials  for  the  fire.  One  must 
imfold,  and  cultivate,  and  perfect  oneself  in  one's 
progress  through  life,  and  then  life  will  become 
an  unfolding  of  love  and  happiness. 

My  first  employment  will  be  to  arrange  my 
house,  so  that  contentment  and  peace  may  dwell 
in  it.  I  will  endeavour  to  be  a  wise  lawgiver  in 
my  small,  but  not  mean  world  ;  and  do  you  know 
what  law  I  mean  first  of  all  to  promulgate  and  en- 
force with  the  most  rigorous  exactness  ?  A  law 
for  the  treatment  of  animals,  thus : 

All  domestic  animals  shall  be  kept  with  the  ut- 
most care,  and  treated  in  a  friendly  and  kind 
manner.  They  shall  live  happily,  and  shall  be 
killed  in  that  mode  which  will  make  death  least 
painful  to  them. 

No  animal  shall  be  tortured  in  the  kitchen ;  no 
fish  shall  be  cleaned  while  alive,  or  be  put  alive 
into  the  kettle ;  no  bird  shall,  while  half  dead,  be 
hung  up  on  a  nail :  a  stroke  with  a  knife  shall,  as 
soon  as  possible,  give  them  death,  and  free  them 
from  their  torture. 

These,  and  several  other  commands  shall  be  con- 
tained in  my  laws.  How  much  unnecessary  cruelty 
is  perpetrated  every  day,  because  people  never 
think  of  what  they  do  ;  and  how  uncalled  for,  how 
unwoi'thy  is  cruelty  toward  animals !  Is  it  not 
enough,  that  in  the  present  arrangement  of  things 
they  are  sentenced  during  their  lives  to  be  subject 
to  us,  and  after  their  deaths  to  serve  us  for  food, 
without  our  embittering  yet  more  this  heavy  lot  ? 
We  are  compelled  in  many  cases  to  act  hostilely 
toward  them,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  we  need 
become  cruel  enemies.  How  unspeakably  less 
would  they  not  suffer,  if  in  all  these  circumstances 
in  which  they  resemble  mankind,  in  the  weakness 
of  their  age,  in  the  suffering  of  their  sickness,  and 
in  death,  we  acted  humanely  toward  them ! 

There  were  laws  in  the  old  world  which  made 
mildness  towards  animals  the  holiest  duty  of  man, 
while  the  violation  of  such  laws  was  severely  pun- 
ished ;  and  we,  INIaria,  who  acknowledge  a  reli- 
gion of  love,  shall  we  act  worsg  toward  the  ani- 
mal creation  than  the  heathen  did  ?  Did  not  He 
who  established  the  kingdom  of  love  on  the  earth, 
say  that  not  a  sparrow  fell  to  the  ground  without 
the  knowledge  of  our  Father  which  is  in  heaven  ? 
Observe,  Maria,  he  said  not  that  the  sparrow 
should  not  fall,  but  that  it  should  not  fall  without 
being  seen  by  the  Universal  Father.  Yes,  all  the 
unnecessary  suffering  which  the  intemperance,  the 
folly,  the  cruelty  of  man  occasion  to  animals  is 
also  seen ;  and  heard,  too,  is  the  lamentable  cry 
and  the  complaint  which  the  same  causes  :  and  on 
the  other  side  the  gi-ave,  may  not  its  annoyance 
add  yet  one  more  pang  to  hell,  and  trouble  even 
the  peace  of  the  spirits  in  heaven  ? 

Oh,  Maria !  let  not  us  women  and  housewives 
be  deserving  of  this  punishment ;  let  us,  when  we 
come  before  the  judgment-scat  of  the  Universal 


BR 


BR 


Father,  be  pure  from  all  unthankfulness,  and 
abuse  of  any  creature  which  he  has  made ;  and  let 
us  deserve  in  that  better  world  to  see  around  us 
an  ennobled  race  of  animals,  to  live  with  them  in 
a  loving  relationship,  even  as  we  had  already  be- 
gun to  do  on  earth ! 

OF    CHILDREN. 

We  will  love  our  children,  Fanny !  We  will 
bring  them  up  in  a  clear  and  steady  fear  of  God. 
We  will  teach  them  order  and  diligence.  What 
relates  to  talent  and  a  finer  accomplishment,  they 
shall  receive  that  too  if  we  have  the  means  ;  if  we 
have  them  not,  then  do  not  let  us  trouble  our- 
selves about  them.  The  chief  thing  is,  that  they 
become  good  and  useful  men ;  they  will  then  find 
their  way  both  here  and  hereafter.  Thou,  my 
Fanny,  wilt  early  teach  them  what  is  in  the  hymn 
which  thou  ai-t  so  fond  of  singing  — 

He  who  can  read  his  paternoster  right, 
Fears  neither  witch  nor  devil. 
***** 
Above  all  things,  my  dear  daughters,  bear  in  mind 
that  you  are  human  beings.  Be  good,  be  true ; 
the  rest  will  follow.  As  much  as  possible,  be 
kind  to  every  one ;  tender  to  every  animal.  Be 
without  sentimentality  and  afiFectation.  Aifecta- 
tion  is  a  miserable  art,  my  daughters  —  despise  it 
as  truly  as  you  would  acquire  moral  worth.  Do 
not  regard  yourselves  as  very  important,  let  you 
have  as  many  talents  and  endowments  as  you  may ; 
consider  nature  and  life,  and  be  humble.  Should 
you  be  treated  by  nature  like  a  hard  stepmother, 
and  be  infii-m,  ordinary,  or  the  like,  do  not  be  dis- 
couraged ;  you  may  draw  near  to  the  Most  High. 
Require  not  much  from  other  people,  especially 
from  one  another.  The  art  to  sink  in  the  esteem 
of  yoiu'selves  and  others,  is  to  make  great  de- 
mands, and  give  little. 

From  the  other  Novels  of  Miss  Sremer. 
A    CHRISTIAN. 

When  a  heart  breaks  under  the  bm'den  of  its  sor- 
rows—  when  sickness  strikes  its  root  in  wounds 
opened  by  pain,  and  life  consumes  away  slowly  to 
death,  then  none  of  us  should  say  that  that  heavily- 
laden  heart  should  not  have  broken ;  that  it  might 
have  exerted  its  strength  to  bear  its  sufi"ering. 
No ;  we  would  express  no  word  of  censure  on 
that  prostrated  spirit  because  it  could  not  raise 
itself — before  its  resurrection  from  the  grave. 

But  beautiful,  strengthening,  and  glorious  is  the 
view  of  a  man  who  presents  a  courageous  and 
patient  breast  to  the  poisoned  arrows  of  life ;  who 
without  defiance  and  without  weakness,  goes  upon 
his  way  untroubled;  who  suiFers  without  com- 
plaint ;  whose  fairest  hopes  have  been  borne  down 
to  the  gi-ave  by  fate,  and  who  yet  difi'uses  joy 
around  him,  and  labours  for  the  happiness  of 
others.  Ah,  how  beautiful  is  the  view  of  such  a 
one,  to  whom  the  crown  of  thorns  becomes  the 
glory  of  a  saint ! 

I  have  seen  more  than  one  such  royal  sufferer, 
and  have  always  felt  at  the  sight,  "Oh,  could  I 
be  like  this  one — it  is  better  than  to  be  worldly 
fortunate!" 


BETROTHMENT. 

When  Moses  struck  the  rock  and  the  water 
gushed  forth ;  when  Aaron's  staff  budded  at  once 
into  green  leaf  and  flower  —  it  certainly  was  mira- 
culous. But  almost  as  miraculous  is  the  change 
which  takes  place  in  two  persons  who  love  each 
other,  and  who,  from  mere  acquaintance,  become — 
betrothed.  A  partition  wall  has  been  removed  from 
between  them.  They  might  love ;  they  might  show 
their  love  to  each  other ;  they  might  show  it  before 
the  whole  world  and  stand  before  each  other  as 
suns,  and  bloom  forth  in  beauty  before  each  other. 
But  who  can  describe  how  the  mystical  depths 
disclose  themselves  in  the  deep,  inward  soul?  It 
must  be  experienced.  The  change  is  the  greatest 
in  the  woman  ;  because  habit  and  custom  and  that 
bashfulness  which  nature  has  given  to  the  young 
girl  before  him  whom  she  secretly  loves,  all  fetter 
her  behaviour,  and  put,  as  it  were,  body  and  soul 
in  armour.  But  —  hast  thou  read  the  beautiful 
old  song  about  the  Valkyria  which  lay  bound  in  a 
deep  sleep  in  her  armour,  under  the  strong  power 
of  witchcraft?  The  knight  comes  who  unlooses  her 
coat  of  mail,  and  then  she  is  released.  She  wakes ; 
salutes  the  day,  salutes  the  night,  heaven  and 
earth,  gods  and  goddesses,  and  looks  joyfully  on 
all  the  world,  and  she  is  now,  the  newly  awakened, 
who  gives  to  her  deliverer,  to  her  beloved,  the 
drink  (the  mead)  which  makes  him  clear-sighted — • 

Human  strength  blended 

With  might  of  the  gods : 

Full  of  sweet  singing 

And  power  of  healing, 

Of  beautiful  poems  ' 

And  runes  of  rejoicing. 

It  is  she  who  interprets  to  him  the  mysterious 
ruiies  of  life  ;  he  who,  enchanted,  listens  to  her 
and  learns. 

MARRIAGE. 

We  array  ourselves  for  marriages  in  flowers; 
and  wear  dark  mourning-dresses  for  the  last  sor- 
rowful festivity  which  attends  a  fellow-being  to 
his  repose.  And  this  often  might  be  exactly  re- 
versed. But  the  custom  is  beautiful — for  the 
sight  of  a  young  bride  invites  the  heart  involun- 
tarily to  joy.  The  festal  attire,  the  myrtle  wi'eath 
upon  the  virgin  brows ;  all  the  affectionate  looks, 
and  the  anticipations  of  the  future,  which  beauti- 
fully accompany  her  —  all  enrapture  us.  One  sees 
in  them  a  new  home  of  love  raised  on  earth ;  a 
peaceful  Noah's  Ark  on  the  wild  flood  of  life,  in 
which  the  white  dove  of  peace  will  dwell  and  build 
her  nest ;  loving  children,  affectionate  words,  looks, 
and  love-warm  hearts,  will  dwell  in  the  new  home ; 
friends  will  enjoy  themselves  under  its  hospitable 
roof;  and  much  beautiful  activity,  and  many  a 
beautiful  gift,  will  thence  go  forth,  and  full  of 
blessing  diffuse  itself  over  life.  There  stands  the 
young  bride,  creator  of  all  this — hopes  and  joys 
go  forth  from  her.  No  one  thinks  of  sufferings  at 
a  marriage  festival. 

And  if  the  eyes  of  the  bride  stand  full  of  tears ; 
if  her  cheeks  are  pale,  and  her  whole  being  — 
when  the  bridegroom  approaches  her,  fearful  and 
ill  at  ease  —  even  then  people  vdll  not  think  of 

590 


BR 


BR 


misfortune.  Cousins  and  aunts  wink  at  one  another 
and  whisper,  "  I  was  just  so  on  my  wedding-day ; 
but  that  passes  over  with  time!"  Does  a  more 
deeply  and  more  heavily  tried  heart  feel  perhaps 
a  sigh  rise  within,  when  it  contemplates  the  pale, 
troubled  bride,  it  comforts  itself,  in  order  not  to 
disturb  the  marriage  joy,  with,  "  0  that  is  the 
way  of  the  world  !  " 

A    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

I  have  now  the  greatest  desire,  dear  reader, 
after  the  lapse  of  fourteen  years,  to  cast  a  glance 
at  Adelaide.  Before  all  things  must  I  mention 
their  eight  children;  all  extraordinarily  pretty, 
good,  and  joyous,  as  the  mother.  She  had  nursed 
them  all  herself,  attended  on  them,  and  played 
with  them ;  from  her  they  learned  to  love  the  sun, 
gladness,  and  God,  and  to  reckon  on  papa  Alarik 
as  on  a  gospel.  Count  Alarik  lived  only  for  his 
wife,  whom  he  adored  —  for  his  children,  whom 
he  assisted  to  educate  —  for  his  people,  whom  he 
made  happy.  The  mother  gave  them  gentleness 
and  gladness  of  heart,  from  the  father  they  learned 
history,  and  many  other  good  things.  Mamselle 
Ronnquist  instructed  the  three  daughters  in  French 
and  English.  None  could  compare  with  Nina ;  but 
they  promised  to  be  good  and  merry,  and  to  pass 
happily  through  the  world.  Adelaide  devoted  very 
much  time  to  her  children ;  yet  she  continued  for 
many  others  "  a  song  of  joy,"  indispensable  at  all 
festivities;  and  wherever  her  kind,  fair  counte- 
nance showed  itself,  under  lowly  roof  or  in  lofty 
castle,  by  the  song  of  mourning  or  the  marriage 
hymn,  there  was  she  greeted  as  a  messenger  of 
heaven  sent  forth  with  consolation  and  joy.  She 
was  still  the  swan  of  whiteness,  freshness,  slender- 
ness,  and  grace,  and  the  happiness  of  her  home 
was  the  living  well  in  which  she  bathed  her  wings. 

Of  Alarik  and  Adelaide  it  might  be  said  with 
Job:  "  They  increase  in  goods.  Their  seed  is  esta- 
blished in  their  sight  with  them,  and  their  offspring 
before  their  eyes.  Their  house  is  safe  from  fear, 
neither  is  the  rod  of  God  upon  them.  They  send 
forth  their  little  ones  like  a  flock,  and  their  child- 
ren dance.  They  take  the  timbi-el  and  harp,  and 
rejoice  at  the  sound  of  the  organ.  They  spend 
their  days  in  wealth,  and  in  a  moment  go  down  to 
the  grave." 

In  a  word,  they  belonged  to  the  fortunate  of  this 
earth.  I  have  seen  many  such ;  but  have  also 
beheld  with  wonder  the  dispensations  of  this  world. 
"  For  another  dies  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul, 
and  hath  never  eaten  with  pleasure." 

But—  "  Who  shall  teach  God  ?  " 


I  have  already  said  that  we  do  not  become  wise 
through  books  alone.  No !  not  through  books, 
not  through  travel,  not  through  clever  people,  not 
through  the  whole  world,  if  we  do  not  carry  in 
ourselves  the  slumbering  power  which  calls  forth 
out  of  all  the  individual  parts  the  harmonious 
shape  ;  or,  to  speak  more  simply,  when  we  do  not 
understand  how  to  unite  the  end  with  the  sensible 
deed. 


Prayer  is  the  key  of  the  gate  of  heaven.  It  does 
not  open  it  easily.  It  requires  strength,  inde- 
fatigable knocking,  a  firm,  determined  will ;  but  is 
the  door  but  once  open  — behold !  then  there  is  no 
further  separation  between  thee  and  the  Almighty ; 
and  the  angels  of  the  Lord  ascend  and  descend  to 
bring  thee  consolation  and  help.  Thou  who  suf- 
ferest  perhaps  like  Clara,  yearnest  for  repose  like 
her,  0  listen !  Sip  not  lightly  at  the  cup  of  sal- 
vation !  Drink  deep  draughts  from  the  well  of 
redemption  !  Fill  thyself  with  prayer,  with  faith 
and  humility,  and  thou  wilt  have  peace ! 

PHILANTHROPY. 

There  is  a  time  in  our  life  when  we  are  almost 
exclusively  occupied  by  individual  endeavours  and 
suffering ;  when  we  merely  labour  for  ourselves 
and  those  who  are  nearest  to  us.  Another  time 
also  comes  when  we  have  in  some  measure  accom- 
plished this,  and  are  in  a  state  of  peace,  or  at  least 
of  quietness.  It  is  then  the  time  when  the  think- 
ing and  the  good  man  looks  observantly  around 
him  into  social  life,  and  sees  how  he  can  labour 
in  the  best  way  for  the  great,  neglected  family- 
circle  there,  and  make  it  a  participator  in  the  good 
things  which  he  has  obtained. 

RENOVATION. 

Calm  and  strong  soul !  much  may  be  done  by  a 
human  being  with  a  pure  will  and  amid  a  quiet 
life.  But  with  certain  deeper  changes  in  that  inner 
life,  and  for  many  a  stormy  soul,  an  outward 
change  is  almost  a  necessary  means  of  an  inward 
renovation.  There  is  a  power  in  old  places,  habits, 
impressions,  connections  —  as  dangerously  fas- 
cinating as  intoxicating  liquors ;  as  crippling  as 
heavy  fetters,  from  which  no  one  can  free  himself 
—  but  by  flight.  But,  far  removed  from  them, 
with  a  new  earth  beneath  our  feet,  with  new  stars 
above  our  head,  new  objects  around  us,  new  im- 
pressions, new  thoughts  have  birth,  and  it  is  much 
easier  for  the  soul  to  exert  and  raise  itself.  These 
outward  removals  are  remedies  in  the  hand  of 
Providence  for  men.  They  do  not  supply  the  good 
desire,  but  they  support  it. 

PATRIOTISM. 

Happy  are  they  who  have  a  noble  fatherland, 
to  whose  life  and  history  they  can  look  up  with 
admiration  and  joy.  They  do  not  live  insulated 
upon  the  earth.  A  mighty  genius  leads  and  ani- 
mates them.  Their  little  life  has  a  greater  one 
with  which  to  unite  itself,  and  for  which  to  live. 

VIRTUE. 

She  bowed  herself  while  she  kissed  the  merci- 
fully severe  hand  which,  amid  wild  tempests,  calls 
forth  the  imperishable  flower  of  virtue.  This  be- 
came to  her  the  loveliest  blossom  of  humanity 
and  of  the  whole  universe.  It  wound  itself  with 
beautifying  eifect  around  every  creature ;  the 
storms  of  fate  tossed  rudely  its  chalice,  but  served 
only  to  promote  its  fullest  expansion ;  it  turned 
itself,  as  the  sunflower  toward  the  sun,  above  to 

591 


BR 


BR 


God.  Strength,  capacity  of  self-denial,  equanimity 
and  repose  amid  the  occurrences  of  life,  purity  of 
heart  and  of  the  thoughts  which  arose  to  God  — 
these  Edla  sought  after,  and  found.  Of  the  sacred 
doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  those  chiefly  acquired  a 
living  power  in  her  heart  which  more  especially 
favoured  this  bias  :  and  her  view  of  the  world  led 
her  to  regard  man  as  ordained,  before  all  things, 
to  contest  and  self-denial.  But  this  view  of  the 
world  was  clear  and  cheerful ;  the  laurel  of  victory 
succeeded  the  trial,  and  the  crown  of  thorns  became 
the  crown  of  glory. 

TWIN-SISTERS. 

I  cannot  conceive  a  more  beautiful  existence 
than  that  of  twin  sisters  who  go  hand  in  hand 
through  life  ;  whose  enjoyments  are  mutual  — who 
participate  in  each  other's  feelings  and  thoughts 
— who  weep  over  the  same  sorrow  —  who  rejoice 
over  the  same  festivity,  whether  it  be  only  a  mid- 
summer merriment  or  the  Holy  Supper.  They 
stand  in  life  like  two  young  trees  beside  each 
other,  and  each  new  spring  twines  the  twigs  of 
their  crown  closer  together.  The  happy  ones ! 
How  intimatelj  known  is  each  to  the  other !  How 
well  must  they  understand  each  other,  and  be 
mutually  able  to  read  in  each  other's  eyes  as  in  a 
clear  mirror.  Can  life  ever  become  to  either  of 
them  empty  and  dark  ?  And  if  the  one  suffer,  then 
has  the  other  indeed  the  key  to  her  heart ;  she 
knows  every  fold  therein,  and  can  open  the  locked- 
up  chamber  to  the  beams  of  daylight. 


BRIDGMAN,  LAURA, 
A  PUPIL  in  the  Boston  Institution  for  the  Blind, 
has  attained  a  wide-spread  celebrity  through  her 
misfortunes,  and  through  the  efiForts  made  by  her 
benevolent  instructor,  Principal  of  that  Institution, 
to  redeem  her  from  the  appalling  mental  dark- 
ness, which  the  loss  in  early  childhood  of  the 
faculties  of  sight,  speech  and  hearing,  had  in- 
volved her.  As  yet,  her  history  is  only  known 
through  the  "reports"  made  from  time  to  time, 
to  the  Trustees  of  that  Institution,  by  Dr.  Howe. 
From  these  we  derive  the  following  information. 


though  not  without  some  regret,  that  in  the  mo- 
desty which  always  accompanies  exalted  worth 
he  has  said  so  little  of  his  own  noble  exertions  in 
throwing  light  upon  that  darkened  spirit. 

Laura  Bridgman  was  born  in  Hanover,  New 
Hampshire,  on  the  twenty-first  of  December,  1829. 
She  is  described  as  having  been  a  very  sprightly 
and  pretty  infant,  with  bright  blue  eyes.  She  was, 
however,  so  puny  and  feeble,  until  she  was  a  year 
and  a  half  old,  that  her  parents  hardly  hoped  to 
rear  her.  She  was  subject  to  severe  fits,  which 
seemed  to  rack  her  frame  almost  beyond  its 
power  of  endurance,  and  life  was  held  by  the 
feeblest  tenure ;  but  when  a  year  and  a  half  old, 
she  seemed  to  rally ;  the  dangerous  symptoms 
subsided  ;  and  at  twenty  months  old,  she  was  per- 
fectly well. 

Then  her  mental  powers,  hitherto  stinted  in 
their  growth,  rapidly  developed  themselves ;  and 
during  the  four  months  of  health  which  she  en- 
joyed, she  appears  (making  due  allowance  for  a 
fond  mother's  account)  to  have  displayed  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  intelligence. 

But  suddenly  she  sickened  again ;  her  disease 
raged  with  great  violence  during  five  weeks,  when 
her  eyes  and  ears  were  inflamed,  suppurated,  and 
their  contents  were  discharged.  But  though  sight 
and  hearing  were  gone  forever,  the  poor  child's 
sufferings  were  not  ended.  The  fever  raged  during 
seven  weeks;  "for  five  months  she  was  kept  in 
bed  in  a  darkened  room  ;  it  was  a  year  before  she 
could  walk  unsupported,  and  two  years  before  she 
could  sit  up  all  day."  It  was  now  observed  that 
her  sense  of  smell  was  almost  entirely  destroyed ; 
and  consequently,  that  her  taste  was  much  blunted. 

It  was  not  until  four  years  of  age,  that  the  poor 
child's  bodily  health  seemed  restored,  and  she  was 
able  to  enter  upon  her  apprenticeship  of  life  and 
the  world. 

But  what  a  situation  was  hers !  The  darkness 
and  the  silence  of  the  tomb  were  around  her ;  no 
mothei''s  smile  called  forth  her  answering  smile, — 
no  father's  voice  taught  her  to  imitate  his  sounds : 
to  her,  brothers  and  sisters  were  but  forms  of 
matter  which  resisted  her  touch,  but  which  dif- 
fered not  from  the  furniture  of  the  house,  save  in 
warmth  and  in  the  power  of  locomotion ;  and  not 
even  in  these  respects  from  the  dog  and  the  cat. 

But  the  immortal  spirit  which  had  been  im- 
planted within  her  could  not  die,  nor  be  maimed 
nor  mutilated ;  and  though  most  of  its  avenues  of 
communication  with  the  world  were  cut  ofi",  it 
began  to  manifest  itself  through  the  others.  As 
soon  as  she  could  walk,  she  began  to  explore  the 
room,  and  then  the  house.  She  became  familiar 
with  the  form,  density,  weight,  and  heat,  of  every 
article  she  could  lay  her  hands  upon.  She  followed 
her  mother,  and  felt  of  her  hands  and  arms,  as 
she  was  occupied  about  the  house ;  and  her  dis- 
position to  imitate  led  her  to  repeat  every  tiling 
herself.  She  even  learned  to  sew  a  little,  and  to 
knit. 

Her  affections,  too,  began  to  expand,  and  seemed 
to  be  lavished  upon  the  members  of  her  family  with 
peculiar  force. 

But  the  means  of  communication  with  her  were 

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very  limited ;  slie  could  only  be  told  to  go  to  a 
place  by  being  pushed ;  or  to  come  to  one  by  a 
sign  of  drawing  her.  Patting  her  gently  on  the 
head  signified  approbation ;  on  the  back,  disap- 
probation. 

She  showed  every  disposition  to  learn,  and 
manifestly  began  to  use  a  natural  language  of  her 
own.  She  had  a  sign  to  express  her  knowledge 
of  each  member  of  the  family;  as  drawing  her 
fingers  down  each  side  of  her  face,  to  allude  to 
the  whiskers  of  one ;  twii'ling  her  hand  around, 
in  imitation  of  the  motion  of  a  spinning-wheel,  for 
another ;  and  so  on.  But  although  she  received 
all  the  aid  that  a  kind  mother  could  bestow,  she 
soon  began  to  give  proof  of  the  importance  of 
language  to  the  development  of  human  character. 
Caressing  and  chiding  will  do  for  infants  and  dogs, 
but  not  for  children  ;  and  by  the  time  Laura  was 
seven  years  old,  the  moral  effects  of  her  privation 
began  to  appeal-.  There  was  nothing  to  control 
her  will  but  the  absolute  power  of  another,  and 
humanity  revolts  at  this  :  she  had  already  begun 
to  diregard  all  but  the  sterner  nature  of  her  father ; 
and  it  was  evident,  that  as  the  propensities  should 
increase  with  her  physical  growth,  so  would  the 
difficvilty  of  restraining  them  increase. 

At  this  time.  Dr.  Howe  fortunately  heard  of  the 
child,  and  immediately  hastened  to  Hanover,  to 
see  her.  He  found  her  with  a  well-formed  figure ;  a 
strongly-marked,  nervous-sanguine  temperament ; 
a  large  and  beautifully  shaped  head,  and  the  whole 
system  in  healthy  action. 

Here  seemed  a  rare  opportunity  of  benefiting 
an  individual,  and  of  trying  a  plan  for  the  educa- 
tion of  a  deaf  and  blind  person,  which  he  had 
formed  on  seeing  Julia  Brace,  at  Hartford. 

The  parents  were  easily  induced  to  consent  to 
her  coming  to  Boston ;  and  on  the  fourth  of  Octo- 
ber, 1837,  they  brought  her  to  the  Institution. 

For  a  while,  she  was  much  bewildered.  After 
waiting  about  two  weeks,  until  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  her  new  locality,  and  somewhat 
familiar  with  the  inmates,  the  attempt  was  made 
to  give  her  a  knowledge  of  arbitrary  signs,  by 
which  she  could  interchange  thoughts  with  others. 

There  was  one  of  two  ways  to  be  adopted : 
either  to  go  on  and  build  up  a  language  of  signs 
on  the  basis  of  the  natural  language  which  she 
had  already  herself  commenced ;  or  to  teach  her 
the  purely  arbitrary  language  in  common  use  : 
that  is,  to  give  her  a  sign  for  every  individual 
thing,  or  to  give  her  a  knowledge  of  letters,  by 
the  combination  of  which  she  might  express  her 
idea  of  the  existence,  and  the  mode  and  condition 
of  existence,  of  any  thing.  The  former  would  have 
been  easy,  but  very  ineffectual ;  the  latter  seemed 
very  difiicult,  but,  if  accomplished,  very  effectual : 
Dr.  Howe  determined,  therefore,  to  try  the  latter. 

The  first  experiments  were  made  by  taking 
articles  in  common  use,  such  as  knives,  forks, 
spoons,  keys,  &c.,  and  pasting  upon  them  labels 
with  their  names  printed  in  raised  letters.  These 
she  felt  of  very  carefully,  and  soon,  of  course,  dis- 
tinguished that  the  crooked  lines  spoon,  differed 
as  much  from  the  crooked  lines  key,  as  the  spoon 
differed  from  the  key  in  form. 
2N 


Then  small  detached  labels,  with  the  same  words 
printed  upon  them,  were  put  into  her  hands  ;  and 
she  soon  observed  that  they  were  similar  to  the 
ones  pasted  on  the  articles.  She  showed  her  pre- 
ception  of  this  similarity  by  laying  the  label  key 
upon  the  key,  and  the  label  spoon  upon  the  spoon. 
She  was  here  encouraged  by  the  natural  sign  of 
approbation,  patting  on  the  head. 

The  same  process  was  then  repeated  with  all . 
the  articles  which  she  could  handle ;  and  she 
very  easily  learned  to  place  the  proper  labels  upon 
them.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  the  only 
intellectual  exercise  was  that  of  imitation  and 
memory.  She  recollected  that  the  label  book  was 
placed  upon  a  book,  and  she  repeated  the  process, 
first  from  imitation,  next  from  memory,  with  no 
other  motive  than  the  love  of  approbation,  and 
apparently  without  the  intellectual  perception  of 
any  relation  between  the  things. 

After  a  while,  instead  of  labels,  the  individual 
letters  were  given  to  her  on  detached  pieces  of 
paper :  they  were  arranged  side  by  side,  sb,  as  to 
spell  book,  key,  &c. ;  then  they  were  mixed 
up  in  a  heap,  and  a  sign  was  made  for  her  to 
arrange  them  so  as  to  express  the  words  book,  key, 
&c.,  and  she  did  so. 

Hitherto,  the  process  had  been  mechanical,  and 
the  success  about  as  great  as  teaching  a  very  know- 
ing dog,  a  variety  of  tricks.  The  poor  child  had 
sat  in  mute  amazement,  and  patiently  imitated 
every  thing  her  teacher  did ;  but  now  the  truth 
began  to  flash  upon  her  —  her  intellect  began  to 
work  —  she  perceived  that  here  was  a  way  by 
which  she  could  herself  make  up  a  sign  of  any 
thing  that  was  in  her  own  mind,  and  show  it  to 
another  mind,  and  at  once  her  countenance  lighted 
up  with  a  human  expression :  it  was  no  longer  a  dog, 
or  parrut,  — it  was  an  immortal  spirit,  eagerly  seiz- 
ing upon  a  new  link  of  union  with  other  spirits  I 
Dr.  Howe  could  almost  fix  upon  the  moment  when 
this  truth  dawned  upon  her  mind,  and  spread  its 
light  to  her  countenance.  He  saw  that  the  great 
obstacle  was  overcome,  and  that  henceforward 
nothing  but  patient  and  persevei-ing,  though  plain' 
and  straightforward  efforts  were  to  be  used. 

The  result,  thus  far,  is  quickly  related,  and 
easily  conceived ;  but  not  so  was  the  process :  for 
many  weeks  of  apparently  unprofitable  labour  were 
passed,  before  it  was  effected. 

When  it  was  said  above,  that  a  sign  was  made, 
it  was  intended  to  say,  that  the  action  was  per- 
formed by  her  teacher,  she  feeling  his  hahds,..and 
then  imitating  the  motion. 

The  next  step  was  to  procure  a  set  of  metal 
types,  with  the  different  letters  of  the  alpliabet 
cast  upon  their  ends  ;  also  a  board,  in  which  were 
square  holes,  into  which  she  could  set  the  types, 
so  that  only  the  letters  on  their  ends  could  be  felt 
above  the  surface. 

Then,  on  any  article  being  handed  to  her,  for 
instance,  a  pencil,  or  a  watch,  she  would  select 
the  component  liitters,  and  arrange  them  on  her 
board,  and  read  them  with  apparent  pleasure. 

She  was  exercised  for  several  weeks  in  this 
way,  until  her  vocabulary  became  extensive;  and 
then  the  important  step  was  taken  of  teaching 

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her  how  to  represent  the  dififerent  letters  by  the 
position  of  her  fingers,  instead  of  the  cumbrous 
apparatus  of  the  board  and  types.  She  accom- 
plished this  speedily  and  easily,  for  her  intellect 
had  begun  to  work  in  aid  of  her  teacher,  and  her 
progress  was  rapid. 

This  was  the  period,  about  three  months  after 
she  had  commenced,  that  the  first  report  of  her 
case  was  made,  in  which  it  is  stated  that  "  she 
has  just  learned  the  manual  alphabet,  as  iised  by 
the  deaf  mutes,  and  it  is  a  subject  of  delight  and 
wonder  to  see  how  rapidly,  correctly,  and  eagerly, 
she  goes  on  with  her  labours.  Her  teacher  gives 
her  a  new  object,  — for  instance  a  pencil,  first  lets 
her  examine  it,  and  get  an  idea  of  its  use,  then 
teaches  her  how  to  spell  it  by  making  the  signs 
for  the  letters  with  her  own  fingers:  the  child 
grasps  his  hand,  and  feels  of  his  fingers,  as  the 
different  letters  are  formed ;  she  turns  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  like  a  person  listening  closely  ; 
her  lips  are  apart ;  she  seems  scarcely  to  breathe  ; 
and  her  countenance,  at  first  anxious,  gradually 
changes  to  a  smile,  as  she  comprehends  the  lesson. 
She  then  holds  up  her  tiny  fingers,  and  spells  the 
word  in  the  manual  alphabet ;  next,  she  takes  her 
types  and  arranges  her  letters ;  and  at  last,  to 
make  sure  that  she  is  right,  she  takes  the  whole 
of  the  types  composing  the  word,  and  places  them 
upon  or  in  contact  with  the  pencil,  or  whatever 
the  object  may  be." 

The  whole  of  the  succeeding  year  was  passed  in 
gratifying  her  eager  enquiries  for  the  names  of 
every  object  which  she  could  possibly  handle  ;  in 
exercising  her  in  the  use  of  the  manual  alphabet ; 
in  extending  by  every  possible  way  her  knowledge 
of  the  physical  relations  of  things ;  and  in  taking 
proper  care  of  her  health. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  a  report  of  her  case  was 
made,  from  which  the  following  is  an  extract: 

"  It  has  been  ascertained,  beyond  the  possibility 
of  doubt,  that  she  cannot  see  a  ray  of  light,  can- 
not hear  the  least  sound,  and  never  exercises  her 
sense  of  smell,  if  she  has  any.  Thus  her  mind 
dwells  in  darkness  and  stillness,  as  profound  as 
that  of  a  closed  tomb  at  midnight.  Of  beautiful 
sights,  and  sweet  sounds,  and  pleasant  odours,  she 
has  no  conception ;  nevertheless,  she  seems  as 
happy  and  playful  as  a  bird  or  a  lamb ;  and  the 
employment  of  her  intellectual  faculties,  or  ac- 
quirement of  a  new  idea,  gives  her  a  vivid  pleasure, 
which  is  plainly  marked  in  her  expressive  features. 
She  never  seems  to  repine,  but  has  all  the  buoy- 
ancy and  gayety  of  childhood.  She  is  fond  of  fun 
and  frolic,  and  when  playing  with  the  rest  of  the 
children,  her  shrill  laugh  sounds  loudest  of  the 
group. 

When  left  alone,  she  seems  very  happy  if  she 
has  her  knitting  or  sewing,  and  will  busy  herself 
for  hours  :  if  she  has  no  occupation,  she  evidently 
amuses  herself  by  imaginary  dialogues,  or  by  re- 
calling past  impressions  :  she  counts  with  her  fii?-' 
gers,  or  spells  out  names  of  things  which  she  has 
recently  learned  in  the  manual  alphabet  of  the 
deaf  mutes.  In  this  lonely  self-communion  she 
seems  to  reason,  reflect,  and  argue ;  if  she  spells 
a  word  wrong  with  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand, 


she  instantly  strikes  it  with  her  left,  as  her  teach- 
er does,  in  sign  of  disapprobation:  if  right,  then 
she  pats  herself  upon  the  head,  and  looks  pleased. 
She  sometimes  purposely  spells  a  word  wrong 
with  the  left  hand,  looks  roguish  for  a  moment 
and  laughs,  and  then  with  the  right  hand  strikes 
the  left,  as  if  to  correct  it. 

During  the  year,  she  has  attained  great  dex- 
terity in  the  use  of  the  manual  alphabet  of  the 
deaf  mutes ;  and  she  spells  out  the  words  and  sen- 
tences which  she  knows,  so  fast  and  so  deftly, 
that  only  those  accustomed  to  this  language  can 
follow  with  the  eye  the  rapid  motion  of  her  fingers. 

But  wonderful  as  is  the  rapidity  with  which  she 
writes  her  thoughts  upon  the  air,  still  more  so  is 
the  ease  and  accuracy  with  which  she  reads  the 
words  thus  written  by  another,  grasping  their 
hands  in  hers,  and  following  every  movement  of 
their  fingers,  as  letter  after  letter  conveys  their 
meaning  to  her  mind.  It  is  in  this  way  that  she 
converses  with  her  blind  playmates  ;  and  nothing 
can  more  forcibly  show  the  power  of  mind  in  forc- 
ing matter  to  its  purpose,  than  a  meeting  between 
them.  For,  if  great  talent  and  skill  are  necessary 
for  two  pantomimes  to  paint  their  thoughts  and 
feelings  by  the  movements  of  the  body  and  the  ex- 
pression of  the  countenance,  how  much  greater 
the  difiiculty  when  darkness  shrouds  them  both, 
and  the  one  can  hear  no  sound ! 

When  Laura  is  walking  through  a  passage-way, 
with  her  hands  spread  before  her,  she  knows  in- 
stantly those  whom  she  meets,  and  passes  them 
with  a  sign  of  recognition ;  but  if  it  be  a  girl  of 
her  own  age,  and  especially  if  one  of  her  favour- 
ites, there  is  instantly  a  bright  smile  of  recogni- 
tion—  a  twining  of  arms  —  a  grasping  of  hands  — 
and  a  swift  telegraphing  upon  the  tiny  fingers, 
whose  rapid  evolutions  convey  the  thovights  and 
feelings  from  the  outposts  of  one  mind  to  those  of 
the  other.  There  are  questions  and  answers  — 
exchanges  of  joy  or  sorrow  —  there  are  kisses  and 
caresses — just  as  between  little  children  with  all 
their  senses." 

During  this  year,  and  six  months  after  she  had 
left  home,  her  mother  came  to  visit  her ;  and  the 
scene  of  their  meeting  was  an  interesting  one. 

The  mother  stood  some  time,  gazing  with  over- 
flowing eyes  upon  her  unfortunate  child,  who,  all 
unconscious  of  her  presence,  was  playing  about 
the  room.  Presently  Laura  ran  against  her,  and 
at  once  began  feeling  her  hands,  examining  her 
dress,  and  trying  to  find  out  if  she  knew  her  ;  but 
not  succeeding  in  this,  she  turned  away  as  from  a 
stranger,  and  the  poor  woman  could  not  conceal 
the  pang  she  felt,  at  finding  that  her  beloved  child 
did  not  know  her. 

She  then  gave  Laura  a  string  of  beads  which 
she  used  to  wear  at  home,  which  were  recognised 
by  the  child  at  once,  who,  with  much  joy,  put  them 
around  her  neck,  and  sought  Dr.  Howe  eagerly,  to 
say  she  understood  the  string  was  from  her  home. 

The  mother  now  tried  to  caress  her  child,  but 
poor  Laura  repelled  her,  preferring  to  be  with  her 
acquaintances. 

Another  article  from  home  was  now  given  her, 
and  she  began  to  look  much  interested;  she  ex- 


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amined  the  stranger  more  closely,  and  gave  Dr. 
Howe  to  understand  that  she  knew  she  came  from 
Hanover ;  she  even  endured  her  caresses,  but  would 
leave  her  with  indifference  at  the  slightest  signal. 
The  distress  of  the  mother  was  now  painful  to  be- 
hold ;  for,  although  she  had  feared  that  she  should 
not  be  recognised,  the  painful  reality  of  being 
treated  with  cold  indiiFerence  by  a  darling  child, 
was  too  much  for  woman's  nature  to  bear. 

After  a  while,  on  the  mother  taking  hold  of  her 
again,  a  vague  idea  seemed  to  flit  across  Laura's 
mind,  that  this  could  not  be  a  stranger:  she  there- 
fore very  eagerly  felt  her  hands,  while  her  counte- 
nance assumed  an  expression  of  intense  interest; 
she  became  very  pale,  and  then  suddenly  red ; 
hope  seemed  struggling  with  doubt  and  anxiety, 
and  never  were  contending  emotions  more  strongly 
depicted  upon  the  human  face.  At  this  moment 
of  painful  uncertainty,  the  mother  drew  her  close 
to  her  side,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  when  at  once 
the  truth  flashed  upon  the  child,  and  all  mistrust 
and  anxiety  disappeared  from  her  face,  as  with  an 
expression  of  exceeding  joy  she  eagerly  nestled  to 
the  bosom  of  her  parent,  and  jnelded  herself  to 
her  fond  embraces. 

After  this,  the  beads  were  all  unheeded ;  the 
playthings  which  were  off'ered  to  her  were  utterly 
disregarded  ;  her  playmates,  for  whom  but  a  mo- 
ment before  she  gladly  left  the  stranger,  now 
vainly  strove  to  pull  her  from  her  mother ;  and 
though  she  yielded  her  usual  instantaneous  obedi- 
ence to  Dr.  Howe's  signal  to  follow  Iiim,  it  was  evi- 
dently with  painful  reluctance.  She  clung  close  to 
him,  as  if  bewildered  and  fearful ;  and  when,  after 
a  moment,  he  took  her  to  her  mother,  she  sprang 
to  her  arms,  and  clung  to  her  with  eager  joy. 

Dr.  Howe  had  watched  the  whole  scene  with  in- 
tense interest,  being  desirous  of  leai-ning  from  it 
all  he  could  of  the  workings  of  her  mind ;  but  he 
nowleft  them  to  indulge,  unobserved,  those  delicious 
feelings,  which  those  who  have  known  a  mother's 
love,  may  conceive,  but  which  cannot  be  expressed. 

The  subsequent  parting  between  Laura  and  her 
mother,  showed  alike  the  afi"ection,  the  intelli- 
gence and  the  resolution  of  the  child ;  and  was 
thus  noticed  at  the  time  : 

"Laura  accompanied  her  mother  to  the  door, 
clinging  close  to  her  all  the  way,  untill  they  ar- 
rived at  the  threshold,  where  she  paused  and  felt 
around,  to  ascertain  who  was  near  her.  Perceiv- 
ing the  matron,  of  whom  she  is  very  fond,  she 
grasped  her  with  one  hand,  holding  on  convul- 
sively to  her  mother  with  the  other,  and  thus  she 
stood  for  a  moment ;  then  she  dropped  her  mo- 
ther's hand  —  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  turning  round,  clung  sobbing  to  the  matron, 
while  her  mother  departed,  with  emotions  as  deep 
as  those  of  her  child." 

(1841.)  It  was  remarkable  that  she  could  dis- 
tinguish diff'erent  degrees  of  intellect  in  others, 
and  that  she  soon  regarded  almost  with  contempt, 
a  new  comer,  when,  after  a  few  days,  she  disco- 
vered her  weakness  of  mind.  This  unamiable  part 
of  her  character  has  been  more  strongly  developed 
during  the  past  year. 


She  chooses  for  her  friends  and  companions, 
those  children  who  are  intelligent,  and  can  talk 
best  with  her ;  and  she  evidently  dislikes  to  be 
with  those  who  are  deficient  in  intellect,  unless, 
indeed,  she  can  make  them  serve  her  purposes, 
which  she  is  evidently  inclined  to  do.  She  takes 
advantage  of  them,  and  makes  them  wait  upon 
her,  in  a  manner  that  she  knows  she  could  not 
exact  of  others ;  and  in  various  ways  she  shows 
her  Anglo-Saxon  blood. 

She  is  fond  of  having  other  children  noticed  and 
caressed  by  the  teachers,  and  those  whom  she  re- 
spects ;  but  this  must  not  be  carried  too  far,  or 
she  becomes  jealous.  She  wants  to  have  her 
share,  which,  if  not  the  lion's,  is  the  greater  part; 
and  if  she  does  not  get  it,  she  says,  "  My  mother 
tcill  love  me.'" 

Her  tendency  to  imitation  is  so  strong,  that  it 
leads  her  to  actions  which  must  be  entirely  incom- 
prehensible to  her,  and  which  can  give  her  no 
other  pleasure  than  the  gratification  of  an  internal 
faculty.  She  has  been  known  to  sit  for  half  an 
hour,  holding  a  book  before  her  sightless  eyes, 
and  moving  her  lips,  as  she  has  observed  seeing 
people  do  when  reading. 

She  one  day  pretended  that  her  doll  was  sick  ; 
and  went  through  all  the  motions  of  tending  it, 
and  giving  it  medicine ;  she  then  put  it  carefully 
to  bed,  and  placed  a  bottle  of  hot  water  to  its  feet, 
laughing  all  the  time  most  heartily.  When  Dr. 
Howe  came  home,  she  insisted  upon  his  going  to 
see  it,  and  feel  its  pulse ;  and  when  he  told  her  to 
put  a  blister  to  its  back,  she  seemed  to  enjoy  it 
amazingly,  and  almost  screamed  with  delight. 

Her  social  feelings,  and  her  afi"ections,  are  very 
strong  ;  and  when  she  is  sitting  at  work,  or  at  her 
studies,  by  the  side  of  one  of  her  little  friends,  she 
will  break  oflF  from  her  task  every  few  moments, 
to  hug  and  kiss  her  with  an  earnestness  and 
warmth,  which  is  touching  to  behold. 

AVhen  left  alone,  she  occupies  and  apparently 
amuses  herself,  and  seems  quite  contented ;  and 
so  strong  seems  to  be  the  natural  tendency  of 
thought  to  put  on  the  garb  of  language,  that  she 
often  soliloquizes  in  the  finger  language,  slow  and 
tedious  as  it  is.  But  it  is  only  when  alone,  that 
she  is  quiet ;  for  if  she  becomes  sensible  of  the 
presence  of  any  persons  near  her,  she  is  restless 
until  she  can  sit  close  beside  them,  hold  their 
hand,  and  converse  with  them  by  signs. 

She  does  not  cry  from  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment, like  other  children,  but  only  from  grief.  If 
she  receives  a  blow  by  accident,  or  hurts  herself, 
she  laughs  and  jumps  about,  as  if  trying  to  drown 
the  pain  by  muscular  action.  If  the  pain  is  severe, 
she  does  not  go  to  her  teachers  or  companions  for 
sympathy,  but  on  the  contrary  tries  to  get  away 
by  herself,  and  then  seems  to  give  vent  to  a  feel- 
ing of  spite,  by  throwing  herself  about  violently, 
and  roughly  handling  whatever  she  gets  holds  of. 

Twice,  only,  have  tears  been  drawn  from  her  by 
the  severity  of  pain,  and  then  she  ran  away  from 
the  room,  as  if  ashamed  of  crying  for  an  accidental 
injury.  But  the  fountain  of  her  tears  is  by  no 
means  dried  up,  as  is  seen  when  her  companions 
are  in  pain,  or  her  teacher  is  grieved. 

595 


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In  her  intellectual  character,  it  is  pleasing  to 
observe  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  a 
quick  perception  of  the  relations  of  things.  In  her 
moral  character,  it  is  beautiful  to  behold  her  con- 
tinual gladness  —  her  keen  enjoyment  of  exist- 
ence—  her  expansive  love  —  her  unhesitating  con- 
fidence—  her  sympathy  with  suffering  —  her  con- 
scientiousness, truthfulness,  and  hopefulness. 

She  is  remarkably  correct  in  her  deportment; 
and  few  children  of  her  age  evince  so  much  sense 
of  propriety  in  regard  to  appearance.  Never,  by 
any  possibility,  is  she  seen  out  of  her  room  with 
her  dress  disordered ;  and  if  by  chance  any  spot 
of  dirt  is  pointed  out  to  her  on  her  person,  or  any 
little  rent  in  her  dress,  she  discovers  a  sense  of 
shame,  and  hastens  to  remove,  or  repair  it, 

She  is  never  discovered  in  an  attitude  or  an 
action  at  which  the  most  fastidious  would  revolt ; 
but  is  remarkable  for  neatness,  order,  and  pro- 
priety. 

There  is  one  fact  which  is  hard  to  explain  in 
any  way :  viz.,  the  difference  of  her  deportment  to 
persons  of  different  sex.  This  was  observable 
when  she  was  only  seven  years  old.  She  is  very 
affectionate ;  and  when  with  her  friends  of  her 
own  sex,  she  is  constantly  clinging  to  them,  and 
often  kissing  and  caressing  them ;  and  when  she 
meets  with  strange  ladies,  she  very  soon  becomes 
familiar,  examines  very  freely  their  dress,  and 
readily  allows  them  to  caress  her.  But  with  those 
of  the  other  sex  it  is  entirely  different,  and  she 
repels  every  approach  to  familiarity. 

Laura  has  often  amused  herself  during  the  past 
year,  (1846,)  by  little  exercises  in  composition. 
The  following  story,  written  during  the  absence 
of  her  teacher,  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  her 
use  of  language.  The  last  sentence,  though  not 
grammatical,  may  be  considered  as  the  moral,  and 
a  very  good  moral  of  the  whole. 

"THE    GOOD-NATUKED    GIKL 

"Lucy  was  nearly  nine  years  old.  She  had 
excellent  parents.  She  always  did  with  alacrity 
what  her  mother  requested  her  to  do  She  told 
Lucy  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  school ;  so 
Lucy  ran  and  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and 
then  went  back  to  her  mama  She  offered  Lucy  a 
basket  containing  some  pie  and  cake  for  luncheon. 
And  Lucy  went  precisely  at  schooltime  and  when 
she  got  fo  the  house  she  took  her  own  seat  and 
began  to  study  diligently  with  all  the  children 
And  she  always  conformed  to  her  teachers  wishes 
—  In  recess  she  took  luncheon  out  of  her  basket 
but  she  gave  some  of  it  to  her  mates  —  Lucy  had 
some  books  with  pictures  and  slate  in  her  desk  — 

"  When  she  went  home  she  found  that  dinner 
was  all  ready  —  Afterwards  her  mother  took  her 
to  take  tea  with  her  friends.  Lucy  was  much  de- 
lighted to  play  with  her  little  cousin  Lucy  and 
Helen ;  and  they  let  her  see  their  play  things. 
After  tea  Lucy  was  sorry  to  depart ;  and  when 
she  went  to  bed  she  thought  that  she  had  made  it 
pleasantly  to  all  her  friends  with  little  joyful 
heart." 

Laura  keeps  a  sort  of  diary,  in  which  she  writes 
with  her  own  hand  an   account  of  what  passes 


every  day.  It  is  generally  a  bald  narration  of  the 
facts ;  but  an  extract  will  give  an  idea  of  her 
daily  routine  of  study.  The  diary  is  generally 
very  legibly  written.  AVe  will  transcribe  a  day's 
record,  exactly  as  she  wrote  it,  with  her  spelling 
and  punctuation,  putting  any  explanations  that 
may  be  necessary  in  brackets.  The  only  altera- 
tion is  in  the  use  of  capitals,  which  she  has  never 
been  taught  to  make. 

"  SIXTH    OF    JAN    TUESDAY. 

"  I  studied  arithmetic  before  my  breakfast.  Af- 
terwards Miss  Wight  was  occupied  for  Dr.  till 
quarter  to  ten.  Then  she  read  to  me  about  Bible. 
Abraham  went  to  live  in  the  city  Gerar.  He  and 
his  wife  lived  in  the  western  corner  of  Palestine 
place  [country].  But  his  son  Isaac  was  very  kind 
to  comfort  his  parents  when  they  grew  old  [.] 
Isaac  was  always  good  to  take  care  of  them  and 
made  them  feel  very  happy.  Abraham  thanked 
God  for  his  kindness  exceedinglj^. 

"  Wight  taught  me  two  more  lessons  geography 
and  history.  Putnam  was  a  farmer  who  was  plough- 
ing his  land  with  the  cattle  in  a  field.  When  tid- 
ings were  brought  to  him  of  a  battle  at  Lexington 
he  did  not  stop  to  unhartness  the  cattle  but  ran 
very  rapidly  to  his  home  and  went  to  live  in  Bos- 
ton. In  a  few  weeks  thirty  thousand  of  soldiers 
arrived  to  Boston.  Most  of  them  had  no  cannons 
nor  leads  nor  guns.  And  the  British  went  to 
Bunker  Hill  from  Boston  to  attack  the  Americans 
and  expel  them  away  when  they  were  going  to 
fire  upon  them.  And  when  the  British  saw  them 
ready  they  were  surprised." 

Her  store  of  knowledge  has  been  very  much  in- 
creased during  the  last  year.  It  will  be  seen,  too, 
that  she  has  improved  in  the  use  of  language ; 
and  when  it  is  considered  that  other  deaf  mutes 
have  as  great  advantage  over  her  as  we  have  over 
them,  if  not  greater,  her  style  will  bear  compari- 
son with  theirs. 

She  has  become  somewhat  more  thoughtful  and 
sedate  than  formerly,  though  she  is  generally  very 
cheerful,  and  sometimes  displays  a  childish  hu- 
mour that  shows  her  age  is  to  be  measured  by  the 
degrees  of  her  mental  development,  rather  than 
by  the  number  of  years  that  she  has  lived. 

She  has  extended  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance, 
and  has  endeared  herself  to  many  persons  who 
have  learned  to  converse  with  her.  It  is  the 
earnest  hope  of  all  that  her  life  may  be  pro- 
longed, and  that  we  may  be  enabled  to  do  our 
duty  to  her  and  to  ourselves  by  making  it  as 
happy  and  useful  as  possible. 

(1850.)  Her  progress  has  been  a  curious  and 
an  interesting  spectacle.  She  has  come  into  hu- 
man society  with  a  sort  of  triumphal  march  ;  her 
course  has  been  a  perpetual  ovation.  Thousands 
have  been  watching  her  with  eager  eyes,  and  ap- 
plauding each  successful  step,  while  she,  all  un- 
conscious of  their  gaze,  holding  on  to  the  slender 
thread,  and  feeling  her  way  along,  has  advanced 
with  faith  and  courage  towards  those  who  awaited 
her  with  trembling  hope.  Nothing  shows  more 
than  her  case  the  importance  which,  despite  their 

596 


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useless  waste  of  human  life  and  human  capacity, 
men  really  attach  to  a  human  soul.  They  owe  to 
her  something  for  furnishing  an  opportunity  of 
showing  how  much  goodness  their  is  in  them ; 
for  surely  the  way  in  which  she  has  been  regarded 
is  creditable  to  humanity. 

BRONTE,    CHARLOTTE, 

Known  to  the  literary  world  as  Cdreer  Bell, 
author  of  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  "Shirley,"  has  won 
a  wide  celebrity,  and  deserves,  for  her  original 
genius,  a  high  place  among  living  female  writers, 
she  is  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Bronte,  who  holds  the  livings  of  Haworth  and 
Bradford,  in  Yorkshire.  Miss  Bronte  has  been 
engaged  in  what  we  consider  the  noblest  pursuit 
of  woman  —  she  has  been  an  instructress.  To 
judge  from  the  hints  scattered  through  her  works, 
she  is  an  excellent  teacher,  or  rather  was,  for  her 
days  of  governessing  are  now  over.  Residing 
with  her  father,  she  devotes  herself  to  literary 
pursuits.  Like  Minerva  of  old,  Miss  Bronte  burst 
forth  on  the  world  complete  for  her  part ;  her  first 
work  placed  her  among  celebrated  novel  writers. 
Yet  we  hope  she  has  better  and  holier  treasures  of 
wisdom  yet  in  store  for  those  who  will  eagerly  read 
whatever  falls  from  her  pen.  To  make  our  mean- 
ing clear,  we  will  briefly  but  candidly  express  our 
opinion  of  her  novels. 

Perhaps  no  work  of  fiction  has,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  so  fastened  on  its  readers,  or  taken 
so  large  a  place  in  public  estimation,  as  "Jane 
Eyre."  Vigour,  animation,  originality,  an  inte- 
rest that  never  flags,  must  be  conceded  to  it ;  the 
style  is  far  from  being  invulnerable  to  criticism, — 
yet  it  has  its  own  charm :  its  faults  are  often  such 
as  "true  critics  would  not  mend,"  imparting  a 
piquancy  and  individuality  to  the  narrative.  We 
do  not  reckon  among  these  "  failings  that  lean  to 
virtue's  side,"  certain  Gallicisms  that  occasionally 
appear,  being  decidedly  opposed  to  all  "  confusion 
of  tongues."  But  the  hero  of  this  book,  Mr. 
Rochester,  is  a  personage  utterly  distasteful  and 
disagreeable.  We  are  told  of  his  fine  eyes,  and 
good  understanding  —  the  last  is,  however,  never 
exhibited  in  action ;  and  except  these,  no  beauty, 
moral  or  physical,  is  anywhere  attributed  to  him. 
We  are  not  so  "  superfluous"  as  to  require  a  rea- 
son for  Jane's  falling  in  love  with  him  —  we  will 
grant  the  power  of  the  blind  god  to  inspire  an  in- 
genuous girl  of  eighteen  with  a  passion  for  a 
coarse,  rude,  unamiable,  ill-looking,  blase  roue  of 
forty ;  but  the  sort  of  feeling  she  is  described  as 
entertaining  for  Mr.  Rochester  is  altogether  un- 
natural, impossible, — and  if  it  were  possible, 
would  be  revolting.  Any  true  sentiment  of  love 
must  naturally  be  confiding,  more  especially  in 
the  breast  of  an  unsophisticated  young  woman ; 
here  we  have  a  girl  singularly  ignorant  of  life, 
whose  knowledge  of  her  own  sex  has  been  limited 
to  the  uniformly  moulded  habits  of  inexperienced 
school-girls,  whose  knowledge  of  man  has  been 
entirely  derived  from  books,  whose  knowledge 
of  books  has  been  taken  chiefly  from  those  of  a 
didactic  nature; — we  see  this  damsel,  at  the  very 
moment  of  receiving  her  lover's  vows  in  all  their 


freshness,  —  very  coolly  reducing  them  to  the  most 
frigid  standard  of  reasoning,  and  seriously  pre- 
dicting to  him  how  all  this  romance  will  gradually 
abate,  and  how  marriage  will  jjrove  a  sedative  to 
his  fervent  affection.  Just  as  a  grandmother  might 
have  wished  to  moderate  the  too  great  enthusiasm 
of  youtliful  expectation,  by  taking  the  pencil  of 
sage  experience  to  sketch  the  brevity  of  human 
passion. 

As  to  the  chapters  which  immediately  follow 
Mr.  Rochester's  most  singularly  managed  declara- 
tion of  love,  they  have  the  air  of  being  a  contribu- 
tion from  some  male  friend  —  and  one,  we  must 
add,  who  has  been  not  much  accustomed  to  the 
society,  and  habits  of  thought,  of  refined  women. 
Unprincipled  men  have  been  known  to  attempt  a 
seduction,  or  failing  in  this,  to  propose  marriage 
to  their  intended  victims  ;  the  author  of  this  book 
has  devised  a  scheme  of  entire  originality;  Mr. 
Rochester  ofi"ers  marriage,  and  when  that  cannot 
be  accomplished,  deliberately  tries  to  undermine 
the  principles,  and  sacrifice  the  reputation  of  the 
woman  he  professes  to  love.  Jane  Eyre  is  a  book 
which  has  fascinated  so  many  young  readers,  and 
is  written  with  such  power,  that  we  deem  it  right 
to  censure  most  unsparingly  the  perverse  sophis- 
tications it  contains.  Mr.  Rochester's  infamous  de- 
signs, instead  of  inspiring  Jane  with  resentment, 
are  looked  upon  as  excusable,  and  as  resulting 
from  unfortunate  circumstances.  Is  virtue  then 
to  lose  her  essence,  under  any  circumstances  ?  Is 
it  not  the  very  condition  of  her  nature  to  support 
extraordinary  trials  —  and  be  virtue  still ! 

Mr.  Rochester  had  in  youth  made  a  sordid  mar- 
riage of  convenience,  in  which  his  heart  was  not  at 
all  engaged.  Such  marriages  usually  turn  out  ill ; 
Mr.  Rochester's  proved  of  the  very  worst  sort; 
his  wife  became  a  maniac,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
seclude  her  for  life.  This  state  of  things,  he  con- 
ceived, justified  him  in  spending  his  early  man- 
hood in  a  course  of  avowed  immorality  and  con- 
tinual dissipation.  The  gratifications  of  vice  are 
palling;  tired  of  opera-dancers,  he  felt  himself 
permitted  to  try  a  new  ci'ime,  —  to  ruin  the  cha- 
racter and  principles  of  an  innocent  young  girl, 
placed  under  the  protection  of  his  roof  by  circum- 
stances. All  this  he  explains  in  a  way,  that  ap- 
pears to  convince  Jane  that  he  is  rather  more  to 
be  pitied  than  condemned.  And  yet  she  did  not 
fall :  the  author  has  here  shown  wonderful  power 
in  depicting  the  struggle  of  .Jane,  not  only  with 
the  ungovernable  passions  of  Mr.  Rochester,  but 
also  with  her  own  deep,  heart-enthralling  love  for 
him.  The  pure  instinct  of  virtue  did  not  fail  her ; 
and  as  a  discriminating  critic  of  her  own  coun- 
try has  remarked: — She  was,  in  that  trial,  "a 
noble,  high-souled  woman,  bound  to  us  by  the 
reality  of  her  sorrow,  and  yet  raised  above  us  by 
the  strength  of  her  will,  she  stands  in  actual  life 
before  us.  If  this  be  Jane  Eyre,  the  author  has 
done  her  injustice  hitherto,  not  we.  Look  at  her 
in  the  first  recognition  of  her  sorrow  after  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  mai'riage.  True,  it  is  not  the 
attitude  of  a  Christian,  who  knows  that  all  things 
work  together  for  good  to  those  who  love  God, 
but  it  is  a  splendidly  drawn  picture  of  a  natural 

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heart,  of  high  power,  intense  feeling,  and  fine  reli- 
gious instinct,  falling  prostrate,  but  not  grovelling 
before  the  tremendous  blast  of  sudden  affliction." 

Among  the  other  characters  of  this  work  are 
some  very  excellent  and  well  sketched, — that  of 
Miss  Temple  is  perfectly  charming, — and  many 
touches  in  Helen  Burns  are  exquisite. — As  to  the 
"  fine  people"  assembled  at  Thomfield,  they  may 
be  accurate  delineations  of  British  gentry ;  very 
certainly  they  do  in  no  respect  accord  with  our 
cis- Atlantic  ideas  of  high-bred  men  and  women. 
In  these  conversational  matters,  however,  every 
age  and  every  nation  has  its  own  laws:  —  "AVhat 
can  we  reason  but  from  what  we  know?"  An  au- 
thor can  merely  describe  as  to  manners  and  cus- 
toms what  is  proper  to  his  own  country.  An 
American  writer  would  be  very  ridiculous  were 
she  to  describe  a  young  lady  of  fashion,  or  of 
no  fashion  in  a  "  morning-robe  of  sky-blue  crape, 
and  a  gauzy  scarf  twisted  in  her  hair,"  hectoring 
her  mother,  and  assuming  the  rude  school-boy 
style  of  conversation,  in  which  Miss  Ingram  in- 
dulges ;  but  it  may  be  that  "  they  do  these  things 
difiTerently  in  England." 

After  passing  censure  which  seemed  due,  upon 
what  is  unsound  in  Jane  Eyre,  we  are  happy  to 
notice  a  very  commendable  portion  of  the  book, 
a  digression  certainly  from  the  story,  but  in  itself 
tending  to  utility,  admirably  conceived  and  per- 
fectly well  executed  :  this  is  the  episode  of  her 
school  in  the  parish  of  St.  John  Rivers.  Works 
enough  we  have,  and  to  spare,  upon  education,  the 
education  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  polishing 
and  strengthening  "the  Corinthian  columns."  — 
Miss  Bront4  gives  us  a  homely  sketch  of  what  may 
be  effected  by  an  intelligent  woman,  in  awakening 
the  torpidity  of  those  classes  of  her  sex  to  whom 
knowledge  has  but  few  opportunities  of  "  unroll- 
ing her  ample  page."  She  shows,  that  there  are 
things  besides  a  little  learning,  the  germs  of 
which  lie  in  every  female  bosom,  as  well  in  that 
of  the  rural  milkmaid,  as  in  hers  who  is  the  cyno- 
sure of  the  opera-box  —  things  which  by  a  little 
timely  culture,  will  embellish  the  cottage  as  well 
as  the  castle,  —  "  make  the  rough  paths  of  peevish 
nature  even,  and  open  in  each  breast  a  little 
heaven."  Order,  industry,  neatness,  courtesy,  and 
kindness  of  spirit,  are  suitable  to  all  conditions  of 
life,  and  may  be  inculcated  with,  or  without  "  the 
useful  and  ornamental  branches  of  an  English 
education."  This  moral  of  Jane  Eyre  has  already 
produced  good  results ;  we  find  subsequent  think- 
ers are  turning  their  attention  to  this  very  point, 
and  the  next  step,  we  hope,  will  be  for  the  doers  to 
act  upon  it.  The  female  sex  must  be  educated, 
and  become  fit  for  educators,  before  the  world  will 
make  much  progress  in  moral  wisdom. 

"  Shirley"  is  quite  exempt  from  the  serious 
faults  of  "Jane  Eyre."  We  consider  it  a  more 
valuable  work.  It  has  not  the  like  intense  inte- 
rest which  makes  it  difficult  to  lay  it  aside  till  it 
is  finished;  it  has  some  superfluous  personages 
whose  portraits  are  but  incumbrances;  yet  it  is 
replete  with  wit,  has  much  original  and  striking 
thought,  and  is  written  with  a  free,  bold  spirit, 
that  charms  by  its  spontaneous  vigour.     The  thi-ee 


curates  are  capitally  described.  Shirley  herself, 
though  a  fine,  spirited,  sensible  woman,  is  rather 
too  "mannish;"  but  Caroline  is  charming,  and 
has  only  that  fault  which  is  common  to  all  Miss 
Bronte's  heroines,  submitting  to  too  much  indig- 
nity from  her  lover.  Is  this  a  Yorkshire  or  an 
English  characteristic  of  young  women  ? 

Miss  Bronte  cannot  be  too  highly  praised  for 
her  power  of  describing  natural  aspects  of  the 
country.  It  is  what  many  aim  at,  and  what  hard- 
ly any  one  succeeds  in  accomplishing.  In  general, 
such  pictures  are  vague  and  unreadable ;  but  her 
landscapes  and  atmospheres  are  with  you;  you  see 
them,  feel  them,  and  are  also  affected  by  them. 

From  "  Jane  Eyre." 
lOWOOD    SCENERY. 

But  the  privations',  or  rather  the  hardships,  of 
Lowood  lessened.  Spring  drew  on  ;  she  was,  in- 
deed, already  come ;  the  frosts  of  winter  had 
ceased  ;  its  snows  were  melted  ;  its  cutting  winds 
ameliorated.  My  wretched  feet,  flayed  and  swell- 
ed to  lameness  by  the  sharp  air  of  January,  began 
to  heal  and  subside  under  the  gentler  breathings 
of  April.  The  nights  and  mornings  no  longer,  by 
their  Canadian  temperature,  froze  the  very  blood 
in  our  veins  ;  we  could  now  endure  the  play-hour 
passed  in  the  garden.  Sometimes,  on  a  sunny 
day,  it  began  even  to  be  pleasant  and  genial ;  and 
a  greenness  grew  over  those  brown  beds  which, 
freshening  daily,  suggested  the  thought  that  Hope 
traversed  them  at  night,  and  left  each  morning 
brighter  traces  of  her  steps.  Flowers  peeped  out 
among  the  leaves  —  snowdrops,  crocuses,  purple 
auriculas,  and  golden-eyed  pansies.  On  Thurs- 
day afternoons  (half  holydays)  we  now  took  Avalks, 
and  found  still  sweeter  flowers  opening  by  the 
wayside,  under  the  hedges. 

I  discovered,  too,  that  a  great  pleasure  —  an 
enjoyment  which  the  horizon  only  bounded  —  lay 
all  outside  the  high  and  spike-guarded  walls  of  our 
garden.  This  pleasure  consisted  in  a  prospect  of 
noble  summits  girding  a  great  hill-hollow,  rich  in 
verdure  and  shadow ;  in  a  bright  beck,  full  of 
dark  stones  and  sparkling  eddies.  How  different 
had  this  scene  looked  when  I  viewed  it  laid  out 
beneath  the  iron  sky  of  winter,  stiffened  in  frost, 
shrouded  with  snow  —  when  mists  as  still  as  death 
wandered  to  the  impulse  of  east  winds  along  those 
purple  peaks,  and  rolled  down  "  ing"  and  holm 
till  they  blended  with  the  frozen  fog  of  the  beck ! 
That  beck  itself  was  then  a  torrent,  turbid  and 
curbless ;  it  tore  asunder  the  wood,  and  sent  a 
raving  sound  throvigh  the  air,  often  thickened  with 
wild  rain  or  whirling  sleet;  and  for  the  forest  on 
its  banks,  that  showed  only  ranks  of  skeletons. 

April  advanced  to  May.  A  bright,  serene  May 
it  was  ;  days  of  blue  sky,  placid  sunshine,  and  soft 
western  or  southern  gales  filled  up  its  duration. 
And  now  vegetation  matured  with  vigour :  Lo- 
wood shook  loose  its  tresses ;  it  became  all  green, 
all  flowery ;  its  great  elm,  ash,  and  oak  skeletons 
were  restored  to  majestic  life ;  woodland  plants 
sprung  up  profusely  in  its  recesses  ;  unnumbered 
varieties  of  moss  filled  its  hollows  ;  and  it  made  a 
strange  ground-sunshine  out  of  the  wealth  of  its 

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wild  primrose  plants ;  I  have  seen  their  pale  gold 
gleam,  in  overshadowed  spots,  like  scatterings  of 
the  sweetest  lustre.  All  this  I  enjoyed  often  and 
fully,  free,  unwatched,  and  almost  alone ;  for  this 
unwonted  liberty  and  pleasure  there  was  a  cause, 
to  which  it  now  becomes  my  task  to  advert. 

THE    MEETING. 

The  ground  was  hard,  the  air  was  still,  my  road 
was  lonely;  I  walked  fast  till  I  got  warm,  and 
then  I  walked  slowly  to  enjoy  and  analyze  the  spe- 
cies of  pleasure  brooding  for  me  in  the  hour  and 
situation.  It  was  three  o'clock;  the  church-bell 
tolled  as  I  passed  under  the  belfry:  the  charm  of 
the  hour  lay  in  its  approaching  dimness,  in  the 
low-gliding  and  pale-beaming  sun.  I  was  a  mile 
from  Thornfield,  in  a  lane  noted  for  wild  roses  in 
summer,  for  nuts  and  blackberries  in  autumn,  and 
even  now  possessing  a  few  coral  treasures  in  hips 
and  haws  ;  but  whose  best  winter  delight  lay  in  its 
utter  solitude  and  leafless  repose.  If  a  breath  of 
air  stirred,  it  made  no  sound  here  ;  for  there  was 
not  a  holly,  not  an  evergreen  to  rustle,  and  the 
stripped  hawthorn  and  hazel  bushes  were  as  still 
as  the  white,  worn  stones  which  causewayed  the 
middle  of  the  path.  Far  and  wide,  on  each  side, 
there  were  only  fields,  where  no  cattle  now  browsed ; 
and  the  little  brown  birds  which  stirred  occasion- 
ally in  the  hedge  looked  like  single  russet  leaves 
that  had  forgotten  to  drop. 

This  lane  inclined  up-hill  all  the  way  to  Hay : 
having  reached  the  middle,  I  sat  down  on  a  stile 
which  led  thence  into  a  field.  Gathering  my  man- 
tle about  me  and  sheltering  my  hands  in  my  muif, 
I  did  not  feel  the  cold,  though  it  froze  keenly  —  as 
was  attested  by  a  sheet  of  ice  covering  the  cause- 
way, where  a  little  brooklet,  now  congealed,  had 
overflowed  after  a  rapid  thaw  some  days  since. 
From  my  seat  I  could  look  down  on  Thornfield : 
the  grey  and  battlemented  hall  was  the  principal 
object  in  the  vale  below  me ;  its  woods  and  dark 
rookery  rose  against  the  west.  I  lingered  till  the 
sun  went  down  among  the  trees,  and  sunk  crim- 
son and  clear  behind  them.     I  turned  eastward. 

On  the  hill-top  above  me  sat  the  rising  moon ; 
pale  yet  as  a  cloud,  but  brightening  momently ; 
she  looked  over  Hay,  which,  half  lost  in  trees, 
sent  up  a  blue  smoke  from  its  few  chimneys ;  it 
was  yet  a  mile  distant,  but  in  the  absolute  hush  I 
could  hear  plainly  its  thin  murmurs  of  life.  My 
ear,  too,  felt  the  flow  of  currents;  in  what  dales 
and  depths  I  could  not  tell :  but  there  were  many 
hills  beyond  Hay,  and  doubtless  many  becks  thread- 
ing their  passes.  That  evening-calm  betraye'd  alike 
the  tinkle  of  the  nearest  streams,  the  sough  of  the 
most  remote. 

A  rude  noise  broke  on  these  fine  ripplings  and 
whisperings,  at  once  so  far  away  and  so  clear :  a 
positive  tramp,  tramp ;  a  metallic  clatter,  which 
effaced  the  soft  wave-wanderings ;  as,  in  a  pic- 
ture, the  solid  mass  of  a  crag,  or  the  rough  boles 
of  a  great  oak,  drawn  in  dark  and  strong  on  the 
foreground,  eft'ace  the  aerial  distance  of  azure  liill, 
sunny  horizon  and  blended  clouds,  where  tint 
melts  into  tint. 

The  din  was  on  the  causeway :   a   horse   was 


coming ;  the  windings  of  the  lane  yet  hid  it,  but 
it  approached.  I  was  just  leaving  the  stile ;  yet 
as  the  path  was  narrow,  I  sat  ietill  to  let  it  go  by. 
In  those  days  I  was  young,  and  all  sorts  of  fancies, 
bright  and  dark,  tenanted  my  mind :  the  memo- 
ries of  nursery  stories  were  there  among  other  rub- 
bish ;  and  when  they  recurred,  maturing  youth 
added  to  them  a  vigour  and  vividness  beyond  what 
childhood  could  give.  As  this  horse  approached, 
and  as  I  watched  for  it  to  appear  through  the  dusk, 
I  remembered  certain  of  Bessie's  tales  wherein 
figured  a  North  of  England  spirit,  called  a  "  Gy- 
trash ;"  which,  in  the  form  of  horse,  mule,  or 
large  dog,  haunted  solitary  ways,  and  sometimes 
came  upon  belated  travellers,  as  this  horse  was 
now  coming  upon  me. 

It  was  very  near,  but  not  yet  in  sight,  when,  in 
addition  to  the  tramp,  tramp,  I  heard  a  rush  un- 
der the  hedge,  and  close  down  by  the  hazel  stems 
glided  a  great  dog,  whose  black  and  white  colour 
made  him  a  distinct  object  against  the  trees.  It 
was  exactly  one  mask  of  Bessie's  "  Gytrash"  —  a 
lion-like  creature  with  long  hair  and  a  huge  head : 
it  passed  me,  however,  quietly  enough ;  not  stay- 
ing to  look  up,  with  strange  pretercanine  eyes,  in 
my  face,  as  I  half  expected  it  would.  The  horse 
followed  —  a  tall  steed,  and  on  its  back  a  rider. 
The  man,  the  human  being,  broke  the  spell  at 
once.  Nothing  ever  rode  the  "Gytrash:"  it  was 
always  alone ;  and  goblins,  to  my  notions,  though 
they  might  tenant  the  dumb  carcasses  of  beasts, 
could  scarce  covet  shelter  in  the  common-place 
human  form.  No  "Gytrash"  was  this — only  a 
traveller  taking  the  short  cut  to  Millcote.  He 
passed,  and  I  went  on ;  a  few  steps,  and  I  turned : 
a  sliding  sound  and  an  exclamation  of  "What  the 
deuce  is  to  do  now  ?"  and  a  clattering  tumble  ar- 
rested my  attention.  Man  and  horse  were  down ; 
they  had  slipped  on  the  sheet  of  ice  which  glazed 
the  causeway.  The  dog  came  bounding  back,  and 
seeing  his  master  in  a  predicament,  and  hearing 
the  horse  groan,  barked  till  the  evening  hills 
echoed  the  sound ;  which  was  deep  in  proportion 
to  his  magnitude.  He  snuffed  round  the  prostrate 
group,  and  then  he  ran  up  to  me ;  it  was  all  he 
could  do  —  there  was  no  other  help  at  hand  to 
summon.  I  obeyed  him,  and  walked  down  to  the 
traveller,  by  this  time  struggling  himself  free  of 
his  steed.  His  efforts  were  so  vigorous,  I  thought 
he  could  not  be  much  hurt ;  but  I  asked  him  the 
question  — 

"  Are  you  injured,  sir?" 

I  think  he  was  swearing,  but  am  not  certain ; 
however,  he  was  pronouncing  some  formula  which 
prevented  him  from  replying  to  me  directly. 

"  Can  I  do  anything?"  I  asked  again. 

"You  must  just  stand  on  one  side,"  he  an- 
swered, as  he  rose  first  to  his  knees,  and  then  to 
his  feet.  I  did ;  whereupon  began  a  heaving, 
stamping,  clattering  process,  accompanied  by  a 
barking  and  baying,  which  removed  me  effectually 
some  yards  distance :  but  I  would  not  be  driven 
quite  away  till  I  saw  the  event.  This  was  finally 
fortunate ;  the  horse  was  re-established,  and  the 
dog  was  silenced  with  a  "Down,  Pilot!"  The 
traveller  now  stooping,  felt  his  foot  and  leg,  as  if 

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trying  whether  they  were  sound ;  apparently  some- 
thing ailed  them,  for  he  halted  to  the  stile  whence 
I  had  just  risen,  and  sat  down. 

I  was  in  the  mood  for  being  useful,  or  at  least 

officious,  I  think,  for  I  now  drew  near  him  again. 

"  If  you  are  hurt,  and  want  help,  sir,  I  can  fetch 

some  one,  either  from    Thornfield  Hall  or   from 

Hay." 

"Thank  you;  I  shall  do:  I  have  no  broken 
bones  —  only  a  sprain;"  and  again  he  stood  up 
and  tried  his  foot,  but  the  result  extorted  an  invo- 
luntary "  Ugh  !" 

Something  of  daylight  still  lingered,  and  the 
moon  was  waxing  bright;  I  could  see  him  plainly. 
His  figure  was  enveloped  in  a  riding-cloak,  fur- 
collared,  and  steel-clasped;  its  details  were  not 
apparent,  but  I  traced  the  general  points  of  mid- 
dle height,  and  considerable  breadth  of  chest.  He 
had  a  dark  face,  with  stern  features  and  a  heavy 
brow ;  bis  eyes  and  gathered  eyebrows  looked  ire- 
ful and  thwarted  just  now ;  he  was  past  youth, 
but  had  not  reached  middle  age  :  perhaps  he  might 
be  thirty-five.  I  felt  no  fear  of  him,  and  but  little 
shyness.  Had  he  been  a  handsome,  heroic-look- 
ing young  gentleman,  I  should  not  have  dared  to 
stand  thus  questioning  him  against  his  will,  and 
oflfering  my  services  unasked.  I  had  hardly  ever 
seen  a  handsome  youth  ;  never  in  my  life  spoken 
to  one.  I  had  a  theoretical  reverence  and  homage 
for  beauty,  elegance,  gallantry,  fascination ;  but 
had  I  met  those  qualities  incarnate  in  masculine 
shape,  I  should  have  known  instinctively  that  they 
neither  had  nor  could  have  sympathy  with  any- 
thing in  me,  and  should  have  shunned  them  as  one 
would  fire,  lightning,  or  any  thing  else  that  is 
bright  but  antipathetic. 

If  even  this  stranger  had  smiled  and  been  good- 
humoured  to  me  when  I  addressed  him  ;  if  he  had 
put  off  my  offer  of  assistance  gayly  and  with 
thanks,  I  should  have  gone  on  my  way  and  not 
felt  any  vocation  to  renew  enquiries ;  but  the 
frown,  the  roughness  of  the  traveller  set  me  at  my 
ease ;  I  retained  my  station  when  he  waved  me  to 
go,  and  announced — 

"  I  cannot  think  of  leaving  you,  sir,  at  so  late 
an  hour,  in  this  solitary  lane,  till  I  see  you  are  fit 
to  mount  your  horse." 

He  looked  at  me  when  I  said  this :  he  had  hard- 
ly turned  his  eyes  in  my  direction  before. 

"  I  should  think  you  ought  to  be  at  home  your- 
self," said  he,  "  if  you  have  a  home  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood ;  where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  just  below;  and  I  am  not  at  all  afraid 
of  being  out  late  when  it  is  moonlight :  I  will  run 
over  to  Hay  for  you  with  pleasure,  if  you  wish 
it — indeed,  I  am  going  there  to  post  a  letter." 

"You  live  just  below  —  do   you  mean  at  that 
house  with  the  battlements?"  pointing  to  Thorn- 
field  Hall,  on  which  the  moon  cast  a  hoary  gleam, 
bringing  it  out  distinct  and  pale  from  the  woods, 
that,    by   contrast   with    the    western    sky,    now 
seemed  one  mass  of  shadow. 
"  Yes,  sir." 
"  Whose  house  is  it?" 
"  Mr.  Rochester's." 
"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Rochester?" 


"  No,  I  have  never  seen  him." 

"  He  is  not  resident  then?" 

"No." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  he  is  ?" 

"  I  can  not." 

"  You  are  not  a  servant  at  the  Hall,  of  course? 
You  are  — "  He  stopped,  ran  his  eye  over  my 
dress,  which  as  usual,  was  quite  simple :  a  black 
merino  cloak,  a  black  beaver  bonnet ;  neither  of 
them  half  fine  enough  for  a  lady's  maid.  He 
seemed  puzzled  to  decide  what  I  was :  I  helped  him. 

"I  am  the  governess!" 

"Ah,  the  governess!"  he  repeated;  "deuce 
take  me  if  I  had  not  forgotten  !  The  governess !" 
and  again  my  raiment  underwent  scrutiny. 

THE    PARTING. 

"  I  used  to  enjoy  a  chance  meeting  with  you, 
Jane,"  said  Mr.  Rochester,  "  at  tbis  time ;  there 
was  a  curious  hesitation  in  your  manner ;  you 
glanced  at  me  with  a  slight  trouble  —  a  hovering 
doubt ;  you  did  not  know  what  my  caprice  might 
be  —  whether  I  was  going  to  play  the  master,  and 
be  stern — or  the  friend,  and  be  benignant.  I 
was  now  too  fond  of  you  often  to  stimulate  the 
first  whim ;  and,  when  I  stretched  my  hand  out 
cordially,  such  bloom,  and  light,  and  bliss  rose  to 
your  young,  wistful  features,  I  had  much  ado 
often  to  avoid  straining  you  then  and  there  to  my 
heart." 

"  Don't  talk  any  more  of  those  days,  sir,"  I  in- 
terrupted, furtively  dashing  away  some  tears  from 
my  eyes  :  his  language  was  torture  to  me ;  for  I 
knew  what  I  must  do  —  and  do  soon  —  and  all 
these  reminiscences,  and  these  revelations  of  his 
feelings,  only  made  my  work  more  difficult. 

"No,  Jane,"  he  returned;  "what  necessity  is 
there  to  dwell  on  the  Past,  when  the  Present  is  so 
much  surer  —  the  Future  so  much  brighter?" 
I  shuddered  to  hear  the  infatuated  assertion. 
"You  see  now  how  the  case  stands  —  do  you 
not?"  he  continued.  "After  a  youth  and  man- 
hood, passed  half  in  unutterable  misery  and  half 
in  dreary  solitude,  I  have  for  the  first  time  found 
what  I  can  truly  love  —  I  have  found  you.  You 
are  my  sympathy — my  better  self — my  good 
angel  —  I  am  bound  to  you  with  a  strong  attach- 
ment. I  think  you  good,  gifted,  lovely ;  a  fervent, 
a  solemn  passion  is  conceived  in  my  heart;  it 
leans  to  you,  draws  you  to  my  centre  and  spring 
of  life,  wraps  my  existence  about  you  —  and  kind- 
ling in  pure  and  powerful  flame,  fuses  you  and  me 
in  one. 

"  It  was  because  I  felt  and  knew  this,  that  I 
resolved  to  marry  you.  To  tell  me  that  I  had  al- 
ready a  wife  is  empty  mockery;  you  know  now 
that  I  had  but  a  hideous  demon.  I  was  wrong  to 
attempt  to  deceive  you ;  but  I  feared  a  stubborn- 
ness that  exists  in  your  character.  I  feared  early 
instilled  prejudice  ;  I  wanted  to  have  you  safe  be- 
fore hazarding  confidences.  This  was  cowardly ; 
I  should  have  appealed  to  your  nobleness  and 
magnanimity  at  first,  as  I  do  now  —  opened  to  you 
plainly  my  life  of  agony — described  to  you  my  hun- 
ger and  thirst  after  a  higher  and  worthier  exist- 
ence —  shown  to  you  not  my  resolution  (that  word  is 

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weak)  but  my  resistless  bent  to  love  faithfully  and 
well,  where  I  am  faithfully  and  well  loved  in  re- 
turn. Then  I  should  have  asked  you  to  accept  my 
pledge  of  fidelity,  and  to  give  me  yours :  Jane  — 
give  it  me  now." 

A  pause. 

"Why  are  you  silent,  Jane?" 

I  was  experiencing  an  ordeal ;  a  hand  of  fiery 
iron  grasped  my  vitals.  Terrible  moment ;  full  of 
struggle,  blackness,  burning !  Not  a  human  be- 
ing that  ever  lived  could  wish  to  be  loved  better 
than  I  was  loved ;  and  him  who  thus  loved  me  I 
absolutely  worshipped:  and  I  must  renounce  love 
and  idol.  One  drear  word  comprised  my  intoler- 
able duty  —  "  Depart !" 

"Jane,  you  understand  what  I  want  of  you? 
Just  this  promise  —  '  I  will  be  yours,  Mr.  Roches- 
ter.' " 

"Mr.  Rochester,  I  will  not  be  youi'S." 

Another  long  silence. 

"Jane!"  recommenced  he,  with  a  gentleness 
that  broke  me  down  with  grief,  and  turned  me 
stone-cold  with  ominous  terror  —  for  this  still  voice 
was  the  pant  of  a  lion  rising — "Jane,  do  you 
mean  to  go  one  way  in  the  world,  and  to  let  me 
go  another!" 

"I  do." 

"  Jane  (bending  toward  and  embracing  me),  do 
you  mean  it  now  ?" 

"I  do." 

"And  now!"  softly  kissing  my  forehead  and 
cheek. 

"  I  do  —  "  extricating  myself  from  restraint  ra- 
pidly and  completely. 

"  Oh,  Jane,  this  is  bitter !  This  —  this  is  wick- 
ed.    It  would  not  be  wicked  to  love  me." 

"  It  would  to  obey  you." 

A  wild  look  raised  his  brows  —  crossed  his  fea- 
tures: he  rose,  but  he  forbore  yet.  I  laid  my 
hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  for  support;  I  shook, 
I  feared  —  but  I  resolved. 

"One  instant,  Jane.  Give  one  glance  to  my 
horrible  life  when  you  are  gone.  All  happiness 
will  be  torn  away  with  you.  What  then  is  left  ? 
For  a  wife  I  have  but  the  maniac  up  stairs ;  as 
well  might  you  refer  me  to  some  corpse  in  yonder 
church-yard.  What  shall  I  do,  Jane?  Where 
turn  for  a  companion,  and  for  hope  ?" 

"  Do  as  I  do  ;  trust  'in  God  and  yourself.  Be- 
lieve in  Heaven.     Hope  to  meet  again  there." 

"  Then  you  will  not  yield  V 

"No." 

"Then  you  condemn  me  to  live  wretched,  and 
to  die  accursed  ?"     His  voice  rose. 

"  I  advise  you  to  live  sinless ;  and  I  wish  you 
to  die  tranquil." 

"  Then  you  snatch  love  and  innocence  from  me  ? 
You  fling  me  back  on  lust  for  a  passion  —  vice  for 
an  occupation  ?" 

"  ]\Ir.  Rochester,  I  no  more  assign  this  fate  to 
you  than  I  grasp  at  it  for  myself.  We  were  born 
to  strive  and  endure  —  you  as  well  as  I;  do  so. 
You  will  forget  me  before  I  forget  you." 

"  You  make  me  a  liar  by  such  language  ;  you 
sully  my  honour.  I  declared  I  could  not  change  ; 
you  tell  me  to  my  face  I  shall  change  soon.     And 


what  a  distortion  in  your  judgment,  what  a  per- 
versity in  your  ideas,  is  proved  by  your  conduct? 
Is  it  better  to  drive  a  fellow-creature  to  despair 
than  to  transgress  a  mere  human  law — no  man 
being  injured  by  the  breach  ?  for  you  have  neither 
relatives  nor  acquaintances  whom  you  need  fear  to 
offend  by  living  with  me." 

This  was  true;  and  while  he  spoke  my  very 
conscience  and  reason  turned  traitors  against  me, 
and  charged  me  vsith  crime  in  resisting  him.  They 
spoke  almost  as  loud  as  feeling,  and  that  clamour- 
ed wildly.  "Oh,  comply!"  it  said.  "  Think  of 
his  misery,  think  of  his  danger,  look  at  his  state 
when  left  alone  ;  remember  his  headlong  nature, 
consider  the  recklessness  following  on  despair; 
soothe  him,  save  him,  love  him  :  tell  him  you  love 
him  and  will  be  his.  Who  in  the  world  cares  for 
you?  or  who  Will  be  injured  by  what  you  do ?" 

Still  indomitable  was  the  reply,  "  /  care  for  my- 
self. The  more  solitary,  the  more  friendless,  the 
more  unsustained  I  am,  the  more  I  will  respect  my- 
self I  will  keep  the  law  given  by  God,  sanctioned 
by  man.  I  will  hold  to  the  principles  received 
by  me  when  I  was  sane,  and  not  mad  —  as  I  am 
now.  Laws  and  principles  are  not  for  the  times 
when  there  is  no  temptation ;  they  are  for  such 
moments  as  this,  when  body  and  soul  rise  in  mu- 
tiny against  their  rigour  :  stringent  are  they  ;  in- 
violate they  shall  be.  If  at  my  individual  conve- 
nience I  might  break  them,  what  would  be  their 
worth  ?  They  have  a  worth,  so  I  have  always 
believed ;  and  if  I  cannot  believe  it  now,  it  is  be- 
cause I  am  insane,  quite  insane,  with  my  veins 
running  fire,  and  my  heart  beating  faster  than  I 
can  count  its  throbs.  Preconceived  opinions,  fore- 
gone determinations,  are  all  I  have  at  this  hour  to 
stand  by  ;  there  I  plant  my  foot." 

I  did.  Mr.  Rochester,  reading  my  countenance, 
saw  I  had  done  so.  His  fury  was  wrought  to  the 
highest ;  he  must  yield  to  it  for  a  moment,  what- 
ever followed  ;  he  crossed  the  floor  and  seized  my 
arm,  and  grasped  my  waist.  He  seemed  to  de- 
vour me  with  his  flaming  glance ;  physically,  I 
felt,  at  the  moment,  powerless  as  stubble  exposed 
to  the  draught  and  glow  of  a  furnace ;  mentally  I 
still  possessed  my  soul,  and  with  it  the  certainty 
of  ultimate  safety.  The  soul,  fortunately,  has  an 
interpreter  —  often  an  unconscious,  but  still  a 
truthful,  interpreter  —  in  the  eye.  My  eye  rose 
to  his,  and  while  I  looked  in  his  fierce  face,  I  gave 
an  involuntary  sigh ;  his  gripe  was  painful,  and 
my  overtasked  strength  almost  exhausted. 

"  Never,"  said  he,  as  he  ground  his  teeth, 
"never  was  any  thing  at  once  so  frail  and  so  in- 
domitable. A  mere  reed  she  feels  in  my  hand ! 
(and  he  shook  me  with  the  force  of  his  hold.)  I 
could  bend  her  with  my  finger  and  thumb,  and 
what  good  would  it  do  if  I  bent,  if  I  uptore,  if  I 
crushed  her  ?  Consider  that  eye ;  consider  the 
resolute,  wild,  free  thing  looking  out  of  it,  defy- 
ing me,  with  more  than  courage,  with  a  stern  tri- 
umph. Whatever  I  do  with  its  cage,  I  cannot  get 
at  it,  the  savage,  beautiful  creature !  If  I  tear,  if 
I  rend  the  slight  prison,  my  outrage  will  only  let 
the  captive  loose.  Conqueror  I  might  be  of  the 
house,   but  the  inmate  would  escape   to  heaven 

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before  I  could  call  myself  possessor  of  its  clay 
dwelling-place.  And  it  is  you,  spirit,  with  will 
and  enei'gy,  and  virtue  and  purity,  that  I  want ; 
not  alone  your  brittle  frame.  Of  yourself,  you 
could  come,  with  soft  flight,  and  nestle  against  my 
heart,  if  you  would  ;  seized  against  your  will,  you 
will  elude  the  grasp  like  an  essence ;  you  will 
vanish  ere  I  inhale  your  fragance.  Oh!  come, 
Jane,  come!" 

As  he  said  this,  he  released  me  from  his  clutch, 
and  only  looked  at  me.  The  look  was  far  worse 
to  resist  than  the  frantic  strain ;  only  an  idiot, 
however,  would  have  succumbed  now.  I  had  dared 
and  baffled  his  fury,  I  must  elude  his  sorrow ;  I 
retired  to  the  door. 

"  You  are  going,  Jane  ?" 
"  I  am  going,  sir." 
"  You  are  leaving  me  ?" 
"  Yes." 

"  You  will  not  come  ?  You  will  not  be  my  com- 
forter, my  rescuer  ?  My  deep  love,  my  wild  woe, 
my  frantic  prayer,  are  all  nothing  to  you  ?" 

What  unutterable  pathos  was  in  his  voice  !    How 
hard  it  was  to  reiterate  firmly,  "  I  am  going." 
"  Jane  !" 

"  Mr.  Rochester." 

"Withdraw,  then,  I  consent;  but  remember, 
you  leave  me  here  in  anguish.  Go  up  to  your  own 
room ;  think  over  all  I  have  said,  and,  Jane,  cast 
a  glance  on  my  sufferings ;  think  of  me." 

He  tui-ned  away,  he  threw  himself  on  his  face 
on  the  sofa.  "  Oh,  Jane  !  my  hope,  my  love,  my 
life !"  broke  in  anguish  from  his  lips.  Then  came 
a  deep,  strong  sob. 

I  had  already  gained  the  door,  but,  reader,  I 
walked  back  —  walked  back  as  determinedly  as  I 
had  retreated.  I  knelt  down  by  him,  I  turned  his 
face  from  the  cushion  to  me ;  1  kissed  his  cheek,  I 
smoothed  his  hair  with  my  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  master,"  I  said. 
"  God  keep  you  from  harm  and  wrong,  direct  you, 
solace  you,  reward  you  well  for  your  past  kindness 
to  me." 

"Little  Jane's  love  would  have  been  my  best 
reward,"  he  answered;  "without  it,  my  heart  is 
broken.  But  Jane  will  give  me  her  love ;  yes, 
nobly,  generously." 

Up  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face ;  forth  flashed 
the  fire  from  his  eyes,  erect  he  sprung,  he  held 
his  arms  out,  but  I  evaded  the  embrace,  and  at 
once  quitted  the  room. 

"  Farewell!"  was  the  cry  of  my  heart,  as  I  left 
him.     Despair  added,  "Farewell,  forever!" 


MARRIED    LIFE. 

I  have  now  been  married  ten  years.  I  know 
what  it  is  to  live  entirely  for  and  with  what  I  love 
best  on  earth.  I  hold  myself  supremely  blessed  — 
blessed  beyond  what  language  can  express ;  be- 
cause I  am  my  husband's  life  as  fully  as  he  is 
mine.  No  woman  was  ever  nearer  to  her  mate 
than  I  am ;  ever  more  absolute  bone  of  his  bone, 
and  flesh  of  his  flesh.  I  know  of  no  weariness  of 
my  Edward's  society ;  he  knows  none  of  mine, 
any  more  than  we  each  do  of  the  pulsation  of  the 


heart  that  beats  in  our  separate  bosoms ;  conse- 
quently, we  are  ever  together.  To  be  together  is 
for  us  to  be  at  once  as  free  as  in  solitude,  as  gay 
as  in  company.  We  talk,  I  believe,  all  day  long ; 
to  talk  to  each  other  is  but  a  more  animated  and 
an  audible  thinking.  All  my  confidence  is  be- 
stowed on  him ;  all  his  confidence  is  devoted  to 
me  ;  we  are  precisely  suited  in  character ;  perfect 
concord  is  the  result. 

From  "  Sliirley." 
SHIRLEY    AND    CAROLINE. 

Shirley  easily  persuaded  Caroline  to  go  with 
her ;  and  when  they  were  fairly  out  on  the  quiet 
road,  traversing  the  extensive  and  solitary  sweep 
of  Nunnely  Common,  she  as  easily  drew  her  into 
conversation.  The  first  feelings  of  diffidence  over- 
come, Caroline  soon  felt  glad  to  talk  with  Miss 
Keeldar.  The  very  first  interchange  of  slight  ob- 
servations sufficed  to  give  each  an  idea  of  what 
the  other  was.  Shii-ley  said  she  liked  the  green 
sweep  of  the  Common  turf,  and,  better  still,  the 
heath  on  its  ridges,  for  the  heath  reminded  her  of 
moors :  she  had  seen  moors  when  she  was  travel- 
ling on  the  borders  of  Scotland.  She  remembered 
particularly  a  district  traversed  one  long  after- 
noon, on  a  sultry  but  sunless  day  in  summer : 
they  journeyed  from  noon  till  sunset,  over  what 
seemed  a  boundless  waste  of  deep  heath,  and 
nothing  had  they  seen  but  wild  sheep ;  nothing 
heard  but  cries  of  the  wild  birds. 

"  I  know  how  the  heath  would  look  on  such  a 
day,"  said  Caroline;  "purple-black:  a  deeper 
shade  of  the  sky-tint,  and  that  would  be  livid." 

"Yes  —  quite  livid,  with  brassy  edges  to  the 
clouds,  and  here  and  there  a  white  gleam,  more 
ghastly  than  the  lurid  tinge,  which,  as  you  looked 
at  it,  you  momentarily  expected  would  kindle  into 
blinding  lightning." 
"Did  it  thunder?" 

"  It  muttered  distant  peals,  but  the  storm  did 
not  break  till  evening,  after  we  had  reached  our 
inn :  that  inn  being  an  isolated  house  at  the  foot 
of  a  range  of  mountains." 

"  Did  you  watch  the  clouds  come  down  over  the 
mountains?" 

"  I  did :  I  stood  at  the  window  an  hour  watch- 
ing them.  The  hills  seemed  rolled  in  a  sullen 
mist,  and  when  the  rain  fell  in  whitening  sheets, 
suddenly  were  blotted  from  the  prospect :  they 
were  washed  from  the  world." 

"  I  have  seen  such  storms  in  hilly  districts  in 
Yorkshire ;  and  at  their  riotous  climax,  while  the 
sky  was  all  cataract,  the  earth  all  flood,  I  have 
remembered  the  Deluge." 

"  It  is  singularly  reviving  after  such  hui-ricanes 
to  feel  calm  return,  and  from  the  opening  clouds 
to  receive  a  consolatory  gleam,  softly  testifying 
that  the  sun  is  not  quenched." 

"  Miss  Keeldar,  just  stand  still  now,  and  look 
down  at  Nunnely  dale  and  wood." 

They  both  halted  on  the  green  brow  of  the  Com- 
mon :  they  looked  down  on  the  deep  valley  robed 
in  May  raiment ;  on  varied  meads,  some  pearled 
with  daisies,  and  some  golden  with  king-cups :  to- 
day all  this  young  verdure  smiled  clear  in  sun- 

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light ;  transparent  emerald  and  amber  gleams  play- 
ed over  it.  On  Nun  wood  —  the  sole  remnant  of 
antique  British  forest  in  a  region  whose  lowlands 
wei'e  once  all  sylvan  chase,  as  its  highlands  were 
breast-deep  heather  —  slept  the  shadow  of  a  cloud ; 
the  distant  hills  were  dappled,  the  horizon  was 
shaded  and  tinted  like  mother-of-pearl ;  silvery 
blues,  soft  purples,  evanescent  greens  and  rose- 
shades,  all  melting  into  fleeces  of  white  cloud, 
pure  as  azury  snow,  allured  the  eye  as  with  a  re- 
mote glimpse  of  heaven's  foundations.  The  air 
blowing  on  the  brow  was  fresh,  and  sweet,  and 
bracing. 

"  Our  England  is  a  bonnie  island,"  said  Shirley, 
"  and  Yorkshire  is  one  of  her  bonniest  nooks." 
"  You  are  a  Yorkshire  girl,  too  ?" 
"  I  am  —  Yorkshire  in  blood  and  birth.  Five 
generations  of  my  race  sleep  under  the  aisles  of 
Briarfield  Church :  I  drew  my  first  breath  in  the 
old  black  hall  behind  us." 

Hereupon  Caroline  presented  her  hand,  which 
was  accordingly  taken  and  shaken.  "We  are 
compatriots,"  said  she. 

***** 
"  Our  power  of  being  happy  lies  a  good  deal  in 
ourselves,  I  believe,"  remarked  Caroline,  sagely. 
"I  have  gone  to  Nunwood  with  a  large  party,  all 
the  curates  and  some  other  gentry  of  these  parts, 
together  with  sundry  ladies ;  and  I  found  the  affair 
insufferably  tedious  and  absurd :  and  I  have  gone 
quite  alone,  or  accompanied  but  by  Fanny,  who 
sat  in  the  woodman's  hut  and  sewed,  or  talked  to 
the  good  wife,  while  I  roamed  about  and  made 
sketches,  or  read ;  and  I  have  enjoyed  much  hap- 
piness, of  a  quiet  kind,  all  day  long.  But  that 
was  when  I  was  young  —  two  years  ago." 

"  Did  you  ever  go  with  your  cousin,  Robert 
Moore  ?" 

"Yes,  once." 

"  AVhat  sort  of  a  companion  is  he  on  these  occa- 
siuns  ?" 

"  A  cousin,  you  know,  is  different  to  a  stranger." 
"  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  cousins,  if  they  are 
stupid,  are  still  more  insupportable  than  strangers, 
because  you  can  not  so  easily  keep  them  at  a  dis- 
tance.    But  your  cousin  is  not  stupid  ?" 
"No;  but—" 
"  Well  ?" 

"If  the  company  of  fools  irritates,  as  you  say, 
the  society  of  clever  men  leaves  its  own  peculiar 
pain  also.  Where  the  goodness  or  talent  of  your 
friend  is  beyond  and  above  all  doubt,  your  own 
worthiness  to  be  his  associate  often  becomes  a 
matter  of  question." 

"  Oh!  there  I  can  not  follow  you:  that  crotchet 
is  not  one  I  should  choose  to  entertain  for  an  in- 
stant. I  consider  myself  not  imworthy  to  be  the 
associate  of  the  best  of  them  —  of  gentlemen,  I 
mean ;  though  that  is  saying  a  great  deal.  Where 
they  are  good,  they  are  vei-y  good,  I  believe.  Your 
uncle,  by-the-by,  is  not  a  bad  specimen  of  the 
elderly  gentleman ;  I  am  always  glad  to  see  his 
brown,  keen,  sensible  old  face,  either  in  my  own 
house,  or  any  other.  Are  you  fond  of  him  ?  Is 
he  kind  to  you?     Now,  speak  the  truth." 

"  He  has  brought  me  up  from  childhood,  I  doubt 


not,  precisely  as  he  would  have  brought  up  his  own 
daughter,  if  he  had  had  one ;  and  that  is  kindness ; 
but  I  am  not  fond  of  him :  I  would  rather  be  out 
of  his  presence  than  in  it." 

"Strange!  when  he  has  the  art  of  making  him- 
self so  agreeable." 

"Yes,  in  company;  but  he  is  stern  and  silent  at 
home.  As  he  puts  away  his  cane  and  shovel-hat 
in  the  rectory-hall,  so  he  locks  his  liveliness  in  his 
bookcase  and  study-desk ;  the  knitted  brow  and 
brief  word  for  the  fireside,  the  smile,  the  jest,  the 
witty  sally,  for  society." 
"  Is  he  tyrannical  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least:  he  is  neither  tyrannical  or 
hypocritical :  he  is  simply  a  man  who  is  rather 
liberal  than  good-natured,  rather  brilliant  than 
genial,  rather  scrupulously  equitable  than  truly 
just;  if  you  can  understand  such  superfine  dis- 
tinctions ?" 

"  Oh !  yes ;  good-nature  implies  indulgence, 
which  he  has  not;  geniality,  warmth  of  heart, 
which  he  does  not  own ;  and  genuine  justice  is 
the  offspring  of  sympathy  and  considerateness,  of 
which,  I  can  well  conceive,  my  bronzed  old  friend 
is  quite  innocent." 

"  I  often  wonder,  Shii-ley,  whether  most  men 
resemble  my  uncle  in  their  domestic  relations  ; 
whether  it  is  necessary  to  be  new  and  unfamiliar 
to  them,  in  order  to  seem  agreeable  or  estimable 
in  their  eyes ;  and  whether  it  is  impossible  to  their 
natures  to  retain  a  constant  interest  and  afi'ection 
for  those  they  see  every  day." 

"I  don't  know;  I  can't  clear  up  your  doubts.  I 
ponder  over  similar  ones  myself  sometimes.  But, 
to  tell  you  a  secret,  if  I  were  convinced  that  they 
are  necessarily  and  universally  different  from  us — 
fickle,  soon  petrifying,  unsympathizing,  I  would 
never  marry.  I  should  not  like  to  find  out  that 
what  I  loved  did  not  love  me,  that  it  was  weary 
of  me,  and  that  whatever  effort  I  might  make  to 
please  would  hereafter  be  worse  than  useless,  since 
it  was  inevitably  in  its  nature  to  change  and  be- 
come indifferent.  That  discovery  once  made,  what 
should  I  long  for  ?  To  go  away — to  remove  from 
a  presence  where  my  society  gave  no  pleasure." 
"  But  you  could  not,  if  you  were  married." 
"No,  I  could  not  —  there  it  is.  I  could  never 
be  my  own  mistress  more.  A  terrible  thought!  — 
it  suffocates  me !  Nothing  irks  me  like  the  idea 
of  being  a  burden  and  a  bore  —  an  inevitable  bur- 
den, a  ceaseless  bore !  Now,  when  I  feel  my  com- 
pany superfluous,  I  can  comfortably  fold  my  iude- 
pendence  round  me  like  a  mantle,  and  drop  my 
pride  like  a  veil,  and  withdraw  to  solitude :  if 
married,  that  could  not  be." 

"  I  wonder  we  don't  all  make  up  our  minds  to 
remain  single,"  said  Caroline:  "we  should,  if  we 
listened  to  the  wisdom  of  experience.  My  uncle 
always  speaks  of  marriage  as  a  burden  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve whenever  he  hears  of  a  man  being  married, 
he  invariably  regards  him  as  a  fool,  or,  at  any 
rate,  as  doing  a  foolish  thing." 

"  But,  Caroline,  men  are  not  all  like  your  uncle ; 
surely  not  —  I  hope  not." 
She  paused  and  mused. 

"  I  suppose  we  each  find  an  exception  in  the 

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one  we  love,  till  we  are  married,"  suggested 
Caroline. 

"I  suppose  so;  and  this  exception  we  believe 
to  be  of  sterling  matei-ials ;  we  fancy  it  like  our- 
selves ;  we  imagine  a  sense  of  harmony.  We  think 
his  voice  gives  the  softest,  truest  promise  of  a 
heart  that  will  never  harden  against  us :  we  read 
in  his  eyes  that  faithful  feeling — affection.  I  don't 
think  we  should  trust  to  what  they  call  passion,  at 
all,  Caroline.  I  believe  it  is  a  mere  fire  of  dry 
sticks,  blazing  up  and  vanishing:  but  we  watch 
him,  and  see  him  kind  to  animals,  to  little  chil- 
dren, to  poor  people.  He  is  kind  to  us,  likewise- 
good,  considerate  :  he  does  not  flatter  women,  but 
he  is  patient  with  them,  and  he  seems  to  be  easy 
in  their  presence,  and  to  find  their  company  genial. 
He  likes  them  not  only  for  vain  and  selfish  reasons, 
but  as  we  like  him  —  because  we  like  him.  Then 
we  observe  that  he  is  just — that  he  always  speaks 
the  truth  — that  he  is  conscientious.  We  feel  joy 
and  peace  when  he  comes  into  a  room :  we  feel 
sadness  and  trouble  when  he  leaves  it.  We  know 
that  this  man  has  been  a  kind  son,  that  he  is  a 
kind  brother ;  will  any  one  dare  to  tell  me  that  he 
will  not  be  a  kind  husband  ?" 

"  My  uncle  would  affirm  it  unhesitatingly.  '  He 
will  be  sick  of  you  in  a  month,'  he  would  say." 

"  Mrs.  Pryor  would  seriously  intimate  the  same." 

"  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Miss  Mann  would  darkly  sug- 
gest ditto." 

"  If  they  are  true  oracles,  it  is  good  never  to 
fall  in  love." 

"Very  good,  if  you  can  avoid  it." 

"  I  choose  to  doubt  their  ti'uth." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  proves  you  are  already 
caught." 

"  Not  I :  but  if  I  were,  do  you  know  what  sooth- 
sayers I  would  consult?" 

"  Let  me  hear." 

"  Neither  man  nor  woman,  elderly  nor  young ; — 
the  little  Irish  beggar  that  comes  barefoot  to  my 
door ;  the  mouse  that  steals  out  of  the  cranny  in 
the  wainscot;  the  bird  that  in  frost  and  snow 
pecks  at  my  window  for  a  crumb ;  the  dog  that 
licks  my  hand  and  sits  beside  my  knee." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  who  was  kind  to 
such  things?" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  whom  such  things 
seemed  instinctively  to  follow,  like,  rely  on  ?" 

"We  have  a  black  cat  and  an  old  dog  at  the 
rectory.  I  know  somebody  to  whose  knee  that 
black  cat  loves  to  climb  ;  against  whose  shoulder 
and  cheek  it  likes  to  purr.  The  old  dog  always 
comes  out  of  his  kennel  and  wags  his  tail,  and 
whines  afi"ectionately  when  somebody  passes." 

"  And  what  does  that  somebody  do  ?" 

"  He  quietly  strokes  the  cat,  and  lets  her  sit 
while  he  conveniently  can,  and  when  he  must  dis- 
turb her  by  rising,  he  puts  her  softly  down,  and 
never  flings  her  from  him  roughly ;  he  always 
whistles  to  the  dog,  and  gives  him  a  caress." 

"  Does  he  ?     It  is  not  Robert  ?" 

"  But  it  is  Robert." 

"  Handsome  fellow!"  said  Shirley,  with  enthu- 
siasm :  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Is  he  not  handsome  ?     Has  he  not  fine  eyes 


and  well-cut  features,  and  a  clear,  princely  fore- 
head ?" 

"He  has  all  that,  Caroline.  Bless  him!  he  is 
both  graceful  and  good." 

"I  was  sure  you  would  see  that  he  was:  when 
I  first  looked  at  your  face,  I  knew  you  would." 

"  I  was  well  inclined  to  him  before  I  saw  him. 
I  liked  him  when  I  did  see  him :  I  admire  him  now. 
There  is  a  charm  in  beauty  for  itself,  Caroline  ; 
when  it  is  blent  with  goodness,  there  is  a  powerful 
charm." 

"  When  mind  is  added,  Shirley." 

"  AVho  can  resist  it?" 

"Remember  my  uncle,  Mesdames  Pryor,  Yorke, 
and  Mann." 

"  Remember  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  of  Egypt! 
He  is  a  noble  being.  I  tell  you  when  they  are  good, 
they  are  the  lords  of  the  creation  —  they  are  the 
sons  of  God.  Moulded  in  their  Maker's  image, 
the  minutest  spark  of  His  spirit  lifts  them  almost 
above  mortality.  Indisputably,  a  great,  good, 
handsome  man  is  the  first  of  created  things." 

"  Above  us?" 

"  I  would  scorn  to  contend  for  empire  with  him 

—  I  would  scorn  it.  Shall  my  left  hand  dispute 
for  precedence  with  my  right  ?  —  shall  my  heart 
quarrel  with  my  pulse  ? — shall  my  veins  be  jealous 
of  the  blood  which  fills  them  ?" 

"  Men  and  women,  husbands  and  wives,  quarrel 
hoi-ribly,  Shirley." 

"Poor  things!  poor,  fallen,  degenerate  things! 
God  made  them  for  another  lot — for  other  feelings." 

"  But  are  we  men's  equals,  or  are  we  not?" 

"Nothing  ever  charms  me  more  than  when  I 
meet  my  superior  —  one  who  makes  me  sincerely 
feel  that  he  is  my  superior." 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  him  ?" 

"I  should  be  glad  to  see  him  any  day:  the 
higher  above  me,  so  much  the  better :  it  degrades 
to  stoop  —  it  is  glorious  to  look  up.  What  frets 
me  is,  that  when  I  try  to  esteem,  I  am  baffled : 
when  religiously  inclined,  there  are  but  false  gods 
to  adore.     I  disdain  to  be  a  Pagan." 

"  Miss  Keeldar,  will  you  come  in?  We  are  here 
at  the  rectory  gates." 

"  Not  to-day  ;  but  to-morrow  I  shall  fetch  you 
to  spend  the  evening  with  me.    Caroline  Helstone 

—  if  you  really  are  what  at  present  to  me  you 
seem  —  you  and  I  will  suit.  I  have  never  in  my 
whole  life  been  able  to  talk  to  a  young  lady  as  I 
have  talked  to  you  this  morning.  Kiss  me  —  and 
good-bye." 

BROWN,  FRAJ^CES, 
Was  born  in  1816,  at  Stranerlar,  in  the  county 
of  Donegal,  Ireland,  Avhere  her  father  was  post- 
master. She  lost  her  eyesight  Avhen  she  was 
eighteen  months  old,  yet,  from  her  assiduity  in 
acquiring  knowledge,  slie  can  compete  with  many 
educated  women  in  attainments.  Iler  poems  are 
considered  very  good ;  and  she  has  received  the  title 
of  "  The  Blind  Poetess  of  Ulster,"  which  awakens 
in  the  popular  mind  of  her  own  country-people 
pity  for  her  misfortune,  and  pride  in  her  fame. 
She  has  herself  given  a  touching  account  of  the 
manner  in  which  she  acquired  her  learning :  her 

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intellectual  taste  was  first  awakened  by  the  preach- 
ing of  the  village  pastor ;  then  she  heard  the  books 
of  children  read  ;  and,  as  her  mind  gained  power, 
the  works  of  Walter  Scott,  ancient  histories,  Burns, 
Pope's  Iliad,  Milton,  Byron,  all  were  read  to  her, 
and  furnished  her  eager  spirit  with  food  for 
thought.  She  was  about  twenty,  when  she  gath- 
ered courage  to  write  to  the  editor  of  the  London 
Athenasum,  enclosing  a  few  of  her  poems;  these 
were  favourably  received,  and  she  became  a  2:)oet. 
She  has  contributed  to  several  periodicals  and 
annuals.  In  18-14,  a  volume  of  hers,  "  The  Star 
of  Attegh^i,  and  other  Poems,"  was  published  in 
London,  with  a  preface,  (probably  by  her  gifted 
publisher,  Edward  Moxon,)  which  truly  says:  — 
"  The  bard  gathers  dignity  from  the  darkness 
amid  which  she  sings,  as  the  darkness  itself  is 
lightened  by  the  song." 

From  the  Vision  of  Schwartz. 

THE    SPANISH    CONQUESTS    IN    AMERICA. 

Whence  came  those  glorious  shadows  ?  —  Say, 

Ye  far  and  nameless  tombs  I 

Ye  silent  cities,  lost  to-day 

Amid  the  forest  glooms  ! 

Is  there  no  echo  in  the  glades, 

Whose  massive  foliage  never  fades, — 

No  voice  among  the  pathless  shades, 

To  tell  of  glory  gone  ? 

Gone  from  faint  memory's  fading  dreams. 

From  shepherd's  tales  and  poet's  themes; 

And  yet  the  bright,  eternal  streams 

Unwasted  still  roll  on, — 

Majestic  as  they  rolled,  before 

A  sail  had  sought,  or  found,  the  shore. 

But  by  those  mighty  rivers,  then. 

What  peaceful  nations  met. 

Among  the  race  of  mortal  men 

Unnamed,  unnumbered  yet  ! 

And  cities  rose  and  temples  shone, 

And  power  and  splendour  graced  the  throne. 

And  autumn's  riches,  freely  strown, 

Repaid  the  peasant's  pains; 

For  homes  of  love  and  shrines  of  prayer 

And  fields  of  storied  fame  were  there. 

And  smiling  landscapes  freshly  fair  — 

The  haunts  of  happy  swains, — 

And  many  a  wide  and  trackless  wild. 

Where  roved  the  farmer's  tameless  child. 


Shades  of  Columbia's  perished  liost  I 

How  shall  a  stranger  tell 

The  deeds  that  glorified  your  coast. 

Before  its  warriors  fell  ? 

Where  sleeps  thy  mountain  muse,  Peru? 

And  Chili's  matchless  hills  of  dew, 

Had  they  no  harp,  to  freedom  true, 

No  bard  of  native  fire, 

To  sing  his  country's  ancient  fame. 

And  keep  the  brightness  of  her  name 

Unfading  as  the  worshipped  flame  ?  — 

The  wealth  of  such  a  lyre 

Outvalues  all  the  blood- bought  ore 

That  e'er  Iberia's  galleons  bore. 

Iberia!  on  thine  ancient  crown 

The  blood  of  nations  lies, 

With  power  to  weigh  thy  glory  down,— 

With  voice  to  pierce  the  skies  ! 

For  written  with  an  iron  pen, 

Upon  the  memories  of  men. 

The  deeds  that  marked  thy  conquest,  then, 

For  evermore  remain:  — 

And  still  the  saddest  of  the  tale 

la  Afric's  wild  and  weary  wail, — 


Though  prelates  spread  the  slaver's  sail,* 
And  forged  the  Negro's  chain  : 
The  curse  of  trampled  liberty 
For  ever  clings  to  thine  and  thee! 


DREAMS    OF    THE    DEAD. 

The  peasant  dreams  of  lowly  love,— 

The  prince  of  courtly  bowers, — 
And  exiles,  through  the  midnight,  rove 

Among  their  native  flowers  ;  — 
But  flowers  depart,  and,  sere  and  chill, 

The  autumn  leaves  are  shed, 
And  roses  come  again  —yet  still, 

Mij  dreams  are  of  the  dead  ! 

The  voices  in  my  slumbering  ear 

Have  woke  tiie  world,  of  old, — 
The  forms  that  in  my  dreams  appear 

Have  mingled  with  the  mould; 
Yet  still  they  rise  around  my  rest. 

In  all  Ibeir  peerless  prime, — 
The  names  by  new-born  nations  blest  — 

The  stars  of  elder  time  ! 

They  come  from  old  and  sacred  piles. 

Where  glory's  ashes  sleep,  — 
From  far  and  long-deserted  aisles, — 

From  desert  or  from  deep,  — 
From  lands  of  ever-verdant  bowers, 

Unstained  by  mortal  tread;  — 
Why  haunt  ye  thus  my  midnight  hours, 

Ye  far  and  famous  dead  ? 

I  have  not  walked  with  you,  on  earth, — 

My  path  is  lone  and  low, — 
A  vale  where  laurels  have  not  birth. 

Nor  classic  waters  flow: 
But  on  the  sunrise  of  my  soul 

Your  mighty  shades  wtre  cast, 
As  cloud-waves  o'er  the  morning  roll,  — 

Bright  children  of  the  past ! 

And  oft,  with  midnight,  I  have  met 

The  early  wise  and  brave, — 
Oh,  ever  great  and  glorious,  yet. 

As  if  there  were  no  grave  ! 
As  if,  upon  their  path  of  dust, 

Had  been  no  tVace  of  tears. 
No  blighted  faith,  no  broken  trust. 

Nor  waste  of  weary  years ! 

But  ah !  my  loved  of  early  days,  — 

How  brightly  still  they  bring 
Upon  my  spirit's  backward  gaze 

The  glory  of  its  spring! 
The  hopes  that  shared  their  timeless  doom 

Keturn,  as  freshly  green 
As  though  the  portals  of  the  tomb 

Had  never  closed  between  ! 

Oh  !  man  may  climb  the  mountain  snows, 

Or  search  the  ocean  wave, — 
But  who  will  choose  to  walk  with  those 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  grave  ?^ 
Yet  when  upon  that  tideless  shore 

His  sweetest  flowers  are  shed. 
The  lonely  dreamer  shrinks  no  more 

From  visions  of  the  dead. 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT, 
Of  England,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
female  poets  of  the  age,  is  still  young,  and  with 
her  habits  of  study,  will  probably  enrich  the 
world  with  many  precious  gems  of  thought,  in  ad- 
dition to  her  works  already  produced.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Barrett,  under  which  she  achieved  her 
poetical  reputation.  In  1846,  she  was  married  to 
Robert  Browning,  a  poet  and  dramatic  writer  of 

*A  bishop  is  said  to  have  suggested  to  the  emperor, 
Charles  the  Fifth,  the  necessity  of  introducing  Negro  ,=lavpn 
into  his  American  colonies. 

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much  celebrity,  author  of  "  Paracelsus"  and  several 
tragedies.  This  gifted  couple,  whose  tastes  as  well 
as  talents  are  congenial,  seem  destined  to  ascend 
together  the  hill  of  Fame.  Mrs.  Browning  is  pro- 
bably more  versed  in  classical  learning,  and  a  more 
complete  scholar,  than  any  of  her  sex  now  living. 
Her  mind  is  also  well  stored  with  general  litera- 
ture :  with  an  energy  and  force  of  character  truly 
rare,  she  brought  out  the  powers  of  her  mind,  and 
cultivated  its  faculties,  during  a  wearying  illness, 
which  confined  her  for  many  years  to  her  apart- 
ment. Shut  out  from  the  influences  of  extei-nal 
nature,  she  surrounded  herself  with  the  flowers 
of  poetry,  and  created  tints  of  the  imagination  to 
give  unfading  radiance  to  a  room  the  sun's  rays 
never  entered.  Mrs.  Browning  enjoys  the  fi-iend- 
ship  and  correspondence  of  many  of  the  most  emi- 
nent men  and  women  of  the  day,  by  whom  she  is 
justly  valued  for  her  abilities  and  excellence. 

She  has  written  in  prose  some  treatises  on  "  The 
Greek  Christian  Poets,"  which  are  said  to  be  ad- 
mirable, and  among  her  friends  her  talents  as  a 
letter-writer  are  quite  celebrated.  Whether  she 
is  destined  to  go  down  to  ijosterity  as  a  grea.t  poet, 
is  a  point  that  will  bear  discussion ;  energy,  learn- 
ing, a  romantic  melancholy  chastened  by  faith, 
and  sincere  piety,  are  found  everywhere  through 
her  works ;  she  also  possesses  an  exuberance  of 
fancy,  and  her  memory  is  stored  with  expressions 
of  the  poets  of  the  highest  stamp.  Do  these  gifts 
constitute  poetry  ? 

"Mrs.  Browning,"  says  a  distinguished  scholar, 
(Rev.  George  W.  Bethune,)  when  commenting  on 
her  poems,  "is  singularly  bold  and  adventurous. 
Her  wing  carries  her,  without  faltering  at  their 
obscurity,  into  the  cloud  and  the  mist,  where  not 
seldom  we  fail  to  follow  her,  but  are  tempted, 
while  we  admire  the  honesty  of  her  enthusiasm,  to 
believe  that  she  utters  what  she  herself  has  but 
dimly  perceived.  Much  of  this,  however,  arises 
from  her  disdain  of  carefulness.  Her  lines  are 
often  rude,  her  rhymes  forced,  from  impatience 
rather  than  affectation  ;  and  for  the  same  reason, 
she  falls  into  the  kindred  fault  of  verboseness, 
which  is  always  obscure.  She  forgets  the  advice 
which  Aspasia  gave  a  young  poet,  '  to  sow  with 
the  hand,  and  not  with  the  bag.'  Her  Greek 
studies  should  have  taught  her  more  sculptor-like 
finish  and  dignity ;  but  the  glowing,  generous  im- 
pulses of  her  woman's  heart  are  too  much  for  the 
discipline  of  the  classics.  Hence  it  is  that  we  like 
her  less  as  a  scholar  than  as  a  woman  ;  for  then 
she  compels  our  sympathy  with  her  high  religious 
faith,  her  love  of  children,  her  delight  in  the  grace- 
ful and  beautiful,  her  revelations  of  feminine  feel- 
ing, her  sorrow  over  the  suffering,  and  her  indig- 
nation against  the  oppressor.  It  is  easy  to  see, 
from  the  melody  of  rhythm  in  •  Cowper's  Grave,' 
and  a  few  shorter  pieces,  that  her  faults  spring  not 
from  inability  to  avoid  them,  if  she  would.  Her 
ear,  like  that  of  Tennyson  (whom  she  resembles 
more  than  any  other  poet),  thirsts  for  a  rc/mw  ; 
and  like  him,  she  indulges  it  to  the  weariness  of 
her  reader.  Her  sonnets,  though  complete  in 
measure,  are  more  like  fragments,  or  unfinished 
outlines ;  but  not  a  few  of  them  are  full  of  vigour. 


Her  verses  must  be  recited ;  none  of  them  could 
be  sung." 

But  if  the  melody  of  rhythm  is  sometimes  want- 
ing in  her  lines,  the  sweet  grace  of  patience,  the 
divine  harmony  of  faith  and  love,  seem  ever  abid- 
ing in  her  soul.  She  is  among  those  women  who 
do  honour  to  their  sex,  and  uplift  the  heart  of  hu- 
manity. Many  of  her  shorter  poems  are  exquisite 
in  their  touches  of  tenderness  and  devotional  pa- 
thos. The  power  of  passion  is  rarely  exhibited, 
in  its  lava-like  flood,  on  her  pure  pages  ;  but  deep 
affection  and  true  piety  of  feeling  meet  us  every- 
where, and  the  sweet,  holy  emotions  of  woman's 
love  are  truthfully  depicted;  and  thus  her  great 
abilities,  guided  by  purity  of  thought,  and  hal- 
lowed by  religious  faith,  are  made  blessings  to  the 
world. 

The  published  works  of  Mrs.  Browning  are: 
"The  Seraphim,"  "Prometheus  Bound,"  "A 
Drama  of  Exile,"  "  The  Romaunt  of  Margaret," 
"Isobel's  Child,"  "Sonnets,"  and  "Miscellaneous 
Poems." 

Her  own  appreciation  of  the  holy  office  of  the 
true  poet,  is  thus  glowingly  expressed  in  the  Pre- 
face to  her  poems.  "  'An  irreligious  poet,'  said 
Burns,  meaning  an  undevotional  one,  '  is  a  mon- 
ster.' An  irreligious  poet,  he  might  have  said,  is 
no  poet  at  all.  The  gravitation  of  poetry  is  up- 
wards. The  poetic  wing,  if  it  move,  ascends. 
AVhat  did  even  the  heathen  Greeks  —  Homer,  ^Es- 
chylus,  Sophocles,  Pindar  ?  Sublimely,  because 
born  poets ;  darkly,  because  born  of  Adam  and 
unrenewed  in  Christ,  their  spirits  wandered  like 
the  rushing  chariots  and  winged  horses,  black  and 
white,  of  their  brother-poet,  Plato,  through  the 
universe  of  Deity,  seeking  if  haply  they  might 
find  Him  :  and  as  that  universe  closed  around  the 
seekers,  not  with  the  transparency  in  which  it 
flowed  first  from  His  hand,  but  opaquely,  as 
double-dyed  with  the  transgression  of  its  sons, — 
they  felt  though  they  could  not  discern  the  God 
beyond,  and  used  the  gesture  though  ignorant  of 
the  language  of  worshipping.  The  blind  eagle 
missed  the  sun,  but  soared  towards  its  sphere. 
Shall  the  blind  eagle  soar  —  and  the  seeing  eagle 
peck  chaff?  Surely  it  should  be  the  gladness  and 
the  gratitude  of  such  as  are  poets  among  us,  that 
in  turning  towards  the  beautiful,  they  may  behold 
the  ti-ue  face  of  God." 

From  the  Drama  of  Exile. 
Adam's  prophecy  of  woman. 

Henceforward,  woman,  rise 
To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  enduring  ill, — 
Of  comforting  for  ill,  and  teaching  good, 
And  reconciling  all  that  ill  and  good 
Unto  the  patience  of  a  constant  hope, — 
Rise  with  thy  daughters  !     If  sin  came  by  thee. 
And  by  sin,  death,  —  the  ransom-righteousness. 
The  heavenly  life  and  compensative  rest 
Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.     If  woe  by  thee 
Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go  forth 
An  angel  of  the  woe  thou  didst  achieve; 
Found  acceptable  to  the  world  instead 
Of  others  of  that  name,  of  whose  bright  steps 
Thy  deed  stripped  bare  the  hills.    Be  satisfied  ; 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through  womanhood — 
Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the  sin; 
'      Some  pang  paid  down  for  some  new  human  life : 

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Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a  life — 

Some  coldness  from  the  guarded  ;  some  mistrust 

From  those  thou  hast  too  well  served ;  from  those  beloved 

Too  loyally,  some  treason  ;  feebleness 

Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  without  ; 

And  pressures  of  an  alien  tyranny, 

With  its  dynastic  reasons  of  larger  bones 

And  stronger  sinews.    But,  go  to  !  thy  love 

Shall  chant  itself  its  own  beatitudes. 

After  its  own  life-working.  —  A  child's  kiss 

Set  on  thy  sighing  lips,  shall  make  thee  glad: 

A  poor  man,  served  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  rich  ; 

An  old  man,  helped  by  thee,  shall  make  thee  strong ; 

Thou  shall  be  served  thyself  by  every  sense 

Of  service  which  thou  renderest.    Such  a  crown 

1  set  upon  thy  head,  —  Christ  witnessing 

With  looks  of  prompting  love  —  to  keep  thee  clear 

Of  all  reproach  against  the  sin  foregone. 

From  all  the  generations  which  succeed. 

THE    SLEEP. 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep."— Psate  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep  — 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this  — 

•'  He  gjveth  His  beloved  sleep  ?" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved  — 

The  poet's  star.luned  harp,  to  sweep  — 
The  senate's  shout  to  patriot  vows  — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows?  — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  fiiith,  all  undisproved  — 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep  — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  I 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !"  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ; 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  '-giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dew  drops  mutely  on  the  hill ; 
His  cloud  above  it'saileth  still. 

Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  reap  I 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ha  !  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man. 

In  such  a  rest  his  heart  to  keop; 
But  angels  say  —  and  through  the  word 

1  ween  their  blessed  smile  is  heard  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep!" 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go, 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  juggler's  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  child-like  on  His  love  repose. 

Who  "  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !" 

And  friends!  —  dear  friends!  —  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  has  gone  from  me. 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep  — 
Let  me,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  I" 


KOMANCE    OF    THE    SWAN's-NEST. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 

'Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow. 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass  ; 
And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow. 

On  her  shining  hair  and  face.   . 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by ; 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow  : 
Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands  all  sleek  and  dripping 

While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone,— 
And  the  smile  she  softly  useth 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech; 
While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooseth 

For  her  future,  within  reach  ! 

Little  Ellie,  in  her  smile 
Choseth  ..."  I  will  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds! 
He  shall  love  me  without  guile; 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's-ncst  among  the  reeds. 

Then,  ay  then,  he  shall  kneel  low. 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him 

Which  shall  seem  to  understand  — 
Till  I  answer  —  '  Rise  and  go ! 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 

Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.' 

Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 

I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  a  7je$  —  I  must  not  say  — 
Nathless,  maiden  brave,  'Farewell'  — 
I  will  trifle  and  dissemble, 

'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.' 

Then  he  will  ride  through  the  hills. 
To  the  wide  worlil,  past  the  river 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong! 
To  make  straight  distorted  wills. 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 

Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet  — 
'  Lo  !  my  master  sends  this  gage. 
Lady,  for  thy  pity  counting  ! 

What  wilt  thou  e.vchange  for  it?' 

And  the  first  lime  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon. 

And  the  second  time  a  glove! 
But  the  third  time  I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer  —  'Pardon  — 

If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run  — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster. 

Till  he  kneelelh  at  my  knee! 
'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son  ! 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master. 

But  O  Love,  I  love  but  thee!' 

He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds 
And  when  soul  tied  by  one  troth. 
Unto  hiin  I  will  discover. 

That  swan's-nest  among  the  reeds." 

Little  Ellie  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly  — 

Tied  her  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe  — 
And  went  homeward  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two, 
607 


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Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  by  the  stream  light-hearted, 

Where  the  osier  pathway  leads  — 
Past  the  boughs  she  stoops,  and  stops! 
Lio!  the  wild  swan  had  deserted  — 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow ! 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever. 

With  his  red-rnan  steed  of  steeds, 
Sooth  I  know  not !  But  I  know 
She  could  show  him  never,  never. 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds! 

THE    mother's    prayer. 

'  Dear  Lord,  dear  Lord  1" 

She  aye  had  prayed  —  (the  heavenly  word. 

Broken  by  an  earthly  sigh!) 
'  Thou,  who  didst  not  erst  deny 

The  mother-joy  to  Mary  mild 

Blessed  in  the  blessed  child  — 

Hearkening  in  meek  babyhood 

Her  cradle-hymn,  albeit  used 

To  all  that  music  interfused 

In  breasts  of  angels  high  and  good  ! 

Oh,  take  not.  Lord,   my  babe  away  — 

Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven, 

The  pretty  baby  thou  hast  given; 

Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 

Around  his  father's  knees,  and  known 

That  he  knew  how  my  love  hath  gone 
From  all  the  world  to  him  ! 

And  how  that  I  shall  shiver,  dim 

In  the  sunshine,  thinking  e'er 

The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair 

Still  cheeks  !  and  feel  at  every  tread     ^ 

His  little  body  which  is  dead 

And  hidden  in  tlie  turfy  fold. 

Doth  make  the  whole  warm  earth  a'cold ! 

0  God  !  I  am  so  young,  so  young  — 

1  am  not  used  to  tears  at  nights 
Instead  of  slumber  —  nor  to  prayer 
With  shaken  lips  and  hands  out-wrung  ! 
Thou  knowest  all  my  prayings  were 

I  bless  thee,  God,  for  past  delights  — 

Thank  God !    I  am  not  used  to  bear 

Hard  thoughts  of  death!    The  earth  doth  cover 

No  face  from  me  of  friend  or  lover! 

And  must  the  first  who  teacheth  me 

The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals,  be 

Mine  own  first-born-beloved?  he 

Who  taught  me  first  this  mother-love? 

Dear  Lord,  who  spreadest  out  above 

Thy  loving  pierced  hands  to  meet 

All  lifted  hearts  with  blessing  sweet, — 

Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart, 

Thou  madest  tender  !    Thou  who  art 

So  happy  in  thy  heaven  alway. 

Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away !" 

THE.  CHILD    AND    THE    'VVATCHER. 

.    Sleep  on,  baby  on  the  floor. 

Tired  of  all  the  playing  — 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That  you  dropp'd  away  in  ; 
On  your  curls'  fair  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely  — 
One  cheek,  push'd  out  by  the  hand. 

Folds  the  dimple  inly. 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure. 
Underneath  the  lids  half-shut 

Slants  the  shining  azure  — 
Open-soul'd  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  lie  and  slumber; 
Nothing  evil  having  done. 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well. 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you? 


Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child. 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth ! 
/smile,  too!  for  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss! 

/shall  sleep,  though  losing! 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross. 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain. 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  all  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  are  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
I  shall  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly  ! 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping  — 
Differing  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder. 
And  in  waking  presently. 

Brighter  to  beholder  — 
Diff'ering  in  this  beside  — 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Your  great  eyes  toward  me  ?) 
That  while  I  you  draw  withal 

From  this  slumber  solely. 
Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy  ! 

WORK    AND    CONTEMPLATION. 

The  woman  singeth  at  her  spinning-wheel 

A  pleasant  song,  ballad  or  barcarolle. 

She  thinketh  of  her  song,  upon  the  whole, 

Far  more  than  of  her  flax ;  and  yet  the  reel 

Is  full,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel. 

With  quick  adjustment,  provident  control. 

The  lines,  too  subtly  twisted  to  unroll, 

Out  to  the  perfect  thread.     1  hence  appeal 

To  the  dear  Christian  church  —  that  we  may  dn 

Our  Father's  business  in  these  temples  mirk, 

So  swift  and  steadfast,  so  intent  and  strong  — 

While  so,  apart  from  toil,  our  souls  pursue 

Some  high,  calm,  spheric  tune  — proving  our  work 

The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  our  song. 

THE    lady's    yes. 

"Yes!"  I  answered  you  last  night; 

"No!"  this  morning.  Sir,  I  say! 
Colours,  seen  by  candle-light, 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  tabors  played  their  best. 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below  — 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest. 
Fit  for  Yes  or  fit  for  JVo.' 

Call  me  false,  or  call  me  free  — 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 

No  man  on  thy  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both  — 
Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo  — 

Wooer  light  makes  fickle  troth  — 
Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you ! 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high! 

Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death- 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies. 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words. 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  he  true  — 
Ever  true  as  wives  of  yore  — 

And  her  Yes,  once  said  to  you. 
Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 

608 


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DISCONTENT. 

Light  human  nature  is  too  lightly  tost 

And  ruffled  without  cause  :  complaining  on  — 

Restless  with  rest  —  until,  heing  overthrown, 

It  learneth  to  lie  quiet.     Let  a  frost 

Or  a  small  wasp  have  crept  to  the  innermost 

Of  our  ripe  peach ;  or  let  the  wilful  sun 

Shine  westward  of  our  window  —  straight  we  run 

A  furlong's  sigh,  as  if  the  world  were  lost. 

But  what  time  through  the  heart  and  through  the  brain 

God  hath  transfixed  us,  —  we,  so  moved  before. 

Attain  to  a  calm  !     Ay,  shouldering  weights  of  pain, 

We  anchor  in  deep  waters,  safe  from  shore  ; 

And  hear,  submissive,  o'er  the  stormy  main, 

God's  chartered  judgments  walk  for  evermore. 


PATIENCE  TAUGHT  BY  NATURE. 

"  O  dreary  life  !"  we  cry,  "  O  dreary  life !" 
And  still  the  generations  of  the  birds 
Sing  through  our  sighing,  and  the  flocks  and  herds 
Serenely  live  while  we  are  keeping  strife 
With  Heaven's  true  purpose  in  us,  as  a  knife 
Against  which  we  may  struggle.    Ocean  girds 
Uuslackened  the  dry  land :  savannah-swards 
Unweary  sweep:  hills  watch,  unworn  ;  and  rife 
Meek  leaves  drop  yearly  from  the  forest-trees, 
To  show,  above,  the  unwasted  stars  that  pass 
Tn  their  old  glory.    O  thou  God  of  old  ! 
Grant  me  some  smaller  grace  than  comes  to  these; 
But  so  much  patience,  as  a  blade  of  grass 
Grows  by  contented  through  the  heat  and  cold. 

CHEERFULNESS    TAUGHT    BY    REASON. 

1  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 
In  this  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no  hope 
Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 
Of  yon  grey  blank  of  sky,  we  might  be  faint 
To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 
Round  our  aspirant  souls.    But  since  the  scope 
Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop 
For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint  ? 
O  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted, — 
And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road  — 
Singing  beside  the  hedge.    What  if  the  bread 
Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 
To  meet  the  flints  ?  —  At  least  it  may  be  said, 
'  Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank  thee,  God  !" 


COWPER  S    GRAVE. 

I  will  invite  thee,  from  thy  envious  herse 

To  rise,  and  'bout  the  world  thy  beams  to  spread, 

That,  we  may  see  there's  brightnesse  in  the  dead. 

Habinston. 
It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown'd 
May  feel  the  heart's  decaying  — 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints 

May  weep  amid  their  praying  — 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness 

As  low  as  silence  languish  ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 
To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

O  poets!  from  a  maniac's  tongue 

Was  pour'd  the  deathless  sincing  ! 
O  Christians!  at  your  cross  of  hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging! 
O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood, 

i'our  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaii'd  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 

Through  dimming  tears  his  story 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell, 

And  darkness  on  the  glory  — 
And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 

And  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face. 

Because  so  broken-hearted. 

20 


He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 

The  poet's  high  vocation. 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

In  meeker  adoration  : 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 

By  wise  or  good  forsaken ; 
Named  softly,  as  the  household  name 

Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken  ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I  learn  to  think  upon  him  ; 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness. 

On  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  him  — 
Who  suffer'd  once  the  madness-cloud 

Towards  His  love  to  blind  him  ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along. 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him  ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shatter'd  brain 

Such  quick  poetic  senses. 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 

Harmonious  influences! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 

His  own  did  calmly  number; 
And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 

Fell  o'er  him  like  a  slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint, 

From  falsehood's  chill  removing. 
Its  women  and  its  men  became 

Beside  him  true  and  loving !  — 
And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

To  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes. 

With  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  blindness  he  remain 'd. 

Unconscious  of  the  guiding. 
And  things  provided  came  without 

The  sweet  sense  of  providing. 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth. 

Though  frenzy  desolated, — 
^or  man  nor  nature  satisfy 

Whom  only  Ood  created ! 

Like  a  sick  child,  that  knoweth  not 

His  mother  while  she  blesses. 
And  droppeth  on  his  burning  brow 

The  coolness  of  her  kisses ; 
That  turns  his  fever'd  eyes  around  — 

"  My  mother!  where's  my  mother?"  — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks 

Could  come  from  any  other!  — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart 

He  sees  her  bending  o'er  him  ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

Th'  unweary  love  she  bore  him  — 
Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 

His  life's  long  fever  gave  him. 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  eyes 

Which  closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus!  oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth 

Could  image  that  awaking. 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant 

Of  seraphs  round  him  breaking  — 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb 

Of  soul  from  body  parted  ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew 

"  My  Saviour !  not  deserted  I" 

Deserted  !  who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

The  cross  in  darkness  rested, 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face 

No  love  was  manifested  ? 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er 

Th'  atoning  drops  averted  — 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul  ■ 

That  one  should  be  deserted  ? 

Deserted  !  God  could  separate 

From  His  own  essence  rather: 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  betw-een 

The  righteous  Son  and  Father  — 

609 


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Yea!  once,  Iinmanuel's  orphan'd  cry 

His  universe  hath  shaken  — 
Went  up  single,  echoless, 

"  -My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy  lips 

Amid  his  lost  creation, 
That  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use 

Those  words  of  desolation  ; 
That  earth's  worst  Frenzies,  marring  liopc, 

Should  mar  not  hope's  fruition  : 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see 

His  rapture,  in  a  vision  ! 


c. 


CAMPBELL,   DOROTHEA  PRIMROSE, 

Is  a  native  of  the  Zetland  or  Shetland  Islands, 
a  group  situated  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  to  the 
north  of  Scotland.  She  was  born  and  resides  at 
Lerwick,  the  capital  of  Shetland,  which  is  the 
only  island  of  much  account  in  the  group.  Here 
Miss  Campbell  made  the  acquaintance  of  Walter 
Scott,  when  he  visited  the  Northern  Isles  in  1814. 
She  was  ■  then  very  yomig,  and  probably,  but  for 
the  advent  of  the  great  magician  into  this  "  UUima 
Thuk"  of  the  olden  times.  Miss  Campbell's  name 
would  never  have  been  heard  beyond  the  boundary 
of  her  own  island  home.  But  his  encouragement 
inspired  her  with  hope.  In  1816,  she  dedicated  to 
him,  with  his  permission,  a  volume  of  "Poems," 
which  made  her  highly  celebrated  among  her  own 
people  ;  and  therefore  we  give  her  a  place  among 
our  distinffuis,  considering,  as  we  do,  such  home- 
fame  the  most  difficult,  usually,  to  win,  and  the 
best,  when  won,  for  a  woman.  The  character  of 
her  poetry,  chiefly  suggested  by  the  wild,  rough 
scenery  with  which  she  lives  surrounded,  is  healthy 
in  its  tone,  and  breathes  of  home  and  heaven.  We 
subjoin  a  specimen  : — 

MOONLIGHT. 

Tlie  winds  of  heaven  are  hushed  and  milil 

As  the  breath  of  slumbering  child; 

The  western  bugle's  balmy  sigli 

Breaks  not  the  mist-wreaths,  as  they  lie 

Veiling  the  tall  cliff's  rugged  brow, 

Nor  dimple  the  green  waves  below. 

Such  stillness  round,  —  such  silence  deep  — 

That  nature  seems  herself  to  sleep. 

The  full  moon,  mounted  in  the  sky. 

Looks  from  her  cloudless  place  on  high. 

And  trembling  stars,  like  fairy  gleams, 

Twinkle  their  many-coloured  beams. 

Spangling  the  world  of  waters  o'er 

With  mimic  gems  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

Till  ocean,  burning  on  the  view, 

Glows  like  another  heav'n  of  blue. 
And  its  broad  bosom,  as  a  mirror  bright. 
Reflects  their  lucid  path  and  all  the  fields  of  light. 

CARLEN,  EMILY, 
Is  a  native  of  Sweden ;  her  maiden  name  was 
Smith.  She  began  her  career  as  an  authoress 
very  early  in  life,  for  the  purpose  of  adding  to  the 
means  of  her  parents,  who  were  in  narrow  circum- 
stances. Her  inspiration  was  thus  of  the  noblest 
kind,  and  more  poetical  than  the  abstract  love  of 
fame.  Her  works  were  highly  successful,  soon 
brought  her  into  notice,   and   obtained   her  the 


acquaintance  of  many  distinguished  personages. 
Her  amiable  character  and  exemplary  life  have 
secured  her  consideration  in  all  the  circles  of 
Stockholm. 

Four  of  her  works  have  been  presented,  by 
translation,  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  reading  public. 
They  all  display  originality  and  inventive  genius, 
together  with  a  poetic  and  impassioned  spirit ; 
they  have  all  the  fault  which  proceeds  from  a  rich 
and  exuberant  imagination  —  too  many  characters 
and  too  many  incidents  ;  this  always  weakens  the 
interest,  flattens  the  pathos  of  a  story,  and  abates 
the  attention  of  the  reader.  To  "  discreetly  blot," 
is  one  of  the  nicest  and  most  delicate  parts  of  an 
author's  craft ;  it  requires  judgment,  experience 
and  taste,  and  is  unattainable  by  many ;  but  the 
abilities  of  Mrs.  Carlen  appear  such  as  to  assure 
her  of  success,  if  she  would  do  what  the  French 
wit  complained  he  had  no  leisure  for — "take 
time  to  make  her  works  shorter." 

It  is  not  often  that  a  book  is  complained  of  for 
containing  too  much  matter ;  but  out  of  the  novel 
of  "  The  Magic  Goblet,"  several  separate  stories 
and  dramas  might  be  made.  The  number  of  well- 
imagined  personages  iu  this  book  is  extraordinary. 
The  Count,  Uncle  Sebastian,  the  Major,  even  the 
old  steward  Bergstad,  are  all  elderly  men ;  but  so 
perfectly  individualized,  so  strikingly  delineated, 
that  each  is  cajsital,  natural,  and  quite  as  unlike 
as  such  could  be  found  in  real  life.  The  countess 
and  the  baroness,  though  slightly  touched,  are  dis- 
tinct and  living.  The  three  young  ladies,  also, 
have  no  resemblance  to  each  other.  Thelma  is  too 
much,  both  in  her  adventures  and  her  character, 
removed  from  reality  to  awaken  strong  interest ; 
but  Alfhild  and  ISIaria  are  charmingly  portrayed. 
Erika,  in  the  "  Rose  of  Thistle  Island,"  is  a  woman 
of  the  same  order  of  mind  with  Maria,  yet  it  would 
be  absurd  to  call  one  a  repetition  of  the  other ; 
their  traits  of  character  are  as  diff"erent  as  the 
circumstances  surrounding  them — just  as  we  find 
it  in  actual  life.  The  charming  Gabriella  is  per- 
fectly distinct  from  Alfhild,  though  both  are  young, 
innocent,  simple,  unlearned  country-maidens,  and 
the  petted  darlings  of  their  fathers.  It  required 
no  common  genius  to  imagine  and  describe  the 
young  heroes  of  these  works  —  Arve  and  Seller ; 
both  are  endowed  with  bravery  and  remarkable 
beauty,  with  courage  and  qualities  to  carry  on  the 
battle  of  life ;  but  here  all  resemblance  ends,  so 
strong  is  the  moral  diff"erence  shown  in  every 
resolution  and  action.  "The  Magic  Goblet"  is 
spoiled  by  a  narrative  of  crime  and  misery,  intro- 
duced towards  the  end ;  it  may  be  remarked  that, 
as  the  story  hinges  on  this,  it  could  not  be  omitted ; 
but  Mrs.  Carlen  shows  plainly  that,  with  her  fer- 
tility of  invention,  she  might  have  constructed  a 
difl'erent  plot.  "The  Rose  of  Thistle  Island"  is 
too  replete  with  horrors  —  the  curtain  falls  on  too 
many  of  the  dead  and  dying.  The  marriage  of 
Amman,  which  is  vaguely  spoken  of,  is  no  conso- 
lation—  it  is  evidently  none  to  him  —  and  inspires 
the  reader  with  no  pleasure.  But  these  dark  pic- 
turings  belong  to  Swedish  life ;  the  people  of  that 
country  have  a  hard  lot ;  ignorance,  oppression 
and  want,  never  soften  human  nature. 

610 


CA 


CA 


The  "Brothers"  and  the  "Temptations  of 
Wealth,"  are  not  equal  to  the  first  two  produc- 
tions. Their  beauties  and  defects  are,  however, 
of  the  same  character.  Upon  the  whole,  Mrs. 
Carlen  appears  to  yield  to  few  women  of  our  day 
in  original  genius.  Some  of  the  passages  have 
an  approach  to  sublimity  in  the  descriptions  of 
nature,  and  of  moral  suffering ;  many  of  the  most 
forcible  touches  cannot  be  comprehended  or  ap- 
preciated, but  in  connection  with  the  entire  works. 
We  shall,  therefore,  limit  ourselves  in  extracting 
what  can  best  be  taken  from  its  niche. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  our  medium  of 
judging  this  authoress,  has  been  through  particu- 
larly bad  translations ;  this  prevents  any  remark 
on  the  various  poems  which  are  interspersed. 

From  "  The  Rose  of  Thistle  Island." 
ERIKA. 

In  the  new  house  on  Thistle  Island,  was  a  small 
corner  room,  the  windows  of  which  were  scarcely 
three  feet  from  the  rock  behind  them.  This  room 
was  Erika's  favourite  resort:  there  she  sat  many 
hours  alone,  looking  at  the  rock,  which  seemed  to 
her  a  wall  of  separation  between  her  and  the  rest 
of  the  world.  She  did  not  like  the  sea  view  — 
it  recalled  dark  memories ;  but  the  rocks  were 
her  coniidants,  and  to  them  she  had  often  whis- 
pered the  sutfering  she  could  not  overcome. 

Erika's  gloomy  apartment  had  but  one  orna- 
ment, a  picture  of  uncommon  beauty,  represent- 
ing the  Crucifixion,  which  made  the  little  room 
more  resemble  an  oratory  than  a  sitting-room.  It 
was,  in  fact,  the  place  to  which  Erika  retired 
when  she  felt  the  necessity  of  pouring  out  her 
heart  in  prayer,  or  to  refresh  her  spirit  by  salu- 
tary tears,  and  thus  give  it  new  energy.  But  the 
dark  little  room  had  another  attraction.  Birger 
had,  at  the  time  he  brought  her  the  picture  after 
his  first  voyage,  also  given  her  a  small  writing- 
desk  ;  and  in  this  she  kept  the  scraps  of  paper,  on 
which,  year  after  year,  she  learned  better  to  ex- 
press her  thoughts  and  feelings.  Those  pages 
were  as  parts  of  her  own  mind ;  it  was  by  them 
she  thought  to  compensate  herself  for  the  singu- 
lar and  painful  consciousness  of  being  entirely 
alone. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  worth  while  to  cast  an  eye 
on  the  simple  reflections  of  a  woman  who,  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  possessed  no  one  to  whom  she 
could  impart  that  which  lived  and  dwelled  within 
her.  The  early  education  she  had  received,  had 
ripened  by  the  exertion  of  her  own  excellent  un- 
derstanding :  but  Erika  had  not  only  understand- 
ing, she  had  also  feeling ;  she  had  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  cast-out  situation :  and  it  was  those 
feelings,  and  that  consciousness,  that  must  have 
vent. 

On  one  page,  Erika  had  written,  in  large  cha- 
racters, the  word,  "Longing;"  and  under  it  she 
wrote,  "  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  there  has 
been  a  great  void  in  my  soul.  I  have  longed,  I 
still  long,  and  shall  ever  long,  for  tliat  which  I 
can  never  attain  —  a  mother's  bosom.  Why  was 
I  driven  out  into  the  world  to  struggle  there,  with- 
out hope  of  ever  returning  to  a  home  ?     I  have 


never  known  a  home.  No  mother  has  ever  lulled 
me  on  her  knee ;  no  father  ever  blessed  me  !  Alone 
have  I  passed  through  life;  alone  have  I  sought  the 
way  of  light ;  and  alone  I  shall  go  hence.  No  one 
feels,  no  one  cares,  what  the  motherless  one,  re- 
jected by  the  whole  world,  may  suffer.  Her  long- 
ings are  but  her\i  alone.  Often,  I  seem  to  myself 
like  a  person  deaf  and  duml),  in  whose  heart  dwell 
feelings  rich  and  deep,  but  which  she  wants  ability 
to  communicate  to  others.  Thus,  I  have  at  times 
the  most  delicious  sensations  —  so  sweet,  that 
tears  often  start  to  my  eyes ;  but  I  cannot  con- 
nect my  feelings.  They  are  like  a  bell  that  one 
hears  at  a  distance  ringing  a  soft  and  solemn 
sound.  It  is  longing  —  longing  for  home,  which  1 
shall  never  know  here  below  —  but  which  I  shall 
find  on  high."  On  another  page  she  had  inscribed 
the  words,  "  Family  ties,"  and  written  underneath 
her  reflections ;  "  Very  singular  is  that  chain 
which  binds  the  human  race  together,  and  forms 
connexions  between  them,  which  it  afterwards  be- 
comes a  duty  to  respect.     I,  the  wife  of  a 

pray  daily  to  God  for  Irim,  whom  every  one  would 
....  if  they  knew  .  .  .  .  :  but  I  am  his;  my  lift- 
is  a  long  sigh  of  prayer  that  the  penitent  may  be 
brought  back  to  the  Father's  throne :  and  if  I 
gain  that  great  oViject,  (comforting  angels  often 
whisper  to  my  oppressed  heart  that  it  is  already- 
attained!)  then  shall  I  not  complain,  or  grieve 
that  I  thus  live  alone  in  the  world ;  assuredly 
under  other  cii'cumstances,  I  neither  would,  nor 
could  have  sacrificed  myself.  It  strikes  me,  some- 
times, as  if  my  calling  on  earth  were  a  high  one  ; 
and  a  deep  feeling  thrills  through  my  heart  when 
I  think  of  the  responsibility  I  have  taken  on  my- 
self— to  live  among  these  people,  to  train,  lead, 
and  form  for  good,  the  motherless  being  I  have 
adopted.  Truly,  He  only  who  is  mighty  in  the 
weak,  can  give  me  strength  firmly  to  pursue  my 
path,  and  to  do  some  good  among  those  with 
whom  He  has  placed  me. 

"  When  life  feels  dark  and  heavy,  I  have  com- 
fort in  the  certainty  that  the  trial  is  needful ;  I 
feel  that  it  would  make  me  happy  if  God  were  to 
give  me  one  who  would  call  me  by  that  sweet 
name  of  mother,  for  which  /  have  longed  in  vain  : 
then  I  should  be  no  longer  alone ;  the  strongest 
and  holiest  bond  would  then  imite  me  to  another 
being ;  but  ought  I  to  desire  it  ?  I  ask  myself 
whether  I  could  procure  for  my  child  the  happi- 
ness I  would  wish  him  to  enjoy.  Would  he  not. 
one  day,  when  time  and  intelligence  had  removed 
the  happy  unconsciousness  of  childhood,  blush  and 
mourn  for  him  who,  according  to  Nature's  laws, 
he  ought  to  honour  ?  And  could  there  be  any  suf- 
fering comparable  to  that  of  hearing  the  son  exe- 
crate the  father  —  perhaps  reproach  his  parent  for 
having  given  him  the  bitter  gift  of  life?  No; 
rather  than  that,  would  I  be  evermore  alone  !  For 
a  few  hours,  months,  or,  at  most,  years  of  happi- 
ness, would  I  risk  receiving  in  exchange  the  deep- 
est and  most  real  of  sorrows  ?  God  is  just.  Pun- 
ishment may  not  be  withheld !  I  dare  not  even 
pray  for  the  blessing  which  is  woman's  greatest 
comfort,  the  highest  object  of  her  existence. 
Around  Gabriella  will  I  enfold  all  the  love  that  I 

Gil 


CA 


CA 


could  have  lavished  on  a  child  of  my  own.  Ga- 
briella  also  is  motherless ;  not  in  vain  has  she 
placed  her  under  my  care." 

GABRIELLA. 

As  soon  as  Gabriella  was  alone,  she  went  to  the 
looking-glass,  and  was  startled  to  find  how  the 
vexation  of  a  few  hours  had  changed  her  looks. 
"No,  he  shall  not  perceive  this  !"  said  she,  in  a 
tone  of  mortification  —  Erika  is  right;  she  has 
seen  the  world,  and  knows  how  it  is  proper  to  be- 
have. No  one  sees  her  weep,  and  yet  I  am  sure 
she  does  sometimes,  when  alone  in  the  corner 
room.  But  what  have  I  to  cry  for  ?  if  he  icill  go 
away,  who  can  help  it?"  And  poor  Gabriella, 
who  did  not  rightly  comprehend  in  what  Erika's 
self-command  consisted,  began  to  defy  her  own 
agitated  heart,  and  so  to  silence  it. 

Then  followed  in  due  order,  the  old  art  of  bath- 
ing the  eyes  with  cold  water,  and  endeavouring, 
before  the  mirror,  to  assume  a  smiling  and  indif- 
ferent appearance.  It  is  astonishing  how  far  even 
a  little  simple  Skargord  girl,  acquainted  only  with 
the  rocks  on  her  island,  and  the  few  strangers 
who  occasionally  visited  it,  can  be  instructed  when 
love  begins  to  give  lessons.  A  hundred  things  of 
which  she  has  never  dreamt,  present  themselves 
of  their  own  accord ;  she  learns  easily  to  under- 
stand those  small,  and  in  reality  innocent  devices, 
which  only  become  coquetry  when  the  young  mind 
is  either  naturally  tainted  by  vanity,  or  has  im- 
bibed it  through  flattery.  That  neither  of  these 
was  the  case  with  Gabriella,  she  had  to  thank  the 
education  she  had  received  from  Erika,  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  lead  her  to  prize  the  acci- 
dental gift  of  beauty.  The  pretty  appellation  of 
the  "Rose  of  Thistle  Island"  she  had  never  re- 
flected :  she  looked  upon  it  as  retained  by  custom 
since  her  childhood ;  and  in  that  there  was  no- 
thing flattering. 

Another  circumstance  also  preserved  Gabriella 
from  vanity,  namely,  that  she  had  little  opportu- 
nity of  comparing  herself  with  others.  She  had, 
indeed,  of  late  years,  made  a  trip  every  summer 
with  Erika  to  Gothenburg ;  but  she  was  so  fully 
occupied  while  there,  surveying  all  the  remai-kable 
things  in  the  town,  the  richness  of  the  shops,  and 
the  bustling  crowds  of  people,  that  she  did  not  at 
all  attend  to  the  appearance  of  the  young  women. 
If,  therefore,  there  had  been  a  tendency  to  this 
fault,  it  had  never  taken  root,  nor  injured  the 
moral  beauty  of  her  young  mind.  But  the  time 
for  the  heart's  first  awakening  had  come,  and 
with  it  the  accompaniments  of  new  feelings,  new 
thoughts,  and  new  conceptions. 

"  I  cannot  wear  this  ugly  handkerchief,"  said 
our  young  heroine  to  herself,  and  remarked  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  red-and-yellow  cotton  hand- 
kerchief was  excessively  unbecoming.  "  Birger 
really  did  not  show  much  taste  when  he  bovight 
that ;  but  if  I  put  on  the  little  pink  silk  scarf  to- 
day, Erika  will  be  sure  to  ask  why  I  have  done 
it."  And  Gabriella  blushed  before  the  mirror  at 
the  answer  she  would  have  to  give,  provided  she 
.spoke  the  truth  ;  and  she  had  not  yet  learned  to 
tell  the  reverse. 


In  the  mean  time,  the  pink  silk  scarf  was  taken 
out  and  tried,  merely  for  amusement;  but  the 
temptation  was  too  strong ;  for,  evidently  the 
cheeks  assumed  another  tinge ;  and  besides,  the 
yellow  handkerchief  cast  a  yellow  shade  over  her 
face  —  it  was  too  large,  it  was  quite  btinchy  when 
it  was  tied  round  her  neck.  After  a  few  minutes' 
longer  consideration  in  the  looking-glass,  it  be- 
came impossible  to  part  with  the  pink ;  and  when 
the  resolution  was  once  taken  to  brave  the  worst  — 
an  inquiring  look,  or  even  an  interrogation  from 
Erika  —  the  hair  was  nicely  smoothed,  the  work- 
basket  hung  on  her  arm,  and  with  a  mien  which 
tolerably  well  represented  the  indifference  aimed 
at,  Gabriella  went  down  stairs. 

From  The  Magic  Goblet. 
[We  must  remark  here,  that  the  same  laxity  of 
moral  sentiment  in  Sweden  respecting  marriage  is 
indicated  in  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Carlen,  which 
we  noticed  in  our  Sketch  of  Miss  Bremer  and  her 
works.  In  the  "Magic  Goblet,"  the  whole  inte- 
rest of  the  stoi-y  is  involved  in  the  struggles  of 
Rudolph  Seiler  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  his  wife, 
Maria,  because  he  had  fallen  passionately  in  love 
with  a  young  girl  —  Alfhild.] 

LETTER  OF  THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

"  Rudolph  !  —  In  my  half-broken  heart  tremble 
yet  some  notes  that  never  found  a  response, 
but  still  could  never  die  away,  for  they  were  the 
gift  of  the  great  composer  who  bestows  on  us  the 
feelings  of  life — notes  from  those  wonderful  strings 
that  vibrate  only  in  eternal  love.  But,  Rudolph, 
though  these  notes  sound  yet  softly,  they  form  no 
longer  an  hai-monious  whole.  The  strings  have 
slowly  rusted  —  one  after  the  other  is  loosened, 
and  there  is  but  yet  an  echo,  which  now  must  also 
die  away. 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  understand  me ;  it  may  be 
that  you  will  not  understand  me.  This  I  almost 
fear,  for  you  have  always  maintained  that  there  is 
no  love  in  our  marriage.  But  it  is  you,  Rudolph, 
you  alone,  who  determined  that  there  should  be 
none.  And  when  I  saw  the  earnest  with  which 
you  indulged  in  this  once  conceived  idea,  I  had 
not  the  courage,  the  strength,  to  throw  myself 
upon  your  heart,  to  clear  at  least  myself  from  this 
harsh  opinion.  Perhaps  you  grow  displeased,  if 
you  see  that  in  a  moment  when  I  should  show 
most  pride,  I  give  signs  of  a  weakness  which  I 
heretofore  strove  to  conquer.  But,  Rudolph,  in 
this  weakness  there  lies  perhaps  my  greatest 
strength.  For  you  may  believe  it  is,  for  the  pride 
of  a  woman  who  knows  herself  to  be  rejected,  no 
trifle  to  open  her  heart  to  that  man  who  never 
wished  to  read  it.  I  am,  however,  convinced 
that  my  duty  as  wife  and  mother,  commands  me 
to  suppress  every  feeling  of  pride.  I  will  show 
myself  as  I  am,  that  you  may  not  misjudge  me  in 
future.  And  if  you  should  despise  me  on  that 
account,  then  —  it  would  be  but  one  pang  more, 
surely  one  more  bitter,  perhaps  more  painful  than 
all  the  rest,  yet  rather  this  than  not  to  have  been 
candid  at  this  fearful  crisis. 

"Yes,  Rudolph,  so  it  is.    In  my  heart  there  has 

612 


CA 


CA 


burned  a  feeling  as  deep  and  true  as  can  glow  in 
the  breast  of  woman,  and  it  burned  alone.  The 
sparks  of  this  flame  have  often  hovered  around 
you,  but  they  were  quenched  by  the  icy  breath 
which  you  breathed  upon  them,  and  the  heart, 
the  poor  heart  trembled  with  coldness  at  the  same 
time  that  it  was  consumed  by  its  glow.  But  you 
know  that  I  have  suffered,  and  been  silent.  Even 
now  I  should  have  spared  you  the  pain  which  my 
confession  may  cause  you,  had  not  your  propo- 
sition of  a  divorce  caused  an  uproar  and  storm  in 
my  soul,  which  I  must  try,  at  every  hazard,  to 
still ;  and  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  gro-w* 
more  calm,  if  I  have  no  longer  a  secret  from  you 
that  dimmed  the  sun-rays  of  our  domestic  relation. 
I  am  not  so  infatuated  as  to  hope  that  feelings 
which  you  never  cherished  should  rise  in  your 
soul  just  now,  while  you  are  throwing  olf  those 
which  you  heretofore  have  had  for  me  —  a  feeling 
of  honour  and  duty ;  only  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be 
able  to  say  that  want  of  mutual  love  is  the  reason 
that  induces  you  to  the  cruel  plan  of  separation. 
No,  you  must  allege  another  reason  ;  whence  you 
will  draw  it,  I  do  not  know,  nor  do  1  wish  to 
know,  for  my  resolution  stands  firm ;  I  shall  never 
accede  to  your  proposal  of  divorce. 

"  Do  not  think,  Rudolph,  that  it  is  through  weak- 
ness, or  any  thought  of  my  sad  condition,  that  I 
seek  to  maintain  for  myself  the  rights  which  be- 
long to  me  as  your  wife.  No,  indeed,  no ;  for  I 
well  know  that  my  life  will  be  in  future  more  de- 
solate and  joyless  than  heretofore;  but  I  do  it  for 
the  sake  of  our  child,  and  the  respect  I  have  for 
the  sacredness  of  our  tie.  And  then,  Rudolph, 
what  have  I  done  to  you,  that  you  wish  to  brand 
my  name  before  the  world,  and  draw  me  before  a 
judge  who  will  condemn  me  to  death,  while  he 
passes  sentence  on  my  honour?  For  dark  sha- 
dows always  follow  a  divorce,  let  the  cause  be 
what  it  will ;  and  this  is  natural.  If  husband  and 
wife  dissolve  the  holiest  of  connexions,  some  great 
fault  on  the  one  side  or  the  other  must  necessarily 
be  the  cause  of  it  —  at  least  the  woi'ld  thinks  so. 
The  pictures  you  hold  up  to  my  eyes  of  the  inde- 
pendence of  women,  who  are  at  present  trodden 
under  foot  by  men,  are,  I  fear,  more  imaginary 
than  true.  Has  not  God  himself  ordained  that 
they  should  be  subordinate?  And  they  will  do 
well  not  to  violate  the  laws  of  nature,  and  force 
themselves  upon  the  field  where  man  is  accus- 
tomed to  rule.  Woman  need,  on  that  account,  be 
no  'despotic  animal.'  She  has  her  peculiar  power 
in  her  heart,  which  must  suffice,  when  outward 
storms  are  raging  around  her. 

"  The  picture  which  you  draw  in  relation  to  the 
children  in  an  unlawful  marriage,  is  gloomy ;  but 
I  ask  you  if  there  can  be  more  unfortunate  beings 
than  those  who  grow  up  without  having,  properly, 
either  father  or  mother,  since  they  stand  equally 
removed  from  both,  and  have  no  home-like  fireside 
round  which  they  may  gather  in  child-like  delight? 
You  will,  no  doubt,  answer  '  No,'  to  this,  unless 
you  have  determined  both  to  speak  and  act  against 
nature  ;  and  with  this  'No,'  you  must  also  admit 
that  the  example  of  separated  parents  must  be  of 
a  still  more  baneful  effect  upon  the  moral  educa- 


tion of  children,  than  that  which  you  portrayed 
in  colours  too  glowing. 

"  Oh,  Rudolph!  if  you  will  not  spare  me,  think, 
at  least,  of  your  son  ;  he  is  innocent,  and  yet  you 
mean  to  cast  a  shadow  upon  his  tender  head,  you 
mean  to  sow  in  his  heart  a  seed  of  discord,  which 
will  shoot  up  between  him  and  us — for  who  is 
right,  and  who  is  wrong  ?  Is  it  our  child  who  is 
to  decide  ?  No ;  he  will  not  be  able  so  to  do,  and 
therefore  his  young  heart  will  close  itself  against 
us  both.  If  we  had  not  this  child  —  and  if  I  were 
perfectly  convinced  that  you  could  not  become 
happy,  and  ever  find  joy  in  life  unless  separated 
from  me,  then  I  think  I  could  say  '  Yes,'  to  your 
unnatural  request,  though  my  heart  should  break 
by  it.  But  now  hope  is  whispering  to  me  that 
time  will  bring  up  some  friendly  star  that  may 
give  light  to  the  present  night.  But,  however 
this  may  be,  so  long  as  our  son  lives,  I  deem  that 
my  own  honour,  as  well  as  the  care  for  his  future, 
demand  from  me  to  say,  'No,'  to  your  proposition. 

"  Rudolph !  I  cannot  bring  you  back  to  us,  and 
yet  my  very  soul  shudders  at  the  mere  thought  to 
put  my  name  to  a  paper  which  would  dej^rive  me 
of  all  hope  of  happiness. 

"  Maeia." 

Seller  was,  indeed,  deeply  moved  by  the  letter 
of  his  wife ;  but  it  was  not  so  much  through  the 
confession  itself,  as  through  the  impediment  that 
was  thrown  in  the  way  of  his  plans.  As  his  eyes 
flew  over  the  lines  of  the  letter,  he  must  allow, 
against  his  will,  that,  as  she  really  loved  him,  and 
had  never  in  the  least  offended  her  conjugal  duties, 
a  separation  was  out  of  all  question,  despite  his 
passionate  feeling  for  Alfhild.  Without  her  con- 
sent, he  had  no  hopes  of  being  freed  from  the  yoke 
which  he  could  bear  no  longer. 

The  thought  of  what  his  wife  during  this  time 
suffered,  occurred  to  him  but  seldom.  The  self- 
ishness of  man  has  no  time  to  occupy  itself  with 
the  sufferings  of  others,  if  he  himself  is  a  prey 
to  pains  whose  weight  oppresses  his  breast,  and 
checks  the  full  flow  of  his  blood.  Besides,  Seller 
thought,  when  he  sometimes  felt  himself  drawn 
to  his  wife  by  a  secret  power,  and  against  his  will, 
■  "Who  knows  if  a  word  is  true  of  all  she  writes  to 
me  of  her  feelings  ?  She  only  intended  to  put  a 
new  and  stronger  chain  on  me,  by  this  invention. 
I  will  inform  myself  of  it  more  minutely.  I  will 
see  with  my  own  eyes." 

And  he  might  have  added,  I  will  be  blind,  lest 
I  might  be  disturbed  in  the  execution  of  my  plan 
that  I  have  formed. 

The  consequence  of  it  was,  that  Seller  resolved 
to  return  home,  and  attempt  to  induce  her  to 
consent,  by  appealing  to  her  generosity ;  and  he 
was  so  certain  that  Maria  would  become  happier 
by  the  separation,  that  he  conquered  his  pride, 
which  would  otherwise  have  forbidden  him  to  call 
upon  the  generosity  of  a  woman. 

The  answer  which  he  sent  his  wife,  after  a  long 
delay,  was  cold,  short,  expressive  of  regret,  and 
evasive.  The  allusion  to, her  love  to  him  was  so 
subtle  and   calculated,   that  it  could   hardly  be 

613 


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CA 


found ;  and  the  letter  stated,  in  fact,  nothing  far- 
ther than  that  he  would  come  home  by  Christmas, 
to  consult  with  her  on  the  affair  in  question,  per- 
sonally. 

Seller  had  put  the  love  of  his  wife,  with  the 
greatest  skill,  in  such  a  light,  that  poor  Maria 
could  throw  her  eyes  neither  upon  the  letter  nor 
upon  herself  without  blushing  at  her  weakness. 
It  answered,  therefore,  perfectly  its  punjose.  The 
rejected  heart,  offended,  withdrew  within  itself. 
All  hope  was  now  gone  ;  but  she  would  have  des- 
pised herself,  if  a  sound  of  complaint  had  escaped 
her  lips. 

In  the  mean  time,  her  child  grew  more  ill,  and 
tbe  hours  in  which  she  watched  in  prayer  and 
tears,  were  full  of  all  that  earth  can  approve 
most  —  most  anguished  and  oppressive. 

When  Seller  unexpectedly  arrived  —  he  had  not 
appointed  the  day  of  his  arrival  before  —  there 
was  little  hope  left  for  the  life  of  the  boy.  With 
what  grief  did  the  mother  see  the  hour  approach 
when  her  last  hopes  should  be  carried  to  the  grave ! 

From  the  same. 

THE     DIVORCE. 

Night  had  spread  her  dark  mantle  over  the 
earth,  and  the  day,  so  bitter  for  Seller  and  his 
wife,  which  we  described  at  the  end  of  the  first 
Part,  had  sunk  in  the  wide  ocean  of  eternity. 

Maria  lay  on  her  knees  in  her  solitary  chamber, 
and  prayed  to  God  to  give  her  strength  and  cour- 
age to  drain  the  bitter  cup.  But  peace  would  not 
come  to  her  breast.  At  each  look  into  the  future 
she  startled,  for  she  saw  herself  alone,  without 
the  slightest  hope  of  mending  her  condition,  and 
doomed  to  bleed  to  death  from  the  wounds  of  her 
breast.  Yet  Maria  did  not  cease  to  pray,  and  not 
only  for  herself  alone,  but  also  for  him  who  had 
caused  her  these  bitter  pangs. 

The  love  of  woman,  though  she  cannot  but  con- 
demn it  as  a  weakness,  remains,  if  it  was  true 
love,  so  entirely  without  selfishness,  that  she  for- 
gets herself  on  account  of  the  beloved  object. 
Maria  had  loved  her  husband  thus,  and  loved  him 
still,  after  the  last  star  in  the  heaven  of  hope  was 
quenched,  and  the  last  rose  lay  scattered  at  her 
feet. 

This  night  became  for  her  memorable  foi*  ever. 
It  had  seen  her  struggle,  her  prayer,  her  tears  and 
her  anguish;  it  became  also  witness  of  the  vic- 
tory in  the  painful  struggle  with  her  heart !  It 
was  long  past  midnight  when,  trembling  with  cold 
.and  excitement,  she  sought  her  lonesome  couch. 
Mechanically  she  stretched  out  her  hand,  as  she 
was  wont  to  do,  toward  the  place  where  the  bed 
of  her  child  used  to  stand.  It  was  empty,  and  as 
her  hand  sank  powerless  by  her  side,  she  felt  a 
violent  pain  shoot  through  her  heart.  Sighs 
heaved  her  oppressed  breast.  Ah,  how  long  and 
dark  was  the  night  for  the  poor  wife,  on  whose 
brow  cold  drops  of  perspii-ation  stood !  But  God 
is  kind  ;  morning  will  dawn, 

"  And  on  the  thorn  of  pains  springs  np, 
The  rose  of  pure  delight.' 

Also  this  night  was  succeeded  by  a  morning 
whose  first  pale  beams  woke  Maria  and  dried  the 


last  tears  that  hung  on  her  eye-lashes.  She  dress- 
ed herself,  and  breathing  with  her  warm  lips  she 
made  an  open  spot  on  the  frozen  window-panes, 
and  looked  through  it  up  to  the  Creator  of  the 
world.  Now  that  day  had  come,  she  felt  a  hope 
and  trust  which  night  had  not  given  her;  a  cer- 
tain peace  came  over  her  soul,  and  gradually  her 
self-control  obtained  full  power  again.  She  knew 
now  what  lie  was  going  to  do  —  she  knew  what 
sacrifice  iron  necessity  demanded  of  her,  and  she 
was  ready  to  make  it. 

Patient  and  beautiful  in  her  infinite  grief,  Maria 
entered  the  sitting-room,  and  arranged  the  break- 
fast-table herself,  for  the  first  time  since  the  return 
of  her  husband. 

When  Seller  entered,  she  rose  and  went,  more 
bashful,  perhaps,  than  a  young  bride,  and  blush- 
ing, to  meet  him.  He  gave  her  his  hand  in  silence, 
but  when  he  felt  its  light  trembling,  and  her  in- 
describably charming  confusion,  he  could  not  but 
own  himself,  that  he  had  never  before  looked  upon 
her  with  impartial  eyes. 

"How  do  you  do  to-day,  good,  dear  Maria? 
Your  cheeks  appear  to  me  to  be  fresher  than  they 
have  been  of  late." 

"I  am  glad  if  you  find  that!  Indeed,  I  feel 
somewhat  better.  But  the  coffee  grows  cold ;  al- 
low me  to  wait  upon  you  to-day." 

At  the  word  "to-day,"  her  voice  became  evi- 
dently tremulous ;  there  lay  an  almost  super- 
human exertion  in  her  usual  tranquillity. 

Husband  and  wife  took  seats  opposite  to  each 
other,  and  Maria  was  able  even  to  smile,  as  she 
reached  to  him  the  cup.  But  there  are  hours  in 
life  when  a  smile  pains  us  more  than  the  bitterest 
and  sharpest  word.  This  was  now  the  case  with 
Seller.  Maria's  smile  pierced  through  his  soul, 
and  caused  him  more  pain  than  a  thousand  tears 
and  reproaches  would  have  done.  He  knew  her, 
and  was  aware  that  her  deeply-wounded  feelings 
forbade  her  to  show  the  real  state  of  her  soul,  and 
that  with  death  in  her  heart,  she  was  strong 
enough  to  smile,  in  order  not  to  excite  his  com- 
passion, since  she  could  no  more  excite  another 
feeling. 

"By  heaven!"  thought  Seller,  and  brought 
Maria's  hands  to  his  lips  with  a  degree  of  respect 
and  emotion  which  he  had  never  shown  before  — 
"  Bloom  is  right !  I  never  knew  her  before.  She 
is  a  noble  high-minded  woman ;  and  had  she  not 
been  so  proud,  so  politely  cold  while  my  heart 
longed,  often  in  past  years,  for  a  warmer  ray  of 
sun,  or  if  she  had  only  tried  to  conquer  it  in  the 
usual  ways  of  little  stratagems,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  succeeded.  But  now,  now  it  is  past. 
My  heart  has  found  a  being  that  does  not  know 
what  is  disguise,  or  what  is  the  meaning  of  such 
strength  of  mind,  which  commands  to  conceal  the 
warmest  feelings,  and  to  show  an  icy  coldness, 
while  the  blood  is  seething  in  the  veins,  and  each 
beat  of  the  pulse  announces  to  the  restless  heart 
that  another  second  is  passed  without  hope.  No, 
Al/hild,  my  pure  white  dove,  she  clings  with 
warmth  and  yearning  desire  to  my  breast,  seeking 
there  protection,  and  her  cheek  reddens  or  grows 
pale,  according  to  the  expression  she  finds  in  my 

614 


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looks.  Thus,  thus  must  be  a  woman's  love; 
wholly  given  up  to  and  dependent  on,  the  man  to 
whom  she  devotes  herself.  All  her  thoughts,  feel- 
ings and  conceptions  must  unite  in  the  one  con- 
Bciousness  that  she  loves.  She  must  have  desire 
for  nothing  else.  The  word  of  her  beloved,  or 
husband,  must  suffice  her ;  her  confidence  in  it 
must  be  her  world,  and  his  will  the  only  thing  that 
she  consults.  The  only  arithmetic  which  she  needs 
to  understand  is,  'to  be  able  to  calculate  the 
change  of  his  humour. ' " 

In  thus  comparing  the  love  of  his  wife  with  that 
of  his  beloved,  which  he  carried  through  with  the 
greatest  selfishness,  he  forgot  entirely,  which  is 
frequently  done,  to  consider  justice ;  for  he  took 
into  no  account  at  all  his  ou-n  behaviour  toward 
the  two  beings,  which,  if  he  had  done  so,  would 
have  convinced  him  that  he  had  to  seek  for  the 
cause  of  the  different  conduct  of  the  two  women 
in  himself,  and  not  in  them. 


CAREY,    ALICE, 

Has,  within  the  last  few  years,  written  poetry 
that  justly  places  her  among  the  gifted  daughters 
of  America.  The  lyre  seems  to  obey  her  heart  as 
the  ^olian  harp  does  the  wind,  every  impulse 
gushing  out  in  song.  The  father  of  Miss  Carey 
was  a  native  of  Vermont,  who  removed  to  Ohio 
whilst  it  was  a  territory.  The  wild  place  where 
he  settled  has  become  a  pleasant  village,  not  far 
from  Cincinnati ;  there  Alice  was  born,  and  has 
always  resided.  The  father  has  been  greatly 
blessed  in  his  children :  he  has  another  talented 
daughter,  Phoebe,  (whom  we  shall  notice ;)  surely, 
with  such  treasures  he  must  be  rich  indeed.  The 
excellent  mother  of  these  sweet  singers  is  no 
longer  living ;  the  daughters  are  thus  invested 
with  the  matronly  duties  of  house-keeping,  and, 
to  their  praise  be  it  recorded,  they  never  neglect 
domestic  duties  even  for  the  wooings  of  the  Muse. 

Miss  Carey  has  written  for  many  periodicals ; 
few,  if  any,  of  our  young  poets  have  given  so 
much  to  the  public  as  she  has  done  during  the 
last  five  or  six  years.     The  *author,  of  "  The  Fe- 

*  Rev.  Rufus  VV.  Griswold 


male  Poets  of  America,"  has,  in  his  critical  notice, 
admirably  described  the  characteristics  of  these 
sisters  —  he  says:  "  Alice  Carey  evinces  in  many 
poems  a  genuine  imagination  and  a  creative  energy 
that  challenges  peculiar  praise.  We  have  perhaps 
no  other  author,  so  young,  in  whom  the  poetical 
faculty  is  so  largely  developed.  Her  sister  writes 
with  vigour,  and  a  hopeful  and  genial  spirit,  and 
there  are  many  felicities  of  expression,  particu- 
larly in  her  later  pieces.  She  refers  more  than 
Alice  to  the  common  experience,  and  has,  perhaps, 
a  deeper  sympathy  with  that  philosophy  and  those 
movements  of  the  day,  which  look  for  a  nearer 
approach  to  equalitj',  in  culture,  fortune,  and 
social  relations." 

Two  striking  peculiarities  enhance  the  interest 
of  the  poems  of  Alice;  the  absence  of  learning, 
properly  so  called ;  and  the  capacity  of  the  heart 
to  endow  the  true  poet  for  the  high  office  of  inter- 
preter of  nature  without  the  aid  of  learning. 
Doubtless,  these  sisters  would  find  great  benefit 
from  such  a  course  of  study  as  ISIrs.  Hemans  pur- 
sued, or  such  advantages  as  Mrs.  Norton  has  en- 
joyed. Still  the  magic  of  genius  is  felt  most  pow- 
erfully, when  it  triumphs  over  obstacles  seemingly 
insuperable ;  the  poems  we  are  now  considering 
are  fairly  entitled  to  higher  praise  than  though 
written  by  a  scholar,  with  all  appliances  and 
means  for  study  and  composition  at  command. 
That,  "in  the  West,  song  gushes  and  flows,  like 
the  springs  and  rivers,  more  imperially  than  else- 
where" may  be  true;  but  it  is  chiefly  from  the 
soul  of  woman  that  these  beautiful  strains  are 
thus,  bird-like,  poured.  In  the  sentiment  of  these 
songs  we  find  the  secret  of  their  inspiration  ;  the 
Bible  is  the  fount  from  which  these  young  poet- 
esses have  quafled.  With  the  Bible  in  her  hand, 
and  its  spirit  in  her  heart,  woman  can  nourish  her 
genius,  and  prove  a  guiding  angel  to  all  who  look 
heaven-ward  for  the  Temple  of  Fame. 

A  volume  of  "  Poems,"  by  "  Alice  and  Phoebe 
Carey,"  was  published  in  1850.  "  Hualco,  a  Ro- 
mance of  the  Golden  Age  of  Tezcuco,"  by  Alice 
Carey,  appeared  in  18.51.  The  poem  is  founded 
upon  adventures  of  a  Mexican  Prince,  before  the 
conquest,  as  related  by  Clavigero,  Torquemada, 
and  other  historians. 

From  "  Poems,"  by  Alice  Carey 
LIGHTS    OF    GENIUS. 

Upheaving  pillars,  on  vvliose  tops 

The  white  stars  rest  like  capitals. 
Whence  every  living  spark  that  drops 

Kindles  and  blazes  as  it  falls  ! 
And  if  the  arch-fiend  rise  to  pluck. 

Or  stoop  to  crush  their  beauty  down, 
A  thousand  other  sparks  are  struck, 

That  glory  settles  in  her  crown. 
The  huge  ship,  with  its  brassy  share, 

Ploughs  the  blue  sea  to  speed  their  course. 
And  veins  of  iron  cleave  the  air. 

To  waft  them  from  their  burning  source  1 
All,  from  the  insect's  tiny  wings. 

And  the  small  drop  of  morning  dew, 
To  the  wide  universe  of  things. 

The  light  is  shining,  burning  through. 
Too  deep  for  our  poor  thouglits  to  gauge 

Lie  their  clear  sources,  bright  as  truth, 
Whence  flows  upon  the  locks  of  age 

The  beauty  of  eternal  youlh. 

615 


CA 


CA 


Think,  oh  my  faltering  brother!  think. 
If  thou  wilt  try,  if  thou  hast  tried, 

By  all  the  lights  thou  hast,  to  sink 
The  shaft  of  an  immortal  tide  ! 

PICTURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest. 

That  seemeth  best  of  all : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden. 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below  ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies. 

That  lead  from  the  fragrant  hedge. 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams. 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest. 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep: 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow. 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers. 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary. 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace. 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright. 
He  fell  in  his  saint-like  beauty. 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall. 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

THE    TWO    MISSIONARIES. 

In  the  pyramid's  heavy  shadows, 

And  by  the  Nile's  deep  flood. 
They  leaned  on  the  arm  of  Jesus, 

And  preached  to  the  multitude: 
Where  only  the  ostrich  and  parrot 

Went  by  on  the  burning  sands. 
They  builded  to  God  an  altar. 

Lifting  up  holy  liands. 

But  even  while  kneeling  lowly 

At  the  foot  of  the  cross  to  pray. 
Eternity's  shadows  slowly 

Stole  over  their  pilgrim  way  : 
And  one,  with  the  journey  weary. 

And  faint  with  the  spirit's  strife, 
Fell  sweetly  asleep  in  Jesus, 

Hard  by  the  gates  of  life. 

Oh,  not  in  Gethsemane's  garden. 

And  not  by  Genesareth's  wave. 
The  light,  like  a  golden  mantle, 

O'erspreadeth  his  lowly  grave  ; 
But  the  bird  of  the  burning  desert 

Goes  tiy  with  a  noiseless  tread. 
And  the  tent  of  the  restless  Arab 

Is  silently  near  him  spread. 

Oh,  could  we  remember  only. 
Who  shrink  from  the  lightest  ill. 

His  sorrows,  who,  bruised  and  lonely. 
Wrought  on  in  the  vineyard  still  — 


Surely  the  tale  of  sorrow 
Would  fall  on  the  mourner's  breast, 

Hushing,  like  oil  on  the  waters. 
The  troubled  wave  to  rest. 

THE    CH.\RMED    BIRD. 

"Mother,  oh,  mother!  this  morning  when  Will 
And  Mary  and  I  had  gone  out  on  the  hill, 
We  stopped  in  the  orchard  to  climb  in  the  trees. 
And  broke  off  the  blossoms  that  sweetened  the  breeze. 
When  right  down  before  us,  and  close  where  we  were. 
There  fluttered  and  fluttered  a  bird  in  the  air. 

"  Its  crest  was  so  glossy,  so  bright  were  its  eyes. 

And  its  wings,  oh  !  their  colour  was  just  like  the  skies ; 

And  still  as  it  chirped,  and  kept  eddying  round 

In  narrower  circles  and  nearer  the  ground. 

We  looked,  and  all  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  brake. 

We  saw,  don't  you  think,  oh  !  the  ugliest  snake  !" 

Caressingly  folding  the  child  in  her  arms. 
With  thoughts  of  sweet  birds  in  a  world  full  of  charms, 
'■  My  child,"  said  the  mother,  ■'  in  life's  later  hours 
Remember  the  morning  you  stopped  for  the  flowers  ; 
And  still  when  you  think  of  the  bird  in  the  air. 
Forget  not,  my  love,  that  the  serpent  was  there." 

TO    THE    EVENING    ZEPHYR. 

I  sit  where  the  wild-bee  is  humming. 

And  listen  in  vain  for  thy  song; 
I've  waited  before  for  thy  coming. 

But  never,  oh,  never  so  long ! 
How  oft  with  the  blue  sky  above  U9, 

And  waves  breaking  light  on  the  shore, 
Thou,  knowing  they  would  not  reprove  us, 

Hast  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er !  — 
Alone  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

Still  waiting,  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee 
I  look  for  the  waves  of  the  meadows, 

And  dimples  to  dot  the  blue  sea. 
The  blossoms  that  waited  to  greet  thee 

With  heat  or  the  noontide  oppressed. 
Now  flutter  so  lightly  to  meet  thee, 

Thou'rt  coming,  I  know,  from  the  west. 
Alas!  if  thou  findest  me  pouting, 

'Tis  only  my  love  that  alarms  ; 
Forgive,  then,  I  pray  thee,  my  doubting. 

And  take  me  once  more  to  thine  arms  ! 


THE    PAST    AND    PRESENT. 

Ye  everlasting  conjurors  of  ill. 

Who  fear  the  Samiel  in  the  lightest  breeze. 
Go.  moralize  with  Marius,  if  you  will. 

In  the  old  cradle  of  the  sciences! 
Bid  the  sarcophagi  unclose  their  lids  — 

Drag  the  colossal  sphin.xes  forth  to  view  — 
Rouse  up  the  builders  of  the  pyramids. 

And  raise  the  labyrinthian  shrines  anew  ; 
And  see  the  haughty  favourite  of  the  fates  — 

The  arbiter  of  myriad  destinies  ; 
Thebes,  with  her  ••  feast  of  lights  "  and  hundred  gates,- 

And  Carthage,  mother  of  sworn  enmities. 
Not  mantled  with  the  desolate  weeds  and  dust 

Of  centuries,  but  as  she  sat  apart, 
Nursing  her  lions,  ere  the  eagle  thrust 

His  bloody  talons  deep  into  her  heart ;  — 
Then  say,  what  was  she  in  her  palmiest  times 

That  we  should  mourn  for  ever  for  the  past  ? 
In  fame,  a  very  Babylon  —  her  crimes 

The  plague-spot  of  the  nations  to  the  last ! 

And  Rome  I  the  seven-hilled  city :  she  that  rose 

Girt  with  the  majesty  of  peerless  might, 
From  out  the  ashes  of  her  fallen  foes  — 

She  in  whose  lap  was  poured,  like  streams  of  light. 
The  wealth  of  nations:  was  she  not  endowed 

With  that  most  perilous  gift  of  beauty —  pride  ? 
And  spite  of  all  her  glories  blazoned  loud. 

Idolatrous,  voluptuous,  and  allied 

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Closer  to  vice  than  virtue?     Hark  !  the  sounds 

Of  tramping  lliousands  in  her  stony  street! 
And  now  the  amphitheatre  resounds 

With  acclamations  for  the  engrossing  feat  h 
Draw  near,  where  men  of  wars  and  senates  stood. 

And  see  the  pastime,  whence  they  joyance  drank,— 
Tlie  Libyan  lion  lapping  the  warm  blood 

Oozed  from  the  Dacian's  bosom.    On  the  bank 
Of  the  sweet  Danube,  smiling  children  wait 
To  greet  their  sire,  unconscious  of  his  fate. 
Oh,  draw  the  wildering  veil  a  little  back, 

Ye  blind  idolaters  of  things  that  were; 
Who,  through  the  glory  trailing  in  their  track. 

See  but  the  whiteness  of  the  sepulchre ; 

Then  to  the  Present  turning,  ye  will  see 

Even  as  one,  the  universal  mind 
Rousing,  like  genius  from  a  reverie. 

With  the  exalted  aim  to  serve  mankind: 
Lo  !  as  my  song  is  closing,  I  can  feel 

The  spirit  of  the  Present  in  my  heart ; 
And  for  the  Future,  with  a  wiser  zeal, 

In  life's  great  drama  I  would  act  my  part ; 
That  they  may  say,  who  see  the  curtain  fall 

And  from  the  closing  scene  in  silence  go, 
Haply  as  some  light  favour  they  recall. 

Peace  to  her  ashes,  — she  hath  lessened  woe  ! 

THE    HANDMAID. 

Why  rests  a  shadow  on  her  woman's  heart  ? 

In  life's  more  girlish  hours  it  was  not  so  ; 
111  hath  she  learned  to  hide,  with  harmless  art. 

The  soundings  of  the  plummet-line  of  woe  ! 

Oh,  what  a  world  of  tenderness  looks  through 
The  melting  sapphire  of  her  mournful  eyes  ; 

Less  softly  moist  are  violets  full  of  dew. 
And  the  delicious  colour  of  the  skies. 

Serenely  amid  worship  doth  she  move. 
Counting  its  passionate  tenderness  as  dross  ; 

And  tempering  the  pleadings  of  earth's  love, 
In  the  still,  solemn  shadows  of  the  cross. 

It  is  not  that  her  heart  is  cold  or  vain. 
That  thus  she  moves  through  many  worshippers  ; 

No  step  is  lighter  by  the  couch  of  pain. 
No  hand  on  fever's  brow  lies  soft  as  hers. 

From  the  loose  flowing  of  her  amber  hair. 
The  summer  flowers  we  long  ago  unknit, 

As  something  between  joyance  and  despair 
Came  in  the  chamber  of  her  soul  to  sit. 

In  her  white  cheek  the  crimson  burns  as  faint 
As  red  doth  in  some  cold  star's  chastened  beam  ; 

The  tender  meekness  of  the  pitying  saint 
Lends  all  her  life  the  beauty  of  a  dream. 

Thus  doth  she  move  among  us  day  by  day. 
Loving  and  loved  —  but  passion  can  not  move 

The  young  heart  that  hath  wrapped  itself  away 
In  the  soft  mantle  of  a  Saviour's  love. 

death's  ferrtman. 

Boatman,  thrice  I've  called  thee  o'er. 
Waiting  on  life's  solemn  shore. 
Tracing,  in  the  silver  sand, 
Letters  till  thy  boat  should  land. 

Drifting  out  alone  with  thee. 
Toward  the  clime  I  can  not  see. 
Read  to  nie  the  strange  device 
Graven  on  thy  wand  of  ice. 

Push  the  curls  of  golden  hue 
From  thy  eyes  of  starlit  dew. 
And  behold  me  where  I  stand 
Beckoning  thy  boat  to  land. 

Where  the  river  mist,  so  pale. 
Trembles  like  a  bridal  veil, 
O'er  yon  lowly  drooping  tree, 
One  that  loves  me  waits  for  me. 


Hear,  sweet  boatman,  hear  my  call ! 
Last  year,  with  the  leaflet's  fall, 
Resting  her  pale  hand  in  mine. 
Crossed  she  in  that  boat  of  thine. 

When  the  corn  shall  cease  to  grow, 
And  the  rye-ficId's  silver  flow 
At  the  reaper's  feet  is  laid. 
Crossing,  spake  the  lovely  maid: 

Dearest  love,  another  year 
Thou  Shalt  meet  this  boatman  rfere  — 
The  while  fingers  of  despair 
Playing  with  his  golden  hair. 

From  this  silver-sanded  shore, 
Beckon  him  to  row  thee  o'er: 
Where  yon  solemn  shadows  be, 
I  shall  wait  thee — come  and  see! 

There!  the  white  sails  float  and  flow. 
One  in  heaven  and  one  below; 
And  I  hear  a  low  voice  cry, 
Ferryman  of  Death  am  I. 

■WATCHING. 

Thy  smile  is  sad,  Elella, 

Too  sad  for  thee  to  wear. 
For  scarcely  have  we  yet  untwined 

The  rosebuds  from  thy  hair ! 
So,  dear  one,  hush  thy  sobbing. 

And  let  thy  tears  be  dried  — 
Methinks  thou  shouldst  be  happier. 

Three  little  months  a  bride! 

Hark  !  how  the  winds  are  heaping 

The  snow-drifts  cold  and  white  — 
The  clouds  like  spectres  cross  the  sky  — 

Oh,  what  a  lonesome  night ! 
The  hour  grows  late  and  later, 

I  hear  the  midnight  chime: 
Thy  heart's  fond  keeper,  where  is  he  ? 

Why  comes  he  not?  —  'tis  time! 

Here  make  my  heart  thy  pillow, 

And,  if  the  hours  seem  long, 
I  11  wile  them  with  a  legend  wild. 

Or  fragment  of  old  song  — 
Or  read,  if  that  will  soothe  thee, 

Some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes ; 
Oh,  I  have  watched  and  waited  thus, 

I  can  not  tell  the  times! 

Hnsh,  hark  !  across  the  neiixlihouring  hills 

I  hear  the  watchdog  bay  — 
Stir  up  the  fire,  and  trim  the  lamp, 

I  'm  sure  he  's  on  the  way  ! 
Could  that  have  only  been  the  winds. 

So  like  a  footstep  near? 
No,  smile  Elella,  smile  again. 

He's  coming  home  —  he's  here! 

VISIONS    OF    LIGHT. 

The  moon  is  rising  in  beauty. 
The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright. 

And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers. 
That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 

Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 
That  darken  against  the  sky. 

Seems  the  blue  mist  of  the  river 
O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 

I  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 
The  spire  of  the  village  church, 

And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 
By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 

Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 

Of  morning  light  on  the  hill ; 
No  white  hand  opens  the  windows 

Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 

C17 


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But  tlieir  dwellers  were  all  my  kiiidreil, 
Whatever  tlieir  lives  iiiigtu  be, 

And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 
Have  recorded  lessons  for  me. 

Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 

Of  life's  mysterious  main. 
Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows, 

Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 

From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 

Fragments  of  song  float  by. 
Like  fiowers  in  the  streams  of  summer, 

Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 

Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 
Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew. 

And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 
Tlie  plough  of  the  Roman  drew. 

From  the  white  tents  of  the  crusaders 
The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone, 

But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 
In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  Sabbath 
In  the  tower  of  the  village  church. 

Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 
In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch  — 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 
That  shall  follow  our  social  strife. 

When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 
The  beautiful  mission  of  life  : 

For  visions  of  light  are  gathered 
In  the  sunshine  of  flowery  nooks. 

Like  the  shades  of  the  ghostly  Fathers 
In  their  twilight  cell  of  books.' 

CAREY,    PHCEBE, 

Sister  of  the  preceding,  and  usually  named 
with  her,  though  their  poetical  genius  differs, 
as  a  double  star,  when  viewed  by  a  telescope, 
which  makes  the  two  distinctly  visible,  shows 
diflferent  colours  of  light.  The  elder  sister  is 
superior  in  genius  to  the  younger,  whose  light 
seems  to  be  rather  a  reflexion  of  the  other's  men- 
tal power,  than  an  original  gift  of  poetic  fancy. 
The  sympathies  of  the  younger  have  made  her  a 
poet.  All  that  we  need  say  of  the  history  of 
Phoebe  Carey,  is  contained  in  that  of  her  sister 
Alice. 

From  "  Poems  "  by  Phoebe  Carey. 
SONG    OF    THE    HEAKT. 

They  may  tell  for  ever  of  worlds  of  bloom 
Beyond  the  skies  and  beyond  the  tomb  ; 
Of  the  sweet  repose,  and  the  rapture  there, 
That  are  not  found  in  a  world  of  care; 
But  not  to  me  can  the  present  seem 
Like  a  foolish  tale  or  an  idle  dream. 

Oh,  I  know  that  the  bowers  of  heaven  are  fair. 
And  I  know  that  the  waters  of  life  are  there; 
But  I  do  not  long  for  their  happy  flow, 
While  there  burst  such  fountains  of  bliss  below; 
And  I  would  not  leave,  for  the  rest  above. 
The  faithful  bosom  of  trusting  love. 

There  are  angels  here ;  they  are  seen  the  while 
In  each  love-lit  brow  and  each  gentle  smile  ; 
There  are  seraph  voices,  that  meet  the  ear 
In  the  kindly  tone  and  the  word  of  cheer; 
And  light,  such  light  as  they  have  above, 
Beams  on  us  here,  from  the  eyes  of  love. 

Yet,  when  it  cometh  my  time  to  die, 
1  would  turn  from  this  bright  world  willingly; 
Thougli.  even  then,  would  the  thoughts  of  this 
Tinge  every  dream  nf  that  land  of  bliss  ; 
And  I  fain  would  lean  on  the  loved  for  aid. 
Nor  walk  alone  through  the  vale  and  shade. 


And  if  'tis  mine,  till  life's  changes  end, 
'I'o  keep  the  heart  of  one  faithful  friend, 
Whatever  the  trials  of  earth  may  be, — 
On  the  peaceful  shore,  or  the  restless  sea. 
In  a  palace  home,  or  the  wilderness, — 
There  is  heaven  for  me  in  a  world  like  this ! 

RESOLVES. 

I  have  said  1  would  not  meet  him  ;  have  I  said  the  words  in 

vain  ? 
Sunset  burns  along  the  hill-tops,  and  I'm  waiting  here  again; 
But  my  promise  is  not  broken,  though  I  stand  where  once 

we  met ; 
When  I  hear  his  coming  footsteps,  I  can  fly  him  even  yet. 

We  have  stood  here  oft  when  evening  deepened  slowly  o'er 

the  plain, 
But  I  must  not,  dare  not,  meet  him  in  the  shadows  here  again; 
For  I  could  not  turn  away  and  leave  that  pleading  look  and 

tone. 
And  the  sorrow  of  liis  parting  would  be  bitter  as  my  own. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  ether  the  first  star  is  shining  through. 
And  another  and  another  tremble  softly  in  the  blue  ; 
Should  I  linger  but  one  moment  in  the  shadows  where  I 

stand, 
I  shall  see  the  vine-leaves  parted,  with  a  quick  impatient 

hand. 

But  I  will  not  wait  his  coming!  he  will  surely  come  once 

more ; 
Though  1  said  I  would  not  meet  him,  I  have  told  him  so 

before ; 
And  he  knows  the  stars  of  evening  see  me  standing  here 

again  — 
Oh,  he  surely  will  not  leave  me  now  to  watch  and  wait  in 

vain ! 

'Tis  the  hour,  the  time  of  meeting!  in  one  moment 't^^  ill 

be  past ; 
And  last  night  he  stood  beside  me;  was  that  blessed  time 

the  last? 
I  could  better  bear  my  sorrow,  conld  I  live  that  parting  o'er; 
Oh,  I  wish  I  had  not  told  him  that  I  would  not  come  once 

more ! 

Could  that  have  been  the  night-wind  moved  the  branches 

thus  apart  ? 
Did  I  hear  a  coming  footstep,  or  the  beating  of  my  heart  ? 
No!  I  hear  him,  I  can  see  him,  and  my  weak  resolves  are 

vain  ; 
I  will  fly,  but  to  his  bosom,  and  to  leave  it  not  again  ! 

OUR    HOMESTEAD. 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls, 

From  the  wayside  dust  aloof. 
Where  the  apple  boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruitage  on  its  roof  : 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew. 

That  when  awake  I  've  lain. 
In  the  lonesome  nights  I  've  heard  the  limbs. 
As  they  creaked  against  the  pane; 
And  those  orchard  trees,  oh,  those  orchard  trees ! 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window  sill. 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad. 
And  the  damask  rose  by  the  garden  fence. 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then. 

Exotics  rich  and  rare. 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier. 

But  not  to  me  so  fair; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh,  those  roses  bright ! 
I  have  twined  them  with  my  sister's  locks. 
That  are  laid  in  the  dust  from  sight! 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well. 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry. 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly: 

618 


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And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  that  ill  my  little  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep, 
Which  my  father's  hand  set  up; 
And  that  deep  old  well,  oh,  that  deep  old  well.' 

I  remember  yet  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth. 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind. 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I  'Ve  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow. 
With  my  childish  hand  in  liis  raven  hair  — 

That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh,  that  broad  hearth's  lijjht ! 

And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile. 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night. 

PARTING    AND    MEETING. 

On  the  casement,  closed  and  lonesome, 

Is  t'alling  the  autumn  rain, 
And  my  heart  to-night  is  heavy 

With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain. 

Not  that  the  leaves  are  dying 

In  the  kiss  of  the  traitor  frost. 
And  not  that  the  summer  flowers 

On  the  bitter  winds  are  tossed. 

And  not  that  the  reaper's  singing 

The  time  no  longer  cheers, 
Bringing  home  through  the  merry  starlight 

The  sheaves  and  the  yellow  ears. 

No,  not  from  these  am  I  sighing. 
As  the  hours  pass  slow  and  dull, 

For  God  in  his  own  time  niaketh 
All  seasons  beautiful. 

But  one  of  our  household  number 
Sits  not  by  the  hearth-fire's  light. 

And  right  on  her  pathway  beating 
Is  the  rain  of  this  autumn  night. 

And  therefore  my  heart  is  heavy 

With  a  sense  of  unquiet  pain, 
For,  but  Heaven  can  tell  if  the  parted 

Shall  meet  in  the  earth  again. 

But  knowing  God's  love  extendeth 

Wherever  his  children  are. 
And  tenderly  round  about  them 

Are  the  arms  of  iiis  watchful  care ; 

With  him  be  the  time  and  the  season 
Of  our  meeting  again  with  thee. 

Whether  here  on  these  earthly  borders, 
Or  the  shore  of  the  world  to  be. 

CHILD,    LYDIA   MARIA, 

Wife  of  David  Lee  Child,  was  born  in  Massa- 
chusetts, but  passed  the  early  portion  of  her  youth 
in  Maine,  whither  her  father,  Mr.  Francis,  had 
removed  when  she  was  quite  young.  She  found 
few  literary  privileges  in  the  place  of  her  resi- 
dence, but  she  had  the  genius  that  nourishes  itself 
on  nature;  and  from  the  influence  of  tlie  wild 
scenes  which  surrounded  her  home  in  childhood, 
she,  doubtless,  draws  even  now  mucli  of  the  fresh- 
ness of  thought  and  vigour  of  style  which  mark 
her  productions. 

In  1823,  being  on  a  visit  to  her  brother,  the 
Rev.  Conyers  Francis,  then  pastor  of  the  Unitarian 
Church  at  Watertown,  Massachusetts,  Miss  Fran- 
cis commenced  her  literary  life  with  "  Hobomok, 
a  Story  of  the  Pilgrims ;"  and,  considering  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  was  written,  a  very 


remarkable  production.  As  the  scene  has  bten 
graphically  described  by  Dr.  Griswold,  author  of 
"  The  Prose  Writers  of  America,"  we  will  quote 
his  account:  — "One  Sunday  noon,  soon  after  her 
arrival  at  her  brother's.  Miss  Francis  took  up  a 
number  of  the  '  North  American  Review,'  and 
read  Doctor  Palfrey's  article  on  '  Yamoyden,'  in 
which  he  eloquently  describes  the  adaptation  of 
early  New  England  history  to  the  purposes  of 
fiction.  She  had  never  written  a  word  for  the 
press, — never  had  dreamed  of  turning  author, — 
but  the  spell  was  on  her,  and  seizing  a  pen,  before 
the  bell  rang  for  the  afternoon  meeting  she  had 
composed  the  first  chapter  of  the  novel,  just  as  it 
is  printed ;  when  it  was  shown  to  her  brother,  her 
young  ambition  was  flattered  by  the  exclama- 
tion, — '  But,  Maria,  did  you  really  write  this  ? 
Do  you  mean  what  you  say,  that  it  is  entirely  yo\xv 
own  ?"  The  excellent  Doctor  little  knew  the  effect 
of  his  words.  Her  fate  was  fixed :  in  six  weeks 
'Hobomok'  was  finished."  The  book  was  pub- 
lished in  1824 ;  ever  since  that  time  its  author  has 
kept  her  place  as  a  faithful  labourer  in  the  field 
of  literature,  and,  perhaps,  no  one  of  our  female 
writers  has  had  wider  influence,  or  made  more 
earnest  efforts  to  do  good  with  her  talents.  Her 
next  work,  "  The  Rebels,"  was  published  in  1825; 
soon  afterwards  Miss  Francis  became  Mrs.  Child, 
and  her  married  life  has  been  a  true  and  lovely 
exemplification  of  the  domestic  concord  which 
congenial  minds  produce  as  well  as  enjoy. 

In  1827,  Mrs.  Child  engaged  as  editor  of  "The 
Juvenile  Miscellany,"  the  first  monthly  periodical 
issued  in  our  Union  for  children.  Under  her  care 
the  work  became  very  popular ;  she  has  a  warm 
sympathy  with  the  young  —  her  genius  harmonized 
with  the  undertaking,  and  some  of  the  articles  in 
this  "Miscellany"  are  among  the  best  she  has 
written.  During  the  six  following  years,  Mrs. 
Child's  pen  was  incessantly  employed.  Besides 
her  editorial  duties,  she  published,  successively — 
"  The  Frugal  Housewife,"  written  as  she  said  in 
the  preface,  "  for  the  poor,"  and  one  of  the  most 
useful  books  of  its  kind  extant —  "  The  Mother's 
Book,"  an  excellent  manual  in  training  children, 
though  the  author  has  never  been  a  mother  —  and 
"  The  Girl's  Book,"  designed  as  a  holiday  present 
and  descriptive  of  children's  plays.  She  also  pre- 
pared five  volumes  for  "  The  Ladies'  Family  Li- 
brary," comprising  "  Lives  of  Madame  de  Stael  and 
Madame  Roland;"  "Lady  Russell  and  Madame 
Guyon  ;"  "  Biographies  of  Good  Wives  ;"  and  the 
"  History  and  Condition  of  Woman;"  which  works 
were  published  in  Boston.  Besides  all  these  she 
published  in  1833,  "  The  Coronal,"  a  collection 
of  miscellaneous  pieces,  in  prose  and  verse.  This 
year  is  also  important  in  her  history  for  the  first 
step  she  took  with  the  abolitionists,  by  issuing  her 
"  Appeal  for  that  class  of  Americana  called  Afri- 
cans." This  appeal  was  written  with  that  earnest 
and  honest  enthusiasm  pervading  all  Mrs.  Child's 
benevolent  efforts.  She  was  true  to  the  generous 
sympathies  of  her  own  heart ;  but  did  she  care- 
fully examine,  in  all  its  bearings,  the  cause  she  so 
ardently  advocated  ?  The  philanthropist  may  do 
incalculable  injury  to  humanity  by  urging  a  sys- 

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tern  of  reform  or  relief  which  removes  old  abuses 
it  is  true,  but  introduces  and  cherishes  other 
and  far  greater  evils.  Las  Casas  introduced 
negro  slavei-y  to  save  the  red  man  from  extirpa- 
tion—  behold  the  result!  Philanthropy  establish- 
ed "Foundling  Hospitals"  in  Stockholm  to  save 
illegitimate  infants  from  exposure;  one  out  of 
every  three  children  now  born  in  that  city  are 
illegitimate !  We  might  multiply  illustrations,  — 
but  there  is  no  need.  The  precepts  and  exam- 
ples of  the  Saviour  should  be  the  guide  of  wo- 
man's benevolent  efforts.  In  no  case  did  He  lend 
aid  or  encouragement  to  the  agitation  of  political 
questions.  His  Gospel  is  "peace  and  good-will ;" 
which  it  seems  woman's  province  to  illustrate  in 
its  deeds  till  men  shall  be  imbued  with  its  spirit. 
Wherever  there  are  two  modes  of  attaining  a 
rigliteous  end,  is  it  not  better  that  our  sex  should 
follow  that  which  requires  ever  the  gentle  ministry 
of  love,  mercy  and  good  works,  than  enter  on  that 
which  stirs  up  partisan  jealousy,  and  the  thou- 
sand evils  attendant  on  political  or  polemical 
strife  ?  The  design  of  the  abolitionists,  let  us  be- 
lieve, is  the  improvement  and  happiness  of  the 
coloui-ed  race;  for  this  end  Mrs.  Child  devoted 
her  noblest  talents,  her  holiest  aspirations.  Seven- 
teen years  ago  she  conseci'ated  her  powers  to  this 
work.  The  result  has  been,  that  her  fine  genius, 
her  soul's  wealth  has  been  wasted  in  the  struggle 
which  party  politicians  have  used  for  their  own 
selfish  purposes.  Had  Mrs.  Child  taken  the  more 
quiet,  but  far  more  efiicient  mode  of  doing  good 
to  the  coloured  race,  by  aiding  to  establish  schools 
in  Liberia  —  preparing  and  sending  out  free  co- 
loured emigrants,  who  must  there  become  teach- 
ers and  exemplars  to  thousands  and  millions  of 
the  poor  black  heathen ;  if  she  had  written  for 
this  mission  of  peace  as  she  has  poured  her  heart 
out  in  a  cause  only  tending  to  strife,  what  blessed 
memorials  of  these  long  years,  would  now  be 
found  to  repay  her  disinterested  exertions !  Since 
1833,  only  three  works  of  her's  have  been  pub- 
lished: "  Philotliea"  appeared  in  1835,  a  charm- 
ing romance,  filled  with  the  pure  aspirations  of 
genius,  and  rich  in  classical  lore  ;  the  scene  being 
laid  in  Greece  in  the  time  of  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 
The  work  is  in  one  volume,  and  was  planned  and 
partly  written  before  its  author  entered  the  arena 
of  party ;  but  the  bitter  feelings  engendered  by  the 
strife,  have  prevented  the  merits  of  this  remark- 
able book  from  being  appreciated  as  they  deserve. 
In  1841 ,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Child  removed  from  Bos- 
ton to  the  city  of  New  York,  and  became  con- 
ductors of  "  The  National  Anti-Slavery  Standard." 
Mrs.  Child,  while  assisting  in  her  husband's  edi- 
torial duties,  now  commenced  a  Series  of  Let- 
ters, partly  for  the  "  Boston  Courier,"  a  popular 
newspaper,  and  partly  for  the  "  Standard,"  (her 
own  paper,)'  which  after  being  thus  published, 
were  collected  and  reissued  in  two  volumes,  enti- 
tled, "  Letters  from  New  Yoi-k."  This  work  has 
been  very  popular.  Mrs.  Child  is  a  close  observer, 
she  knows  "  how  to  observe,"  and  better  still,  she 
has  a  poetical  imagination  and  a  pure,  warm, 
loving  heart,  which  invests  her  descriptions  with 
a  peculiar  charm.     An  English  Reviewer  has  well 


remarked  concerning  Mrs.  Child:  —  "Whatever 
comes  to  her  from  without,  whether  through  the 
eye  or  the  ear,  whether  in  nature  or  art,  is  re- 
flected in  her  writings  with  a  halo  of  beauty 
thrown  about  it  by  her  own  fancy ;  and  thus  pre- 
sented, it  appeals  to  our  sympathies  and  awakens 
an  interest  which  carves  it  upon  the  memory  in 
letters  of  gold.  But  she  has  yet  loftier  claims  to 
respect  than  a  poetical  nature.  She  is  a  philoso- 
pher, and,  better  still,  a  religious  philosopher. 
Every  page  presents  to  us  scraps  of  wisdom, 
not  pedantically  put  forth,  as  if  to  attract  admi- 
ration, but  thrown  out  by  the  way  in  seeming 
unconsciousness,  and  as  part  of  her  ordinary 
thoughts." 

This  is  high  praise,  but  truly  deserved.  Her 
last  woi-k,  —  excepting  a  little  book,  "Spring 
Flowers,"  for  children, — was  "Fact  and  Fiction," 
published  in  1846.  It  is  a  collection  of  tales, 
each  one  possessing  some  characteristic  excel- 
lence, but  the  one  we  select  is  such  a  beautiful 
illustration  of  the  power  of  kindness  over  the 
human  heart,  and  moreover,  it  discloses  the  im- 
pulse of  her  own  nature,  always  seeking  to  do 
good,  that  we  prefer  it  to  those  in  which  fancy 
predominates.  Mrs.  Child's  residence  is  now  in 
Massachusetts. 

From  "  Fact  and  Fiction." 

THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 

Who  blesses  others  in  his  daily  deeds, 
Will  find  the  healing  that  his  spirit  needs; 
For  every  flower  in  others'  pathway  strewn, 
Confers  its  fragrant  beauty  on  our  own. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  live  in  the  same  building 
with  Hetty  Turnpenny,"  said  Mrs.  Lane  to  Mrs. 
Fairweather;  "you  will  find  nobody  to  envy  you. 
If  her  temper  does  not  prove  too  much  even  for 
your  good  nature,  it  will  surprise  all  who  know 
her.  We  lived  there  a  year,  and  that  is  as  long 
as  anybody  ever  tried  it." 

"Poor  Hetty!"  replied  Mrs.  Fairweather;  "she 
has  had  much  to  harden  her.  Her  mother  died 
too  early  for  her  to  remember;  her  father  was 
very  severe  with  her ;  and  the  only  lover  she  ever 
had,  borrowed  the  savings  of  her  years  of  toil, 
and  spent  them  in  dissipation.  But  Hetty,  not- 
withstanding her  sharp  features,  and  sharper 
words,  certainly  has  a  kind  heart.  In  the  midst 
of  her  greatest  poverty,  many  were  the  stockings 
she  knit,  and  the  warm  waistcoats  she  made,  for 
the  poor  drunken  lover,  whom  she  had  too  much 
good  sense  to  marry.  Then  you  know  she  feeds 
and  clothes  her  brother's  orphan  child." 

"  If  you  call  it  feeding  and  clothing,"  replied 
Mrs.  Lane.  "  The  poor  child  looks  cold,  and 
pinched,  and  frightened  all  the  time,  as  if  she 
were  chased  by  the  east  wind.  I  used  to  tell  Miss 
Turnpenny  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself, 
to  keep  the  poor  little  thing  at  work  all  the  time, 
without  one  minute  to  play.  If  she  does  but  look 
at  the  cat,  as  it  runs  by  the  window.  Aunt  Hetty 
gives  her  a  rap  over  the  knuckles.  I  used  to  tell 
her  she  would  make  the  girl  just  such  another 
sour  old  crab  as  herself." 

"  That  must  have  been  very  improving  to  her 
disposition,"    replied   Mrs.    Fairweather,   with~  a 

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good-humoured  smile.  "  But  in  justice  to  poor 
Aunt  Hetty,  you  ought  to  remember  that  she  had 
just  such  a  cheerless  childhood  herself.  Flowers 
grow  where  there  is  sunshine." 

"I  know  you  think  everybody  ought  to  live  in 
the  sunshine,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Lane  ;  "  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that-  you  carry  it  with  you  wherever 
you  go.  If  Miss  Turnpenny  has  a  heart,  I  dare 
say  you  will  find  it  out,  though  I  never  could,  and 
I  never  heard  of  any  one  else  that  could.  All  the 
families  within  hearing  of  her  tongue  call  her  the 
neighbour-in-law. " 

Certainly  the  prospect  was  not  very  encour- 
aging ;  for  the  house  ]\Irs.  Fairweather  proposed 
to  occupy,  was  not  only  under  the  same  roof  with 
Miss  Turnpenny,  but  the  buildings  had  one  com- 
mon yard  in  the  rear,  and  one  common  space  for 
a  garden  in  front.  The  very  first  day  she  took 
possession  of  her  new  habitation,  she  called  on 
the  neighbour-in-law.  Aunt  Hetty  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  extinguish  the  fire,  lest  the  new 
neighbour  should  want  hot  water,  before  her  own 
wood  and  coal  arrived.  Her  first  salutation  was, 
"If  you  want  any  cold  water,  there's  a  pump 
across  the  street;  I  don't  like  to  have  my  house 
slopped  all  over." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  so  tidy,  neighbour  Turn- 
penny," replied  Mrs.  Fairweather;  "it  is  ex- 
tremely pleasant  to  have  neat  neighbours.  I  will 
try  to  keep  everything  as  bright  as  a  new  five 
cent  piece,  for  I  see  that  will  please  you.  I  came 
in  merely  to  say  good  morning,  and  to  ask  if  you 
could  spare  little  Peggy  to  run  up  and  down  stairs 
for  me,  while  I  am  getting  my  furniture  in  order. 
I  will  pay  her  sixpence  an  hour." 

Aunt  Hetty  had  begun  to  purse  up  her  mouth 
for  a  refusal ;  but  the  promise  of  sixpence  an  hour 
relaxed  her  features  at  once.  Little  Peggy  sat 
knitting  a  stocking  very  diligently,  with  a  rod 
lying  on  the  table  beside  her.  She  looked  up 
with  timid  wistfulness,  as  if  the  prospect  of  any 
change  was  like  a  release  from  prison.  When  she 
heard  consent  given,  a  bright  colour  flushed  her 
cheeks.  She  was  evidently  of  an  impressible  tem- 
perament, for  good  or  evil.  "  Now  mind  and  be- 
have yourself,"  said  Aunt  Hetty;  "and  see  that 
you  keep  at  work  the  whole  time.  If  I  hear  one 
word  of  complaint,  you  know  what  you'll  get 
when  you  come  home."  The  rose-colour  subsided 
from  Peggy's  pal^  face,  and  she  answered,  "  Yes 
ma'am,"  very  meekly. 

In  the  neighbour's  house  all  went  quite  other- 
wise. No  switch  lay  on  the  table ;  and  instead 
of,  "Mind  how  you  do  that  —  if  you  don't,  I'll 
punish  you,"  she  heard  the  gentle  words,  "There, 
dear,  see  how  carefully  you  can  carry  that  up 
stairs.  Why,  what  a  nice,  handy  little  girl  you 
are!"  Under  this  enlivening  influence,  Peggy 
worked  like  a  bee,  and  soon  began  to  hum  much 
more  agreeably  than  a  bee.  Aunt  Hetty  was 
always  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "Stop  your  noise, 
and  mind  your  work."  But  the  new  friend  patted 
her  on  the  head,  and  said,  "  AVhat  a  pleasant  voice 
the  little  girl  has.  It  is  like  the  birds  in  the  fields. 
By-and-by,  you  shall  hear  my  music-box."  This 
opened  wide  the  windows  of  the  poor  little  shut-up 


heart,  so  that  the  sunshine  could  stream  in,  and 
the  birds  fly  in  and  out,  carolling.  The  happy 
child  tuned  up  like  a  lai-k,  as  she  tripped  lightly 
up  and  down  stairs,  on  various  household  errands. 
But  though  she  took  heed  to  observe  all  the  direc- 
tions given  her,  her  head  was  all  the  time  filled 
with  conjectures  what  sort  of  a  thing  a  music-box 
might  be.  She  was  a  little  afraid  the  kind  lady 
would  forget  to  show  it  to  her.  She  kept  at  work, 
however,  and  asked  no  questions;  she  only  looked 
very  curiously  at  everything  that  resembled  a  box. 
At  last,  Mrs.  Fairweather  said,  "  I  think  your 
little  feet  must  be  tired,  by  this  time.  We  will 
rest  awhile,  and  eat  some  gingerbread."  The 
child  took  the  offered  cake,  with  a  humble  little 
courtesy,  and  carefully  held  out  her  apron  to  pre- 
vent any  crumbs  from  falling  on  the  floor.  But 
suddenly  the  apron  dropped,  and  the  crumbs  were 
all  strewn  about.  "  Is  that  a  little  bird  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed eagerly.  "  AVhere  is  he  ?  Is  he  in  this 
room  ?"  The  new  friend  smiled,  and  told  her  that 
was  the  music-box ;  and  after  awhile  she  opened 
it,  and  explained  what  made  the  sounds.  Then 
she  took  out  a  pile  of  books  from  one  of  the  bas- 
kets of  goods,  and  told  Peggy  she  might  look  at 
the  pictures,  till  she  called  her.  The  little  girl 
stepped  forward  eagerly  to  take  them,  and  then 
drew  back,  as  if  afraid.  "What  is  the  matter?" 
asked  Mrs.  Fairweather;  "I  am  very  willing  to 
trust  you  with  the  books.  I  keep  them  on  pur- 
pose to  amuse  children."  Peggy  looked  down 
with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  answered,  in  a 
constrained  voice,  "Aunt  Turnpenny  won't  like  it 
if  I  play."  "  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that; 
I  will  make  it  all  right  with  Aunt  Hetty,"  replied 
the  friendly  one.  Thus  assured,  she  gave  herself 
up  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  picture-books ;  and 
when  she  was  summoned  to  her  work,  she  obeyed 
with  a  cheerful  alacrity  that  would  have  astonished 
her  stern  relative.  When  the  labours  of  the  day 
were  concluded,  jMrs.  Fairweather  accompanied 
her  home,  paid  for  all  the  hours  she  had  been 
absent,  and  warmly  praised  her  docility  and  dili- 
gence. "  It  is  lucky  for  her  that  she  behaved  so 
well,"  replied  Aunt  Hetty;  "if  I  had  heard  any 
complaint,  I  should  have  given  her  a  whipping, 
and  sent  her  to  bed  without  her  supper." 
***** 
But  a  source  of  annoyance  presented  itself, 
which  could  not  easily  be  disposed  of.  Aunt 
Hetty  had  a  cat  —  a  lean,  scraggy  animal  —  that 
looked  as  if  she  were  often  kicked  and  seldom  fed ; 
and  Mrs.  Fairweather  had  a  fat,  frisky  little  dog, 
always  ready  for  a  caper.  He  took  a  distaste  to 
poor  poverty-stricken  Tab,  the  first  time  he  saw 
her ;  and  no  coaxing  could  induce  him  to  alter  his 
opinion.  His  name  was  Pink ;  but  he  was  any- 
thing but  a  pink  of  behaviour  in  his  neighbourly 
relations.  Poor  Tab  could  never  set  foot  out  of 
doors  without  being  saluted  with  a  growl,  and  a 
short  sharp  bark,  that  frightened  her  out  of  her 
senses,  and  made  her  run  into  the  house,  with 
her  fur  all  on  end.  If  she  even  ventured  to  doze 
a  little  on  her  own  door-step,  the  enemy  was  on 
the  watch,  and  the  moment  her  eyes  closed,  he 
would  wake  her  with  a  bark  and  a  box  on  the  ear, 

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and  off  he  would  run.  Aunt  Hetty  vowed  she 
would  scald  him.  It  was  a  burning  shame,  she 
said,  for  folks  to  keep  dogs  to  worry  their  neigh- 
bours' cats.  Mrs.  Fairweather  invited  Tabby  to 
dine,  and  made  much  of  her,  and  patiently  endea- 
voured to  teach  her  dog  to  eat  from  the  same 
plate.  But  Pink  sturdily  resolved  he  would  be 
scalded  first ;  that  he  would.  He  could  not  have 
been  more  obstinate  in  his  opposition,  if  he  and 
Tab  had  belonged  to  different  sects  in  Christianity. 
While  his  mistress  was  patting  Tab  on  the  head, 
and  reasoning  the  point  with  him,  he  would  at 
times  manifest  a  degree  of  indifference,  amounting 
to  toleration ;  but  the  moment  he  was  left  to  his 
own  free  will,  he  would  give  the  invited  guest  a 
hearty  cuff  with  his  paw,  and  send  her  home  spit- 
ting like  a  small  steam-engine.  Aunt  Hetty  con- 
sidered it  her  own  peculiar  privilege  to  cuff  the 
poor  animal,  and  it  was  too  much  for  her  patience 
to  see  Pink  undertake  to  assist  in  making  Tab 
unhappy.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  she  rushed 
into  her  neighbour's  apartments,  and  faced  Mrs. 
Fairweather,  with  one  hand  resting  on  her  hip,  and 
the  forefinger  of  the  other  making  very  wrathful 
gesticulations.  "I  tell  you  what,  madam,  I  wont 
put  up  with  such  treatment  much  longer,"  said 
she ;  "  I'll  poison  that  dog ;  see  if  I  don't ;  and  I 
shan't  wait  long,  either,  I  can  tell  you.  What  you 
keep  such  an  impudent  little  beast  for,  I  don't 
know,  without  you  do  it  on  purpose  to  plague 
your  neighbours." 

"  I  am  really  sorry  he  behaves  so,"  replied  Mrs. 
Fairweather,  mildly.     "Poor  Tab!" 

"  Poor  Tab !"  screamed  Miss  Turnpenny ;  "  what 
do  you  mean  by  calling  her  poor  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  fling  it  up  to  me  that  my  cat  don't  have  enough 
to  eat?" 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  replied  Mrs. 
Fairweather.  "I  called  her  poor  Tab,  because 
Pink  plagues  her  so,  that  she  has  no  peace  of  her 
life.  I  agree  with  you,  neighbour  Turnpenny :  it 
is  not  right  to  keep  a  dog  that  disturbs  the  neigh- 
bourhood. I  am  attached  to  poor  little  Pink,  be- 
cause he  belongs  to  my  son,  who  has  gone  to  sea. 
I  was  in  hopes  he  would  soon  leave  off  quarrelling 
with  the  cat;  but  if  he  won't  be  neighbourly,  I 
will  send  him  out  in  the  country  to  board.  Sally, 
will  you  bring  me  one  of  the  pies  we  baked  this 
morning?  I  should  like  to  have  Miss  Turnpenny 
taste  of  them." 

The  crabbed  neighbovir  was  helped  abundantly ; 
and  while  she  was  eating  the  pie,  the  friendly 
matron  edged  in  many  a  kind  word  concerning 
little  Peggy,  whom  she  praised  as  a  remarkably 
capable,  industrious  child. 

"  I  am  glad  you  find  her  so,"  rejoined  Aunt 
Hetty:  "  I  should  get  precious  little  work  out  of 
her,  if  I  didn't  keep  a  switch  in  sight." 

"  I  manage  children  pretty  much  as  the  man  did 
the  donkey,"  replied  Mrs.  Fairweather.  "Not  an 
inch  would  the  poor  beast  stir,  for  all  his  master's 
beating  and  thumping.  But  a  neighbour  tied  some 
fresh  turnips  to  a  stick,  and  fastened  them  so  that 
they  swung  directly  before  the  donkey's  nose,  and 
off  he  set  on  a  brisk  trot,  in  hopes  of  overtaking 
them." 


Aunt  Hetty,  without  observing  how  very  closely 
the  comparison  applied  to  her  own  management 
of  Peggy,  said,  "  That  will  do  very  well  for  folks 
that  have  plenty  of  turnips  to  spare." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Fair- 
weather,  "  whips  cost  something,  as  well  as  tur- 
nips ;  and  since  one  makes  the  donkey  stand  still, 
and  the  other  makes  him  trot,  it  is  easy  to  decide 
which  is  the  most  economical.  But,  neighbour 
Turnpenny,  since  you  like  my  pies  so  well,  pray 
take  one  home  with  you.  I  am  afraid  they  will 
mould  before  we  can  eat  them  up." 

Aunt  Hetty  had  come  in  for  a  quarrel,  and  she 
was  astonished  to  find  herself  going  out  with  a 
pie.  "Well,  Mrs.  Fairweather,"  said  she,  "you 
are  a  neighbour.  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times." 
AVhen  she  reached  her  own  door,  she  hesitated  for 
an  instant,  then  turned  back,  pie  in  hand,  to  say, 
"Neighbour  Fairweather,  you  needn't  trouble 
yourself  about  sending  Pink  away.  It 's  natural 
you  should  like  the  little  creature,  seeing  he  be- 
longs to  your  son.  I  '11  try  to  keep  Tab  in  doors, 
and  perhaps  after  awhile  they  will  agree  better." 

"  I  hope  they  will,"  replied  the  friendly  matron: 
"we  will  try  them  awhile  longer,  and  if  they  per- 
sist in  quarrelling,  I  will  send  the  dog  into  the 
country."  Pink,  who  was  sleeping  in  a  chair, 
stretched  himself  and  gaped.  His  kind  mistress 
patted  him  on  the  head,  "Ah,  you  foolish  little 
beast,"  said  she,  "what's  the  use  of  plaguing 
poor  Tab?" 

***** 

That  same  afternoon,  the  sunshiny  dame  stepped 
into  Aunt  Hetty's  rooms,  where  she  found  Peggy 
sewing,  as  usual,  with  the  eternal  switch  on  the 
table  beside  her.  "  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Harlem, 
on  business,"  said  she :  "  I  feel  rather  lonely  with- 
out company,  and  I  always  like  to  have  a  child 
with  me.  If  you  will  oblige  me  by  letting  Peggy 
go,  I  will  pay  her  fare  in  the  omnibus." 

"  She  has  her  spelling  lesson  to  get  before 
night,"  replied  Aunt  Hetty.  "  I  don't  approve 
of  young  folks  going  a  pleasuring,  and  neglecting 
their  education." 

"Neither  do  I,"  rejoined  her  neighbour;  "but 
I  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  education  that  is 
not  found  in  books.  The  fresh  air  will  make 
Peggy  grow  stout  and  active.  I  prophesy  that 
she  will  do  great  credit  to  your  bringing  up." 
The  sugared  words,  and  the  remembrance  of  the 
sugared  pie,  touched  the  soft  place  in  Miss  Turn- 
penny's heart,  and  she  told  the  astonished  Peggy 
that  she  might  go  and  put  on  her  best  gown  and 
bonnet.  The  poor  child  began  to  think  that  this 
new  neighbour  was  certainly  one  of  the  good  fairies 
she  read  about  in  the  picture-books.  The  excur- 
sion was  enjoyed  as  only  a  city  child  can  enjoy 
the  country.  The  world  seems  such  a  pleasant 
place,  when  the  fetters  are  off,  and  Nature  folds 
the  young  heart  lovingly  on  her  bosom  !  A  flock 
of  real  birds  and  two  living  butterflies  put  the 
little  orphan  in  a  perfect  ecstasy.  She  ran  and 
skipped.  One  could  see  that  she  might  be  grace- 
ful, if  she  were  only  free.  She  pointed  to  the 
fields  covered  with  dandelions,  and  said,  "  See 
how  prettv  !     It  looks  as  if  the  stars  had  come 

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down  to  lie  on  the  grass."  Ah,  our  little  stinted 
Peggy  has  poetry  in  her,  though  Aunt  Hetty  never 
found  it  out.  Every  human  soul  has  the  germ  of 
some  flowers  within,  and  they  would  open,  if  they 
could  only  find  sunshine  and  free  air  to  expand  in. 

Mrs.  Fairweather  was  a  practical  philosopher, 
in  her  own  small  way.  She  observed  that  Miss 
Turnpenny  really  liked  a  pleasant  tune ;  and  when 
winter  came,  she  tried  to  persuade  her  that  sing- 
ing would  be  excellent  for  Peggy's  lungs,  and  per- 
haps keep  her  from  going  into  a  consumption.. 

"  My  nephew,  James  Fairweather,  keeps  a  sing- 
ing school,"  said  she ;  "  and  he  says  he  will  teach 
her  gratis.  You  need  not  feel  under  great  obli- 
gation ;  for  her  voice  will  lead  the  whole  school, 
and  her  ear  is  so  quick,  it  will  be  no  trouble  at 
all  to  teach  her.  Perhaps  you  would  go  with  us 
sometimes,  neighbour  Turnpenny?  It  is  very 
pleasant  to  hear  the  children's  voices." 

The  cordage  of  Aunt  Hetty's  mouth  relaxed  into 
a  smile.  She  accepted  the  invitation,  and  was  so 
much  pleased,  that  she  went  every  Sunday  even- 
ing. The  simple  tunes,  and  the  sweet  young 
voices,  fell  like  dew  on  her  dried-up  heart,  and 
greatly  aided  the  genial  influence  of  her  neigh- 
bour's example.  The  rod  silently  disappeared 
from  the  table.  If  Peggy  was  disposed  to  be  idle, 
it  was  only  necessary  to  say,  "When  you  have 
■  finished  your  work,  you  may  go  and  ask  whether 
Mrs.  Fairweather  wants  any  errands  done."  Bless 
me,  how  the  fingers  flew  !  Aunt  Hetty  had  learned 
to  use  turnips  instead  of  the  cudgel. 

When  spring  came,  Mrs.  Fairweather  busied 
herself  with  planting  roses  and  vines.  Miss  Turn- 
penny readily  consented  that  Peggy  shovild  help 
her,  and  even  refused  to  take  any  pay  from  such 
a  good  neighbour.  But  she  maintained  her  own 
opinion  that  it  was  a  mere  waste  of  time  to  culti- 
vate flowers.  The  cheerful  philosopher  never  dis- 
puted the  point;  but  she  wovild  sometimes  say,  "I 
have  no  room  to  plant  this  rose-bush.  Neighbour 
Turnpenny,  would  you  be  willing  to  let  me  set  it 
on  your  side  of  the  yard  ?  It  will  take  very  little 
room,  and  will  need  no  care."  At  another  time, 
she  would  say,  "  Well,  really  my  ground  is  too  full. 
Here  is  a  root  of  Lady's-delight.  How  bright  and 
pert  it  looks.  It  seems  a  pity  to  throw  it  away. 
If  you  are  willing,  I  will  let  Peggy  plant  it  in 
what  she  calls  her  garden.  It  will  grow  of  itself, 
without  any  care,  and  scatter  seeds,  that  will 
come  up  and  blossom  in  all  the  chinks  of  the 
bricks.  I  love  it.  It  is  such  a  bright,  good-na- 
tured little  thing."  Thus,  by  degrees,  the  crabbed 
maiden  found  herself  surrounded  by  flowers  ;  and 
she  even  declared,  of  her  own  accord,  that  they 
did  look  pretty. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Lane  called  upon  Mrs. 
Fairweather,  she  found  the  old  weed-grown  yard 
bright  and  blooming.  Tab,  quite  fat  and  sleek, 
was  asleep,  in  the  sunshine,  with  her  paw  on 
Pink's  neck,  and  little  Peggy  was  singing  at  her 
work,  as  blithe  as  a  bird. 

"  How  cheerful  you  look  here,"  said  Mrs.  Lane. 
"And  so  you  have  really  taken  the  house  for  an- 
other year.  Pray,  how  do  you  manage  to  get  on 
with  the  neighbour-in-law  ?" 


"I  find  her  a  very  kind,  obliging  neighbour," 
replied  Mrs.  Fairweather.  / 

"Well,  this  in  a  miracle!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lane. 
"Nobody  but  you  would  have  undertaken  to  thaw 
out  Aunt  Hetty's  heart." 

"  That  is  probably  the  reason  why  it  was  never 
thawed,"  rejoined  her  friend.  "  I  always  told  you, 
that  not  having  enough  of  sunshine  was  what  ailed 
the  world.  Make  people  happy,  and  there  will 
not  be  half  the  quarrelling,  or  a  tenth  part  of  the 
wickedness,  there  is." 


From  the  "  IVIolher's  Book." 
POLITENESS. 

In  politeness,  as  in  many  other  things  connected 
with  the  formation  of  character,  people  in  general 
begin  outside,  when  they  should  begin  inside ;  in- 
stead of  beginning  with  the  heart,  and  trusting 
that  to  form  the  manners,  they  begin  with  the 
manners,  and  trust  the  heart  to  chance  influences. 
The  golden  rule  contains  the  very  life  and  soul  of 
politeness.  Children  may  be  taught  to  make  a 
graceful  courtesy,  or  a  gentlemanly  bow, — but, 
unless  they  have  likewise  been  taught  to  abhor 
what  is  selfish,  and  always  prefer  another's  com- 
fort and  pleasure  to  their  own,  their  politeness 
will  be  entirely  artificial,  and  used  only  when  it  is 
their  interest  to  use  it.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
truly  benevolent,  kind-hearted  person  will  always 
be  distinguished  for  what  is  called  native  polite- 
ness, though  entirely  ignorant  of  the  conventional 
forms  of  society. 


Perhaps  there  is  no  gift  with  which  mortals  are 
endowed,  that  brings  so  much  danger  as  beauty, 
in  proportion  to  the  usefulness  and  happiness  it 
produces.  It  is  so  rare  for  a  belle  to  be  happy,  or 
even  contented,  after  the  season  of  youth  is  past, 
that  it  is  considered  almost  a  miracle.  If  your 
daughter  is  handsome,  it  is  peculiarly  necessary 
that  she  should  not  be  taught  to  attach  an  undue 
importance  to  the  dangerous  gift ;  and  if  she  is 
plain,  it  certainly  is  not  for  her  happiness  to  con- 
sider it  as  a  misfortune. 

It  certainly  is  natural  to  admire  beauty,  whether 
it  be  in  human  beings,  animals,  or  flowers  ;  it  is  a 
principle  implanted  within  the  human  mind,  and 
we  cannot  get  rid  of  it.  Beauty  is  the  outward 
form  of  goodness  ;  and  that  is  the  reason  we  love 
it  instinctively,  without  thinking  why  we  love  it. 
The  truth  is,  beauty  is  really  of  some  consequence ; 
but  of  very  small  consequence  compared  with  good 
principles,  good  feelings,  and  good  understanding. 
In  this  manner  children  ought  to  hear  it  spoken 
of.  There  should  be  no  affected  indiff"erence  on 
this  or  any  other  subject.  If  a  child  say,  '  Every- 
body loves  Jane  Snow  —  she  is  so  pretty.'  I 
would  answer,  '  Is  Jane  Snow  a  good,  kind  little 
girl  ?  I  should  be  pleased  with  her  pretty  face, 
and  should  want  to  kiss  her,  when  I  first  saw  her; 
but  if  I  found  slie  was  cross  and  selfish,  I  should 
not  love  her;  and  I  should  not  wish  to  have  her 
about  me.'  In  this  way  the  attention  will  be 
drawn  from  the  subject  of  beauty,  to  the  import- 

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ance  of  goodness ;  and  there  is  no  affectation  in 
the  business  —  the  plain  truth  is  told.  We  do 
love  beauty  at  first  sight ;  and  we  do  cease  to  love 
it,  if  it  is  not  accompanied  by  amiable  qualities. 

CLARKE,  MARY  COAVDEN, 
An  English  lady,  residing  near  London,  -who 
has  prepared  "  The  Complete  Concordance  to 
Shakspeare."  It  was  a  gigantic  undertaking,  and 
like  "  Cruden's  Concoi-dance  to  the  Scriptures," 
would  appear  to  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  to 
complete  a  reference  to  the  works  of  the  immortal 
dramatist.  Mrs.  Clarke  devoted  sixteen  years 
to  this  study ;  and  seems  to  have  felt  such 
honest  enthusiasm  in  her  pursuit  as  made  it  a 
real  pleasure.  The  book  is  large  octavo,  three 
columns  on  each  page,  and  there  are  860  pages, 
sufficient  labour  for  a  lifetime,  and  her  ambition 
may  well  be  satisfied  with  the  result.  From  her 
very  sensible  preface  we  will  give  a  quotation, 
showing  the  estimation  Shakspeare  holds  in  her 
mind ;  nor  do  we  think  she  overrates  the  influence 
of  his  works.  Next  to  genius  comes  the  faculty 
to  appreciate  it  thus  lovingly  and  truthfully. 

"  Shakspeare,  the  most  frequently  quoted,  be- 
cause the  most  universal-minded  genius  that  ever 
lived,  of  all  authors,  best  deserves  a  complete 
Concordance  to  his  works.  To  what  subject  may 
we  not  with  felicity  apply  a  motto  from  this 
greatest  of  Poets  ?  The  Divine,  commending  the 
efficacy  and  '  twofold  force  of  praj'er  —  to  be  fore- 
stalled, ere  we  come  to  fall,  or  pardoned,  being 
down  ;'  the  Astronomer,  supporting  his  theory  by 
allusions  to  '  the  moist  star,  upon  whose  influence 
Neptune's  empire  stands;'  the  Naturalist  striving 
to  elucidate  a  fact  respecting  the  habits  of  '  the 
singing  masons,'  or  ' heavy-gaited  toads;'  the 
Botanist,  lecturing  on  the  various  properties  of 
the  '  small  flower,  within  whose  infant  rind  poison 
hath  residence,  and  med'cine  power ;'  or,  on  the 
growth  of  '  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night  unseen, 
yet  crescive  in  his  faculty;'  the  Philosopher,  spe- 
culating upon  '  the  respect  that  makes  calamity  of 
so  long  a  life,' — '  the  dread  of  something  after 
death,  the  undiscovered  country,  from  whose 
bourn  no  traveller  returns;'  'the  Lover,  telling 
his  'whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear,'  and  vow- 
ing the  '  winnowed  purity '  and  '  persistive  con- 
stancy' of  his  'heart's  dear  love;'  the  Lawyer, 
discussing  some  'nice  sharp  quillet  of  the  law;' 
the  jMusician,  descanting  on  the  '  touches  of  sweet 
harmony ;'  the  Painter,  describing  his  art,  that 
'pretty  mocking  of  the  life;'  the  Novel-writer, 
seeking  an  illustrative  heading  to  a  fresh  chapter, 
'the  baby  figure  of  the  giant  mass  to  come  at 
large ;'  the  Orator,  labouring  an  emphatic  point 
in  an  appeal  to  the  passions  of  assembled  multi- 
tudes, '  to  stir  men's  blood;'  the  Soldier,  endea- 
vouring to  vindicate  his  profession,  by  vaunting 
the  '  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ;'  or 
the  Humanist,  advocating  '  the  quality  of  mercy,' 
urging  that  'to  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear;' 
and  maintaining  that  '  the  earth  is  wronged  by 
man's  oppression,'  may  all  equally  adorn  their 
page,  or  emblazon  their  speech  with  gems  from 
Shakspeare's  works." 


The  "  Concordance"  was  published  in  London, 
in  1846.  So  carefully  was  the  process  of  correct- 
ing proofs,  &c.,  performed,  that  four  years  was 
spent  in  printing  the  book. 

CLARKE,  SARA  JANE, 
Best  known  as  "  Grace  Greenwood,"  was  born 
in  Onondaga,  a  village  in  the  interior  of  New  York. 
Her  parents  were  from  New  England,  being  con- 
nected with  some  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the 
Pilgrim  and  Huguenot  families.  Mr.  Clarke  re- 
moved to  New  Brighton,  whilst  his  gifted  daughter 
was  yet  a  child ;  her  home  is  still  there  among  the 
wild,  bold  and  picturesque  scenery  of  western 
Pennsylvania. 


In  1844,  Miss  Clarke  commenced  her  career  of 
authorship  in  a  series  of  letters,  under  the  signa- 
ture of  "Grace  Greenwood,"  addressed  to  the 
Editors  of  the  New  Mirror,  published  in  the  city 
of  New  York.  These  editors,  Messrs.  Morris  and 
Willis,  were  struck  with  the  vivacity  of  thought, 
energy  of  expression,  and  poetic  fancy  displayed 
by  the  writer ;  they  kindly  encouraged  her,  and 
soon  her  nomme  de  plume  became  celebrated  among 
our  readers  of  literary  periodicals.  Previous  to 
this,  however.  Miss  Clarke  had  written  several 
poems  under  her  real  name ;  the  discovery  that 
the  earnest,  impassioned  poet,  and  the  "  witty, 
saucy,  dashing,  brilliant  letter-writer,"  were  one 
and  indivisibly  the  same  person,  increased  the 
cui'iosity  and  admiration;  "Grace  Greenwood" 
was  at  once  a  favourite. 

That  she  has  not  only  sustained,  but  increased 
this  wide  popularity,  seemingly  so  easily  gained,  is 
proof  that  her  talents  are  of  the  genuine  stamp.  An 
inferior  genius  would  have  been  satisfied  with  the 
honours  won ;  a  fearful  mind  would  have  hesitated 
to  risk,  by  any  effort  to  widen  her  sway,  a  failure. 
Genius,  however,  makes  no  interested  calcula- 
tions, but  pours  out  its  musings  and  melodies  as 
prayer  gushes  from  a  heart  filled  with  the  love  of 
heaven.  Miss  Clarke  has  written  much  during  the 
last  four  or  five  years ;  and  though  these  "  Green- 
wood leaves,"  both  poetry  and  prose,  have  been 
scattered  about  in  various  periodicals,  and  pre- 

624 


CL 

pared  without  that  concentration  of  thought  and 
purpose  -which  a  great  work  requires,  yet  she  has 
made  good  progress,  and  is  a  writer  of  whom  her 
country  may  be  justly  proud. 

The  characteristics  of  her  prose  are  freshness, 
vigour,  and  earnestness  of  thoiight,  combined  with 
exquisite  humour  and  sprightliness ;  and  although 
she  is  distinguished  by  great  freedom  and  fear- 
lessness of  expression,  she  never  transcends  the 
bounds  of  strict  feminine  delicacy.  A  slight  vein 
of  playful  satire  is  discernible  here  and  there, 
which  adds  to  the  piquancy  of  her  style,  but 
which,  like  the  heat  lightning  of  a  summer  night, 
flashes  and  coruscates,  while  it  does  not  blast. 
As  an  instance  of  this,  in  speaking  of  men's  appre- 
ciation of  elevated  womanhood,  she  says  — 

"  I  know  that  the  sentiment  of  men,  even  great 
men,  often  is,  from  a  perfect  ivonian,  '  good  Lord, 
deliver  us ' — and  He  generally  hears  their  prayer. 
Speak  to  them  of  feminine  natures  exalted  by 
genius,  or  great  goodness,  and  they  will  put  at 
you,  as  they  understand  it,  the  poet's  idea  of  love- 
able  womanhood  — 

'  A  Creature  not  too  briiiht,  nor  good, 
For  human  nature's  daily  food.' 

Which,  probably,  is  also  a  New  Zealander's  high- 
est ideal  of  a  missionary." 

The  high,  almost  passionate  appreciation  of  the 
holy  dignity  of  womanhood  is  a  striking  charac- 
teristic of  Miss  Clarke's  poetry:  this  elevates  her 
soul,  and  gives  the  strength  of  expression  nearly 
approaching  masculine  sternn«ss  and  depth  of 
passion  to  her  most  remarkable  production  — 
"  Ariadne."  It  is  from  this  intenseness  of  femi- 
nine feeling,  that  we  predict  her  future  poetical 
triumphs,  when  throwing  aside  the  pretty  trifles 
of  verse  in  which  she  now  too  often  sportively  in- 
dulges, she  chooses  the  theme  worthiest  of  her 
high  powers  —  and  bending  her  brave  benevolent 
spirit  to  the  work,  in  her  burning  words  shall 
picture  forth  the  moral  mission  of  woman! 

In  person.  Miss  Clarke  is  neither  large  nor 
small.  Her  height  is  a  little  above  the  middle 
size.  Her  form  combines  delicacy  with  agility  and 
vigour.  Her  mien,  and  carriage,  voice,  gesture, 
and  action,  all  manifest,  by  the  most  perfect 
correspondence  of  a  natural  language,  her  rich 
variety  of  intellectual  powers  and  moral  senti- 
ments. The  physical  answering  to  the  mental, 
in  all  that  susceptible  nobility  of  temperament 
which  endows  genius  with  its  "  innate  experi- 
ences" and  universality  of  life.  Her  head  is  of 
the  finest  order,  and  larger  than  the  Grecian 
model,  whose  beauty  it  rivals  in  symmetrical  de- 
velopment. The  forehead  is  high,  broad,  and 
classic.  Her  brows  are  delicately  pencilled.  Her 
complexion  is  a  light  olive,  or  distinct  brunette, 
and  as  changeable  as  the  play  of  fancy  and  the 
hues  of  emotion.  Her  eyes  are  deep,  full  orbs  of 
living  light ;  their  expression  is  not  thoughtful- 
ness,  but  its  free  revealings  —  not  feeling,  but  its 
outgushings.  Just  as  her  poetry  is  never  penned 
till  perfectly  matured,  so  her  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings leap,  and  play,  and  flow  in  the  flashing  light, 
free  from  all  sign  of  mental  elaboration. 

A  volume  of  Miss  Clarke's  prose  writings,  was 
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published  in  Boston,  by  Ticknor,  Reed  &  Fields, 
under  the  title  of  "  Greenwood  Leaves,"  in  1850  ; 
and  a  small  volume  of  "  Poems,"  in  1851 ;  also  a 
book  for  children,  entitled  "  My  Pets." 

From  "  Poems  " 
MY   LAYS. 

My  lays,  my  lays,  would  they  might  find 

An  echo  in  my  country's  heart! 
Be  in  its  home-affections  shrined, 

Form  of  its  cherished  things  a  part; 
Be  like  wild  flowers  and  common  air. 
Blooming  for  all,  breathed  everywhere  — 
Or  like  the  song  of  forest  bird. 
Gushing  for  sM,felt  more  than  heard. 
Earnest,  untiring,  might  they  be 
Like  barques  before  a  breeze  at  sea. 

Whose  dashing  prows  point  home  — 
Like  good  knights  bound  for  Palestine, 
Like  artists,  warmed  by  fire  divine, 
O'er  icy  Alp  and  Apennine, 

Holding  their  way  to  Rome  — 
Like  arrows  flashing  through  the  light. 
Like  eagles  on  their  sunward  flight, 
Like  to  all  things,  in  which  we  see 
An  errand  and  a  destiny. 

ARIADNE.* 

Daughter  of  Crete  —  how  one  brief  hour, 

E'en  in  thy  young  love's  early  morn, 
Sends  storm  and  darkness  o'er  thy  bovver- 

Oh  doomed,  oh  desolate,  oh  lorn  ! 
The  breast  which  pillowed  thy  fair  head. 

Rejects  its  burden  —  and  the  eye 

Which  looked  its  love  so  earnestly. 
Its  last  cold  glance  hath  on  thee  shed ; 
The  arms  which  were  thy  living  zone, 
Around  thee  closely,  warmly  thrown. 
Shall  others  clasp,  deserted  one  ! 

Vet,  Ariadn6,  worthy  thou 

Of  the  dark  fate  which  meets  thee  now. 

For  thou  art  grovelling  in  thy  woe  : 

Arouse  thee  !  joy  to  bid  him  go  ; 

For  god  above,  or  man  below. 

Whose  love's  warm  and  impetuous  tide 

Cold  interest  or  selfish  pride 

Can  chill,  or  stay,  or  turn  aside. 

Is  all  too  poor  and  mean  a  thing 

One  shade  o'er  woman's  brow  to  fling 

Of  grief,  regret,  or  fear ; 
To  cloud  one  morning's  golden  light  — 
Disturb  the  sweet  dreams  of  one  night  — 
To  cause  the  soft  flash  of  her  eye 
To  droop  one  moment  mournfully, 

Or  tremble  with  one  tear! 

'Tis  thou  shouldst  triumph;  thou  art  free 
From  chains  which  bound  thee  for  a  while  ; 

This,  this  the  farewell  meet  for  thee, 
Proud  princess  on  that  lonely  isle: 

"  Go—  to  thine  Athens  bear  thy  faithless  name  ; 
•    Go,  base  betrayer  of  a  holy  trust ! 
Oh.  I  could  bow  me  in  my  utter  shame, 

And  lay  my  crimson  forehead  in  the  dust. 
If  I  had  ever  loved  thee  as  thou  art, 
Folding  mean  falsehood  to  my  high,  true  heart ! 

"  But  thus  I  loved  thee  not :  before  me  bowed 

A  being  glorious  in  majestic  pride, 
And  breathed  his  love,  and  passionately  vowed 

To  worship  only  me,  his  peerless  bride  ; 
And  this  was  thou,  but  crowned,  enrobed,  entwined, 
With  treasures  borrowed  from  my  own  rich  mind  ! 


*  The  demigod  Theseus  having  won  the  love  of  .Vriadn6, 
daughter  of  the  king  of  Crete,  deserted  her  on  the  isle  of 

Naxos.    In  Miss  Bremer's  H Family,  the  blind  girl  is 

described  as  singing  "  Ariadn6  a  Naxos,"  in  which  Ariadne 
is  represented  as  following  Theseus,  climbing  a  high  rock 
to  watch  his  departing  vessel,  and  calling  upon  him  in  her 
despairing  anguish. 

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"  I  knew  thee  not  a  creature  of  my  dreams, 
And  my  rapt  soul  went  floating  into  thine; 

My  love  around  thee  poured  such  halo-beams, 
Hadst  thou  been  true,  had  made  thee  all  divine. 

And  I,  too,  seemed  immortal  in  my  bliss, 

When  my  glad  lip  thrilled  to  thy  burning  kiss! 

"  Shrunken  and  shrivelled  into  Theseus  now 
Thou  standst :  behold,  the  gods  have  blown  away 

The  airy  crown  that  glittered  on  thy  brow  — 
The  gorgeous  robes  which  wrapped  thee  for  a  day ; 

Around  thee  scarce  one  fluttering  fragment  clings  — 

A  poor  lean  beggar  in  all  glorious  things  ! 

•'  Nor  will  I  deign  to  cast  on  thee  my  hate  — 
It  were  a  ray  to  tinge  with  splendour  still 

The  dull,  dim  twilight  of  thy  after-fate  — 
Thou  Shalt  pass  from  me  like  a  dream  of  ill  — 

Thy  name  be  but  a  thing  that  crouching  stole 

Like  a  poor  thief,  all  noiseless  from  my  soul ! 

"  Though  thou  hast  dared  to  steal  the  sacred  flame 
From  out  that  soul's  high  heaven,  she  sets  thee  free 

Or  only  chains  thee  with  thy  sounding  shame: 
Her  memory  is  no  Caucasus  for  thee  ; 

And  e'en  her  hovering  hate  would  o'er  thee  fling 

Too  much  of  glory  from  its  shadowy  wing  ! 

"Thou  thinkst  to  leave  my  life  a  lonely  night  — 
Ha  !  it  is  night  all  glorious  with  its  stars ! 

Hopes  yet  unclouded  beaming  forth  their  light, 
And  free  thoughts  rolling  in  their  silver  cars ! 

And  queenly  pride,  serene,  and  cold,  and  high, 

Moves  the  Diana  of  its  calm,  clear  sky  ! 

"  If  poor  and  humbled  thou  believest  me. 
Mole  of  a  demigod,  how  blind  art  thou ! 

For  I  am  rich  —  in  scorn  to  pour  on  thee: 
And  gods  shall  bend  from  high  Olympus'  brow, 

And  gaze  in  wonder  on  my  lofty  pride  ; 

Naxos  be  hallowed,  I  be  deified  !" 

On  the  tall  cliff"  where  cold  and  pale 
Thou  watchest  his  receding  sail. 
Where  thou,  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Wail'st  like  a  wind-harp's  breaking  string, 
Bendst  like  a  weak  and  wilted  flower 
Before  a  summer  evening's  shower  — 
There  shouldst  thou  rear  thy  royal  form. 
Like  a  young  oak  amid  the  storm, 

Uncrushed,  unbowed,  unriven  ! 
Let  thy  last  glance  burn  through  the  air. 
And  fall  far  down  upon  him  there, 

Like  lightning  stroke  from  heaven  ! 
There  shouldst  thou  mark  o'er  billowy  crest 
His  white  sail  flutter  and  depart ; 
No  wild  fears  surging  at  thy  breast. 

No  vain  hopes  quivering  round  thy  heart ; 
And  this  brief,  burning  prayer  alone 
Leap  from  thy  lips  to  Jove's  high  throne : 
"  Just  Jove  !  thy  wrathful  vengeance  stay, 
And  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way ; 
Make  vain  the  siren's  silver  song, 
Let  nereids  smile  the  wave  along  — 
O'er  the  wild  waters  send  his  bark 
Like  a  swift  arrow  to  its  mark ! 
Let  whirlwinds  gather  at  his  back, 
And  drive  him  on  his  dastard  track  ; 
Let  thy  red  bolts  behind  him  burn. 
And  blast  him,  should  he  dare  to  turn  I" 

THE    MARCH    OF    MIND. 

See  yon  bold  eagle,  toward  the  sun 

Now  rising  free  and  strong. 
And  see  yon  mighty  river  roll 

Its  sounding  tide  along : 

Ah!  yet  near  the  earth  the  eagle  tires  ; 

Lost  in  the  sea,  the  river; 
But  naught  can  stay  the  human  mind,— 

'Tis  upward,  onward,  ever! 

It  yet  shall  tread  its  starlit  paths. 

By  highest  angels  trod. 
And  pause  but  at  tlie  farthest  world 

In  the  universe  of  God. 


'Tis  said  that  Persia's  baffled  king, 

In  mad  tyrannic  pride, 
Cast  fetters  on  the  Hellespont, 

To  curb  its  stormy  tide ; 

But  freedom's  own  true  spirit  heaves 

The  bosom  of  the  main  — 
It  tossed  those  fetters  to  the  skies. 

And  bounded  on  again  ! 

The  scorn  of  each  succeeding  age 

On  Xerxes'  head  was  hurled. 
And  o'er  that  foolish  deed  has  pealed 

The  long  laugh  of  a  world. 

Thus,  thus  defeat,  and  scorn,  and  shame, 

Be  his  who  strives  to  bind 
The  restless,  leaping  waves  of  thought, 

The  free  tide  of  the  mind  I 

"THERE    WAS    A    ROSE." 

There  was  a  rose,  that  blushing  grew 

Within  my  life's  young  bower  : 
The  angels  sprinkled  holy  dew 

Upon  the  blessed  flower : 
I  glory  to  resign  it,  love. 

Though  it  was  dear  to  me ; 
Amid  thy  laurels  twine  it,  love, 

It  only  blooms  for  thee. 

There  was  a  rich  and  radiant  gem 

I  long  kept  hid  from  sight. 
Lost  from  some  seraph's  diadem  — 

It  shone  with  Heaven's  own  light! 
The  world  could  never  tear  it,  love. 

That  gem  of  gems  from  me  ; 
Vet  on  thy  fond  breast  wear  it,  love. 

It  only  shines  for  thee. 

There  was  a  bird  came  to  my  breast. 

When  I  was  very  young  ; 
I  only  knew  that  sweet  bird's  nest, 

To  me  she  only  sung; 
But,  ah  I  one  summer  day,  love, 

I  saw  that  bird  depart: 
The  truant  flew  thy  way,  love. 

And  nestled  in  thy  heart. 

I    NEVER   WILL    GROW   OLD. 

Oh,  no,  I  never  will  grow  old; 

Though  years  on  years  roll  by. 
And  silver  o'er  my  dark  brown  hair, 

And  dim  my  laughing  eye. 

They  shall  not  shrivel  up  my  soul. 

Nor  dim  the  glance  of  love 
My  heart  casts  on  this  world  of  ours. 

And  lifts  to  that  above! 

Now,  with  a  passion  for  those  haunts 
Where  wild,  free  nature  reigns. 

With  life's  tide  leaping  through  my  heart, 
And  revelling  through  my  veins, — 

'Tis  hard  to  think  the  time  must  come 

When  I  can  seek  no  more. 
With  step  bold  as  a  mountain  child's. 

Deep  dell  and  rocky  shore  ;  — 

No  longer  on  my  swift  young  steed. 
Bound  o'er  the  hills  as  now. 

And  meet  half  way  the  winds  that  toss 
The  loose  locks  from  my  brow ! 

Vet  still  my  spirit  may  go  forth 

Where  fearless  fancy  leads, 
May  take  at  will  as  glorious  rides, 

On  wild,  invisible  steeds! 

ye  tell  me  as  a  morning  dream 

Shall  pass  away,  ere  long. 
My  humble,  yet  most  passionate, 

Adoring  love  of  song. 

No,  no!  life's  ills  may  throng  my  way. 
And  pride  may  bend  the  knee. 

And  Hope's  bright  banner  kiss  the  dust ;  - 
But  lofty  Poesy 

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Shall  fling  their  slavish  chains  aside. 

And  spurn  their  dark  control ; 
They  never,  never  shall  lay  waste 

That  Italy  of  the  soul! 

My  father, —  pleasant  years  may  pass. 

Ere  his  last  sun  shall  set ; 
And  —  blessed  be  the  God  of  life !  — 

My  mother  liveth  yet. 

My  sisters  blend  their  souls  with  mine, 

A  laughing,  loving  band; 
A  heaven-set  guard  along  our  paths, 

Our  six  brave  brothers  stand. 

While  God  thus  pours  the  light  of  joy 

As  sunshine  round  my  home, 
O,  I  'II  lay  up  such  a  store  of  loves 

For  the  stormy  days  to  come ! 

In  the  joy  and  grief  of  every  one 

I  "11  seek  to  share  a  part. 
Till  grateful  thoughts  and  wishes  fond 

Come  thronging  to  my  heart. 

The  earnest  praises  of  the  young. 

The  blessings  of  the  old, — 
I  '11  gather  them  in,  I  '11  hoard  them  up. 

As  a  miser  hoards  his  gold ! 

Those  loves  may  die,  yet  hopeful  trust 

Shall  leave  me,  fail  me,  never; 
I  will  plant  roses  on  their  graves, — 

Five  la  jeunesse  for  ever! 

Smile  on,  doubt  on,  say  life  is  sad, 

The  world  is  .false  and  cold  — 
1  'II  keep  my  heart  glad,  true,  and  warm, — 

1  never  will  grow  old! 

From  "  Greenwood  Leaves." 
MY    FIRST    FISHING. 

Please  picture  to  yourself,  my  obliging  reader, 
a  tall,  slender  girl  of  thirteen,  just  out  of  short 
frocks,  but  retaining  still  her  long,  black,  Kenwig- 
sian  braids,  having  a  downward  look  with  her 
eyes  commonly,  and  gifted  with  a 

"  Complexion 
The  shadowed  livery  of  the  burnished  sun," 
and  you  have  my  daguerreotype  at  that  period  of 
my  humble  existence. 

It  was  summer,  and  Harry  came  home  for  a 
vacation,  accompanied  by  two  college  friends.  As 
one  of  the  young  gentlemen  was  hopelessly  lame, 
hunting  was  out  of  the  question,  and  fishing  par- 
ties on  the  lake  took  its  place.  Every  favourable 
morning  their  boat  put  off  the  shore,  and  every 
evening  they  returned,  famously  dirty  and  hun- 
gry, and  generally,  with  the  exception  of  Harry, 
cursing  their  luck.  I  well  recollect  that,  however 
large  the  party,  Harry  always  insisted  on  furnish- 
ing the  fishing  tackle.  The  colonel  once  remon- 
strated with  him  on  this  extravagance,  but  was 
archly  reminded,  that  "he  who  spares  the  rod 
spoils  the  child,"  and  that  as  a  good  parent  he 
should  "give  line  upon  line"  as  well  as  "precept 
upon  precept."  So  the  old  gentleman  turned 
laughingly  away,  being  like  all  other  amateur 
soldiers,  proverbially  good-natured. 

Those  parties  were,  I  regret  to  say,  made  up  of 
the  sterner  sex  exclusively,  but  after  Han-y's 
friends  had  left,  I  proposed  one  morning  that  he 
should  take  cousin  Alice  and  myself  to  the  lake 
on  a  fishing  excursion. 

"Alice  is  quite  skilful,"  he  replied;  "but  do 
yo«  understand  angling?" 


"  No,  but  there's  nothing  which  I  cannot  learn." 

"  Very  well,  my  modest  coz,  put  on  your  bon- 
net, and  we  will  go  down  and  practise  awhile  by 
catching  small  fish  for  bait  in  the  old  mill-pond." 

The  sheet  of  water  to  which  my  cousin  referred, 
was  nothing  more  than  an  enlargement  and  deep- 
ening of  the  stream  which  ran  through  the  town. 
The  mill  which  its  waters  once  turned  had  been 
destroyed  by  fire,  and  all  the  fixtures,  &c.,  fallen 
to  decay;  and  Henry  remarked,  that  as  a  mill- 
pond  it  was  not  worth  a  da7n,  but  a  capital  place 
for  catching  bait,  nevertheless.  I  did  not  smile 
approvingly  at  this  profane  pun,  not  I ;  but  re- 
minded the  offender,  with  chilling  dignity,  that  I 
should  be  full  fom-teen  in  eleven  months  and  nine 
days. 

After  spending  a  half  hour  in  initiating  me 
into  the  mysteries  of  angling,  Harry  took  a  sta- 
tion farther  up  stream.  Near  me  lay  a  small 
log,  extending  out  into  the  pond,  the  top  only 
lying  above  the  water.  Wearied  at  last  with  sit- 
ting on  the  bank,  and  catching  not  even  a  "glori- 
ous nibble,"  I  picked  my  way  out  to  the  very  end 
of  this  log,  and  cast  my  bait  upon  the  waters.  Pre- 
sently I  marked  an  uncommonly  large  "shiner" 
glancing  about  hither  and  thither,  now  and  then 
tantalizingly  turning  up  his  glittering  sides  to  the 
sunlight.  My  heart  was  in  my  throat.  Could  I 
manage  to  capture  that  fish  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
it  were  glory  enough  for  one  day.  Reader,  have 
you  ever  seen  a  "shiner?"  Is  he  not  the  most 
finifine  dashing,  dandyish,  D'Orsay  of  the  waves 
that  ever  cut  a  sivell  among  "  sheep-heads,"  or 
coquetted  with  a  young  trout  ? 

The  conduct  of  this  particular  fish  was  pecu- 
liarly provoking.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  clad  the 
uninviting  hook  in  the  garb  of  a  fresh  young 
worm,  and  dropped  it,  all  quick  and  quivering, 
down  before  his  very  nose.  Like  a  careful  wooer, 
who  fears  "a  take  in,"  he  would  not  come  to  the 
point ;  he  had  evidently  dined,  and,  unlike  the 
old  Reformer,  played  shy  of  the  Diet  of  Worms. 

At  last,  as  though  a  sudden  appetite  had  been 
given  him  which  required  abatement,  he  caught 
the  worm,  and  the  hook  caught  him,  and  —  and 

—  but  language  fails  me 

Ye  may  tell,  oh,  my  sisters,  in  author-land,  of 
the  exquisite  joy,  the  intoxicating  bliss  which 
whelms  a  maiden's  heart  when  love's  first  kiss 
glows  on  her  trembling  lip ;  but  give  to  me  the 
rapturous  exultation  which  coursed  through  every 
vein,  and  thrilled  along  every  nerve,  as  my  first 
fish  bent  the  top  of  the  slender  cane-rod  towards 
the  water ! 

But,  ah,  the  instability  of  human  happiness ! 
that  unfortunate  "shiner"  was  strong  —  very.  I 
had  just  balanced  myself  on  the  rounded  three 
inches  of  the  log ;  I  now  saw  that  I  must  drop  the 
rod  and  lose  the  fish,  or  lose  my  balance  and  win 
a  plunge.  Like  a  brave  girl,  as  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  am,  I  chose  the  latter.  Down,  down  I 
went  into  six  feet  depth  of  water,  pertinaciously 
grasping  the  rod,  which,  immediately  on  rising,  I 
flung  with  its  glittering  pendant,  high  and  dry  on 
the  shore ;  and  having  given  one  scream,  only  one, 
went  quietly  down  again. 

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Just  then,  Hai-ry,  ■who  had  heard  my  fall  at 
first,  reached  the  spot,  plunged  in,  caught  and 
bore  me  safely  to  the  bank.  When  I  had  coughed 
the  water  from  my  throat,  and  wiped  it  from 
my  eyes,  I  pointed  proudly  toward  my  captive 
"  shiner."  Alas!  what  did  I  behold!  — that  fish, 
my  fish,  releasing  himself  from  the  hook,  and 
floundering  back  into  his  native  element !  Yes, 
he  was  gone,  gone  for  ever,  and  for  one  dark 
moment, 
"  Naught  was  everything,  and  everything  was  naught." 

I  need  not  tell  of  our  walk  homeward,  of  the 
alarm  and  merriment  which  our  appearance  cre- 
ated ;  or  how  I  was  placed  in  bed  and  half  smoth- 
ered with  blankets,  how  a  nauseous  compound  was 
sent  up  to  me,  which  Harry  kindly  quaflFed,  and 
grew  ill  as  I  grew  well.  All  such  matters  can  be 
safely  left  to  the  imagination  of  my  intelligent 
reader. 

I  will  but  add,  that  though  of  late  years  I  have 
angled  more  extensively  and  successfully,  have 
flung  a  lucky  hook  into  the  beautiful  rivers  and 
glorious  lakes  of  the  West,  and  have  dropped  occa- 
sional Unes  into  the  waters  of  American  literature, 
I  have  never  since  known  that  pure,  young  de- 
light, that  exquisite  zest,  that  wild  enthusiasm, 
which  led  me  to  stake  all  on  one  mad  chance,  and 
brave  drowning  for  a  "shiner." 

From  "  Letters  and  Sketches." 
THE    INTELLECTUAL    WOMAN. 

The  intellectual  woman  should  be  richest  in 
"  social  and  domestic  ties  ,"  she  should  have  along 
her  paths  a  guard  of  friendship,  and  about  her 
life  a  breastwork  of  love.  True  feminine  genius 
is  ever  timid,  doubtful,  and  clingingly  dependent ; 
a  perpetual  childhood.  A  true  woman  shrinks 
instinctively  from  greatness,  and  it  is  "against 
her  very  will  and  wish  transgressing,"  and  in  sad 
obedience  to  an  inborn  and  mighty  influence,  that 
she  turns  out  the  "  silver  lining  "  of  her  soul  to 
the  world's  gaze ;  permits  all  the  delicate  work- 
ings of  her  inner-nature  to  be  laid  open ;  her 
heart  passetl  round,  and  peered  into  as  a  piece  of 
curious  mechanism.  In 'her  loftiest  soarings,  when 
we  almost  think  to  see  the  swift  play  of  her  pinion 
lost  in  the  distant  heaven,  even  then,  her  wildest 
and  most  exalting  strains  come  down  to  us  with 
a  delicious  thrill  of  home-music.  The  radiant 
realms  of  her  most  celestial  visions  have  always  a 
ladder  leading  earthward.  Her  ways  and  words 
have  nothing  of  the  lofty  and  severe ;  over  her 
face,  sun-gleams  and  shadows  succeed  each  other 
momentarily ;  her  eyes  are  alternately  dreamy  and 
tender,  and  their  intensest  fire  quivers  through 
tears.  Her  lips,  moulded  in  love,  are  tremulously 
full  of  the  glowing  softness  they  borrow  from  the 
heart,  and  electrically  obedient  to  its  impulses. 

woman's  heart. 

Never  unsex  yourself  for  greatness.  The  wor- 
ship of  one  true  heart  is  better  than  the  wonder 
of  the  world.  Don't  trample  on  the  flowers,  while 
longing  for  the  stars.  Live  up  to  the  full  measure 
jf  life;    give  way  to  your  impulses,  loves,  and 


enthusiasms ;  sing,  smile,  labour,  and  be  happy. 
Adore  poetry  for  its  own  sake ;  yearn  for,  strive 
after,  excellence;  rejoice  when  others  attain  it;  feel 
for  your  contemporaries  a  loving  envy ;  steal  into 
j'our  country's  heart;  glory  in  its  greatness,  exult 
in  its  power ;  honour  its  gallant  men,  and  immor- 
talize its  matchless  women.  Then  shall  that  gi-ate- 
ful  country  throw  around  you  a  fame  which  shall 
be  like  the  embrace  of  fond  arms ;  a  joy  to  cheer, 
and  a  strength  to  support  you. 

There  is  a  joy  which  must,  I  think,  be  far  more 
deep  and  full  than  any  which  the  million  can 
bestow;  one  which  precedes,  and  is  independent 
of,  the  fame  which  sometimes  results  rather  from 
the  caprice  than  the  justice  of  the  world.  This  is 
the  joy  of  inspiration.  I  have  elsewhere  expressed 
my  meaning  thus : — 

Oh,  when  the  heaven-born  soul  of  song  is  blending 
With  tlie  rapt  poet's,  in  his  burning  strains, 

'Tis  like  the  wine  drank  on  Olympus,  sending 
Divine  intoxication  through  the  veins! 

But  this  is  for  the  masters  of  the  lyre  ;  it  can 
never  be  felt  by  woman  with  great  intensity ;  at 
least,  can  never  satisfy  her.  I  repeat,  that  her 
well-spring  of  joy  is  in  the  heart. 

woman's  gratitude. 
So  she  did  not  yield  to  woman's  amiable  weak- 
ness, and  love  because  she  was  loved ;  did  not  let 
gratitude  lead  her  blindfold  to  the  altar.  I  know 
I  should  put  on  gloves  while  handling  this  dear 
pet-fault  of  my  sex.  But,  my  charming  sisters, 
why  are  you  grateful?  Just  bring  your  every-day 
tenderness,  your  patient,  fond,  worshipping,  self- 
sacrificing  love ;  and  then  place  man's  holiday 
admiration,  his  fanciful,  patronizing,  exacting, 
doubting  aff'ection,  in  the  opposite  scale,  and  see 
in  what  a  passion  of  haste  they  will  go  up.  Thank 
a  man  for  reading  you  five  unacted  acts  from  his 
drama,  for  writing  an  acrostic  on  your  name,  for 
asking  an  introduction  to  a  rival  belle,  for  saying 
you  are  surprisingly  like  his  maiden  aunt ;  but 
never  for  the  honour  of  his  preference.  Be  grate- 
ful to  him  for  the  off'er  of  his  mouchoir  to  hem,  or 
his  gloves  to  mend,  but  never  for  that  of  his  heart 
and  hand.  In  love  matters,  fling  away  gratitude ; 
'tis  but  a  charity-girl  sort  of  virtue,  at  the  best. 

THE    poet's    mission. 

One  long-cherished  hope  of  my  life  is,  that  in 
the  world  of  letters,  heart,  the  feminine  spirit  of 
man's  nature,  is  to  be  exalted  to  the  throne  of  in- 
tellect, and  they  are  to  reign  together. 

***** 

It  is  no  longer  enough  that  a  poet  has  imagina- 
tion, fancy,  and  passion ;  he  must  possess  a  genial 
philosophy,  an  unselfish  sympathy,  a  cheerful  hu- 
manity —  in  short,  heart.  And  not  a  heart  like  a 
walled-up  well,  undisturbed,  and  holding  fast  its 
own,  till  some  thirsty  mortal,  with  toil  and  pains, 
draws  up  a  draught  for  his  fevered  lips ;  but  as 
a  laughing,  leaping  fountain,  flinging  its  living 
waters  far  and  wide,  creating  to  itself  an  atmos- 
phere of  freshness,  and  making  beauty  and  melody 
its  surroundings.  The  world  will  tolerate  no 
longer  an  arrogant  disbelief  in  its  most  cherished 

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and  sacred  truths.  It  will  waste  no  more  of  its 
admiring  sympathy  on  the  egotism  of  misanthropy, 
or  the  childishness  of  a  sickly  sentimentality :  its 
poets  must  look  up  to  heaven  in  faith,  on  the  earth 
with  love,  and  revel  in  the  rich  joy  of  existence. 
They  must  beguile  us  of  our  sorrows,  and  lighten 
us  of  our  cares ;  must  turn  to  us  the  sunny  side 
of  nature,  and  point  us  to  the  rainbows  amid  the 
storms  of  life :  and  they  must  no  longer  dare  to 
wed  vice  to  poetry — a  lost  spirit  to  a  child  of  light. 

COLERIDGE,    SARA   HENRY, 

An  English  poetess,  daughter  of  the  distin- 
guished poet,  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  and  wife 
of  his  nephew,  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  well 
known  for  his  contributions  to  classical  learning, 
and  as  editor  of  his  uncle's  posthumous  works, 
has  shown  herself  worthy  of  her  birth-right  as 
a  "  poet's  daughter,"  and  of  her  station  as  the 
bosom-companion  of  an  eminent  scholar. 

The  first  work  of  Mrs.  Coleridge  was  a  transla- 
tion of  the  "History  of  the  Abipones,"  from  the 
Latin  of  Dobrizhoffer ;  her  next  was  a  beautiful 
fairy-tale,  called  "Phantasmion,"  published  in 
1837,  and  deservedly  admired  as  an  exquisite 
creation  of  feminine  genius.  Besides  these,  she 
has  wi'itten  poems,  evincing  talent  of  no  common 
order.  A  distinguished  critic  remarks  thus,  con- 
cerning her: — "With  an  imagination  like  a  prism 
shedding  rainbow  changes  on  her  thoughts,  she 
shows  study  without  the  affectation  of  it,  and  a 
Greek-like  closeness  of  expression." 

From  "  Fugitive  Pieces." 

A  MOTHER  OVER  HER  CHILD  DEVOTED  TO  DEATH. 

O  sleep,  my  babe  !     Hear  not  the  rippling  wave, 
Nor  feel  the  breeze  that  round  thee  lingering  strays, 

To  drink  thy  balmy  breath, 

And  sigh  one  long  farewell. 

Soon  shall  it  mourn  above  thy  watery  bed. 
And  whisper  to  me  on  the  wave-beat  shore, 

Deep  murni'ring  in  reproach 

Thy  sad,  untimely  fate. 

Ere  those  dear  eyes  had  opened  on  the  light. 
In  vain  to  plead,  thy  coming  life  was  sold; 
O  1  wakened  but  to  sleep. 
Whence  it  can  wake  no  more! 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  silken  leaves 
The  tufted  beach  unfolds  in  early  spring 

All  clad  in  tenderest  green. 

All  of  the  self-sarae  shape ; 

A  thousand  infant  faces,  soft  and  sweet. 
Each  year  sends  forth,  yet  every  mother  views 

Her  last,  not  least,  beloved 

Like  its  dear  self  alone. 

No  musing  mind  hath  ever  yet  foreshaped 
The  face  to-morrow's  sun  shall  first  reveal, 
No  heart  hath  e'er  conceived 
What  love  that  face  will  bring. 

O  sleep,|my  babe  !  nor  heed  how  mourns  the  gale 
To  part  with  thy  soft  locks  and  fragrant  breath. 

As  when  it  deeply  sighs 

O'er  autumn's  latest  bloom. 

LOVE. 
One  face  alone,  one  face  alone, 

These  eyes  require; 
But  when  that  longed-for  sight  is  shown, 
W^hat  fatal  fire 
Shoots  thro'  my  veins  a  keen  and  liquid  flame 
That  melts  each  fibre  of  my  wasting  frame ! 


One  voice  alone,  one  voice  alone, 

I  pine  to  hear ; 
But  when  its  meek,  mellifluous  tone 
Usurps  mine  ear. 
Those  slavish  chains  about  my  soul  are  wound, 
Which  ne'er,  till  death  itself,  can  be  unbound. 

One  gentle  hand,  one  gentle  hand, 

I  fain  would  hold  ; 
But  when  it  seems  at  my  command. 
My  own  grows  cold  ; 
Then  low  to  earth  I  bend  in  sickly  swoon. 
Like  lilies  drooping  'mid  the  blaze  of  noon. 


COOK,    ELIZA, 

Is  deservedly  distinguished  for  her  poetical  pro- 
ductions, which  are  popular  with  "  the  people  " 
everywhere  in  our  American  nation  as  in  her  own 
country,  England.  Miss  Cook  resides  in  London; 
her  childhood  and  youth  were  passed  partly  in 
Southwark,  where  her  father,  a  calker  by  trade, 
resided,  and  partly  in  the  country.  She  was  the 
"  youngling  of  the  flock  "  by  eleven  years,  and, 
like  a  babe  born  out  of  due  season,  was  tenderly 
cherished  by  her  excellent  mother,  whose  charac- 
ter, disciplined  by  suffering,  seems  to  have  ex- 
erted a  great  and  beneficial  influence  over  her 
gifted  child. 

The  death  of  this  beloved  mother,  when  Miss 
Cook  was  about  fifteen,  left  her  in  that  heart-deso- 
lation which  is  the  ordeal  of  woman's  character, 
often  developing  new  talents  and  energies,  chas- 
tening the  spirit  of  youthful  hope  for  its  tasks  of 
duty,  and  thus,  by  exalting  her  aims  in  life,  such 
sorrows  serve  to  kindle  the  torch  of  her  genius. 
It  was  thus  with  Miss  Cook.  Her  home,  after  her 
beloved  mother  was  withdrawn,  was  neither  plea- 
sant nor  happy,  and  the  young  girl  was  compelled 
to  find  in  intellectual  pursuits  her  means  of  con- 
tentment. She  gave  expression  to  her  earnest 
thoughts  and  generous  feelings :  the  language 
seems  to  have  flowed  spontaneously  in  rhyme,  for 
there  is  hardly  a  trace  of  labour  or  study  in  her 
poetry.  But  there  is  that  which  is  for  a  woman, 
perhaps,  better  than  classical  learning;  as  an 
elegant  critic  has  well  observed — "There  is  a 
heartiness  and  truthful  sympathy  witli  human 
kind,  a  love  of  freedom  and  of  nature,  in  this 
lady's  productions,  which,  more  even  than  their 

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grace  and  melody,  charms  her  readers.  She  writes 
like  a  whole-souled  woman,  earnestly  and  unaf- 
fectedly, evidently  giving  her  actual  thoughts,  but 
never  transcending  the  limits  of  taste  or  delicacy. 
The  favour  with  which  her  numerous  pieces  have 
been  received,  and  the  ease  with  which  she  writes, 
encourage  us  to  hope  for  much  future  delight  and 
instruction  from  her  generous  pen.  It  may  be 
hoped,  also,  that  she  will  take  more  pains  in  the 
finishing  of  her  verses,  than  she  has  hitherto  done, 
and  avoid  a  repetition  of  ideas,  a  fault  to  which 
she  is  somewhat  prone." 

The  closing  remark  is  not  without  reason.  Miss 
Cook  has  hitherto  written  exclusively  for  the  class 
in  which  she  was  born,  the  people ;  but  so,  also, 
did  Burns ;  yet  he  studied  his  art,  and  thus  ele- 
vated the  lowliest  subject  he  sung  by  the  flower- 
breath  of  true  poesy,  whose  course  is  always  up- 
ward. We  allude  to  the  "  Rural  Bard,"  because 
we  think  Miss  Cook  resembles  him  in  her  ardent 
philanthropy  of  soul,  and  in  its  direction:  her 
love  of  the  virtues  and  enjoyments  of  humble 
English  life,  as  he  sung  of  his  "  Old  Scotia."  She 
is  far  more  fortunate  than  was  poor  Burns,  for 
she  gathers  not  only  praise  but  large  profits  from 
her  writings,  and  enjoys  her  own  populai-ity,  pro- 
bably the  greatest,  counting  by  the  number  of 
those  who  read  rhyme,  of  any  living  female 
poet. 

]\Iiss  Cook's  poetry  began  to  appear  in  various 
London  journals  about  1836.  In  1839,  an  Ameri- 
can poetess,  Mrs.  Osgood,  met  Miss  Cook  in  Lon- 
don, and  ihns  describes  her — "Eliza  Cook  is  just 
what  her  noble  poetry  would  lead  you  to  imagine 
her ;  a  frank,  generous,  brave,  and  warm-hearted 
girl,  about  twenty  years  of  age ;  rather  stout  and 
sturdy  looking,  with  a  face  not  handsome  but 
very  intelligent.  Her  hair  is  black,  and  very 
luxuriant,  her  eyes  grey  and  full  of  expression, 
and  her  mouth  indiscribably  sweet." 

In  1840,  the  poems  of  Miss  Cook  were  collected 
and  republished  in  London,  under  the  title  of 
"Melaia,  and  other  Poems."  The  beautiful  vo- 
lume was  soon  republished  in  New  York;  and, 
with  many  additions  from  the  fertile  mind  of  the 
author,  these  poems  have  passed  through  a  variety 
of  editions  both  in  England  and  America. 

In  September,  1849,  the  poetess  made  her  ap- 
pearance in  a  new  character,  as  editor  of  a  work, 
styled  "Eliza  Cook's  Journal,"  published  weekly, 
in  London.  The  introductory  paper  from  her  pen, 
has  some  remarks  which  so  clearly  describe  the 
feelings  of  this  interesting  and  noble-minded 
woman,  that  we  must  give  them,  while  thanking 
her  for  this  daguerreotype  sketch  of  her  inner- 
self. —  She  says — "  I  have  been  too  long  known  by 
those  whom  I  address,  to  feel  strange  in  address- 
ing them.  My  earliest  rhymes,  written  from  in- 
tuitive impulse,  before  hackneyed  experience  or 
politic  judgment  could  dictate  their  tendency, 
were  accepted  and  responded  to  by  those  whose 
good  word  is  a  '  tower  of  strength.'  The  first 
active  breath  of  nature  that  swept  over  my  heart- 
strings, awoke  wild  but  earnest  melodies,  which  I 
dotted  down  in  simple  notes ;  and  when  I  found 
that  others   thought   the  tune  worth  learning  — 


when  I  heard  my  strains  hummed  about  the  sacred 
altars  of  domestic  firesides,  and  saw  old  men, 
bright  women,  and  young  children  scanning  my 
ballad  strains,  then  was  I  made  to  think  that  my 
burning  desire  to  pour  out  my  soul's  measure  of 
music  was  given  for  a  purpose.  My  young  bosom 
throbbed  with  rapture,  for  my  feelings  had  met 
with  responsive  echoes  from  honest  and  genuine 
Humanity,  and  the  glory  of  heaven  seemed  par- 
tially revealed,  when  I  discovered  that  I  held 
power  over  the  affections  of  earth. 

***** 

"  I  am  anxious  to  give  my  feeble  aid  to  the  gigan- 
tic struggle  for  intellectual  elevation  now  going  on, 
and  fling  my  enei-gies  and  will  into  a  cause  where 
my  heart  will  zealously  animate  my  duty. 

"It  is  too  true,  that  there  are  dense  clouds  of 
Ignorance  yet  to  be  dissipated  —  huge  mountains 
of  Error  yet  to  be  removed ;  but,  there  is  a  stir- 
ring development  of  prcrgressive  mind  in  'the 
mass,'  which  only  requires  steady  and  free  com- 
munion with  Truth  to  expand  itself  into  that  en- 
lightened and  pi-actical  wisdom  on  which  ever 
rests  the  perfection  of  social  and  political  civiliza- 
tion; and  I  believe  that  all  who  work  in  the  field 
of  Literature  with  sincere  desire  to  serve  the 
many  by  arousing  generous  sympathies  and  edu- 
cational tastes,  need  make  Vittle  prof essio?i  of  their 
sei'vice,  for  '  the  people '  have  sufficient  percep- 
tion to  thoroughly  estimate  those  who  are  truly 
'with'  and  'for'  them." 

From  "Melaia." 

SILENCE. 

The  whirling  blast,  the  breaker's  dash, 
The  snapping  ropes,  the  parting  crash. 
The  sweeping  waves  that  boil  and  lash, 
The  stunning  peal,  the  hissing  flash, 
Tlie  liasly  prayer,  the  hopeless  groan. 
The  stripling  sea-boy's  gurgling  tone. 
Shrieking  amid  the  flood  and  fofffn. 
The  names  of  mother,  love,  and  home; 
The  jarring  clash  that  wakes  the  land, 
When,  blade  to  blade,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Unnumbered  voices  burst  and  swell. 
In  one  unceasing  war-whoop  yell ; 
The  trump  of  discord  ringing  out, 
The  clamour  strife,  the  victor  shout;  — 
Oh !  these  are  noises  any  ear 
Will  dread  to  meet  and  quail  to  hear; 
But  let  the  earth  or  waters  pour 
The  loudest  din  or  wildest  roar; 
Let  Anarchy's  broad  thunders  roll. 

And  Tunnilt  do  its  worst  to  thrill, 
There  is  a  silence  to  the  soul 

More  awful,  and  more  startling  still. 

To  hear  our  very  breath  intrude 

Upon  the  boundless  solitude. 

Where  mortal  tidings  never  come. 

With  busy  feet  or  human  hum  ; 

All  hushed  above,  beneath,  around  — 

No  stirring  form,  no  whispered  sound;  — 

This  is  a  loneliness  that  falls 

Upon  the  spirit,  and  appals 

More  than  the  mingled  rude  alarms 

Arising  from  a  world  in  arms. 

This  is  a  silence  bids  us  shrink. 
As  from  a  precipice's  brink ; 
But  ye  will  rarely  meet  it,  save 
In  the  hot  desert,  or  cold  grave. 
Cut  ofl"  from  life  and  fellow-men, 
This  silence  was  around  me  then. 

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BUTTERCUPS    AND    DAISIES. 

1  never  see  a  young  hand  hold 
The  starry  bunch  of  white  and  gold, 
But  something  warm  and  fresh  will  start 
About  the  region  of  my  heart 
My  smile  expires  into  a  sigh  ; 
I  feel  a  struggling  in  the  eye, 
'Twiit  humid  drop  and  sparkling  ray. 
Till  roiling  tears  have  won  tlieir  way; 
For  soul  and  brain  will  travel  back 

Through  memory's  chequered  mazes. 
To  days  when  I  but  trod  life's  track 

For  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Tell  me,  ye  men  of  wisdom  rare, 
Of  sober  speech  and  silver  hair. 
Who  carry  counsel,  wise  and  sage, 
With  all  the  gravity  of  age  ; 
Oh !  say,  do  ye  not  like  to  hear 
The  accents  ringing  in  your  ear, 
When  sportive  urchins  laugh  and  shout, 
Tossing  those  precious  flowers  about. 
Springing  with  bold  and  gleesome  bound, 

Proclaiming  joy  that  crazes, 
And  chorusing  the  magic  sound 

Of  buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

Are  there,  I  ask,  beneath  the  sky 
Blossoms  that  knit  so  strong  a  tie 
With  childhood's  love  ?    Can  any  please 
Or  light  the  infant  eye  like  these  ? 
No,  no  ;  there's  not  a  bud  on  earth. 
Of  richest  tint  or  warmest  birth, 
Can  ever  fling  such  zeal  and  zest 
Into  the  tiny  hand  and  breast. 
Who  does  not  recollect  the  hours 

When  burning  words  and  praises 
Were  lavished  on  those  shining  flowers. 

Buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

There  seems  a  bright  and  fairy  spell 
About  their  very  names  to  dwell ; 
And  though  old  Time  has  marked  my  brow 
With  care  and  thought,  I  love  them  now. 
Smile,  if  ye  will,  but  some  heart-strings 
Are  closest  linked  to  simplest  things  ; 
And  these  wild  flowers  will  hold  mine  fast. 
Till  love,  and  life,  and  all  be  past ; 
And  then  the  only  wish  I  have 

Is,  that  the  one  who  raises 
The  turf-sod  o'er  me,  plant  my  grave 

With  buttercups  and  daisies. 


A   LOVE    SONG. 

Dear  Kate,  1  do  not  swear  and  vow. 

Or  sigh  sweet  things,  as  many  can  ; 
But  though  my  lip  ne'er  plays  the  slave, 

My  heart  will  not  disgrace  the  man. 
I  prize  thee  —  ay,  my  bonny  Kate, 

So  firmly  fond  this  breast  can  be. 
That  I  would  brook  the  sternest  fate 

If  it  but  left  me  health  and  thee. 

1  do  not  promise  that  our  life 

Shall  know  no  shade  on  heart  or  brow; 
For  human  lot  and  mortal  strife 

Would  mock  the  falsehood  of  such  vow. 
But  when  the  clouds  of  pain  and  care 

Shall  teach  us  we  are  not  divine. 
My  deepest  sorrows  thou  shalt  share. 

And  I  will  strive  to  lighten  thine. 

We  love  each  other,  yet  perchance 

The  murmurs  of  dissent  may  rise  ; 
Fierce  words  may  chase  the  tender  glance, 

And  angry  flashes  light  our  eyes. 
But  we  must  learn  to  check  the  frown. 

To  reason  rather  than  to  blame  ; 
The  wisest  have  their  faults  to  own. 

And  you  and  I,  girl,  have  the  same. 


You  must  not  like  me  less,  my  Kate, 

For  such  an  earnest  strain  as  this  ; 
I  love  llice  dearly,  but  I  hate 

The  puling  rhymes  of  "  kiss"  and  "  bliss.' 
There 's  truth  in  all  I  've  said  or  sung ; 

I  woo  thee  as  a  man  should  woo ; 
And  though  I  lack  a  honied  tongue. 

Thou  'It  never  find  a  breast  more  true. 


I    MISS    THEE,    MY    MOTHER. 

I  miss  thee,  my  mother!     Thy  image  is  still 

The  deepest  impressed  on  my  heart, 
And  the  tablet  so  faithful  in  death  must  be  chill 

Ere  a  line  of  that  image  depart. 
Thou  wert  torn  from  my  side  when  I  treasured  thee  most  — 

When  my  reason  could  measure  thy  worth; 
When  I  knew  but  too  well  that  the  idol  I  'd  lost 

Could  be  never  replaced  upon  earth. 

I  miss  thee,  my  mother,  in  circles  of  joy, 

Where  I  've  mingled  with  rapturous  zest ; 
For  how  slight  is  the  touch  that  will  sene  to  destroy 

All  the  fairy-web  spun  in  my  breast ! 
Some  melody  sweet  may  be  floating  around  — 

'Tis  a  ballad  I  learnt  at  thy  knee  ; 
Some  strain  may  be  played,  and  I  shrink  from  the  sound, 

For  my  fingers  oft  woke  it  for  thee. 

1  miss  thee,  my  mother  ;  when  young  health  has  fled. 

And  I  sink  in  the  languor  of  pain. 
Where,  where  is  the  arm  that  once  pillowed  my  head. 

And  the  ear  that  once  heard  me  complain  ? 
Other  hands  may  support,  gentle  accents  may  fall  — 

For  the  fond  and  the  true  are  yet  mine  : 
I  've  a  blessing  for  each  ;  I  am  grateful  to  all  — 

But  whose  care  can  be  soothing  as  thine  ? 

I  miss  thee,  my  mother,  in  summer's  fair  day. 

When  I  rest  in  the  ivy-wreathed  bower. 
When  I  hang  thy  pet  linnet's  cage  high  on  the  spray. 

Or  gaze  on  thy  favourite  flower. 
There's  the  bright  gravel-paih  where  I  played  by  thy  side 

Wlien  time  had  scarce  wrinkled  thy  brow, 
Where  I  carefully  led  thee  with  worshipping  pride 

When  thy  scanty  locks  gathered  the  snow. 

1  miss  thee,  my  mother,  in  winter's  long  night  : 

I  remember  the  tales  thou  wouldst  tell  — 
The  romance  of  wild  fancy,  the  legend  of  fright  — 

Oh  !  who  could  e'er  tell  them  so  well  ? 
Thy  corner  is  vacant ;  thy  chair  is  removed  : 

It  was  kind  to  take  that  from  my  eye : 
Yet  relics  are  round  me  —  the  sacred  and  loved  — 

To  call  up  the  pure  sorrow-fed  sigh. 

I  miss  thee,  my  mother  !    Oh,  when  do  I  not? 

Though  I  know  'twas  the  wisdom  of  Heaven 
That  the  deepest  shade  fell  on  my  sunniest  spot. 

And  such  tie  of  devotion  was  riven  ; 
For  when  thou  wert  with  me  my  soul  was  below, 

I  was  chained  to  the  world  I  then  trod  ; 
My  affections,  my  thoughts,  were  all  earth-bound;  but  now 

They  have  followed  thy  spirit  to  God ! 

OH  !  NEVER  BREATHE  A  DEAD  ONE'S  NAME. 

Oh!  never  breathe  a  dead  one's  name 

When  those  who  loved  that  one  are  nigh  : 
It  pours  a  lava  through  the  frame 

That  chokes  the  breast  and  fills  the  eye ; 
It  strains  a  chord  that  yields  too  much 

Of  piercing  anguish  in  its  breath  ; 
And  hands  of  mercy  should  not  touch 

A  string  made  eloquent  by  death. 

Oh !  never  breathe  a  lost  one's  name 

To  those  who  called  that  one  their  own  : 
It  only  stirs  the  smouldering  flame 

That  burns  upon  a  charnel-stone. 
The  head  will  ache  and  well-nigh  break 

To  miss  that  one  for  ever  fled  ; 
And  lips  of  mercy  should  not  wake 

A  love  that  cherishes  the  dead. 

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THE    FREE. 

The  wild  streams  leap  with  headlong  sweep 
In  their  curbless  course  o'er  the  mountain  steep; 
All  fresh  and  strong  they  foam  along, 
Waking  the  rocks  with  their  cataract  song. 
My  eye  bears  a  glance  like  the  beam  on  a  lance 
While  I  watch  the  waters  dash  and  dance; 
I  burn  with  glee,  for  I  love  to  see 
The  path  of  anything  that 's  free. 

The  skylark  springs  with  dew  on  his  wings, 

And  up  in  the  arch  of  heaven  he  sings 

Trill-la,  trill-la  — oh,  sweeter  far 

Than  the  notes  that  come  through  a  golden  bar. 

The  joyous  bay  of  a  hound  at  play. 

The  caw  of  a  rook  on  its  homeward  way  — 

Oh  !  these  shall  be  the  music  for  me, 

For  1  love  the  voices  of  the  free. 

The  deer  starts  by  with  his  antlers  high. 
Proudly  tossing  his  head  to  the  sky ; 
The  barb  runs  the  plain  unbroke  by  the  rein, 
With  steaming  nostrils  and  flying  mane ; 
The  clouds  are  stirred  by  the  eaglet  bird, 
As  the  flap  of  its  swooping  pinion  is  heard. 
Oh !  these  shall  be  the  creatures  for  me. 
For  my  soul  was  formed  to  love  the  free. 

The  mariner  brave,  in  his  bark  on  the  wave. 
May  laugh  at  the  walls  round  a  kingly  slave  ; 
And  the  one  whose  lot  is  the  desert  spot 
Has  no  dread  of  an  envious  foe  in  his  cot. 
The  thrall  and  state  at  the  palace-gate 
Are  what  my  spirit  has  learnt  to  hate  ; 
Oh!  the  hills  shall  he  a  home  for  me. 
For  I  'd  leave  a  throne  for  the  hut  of  the  free. 


THE    CLOUDS. 

Beautiful  clouds  !  I  have  watched  ye  long, 

Fickle  and  bright  as  a  fairy  throng; 

Now  ye  have  gathered  golden  beams. 

Now  ye  are  parting  in  silver  streams, 

Now  ye  are  tinged  with  a  roseate  blush. 

Deepening  fast  to  a  crimson  flush; 

Now,  like  aerial  sprites  at  play. 

Ye  are  lightly  dancing  another  way; 

Melting  in  many  a  pearly  flake, 

Like  the  cygnet's  down  on  the  azure  lake  ; 

Now  ye  gather  again,  and  run 

To  bask  in  the  blaze  of  a  setting  sun  ; 

And  anon  ye  serve  as  Zephyrs  car. 

Flitting  before  the  evening  star. 

Now  ye  ride  in  mighty  form. 

With  the  arms  of  a  giant,  to  nurse  the  storm  ; 

Ye  grasp  the  lightning,  and  fling  it  on  earth. 

All  flashing  and  wild  as  a  maniac's  mirth; 

Ye  cavern  the  thunder,  and  bravely  it  roars. 

While  the  forest  groans,  and  the  avalanche  pours; 

Ye  launch  the  torrent  with  headlong  force. 

Till  the  rivers  hiss  in  their  boiling  course  ; 

Ye  come,  and  your  trophies  are  scattered  around 

In  the  wreck  on  the  waters,  the  oak  on  llie  ground. 

Oh!  where  is  the  eye  that  doth  not  love 

The  glorious  phantoms  that  glide  above  ? 

That  hath  not  looked  on  the  realms  of  air 

With  wondering  soul  and  bursting  prayer? 

Oh!  where  is  the  spirit  that  hath  not  bowed 

To  its  God  at  the  shrine  of  a  passing  cloud  ? 


HALLOWED    BE    THY    NAME. 

List  to  the  dreamy  tone  that  dwells 

In  rippling  wave  or  sighing  tree ; 
Go,  hearken  to  the  old  church  bells. 

The  whistling  bird,  the  whizzing  bee. 
Interpret  right,  and  ye  will  find 

'Tis  "power  and  glory"  they  proclaim  : 
The  chimes,  the  creatures,  waters,  wind. 

All  publish,  "hallowed  be  thy  name!" 


The  pilgrim  journeys  till  he  bleeds. 

To  gain  the  altar  of  his  sires; 
The  hermit  pores  above  his  beads. 

With  zeal  that  never  wanes  nor  tires; 
But  holiest  rite  or  longest  prayer 

That  soul  can  yield  or  wisdom  frame. 
What  better  import  can  it  bear 

Than,  "  Father  !  hallowed  be  thy  name  !" 

The  savage  kneeling  to  the  sun. 

To  give  his  thanks  or  ask  a  boon  ; 
The  raptures  of  the  idiot  one 

Who  laughs  to  see  the  clear  round  moon; 
The  saint  well  taught  in  Christian  lore; 

The  Moslem  prostrate  at  his  flame  — 
All  worship,  wonder,  and  adore  ; 

All  end  in,  "  hallowed  be  thy  name  I" 

Whate'er  may  be  man's  faith  or  creed. 

Those  precious  words  comprise  it  still ; 
We  trace  them  on  the  bloomy  mead, 

We  hear  them  in  the  flowing  rill. 
One  chorus  hails  the  Great  Supreme-, 

Each  varied  breathing  tells  the  same. 
The  strains  may  differ;  but  the  theme 

Is,  "  Father  !  hallowed  be  thy  name !" 

THROUGH    THE    WATERS. 

Through  the  forest,  through  the  forest,  oh !  who  would  not 

like  to  roam. 
Where  the  squirrel  leaps  right  gaily  and  the  shy  fawn  makes 

a  home; 
Where  branches,  spreading  high  and  wide,  shut  out  the  golden 

sun. 
And  hours  of  noontide  steal  away  all  shadowy  and  dun  ? 
'Tis  sweet  to  pluck  the  ivy  sprigs  or  seek  the  hidden  nest, 
To  track  the  spot  where  owlets  hide,  and  wild  deer  take 

their  rest ; 
Through  the  forest,  through  the  forest,  oh,  'tis  passing  sweet 

to  take 
Our  lonely  way  'mid  springy  moss,  thick  bush,  and  tangled 

brake. 

Through  the  valley,  through  the  valley,  where  the  glittering 

harebells  peep. 
Where  laden  bees  go  droning  by,  and  hum  themselves  to 

sleep ; 
Where  all  that's  bright  with  bloom  and  light  springs  forth 

to  greet  the  day. 
And  every  blade  pours  incense  to  the  warm  and  cloudless 

ray; 
Where  children  come  to  laugh  away  their  happy  summer 

hours. 
To  chase  the  downy  butterfly,  or  crown  themselves  with 

flowers ; 
Through  the  valley,  through  the  valley,  oh  !  who  does  not 

like  to  bask 
Amid  the  fairest  beauties  Heaven  can  give  or  man  can  ask? 

Through  the  desert,  through  the  desert,  where  the  Arab  takes 

his  course. 
With  none  to  bear  him  company  except  his  gallant  horse; 
Where  none  can  question  will  or  right,  where  landmarks 

ne'er  impede, 
But  all  is  wide  and  limitless  to  rider  and  to  steed. 
No  purling  streamlet  murmurs  there,  no  chequered  shadows 

fall; 
'Tis  torrid,  waste,  and  desolate,  but  free  to  each  and  all. 
Through  the  desert,  through  the  desert !    Oh,  the  Arab  would 

not  change 
For  purple  robes  or  olive-trees  his  wild  and  burning  range. 

Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  ah !  be  this  the  joy 

for  me. 
Upon  the  flowing  river  or  the  broad  and  dashing  sea ; 
Of  all  that  wealth  could  offer  me  the  choicest  boon  I'd  crave 
Would  be  a  bold  and  sturdy  bark  upon  the  open  wave. 
I  love  to  see  the  wet  sails  fill  before  the  whistling  breath, 
And  feel  the  ship  cleave  on,  as  though  she  spurned  the  flood 

beneath. 
Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  can  ye  tell  me  what 

.      below 
Is  freer  than  the  wind-lashed  main,  or  swifter  than  the  proa  ? 

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1  love  to  see  the  merry  craft  go  running  on  her  side ; 

I  laugh  to  see  her  splashing  on  before  the  rapid  tide; 

I  love  to  mark  the  white  and  hissing  foam  come  boiling  up, 

Fresh  as  the  froth  that  hangs  about  the  Thunderer's  nectar 

cup. 
All  sail  away  :  ah  !  who  would  stay  to  pace  the  dusty  land 
If  once  Ihey  trod  a  gallant  ship,  steered  by  a  gallant  band. 
Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  oh!  there's  not  a 

joy  for  me 
Like  racing  with  the  gull  upon  a  broad  and  dashing  sea! 

STANZAS    TO    THE   YOUNG. 

Long  have  the  wisest  lips  confessed 
That  minstrel  ones  are  far  from  wrong 

Who  "point  a  moral"  in  a  jest, 
Or  yield  a  sermon  in  a  song. 

So  be  it !    Listen  ye  who  will. 

And,  though  my  harp  be  roughly  strung, 

yet  never  sliall  its  lightest  thrill 
Offend  the  old  or  taint  the  young. 

Mark  me !  I  ne'er  presume  to  teach 
The  man  of  wisdom,  grey  and  sage : 

'Tis  to  the  growing  I  would  preach 
From  moral  te.xt  and  mentor  page. 

First,  I  would  bid  thee  cherish  truth. 

As  leading  star  in  virtue's  train; 
Folly  may  pass,  nor  tarnish  youth, 

But  falsehood  leaves  a  poison  stain. 

Keep  watch,  nor  let  the  burning  tide 
Of  impulse  break  from  all  control: 

The  best  of  hearts  needs  pilot-guide 
To  steer  it  clear  from  error's  shoal. 

One  wave  of  passion's  boiling  flood 

May  all  the  sea  of  life  disturb; 
And  steeds  of  good  but  fiery  blood 

Will  rush  on  death  without  a  curb. 

Think  on  the  course  ye  fain  would  run. 

And  moderate  the  wild  desire; 
There's  many  a  one  would  drive  the  sun. 

Only  to  set  the  world  on  fire. 

Slight  not  the  one  of  honest  vi^orth. 
Because  no  star  adorns  his  breast: 

The  lark  soars  highest  from  the  earth. 
Yet  ever  leaves  the  lowest  nest. 

Heed  but  the  bearing  of  a  tree. 

And  if  it  yield  a  wholesome  fruit 
A  shallow,  envious  fool  is  he 

Who  spurns  it  for  its  forest  root. 

Let  fair  humanity  be  thine. 

To  fellow-man  and  meanest  brute: 
'Tis  nobly  taught;  the  code's  divine  — 

Mercy  is  God's  chief  attribute. 

The  coward  wretch  whose  hand  and  heart 

Can  bear  to  torture  aught  below, 
Is  ever  first  to  quail  and  start 

From  slightest  pain  or  equal  foe. 

Be  not  too  ready  to  condemn 

The  wrong  thy  brothers  may  have  done ; 

Ere  ye  too  harshly  censure  them 
For  human  faults,  ask  —  "  Have  I  none  ?" 

liive  that  thy  young  and  glowing  breast 
Can  think  of  death    vithout  a  sigh; 

And  be  assured  that  life  is  best 
Which  fiiuls  us  least  afraid  to  die. 


WASHINGTON. 

Land  of  the  VVest !  though  passing  brief  the  record  of  thine 

age. 
Thou  hast  a  name  that  darkens  all  on  history's  wide  page! 
Let  all  the  blasts  of  fame  ring  out  —  thine  shall  be  loudest 

far: 
Let  others  boast  their  satellites  — thou  hast  the  planet  star. 


Thou  hast  a  name  whose  characters  of  light  shall  ne'er 

depart : 
'Tis  stamped  upon  the  dullest  brain,  and  warms  the  coldest 

heart  ; 
A  war-cry  fit  for  any  land  where  freedom's  to  be  won. 
Land  of  the  west!   it  stands  alone  — it  is  thy  Washington! 

Rome  had  its  Casar,  great  and  brave;  but  stain  was  on  his 

wreath  : 
He  lived   the  heartless  conqueror,   and  died   the   tyrant's 

death. 
France  had  its  Eagle;   but  his  wings,  though   lofty  they 

might  soar. 
Were  spread  in  false  ambition's  flight,  and  dipped  in  nmr- 

der's  gore. 
Tliose   hero-gods,   whose   mighty   sway   would   fain    have 

chained  the  waves  — 
Who  fleshed  their  blades  with  tiger  zeal,  to  make  a  world 

of  slaves  — 
Who,  though   their  kindred  barred  the  path,  still  fiercely 

waded  on  — 
Oh,  where  shall  be  their  "  glory"  by  the  side  of  Washington  ? 

He  fought,  but  not  with  love  of  strife  ;  he  struck  but  to 

defend  ; 
And  ere  he  turned  a  people's  foe,  he  sought  to  be  a  friend. 
He  strove   to  keep  his  country's  right  by  reason's  gentle 

word. 
And  sighed  when  fell  injustice  threw  the  challenge  —  sword 

to  sword. 
He  stood  the  firm,  the  calm,  the  wise,  the  patriot  and  sage; 
He  showed  no  deep,  avenging  hate—  no  burst  of  despot  rage. 
He  stood  for  liberty  and  truth,  and  dauntlessly  led  on. 
Till  shouts  of  victory  gave  forth  the  name  of  Washington. 

No  car  of  triumph  bore  him  through  a  city  filled  with  grief; 
No  groaning  captives  at  the  wheels  proclaimed  him  victor 

chief: 
He  broke  the  gyves  of  slavery  with  strong  and  high  disdain, 
And  cast  no  sceptre  from  the  links  when  he  had  crushed  the 

chain. 
He  saved  his  land,  but  did  not  lay  his  soldier  trappingsdown 
To  change  them  for  the  regal  vest,  and  don  a  kingly  crown. 
Fame  was  too  earnest  in  her  joy  —  too  proud  of  such  a  son — 
To  let  a  robe  and  title  mask  a  noble  Washington. 

England,  my  heart  is  truly  thine  —  my  loved,  my  native 
earth  !  — 

The  land  that  holds  a  mother's  grave,  and  gave  that  mother 
birth ! 

Oh,  keenly  sad  would  be  the  fate  that  thrust  me  from  thy 
shore. 

And  faltering  my  breath,  that  sighed,  "Farewell  for  ever- 
more !" 

But  did  I  meet  such  adverse  lot,  I  would  not  seek  to  dwell 

Where  olden  heroes  wrought  the  deeds  for  Homer's  song  to 
tell. 

Away,  thou  gallant  ship!  I'd  cry,  and  bear  me  swiftly  on: 

But  bear  me  from  my  own  fair  land  to  that  of  Washington. 


THE    LAST    GOOD-BYE. 

Farewell !  Farewell !  is  often  heard 

From  the  lips  of  those  who  part : 
'T  is  a  whispered  tone,  't  is  a  gentle  word, 

But  it  springs  not  from  the  heart. 
It  may  serve  for  the  lover's  lay. 

To  be  sung  'neath  a  summer  sky  ; 
But  give  me  the  lips  that  say 

The  honest  words,  "  Good-bye  !" 

Adieu  !  Adieu  !  may  greet  the  ear 

In  the  guise  of  courtly  speech  ; 
But  when  we  leave  the  kind  aiul  dear, 

'Tis  not  what  the  soul  would  teach. 
Whene'er  we  grasp  the  hands  of  those 

We  would  have  for  ever  nigh. 
The  flame  of  friendship  burns  and  glows 

In  the  warm,  frank  words,  "Good-bye!" 

The  mother  sending  forth  her  child 

To  meet  with  cares  and  strife, 
Breathes  through  her  tears  her  doubts  and  fears 

For  the  loved  one's  future  life. 

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No  cold  "  adieu,"  no  "  farewell,"  lives 

Within  her  choking  sighs; 
But  the  deepest  sob  of  anguish  gives, 

"  God  bless  thee,  boy  !  —  good-bye  I" 

Go,  watch  the  pale  and  dying  one, 

When  the  glance  has  lost  its  beam  — 
When  the  brow  is  cold  as  the  marble  stone. 

And  the  world  a  passing  dream  ; 
And  the  latest  pressure  of  the  hand, 

The  look  of  the  closing  eye. 
Yield  what  the  heart  7iiust  understand  — 

A  long,  a  last  •'  Good-bye." 


V  'y-'0^^^^ 


COUTTS,  ANGELA  GEORGINA  BURDETT, 

Is  distinguished  as  possessing  more  wealth  than 
any  other  private  woman  in  tlie  world  ;  and  a  far 
higher  distinction  is  hers  also,  that  she  is  using  her 
immense  riches  in  the  noblest  works  of  chai-ity. 

Miss  Burdett  Coutts  is  the  youngest  daughter 
of  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  Bart.,  late  of  Bramcote, 
county  of  Warwick,  a  philanthropist  and  reformer, 
whose  political  career  is  well  known ;  her  mother 
was  Sophia,  youngest  daughter  of  Thomas  Coutts, 
Esq.,  the  opulent  banker  of  the  Strand.  The 
family  of  Burdett,  enriched  by  alliances  with  the 
houses  of  Camville  of  Arrow,  Bruin  of  Bramcote, 
and  Fraunceys  of  Foremark,  can  be  traced  to  one 
of  the  soldiers  of  the  Conquest.  But  whatever  the 
ancestry  of  Miss  Burdett  Coutts  might  have  been, 
it  can  confer  no  honour  on  her  name  so  noble  as 
do  her  own  benevolent  deeds.  She  was  born  April 
25th,  1814,  and  carefully  trained  in  those  religious 
sentiments  which  develop  the  best  faculties  of  the 
female  mind.  She  was  not  educated  as  an  ex- 
pectant heiress,  because  her  grandfather's  mar-' 
riage  with  Miss  Mellon,*  the  actress,  and  his  gift 
by  will  of  his  whole  fortune  to  this,  comparatively, 
young  wife,  must  have  deprived  his  children  of 
any  expectancy  from  the  step-mother,  who  subse- 
quently married  the  young  Duke  of  St.  Albans. 
But  the  amiable,  interesting  and  affectionate  An- 
gela Burdett,  was  ever  a  favourite  with  her  step- 
grandmother  ;  and  as  the  latter  had  no  children 
or  near  relations  of  her  own,  she  justly  deter- 
mined the  fortune  she  had  received  from  her  first 


'  See  Biography  of  the  Duchess  of  St.  Albans,  page  424. 


husband,  should  return  to  his  family,  and  wisely 
selected  the  youthful  Angela  Georgina  Burdett,  as 
her  heiress.  One  condition  only  was  annexed  to 
the  possession  of  this  vast  property — that  the 
heiress  should  assume  the  additional  surname  and 
arms  of  Coutts,  which,  by  royal  license  was  per- 
mitted. In  September,  1837,  the  subject  of  our 
sketch  took  the  style  and  surname,  and  came  into 
possession  of  her  fortune ;  she  was  then  twenty- 
three  years  of  age.  The  few  simple  facts  we  have 
narrated,  strikingly  illustrate  the  differences  in 
the  masculine  and  feminine  nature.  Harriet  Mel- 
lon, the  self-educated  actress,  was  far  more  disin- 
terested, more  generous,  more  just,  than  either  of 
her  two  husbands, — one  versed  in  all  the  know- 
ledge of  the  world  of  business,  the  other  born  to 
high  rank,  and  educated  in  a  nobleman's  notions 
of  honour  and  morality ;  and  that  this  great  wealth, 
accumulated  by  the  elder  Coutts,  is  now  in  the 
hands  of  a  woman,  should  be  a  subject  of  thankful- 
ness to  all  who  wish  the  advancement  of  piety,  mo- 
rality, and  Christian  education  among  the  people. 

Since  Miss  Burdett  Coutts  came  into  posses- 
sion of  her  fortune,  she  has  been  indefatigable  in 
her  works  of  benevolence.  Besides  her  private 
charities,  which  are  innumerable,  she  has  given 
largely'  for  missionary  purposes ;  to  assist  reli- 
gious societies ;  endowed  the  see  of  a  bishopric 
in  Adelaide,  South  Australia ;  and  bestowed  thirty/ 
thoumnd  pounds  sterling  to  build  and  endow  a 
church,  with  parsonage-house  and  schools  in  West- 
minster, London !  Who,  among  all  the  living  no- 
ble and  rich  men  of  England,  has  done  deeds  of 
disinterested  benevolence  to  be  compared  with 
these  ?  A  woman  is  now  the  leader  of  British 
charities ;  and  the  name  of  Miss  Burdett  Coutts 
is  honoured  throughout  the  Christian  world. 

An  interesting  account  of  the  ceremonies  attend- 
ant on  laying  the  foundation-stone  of  this  new 
church  was  given  in  a  London  paper.  The  site 
was  Rochester-Row,  selected  by  the  Bishop  of 
London,  in  one  of  the  most  densely  populated 
portions  of  the  city  and  liberties.  Tuesday,  the 
20th  of  July,  1847,  was  fixed  for  the  ceremonies. 
The  site  was  enclosed,  and  accommodations  were 
prepared  for  spectators.  "Before  two  o'clock, 
the  appointed  hour,  several  galleries  were  occu- 
pied, and  ladies  were  accommodated  with  seats 
on  the  platform,  whereon  were  made  the  requisite 
arrangements  for  laying  the  stone,  suspended 
from  a  truck,  travelling  along  an  elevated  tramway. 
At  two  o'clock,  the  several  authorities  engaged 
in  the  ceremony  entered  the  inclosure  in  proces- 
sion, preceded  by  the  officials,  bearing  their  silver 
staves.  Amongst  those  present  were.  Miss  Angela 
Burdett  Coutts  (who  was  accompanied  by  Lady 
King,  Lady  Antrobus,  Miss  Burdett,  and  Mrs. 
Ramsden ;)  the  Lord  Bishop  of  London,  the  Lord 
Bishop  of  Oxford  ;  Earl  Brownlow,  Lord  Sandom, 
M.  P.,  Lord  Ashley:  the  Very  Rev.  Dr.  Buck- 
land,  Dean  of  Westminster ;  the  Venei-able  John 
Sinclair,  M.  A.,  Archdeacon  of  Middlesex;  the 
Rev.  Lord  John  Thynne,  M.  A.,  Canon  of  West- 
minster: the  Venerable  Archdeacon  Bentinck; 
Foster  Owen,  Esq.,  High  Constable  of  Westmin- 
ster; the  Right  Rev.  Dr.  Short,  Bishop  of  Ade- 

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laide.  South  Australia,  (the  new  see  endowed  by- 
Miss  Coutts;)  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Tasmania;  Sir 
Frederick  Trench,  Col.  Sturt;  the  Rev.  Edward 
Repton,  M.  A.,  Canon  of  Westminster,  and  a 
large  number  of  clergy. 

"  The  general  arrangements  were  under  the  su- 
perintendence of  the  High  Constable,  and  were 
very  satisfactory.  A  large  concourse  of  persons 
had  assembled  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  the 
walls  and  house-tops,  commanding  a  view  of  the 
ceremony,  were  fringed  with  spectators. 

"  Tlie  appointed  office  was  read  by  the  Bishop 
of  London,  and  three  of  the  Canons  of  the  Abbey 
Church  of  AVestminster.  It  consisted  of  the  84th 
Psalm,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  following  Col- 
lect:— 

'  Almighty  God,*  whom  the  heaven  and  heaven 
of  heavens  cannot  contain,  who  yet  vouchsafest  to 
dwell  with  thy  Church  upon  earth ;  look  down 
with  thy  favour  upon  us,  thine  unworthy  servants, 
who  are  now  about  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a 
house,  to  be  dedicatod  to  thy  service,  and  to  the 
glory  of  thy  Holy  Name ;  through  Jesus  Christ 
our  Lord,  who  liveth  and  reigneth  with  Thee,  in 
the  unity  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  one  God,  world  with- 
out end.     Amen.' 

"  The  bottle  of  coins,  &c.,  and  the  inscription- 
plate,  being  placed  within  the  stone.  Miss  Coutts 
spread  the  mortar  with  an  elegant  silver  trowel; 
the  stone  was  then  lowered  from  the  tramway,  and 
it  being  adjusted,  the  Founder  said,  'We  place 
this  Foundation  Stone  in  faith  and  hope,  to  the 
glory  of  God,  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 
Amen.'  Miss  Coutts  then  slightly  struck  the  stone 
thrice  with  the  mallet. 

"  A  hymn  was  next  sung  by  the  children  of  the 
Grey  Coat,  Green  Coat,  Blue  Coat,  and  Emery 
Hill's  Schools. 

"  The  singing  of  this  hymn,  the  spectators  being 
uncovered,  had  a  very  impressive  effect. 

"  A  Psalm  and  three  other  Prayers  and  Collects 
were  then  read ;  and  the  Bishop  of  London  ad- 
dressed the  assembly  at  some  length,  dwelling  on 
the  pious  munificence  of  the  lady  who  had  so 
handsomely  contributed  to  the  provision  of  spi- 
ritual instruction  through  the  instrumentality  of 
the  Church,  in  that  densely  populated  district. 
Miss  Coutts's  father  (Sir  Francis  Burdett)  had  re- 
presented that  ancient  city  in  Parliament  during 
a  course  of  thirty  years,  and  this  new  Church 
would  serve  to  perpetuate  his  memory.  The  an- 
cient parish  churches  and  cathedrals  had  been 
reared  through  the  Christian  liberality  of  benevo- 
lent individuals,  but  none,  he  regretted  to  say, 
had  of  late  years  been  equal  to  the  work  they  were 
now  commencing,  and  he  trusted  it  would  be  one 
of  those  bright  examples  which  would  redound  to 
the  strength  of  the  Church  and  the  ultimate  se- 
curity of  the  country. 

"The  Bishop  then  pronounced  the  Blessing; 
'God  save  the  Queen'  was  sung,  and  the  congre- 
gation dispersed  ;  three  cheers  being  given  as  they 
retired  from  the  platform." 

The  church  will  accommodate  one  thousand  per- 
sons; the  two  schools  educate  four  hundred  chil- 
dren, two  hundred  and  thirty  boys  and  one  hun- 


dred and  seventy  girls.  In  the  present  low  state 
of  popular  education  in  England,  we  look  upon 
these  schools  as  calculated  to  produce  more  bene- 
fit to  the  cause  of  morality  and  true  piety,  than 
will  be  done  by  the  preacher  in  the  church.  AVe 
wish,  however,  that  the  relative  proportion  between 
the  sexes  of  the  pupils  had  been  reversed,  for  we 
believe  the  education  of  female  children  more  im- 
portant than  that  of  boys.  If  the  mother  has 
been  instructed,  she  will  impart  whatever  she  has 
learned  to  her  children ;  the  father  uses  his  know- 
ledge more  for  his  own  benefit.  Popular  education 
has  been  so  utterly  neglected  by  the  English  go- 
vernment, that  there  are  now,  it  is  calculated, 
nearly  eight  millions  of  persons  in  England  and 
Wales,  who  do  not  know  how  to  read !  The  larger 
proportion  of  the  neglected  is  females.  To  in- 
struct these  poor,  ignorant  women  and  girls  till 
they  can  read,  and  place  a  copy  of  the  Bible  in 
every  family,  would  be  the  greatest  boon  human 
philanthropy  could  confer  on  the  British  nation. 

Miss  Burdett  Coutts  has  now  in  her  keeping  a 
power  of  doing  good,  which  an  angel  might  joy- 
fully leave  the  mansions  of  bliss  to  wield.  To 
provide  the  means  of  education  for  her  own  sex, 
seems  the  special  privilege  entrusted  to  her.  Nor- 
mal schools,  for  the  training  of  female  teachers, 
are  wanted  in  England,  as  the  preparatory  step  to 
popular  education ;  male  teachers  are  not  fitted  by 
nature  to  have  the  care  of  children ;  and  never 
will  universal  education  be  enjoyed,  till  women 
are  the  instructors  of  the  young. 

CROWE,  CATHARINE, 
Whose  maiden  name  was  Stevens,  was  born  at 
Borough  Green,  in  the  county  of  Kent,  England. 
She  married  Lt.  Colonel  Crowe,  of  the  British 
army.  She  has  one  child  —  a  son ;  the  family 
reside  chiefly  at  Edinburgh,  or  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Her  published  books  are  pretty  numerous, 
and  she  has  written  much  for  the  periodicals  and 
other  serials,  within  the  last  ten  years.  One  only 
of  her  works  has  been  reprinted  in  America, — 
"The  Night-Side  of  Nature," — celebrated  for  the 
undeniable  evidence  it  affords  of  the  belief  of 
Mrs.  Crowe  in  "those  things"  which  the  philo- 
sophy of  schools  does  not  teach  as  abstract  truths 
—  namely,  the  belief  in  dreams,  omens,  wraiths, 
ghosts,  and  other  ti'anscendental  matters  jiertain- 
ing  to  the  world  of  spirits.  Her  writings  have  at- 
tracted considerable  attention  among  the  learned, 
and  attained,  as  might  have  been  expected,  a  wide 
popularity  among  those  who  like  to  read  ghost- 
stories,  though  stoutly  denying  any  belief  in  such 
nonsense.  The  term,  "  Night-Side  of  Nature," 
Mrs.  Crowe  explains  as  being  borrowed  from  the 
German,  signifying  "that  side  of  a  planet  which 
is  turned  from  the  sun  ;  and  during  this  interval, 
external  objects  loom  upon  us  biit  strangely  and 
imperfectly:  the  Germans  draw  a  parallel  between 
these  vague  and  misty  perceptions  and  the  similar 
obscure  and  uncertain  glimpses  we  get  of  that 
veiled  department  of  nature,  of  which,  whilst  com- 
prising, as  it  does,  the  solution  of  questions  con- 
cerning us  more  nearly  than  any  other,  we  are 
yet  in  a  state  of  entire  and  wilful  ignorance." 

635 


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The  principal  works  of  Mrs.  Crowe  are :  — 
•'Susan  Hopley,"  "Lilly  Dawson,"  "Manorial 
Rights,"  and  "  Aristodemus,"  a  tragedy.  But  the 
"Night-Side  of  Nature"  is  her  great  work,  and 
had  she  done  as  the  Sibyl  of  old,  burnt  two-thirds 
of  her  matter,  the  book  would  have  been  much 
more  valued.  The  truth  is,  so  many  foolish,  in- 
consistent, and  useless  examples  of  preternatural 
appearances  and  wai'nings  are  given,  that  the 
reader,  even  though  a  little  inclined  to  believe 
there  may  be  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
than  philosophy  has  explained,  will  yet  become 
disgusted  with  the  trivial  scenes  in  which  these 
spiritual  influences  are  represented  as  chiefly  en- 
gaged. A  few  selections  will  best  show  the  cha- 
racter of  the  work  and  bias  of  the  author. 

From  "  The  Night-Side  of  Nature." 

THE    FUTURE    THAT    AWAITS    US. 

In  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  in  all  parts  of  it, 
mankind  have  earnestly  desired  to  learn  the  fate 
that  awaited  them  wlien  they  had  "  shuflled  off 
this  mortal  coil;"  and  those  pretending  to  be  their 
instructors  have  built  up  difi"ereut  systems,  which 
have  stood  in  the  stead  of  knowledge,  and  more 
or  less  satisfied  the  bulk  of  the  people.  The  inte- 
rest on  this  subject  is,  at  the  present  period,  in 
the  most  highly  civilized  portions  of  the  globe, 
less  than  it  has  been  at  any  preceding  one.  The 
great  proportion  of  us  live  for  this  world  alone, 
and  think  very  little  of  the  next ;  we  are  in  too 
great  a  hurry  of  pleasure  or  business  to  bestow 
any  time  on  a  subject  of  which  we  have  such  vague 
notions.  Notions  so  vague,  that,  in  short,  we  can 
scarcely,  by  any  effort  of  the  imagination,  bring 
the  idea  home  to  ourselves ;  and  when  we  are 
about  to  die,  we  are  seldom  in  a  situation  to  do 
more  than  resign  ourselves  to  what  is  inevitable, 
and  blindly  meet  our  fate ;  whilst,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  is  generally  called  the  religious  world, 
is  so  engrossed  by  its  struggles  for  power  or 
money,  or  by  its  sectarian  disputes  and  enmities, 
and  so  narrowed  and  circumscribed  by  dogmatic 
orthodoxies,  that  it  has  neither  inclination  nor 
liberty  to  turn  back  or  look  around,  and  endea- 
vour to  gather  up,  from  past  records  and  jDresent 
observation,  such  hints  as  are  now  and  again  dropt 
in  our  path,  to  give  us  an  intimation  of  what  the 
truth  may  be.  The  rationalistic  age,  too,  out  of 
■which  we  are  only  just  emerging,  and  which  suc- 
ceeded one  of  gross  superstition,  having  settled, 
beyond  appeal,  that  there  never  was  such  a  thing 
as  a  ghost  —  that  the  dead  never  do  come  back  to 
tell  us  the  secrets  of  their  prison-house — and  that 
nobody  believes  such  idle  tales  but  children  and 
old  women,  seemed  to  have  shut  the  door  against 
the  only  channel  through  which  any  information 
could  be  sought.  Revelation  tells  us  very  little 
on  this  subject,  reason  can  tell  us  nothing;  and  if 
nature  is  equally  silent,  or  if  we  are  to  be  deterred 
from  questioning  her  from  the  fear  of  ridicule, 
there  is  certainly  no  resource  left  for  us  but  to 
rest  contented  in  our  ignorance ;  and  each  wait 
till  the  awful  secret  is  disclosed  to  ourselves.  A 
great  many  things  have  been  pronounced  untrue 


and  absurd,  and  even  impossible,  by  the  highest 
authorities  in  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  which 
have  afterwards,  and,  indeed,  within  a  very  short 
period,  been  found  to  be  both  possible  and  true. 
I  confess  myself,  for  one,  to  have  no  respect  what- 
ever for  these  dogmatic  denials  and  affirmations, 
and  I  am  quite  of  opinion  that  vulgar  incredulity 
is  a  much  more  contemptible  thing  than  vulgar 
credulity.  We  know  very  little  of  what  is,  and 
still  less  of  what  may  be ;  and  till  a  thing  has 
been  proved  by  induction  logically  impossible,  we 
have  no  right  whatever  to  pronounce  that  it  is  so. 
As  I  have  said  before,  a  priori  conclusions  are 
perfectly  worthless ;  and  the  sort  of  investigation 
that  is  bestowed  vipon  siibjects  of  the  class  of 
which  I  am  treating,  something  worse ;  inasmuch 
as  they  deceive  the  timid  and  the  ignorant,  and 
that  very  numerous  class  which  pins  its  faith  on 
authority,  and  never  ventures  to  think  for  itself, 
by  an  assumption  of  wisdom  and  knowledge, 
which,  if  examined  and  analyzed,  would  very  fre- 
quently prove  to  be  nothing  more  respectable  than 
obstinate  prejudice  and  rash  •assertion. 

DREAMS. 

A  gentleman,  who  resided  near  one  of  the  Scot- 
tish lakes,  dreamt  that  he  saw  a  number  of  per- 
sons surrounding  a  body,  which  had  just  been 
drawn  out  of  the  water.  On  approaching  the  spot, 
he  perceives  that  it  is  himself,  and  the  assistants 
are  his  own  friends  and  retainers.  Alarmed  at  the 
life-like  reality  of  the  vision,  he  resolved  to  elude 
the  threatened  destiny  by  never  venturing  on  the 
lake  again.'  On  one  occasion,  however,  it  became 
quite  indispensable  that  he  should  do  so ;  and,  as 
the  day  was  quite  calm,  he  yielded  to  the  neces- 
sity, on  condition  that  he  should  be  put  ashore  at 
once  on  the  opposite  side,  whilst  the  rest  of  the 
party  proceeded  to  their  destination,  where  he 
would  meet  them.  This  was  accordingly  done: 
the  boat  skimmed  gaily  over  the  smooth  waters, 
and  arrived  safely  at  the  rendezvous,  the  gentle- 
men laughing  at  the  superstition  of  their  com- 
panion, whilst  he  stood  smiling  on  the  bank  to 
receive  them.  But,  alas!  the  fates  were  inex- 
orable :  the  little  promontory  that  supported  him 
had  been  undermined  by  the  water ;  it  gave  way 
beneath  his  feet,  and  life  was  extinct  before  he 
could  be  rescued.  This  circumstance  was  related 
to  me  by  a  friend  of  the  family. 

PRESENTIMENT. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  cases  of  presenti- 
ment I  know,  is  that  which  occurred,  not  very  long 
since,  on  board  one  of  her  Majesty's  ships,  when 
lying  off  Portsmouth.  The  officers  being  one  day 
at  the  mess-table,  a  young  Lieutenant  P sud- 
denly laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  pushed  away 
his  plate,  and  turned  extremely  pale.  He  then 
rose  from  the  table,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  retired  from  the  room.  The  president 
of  the  mess,  supposing  him  to  be  ill,  sent  one  of 
the  young  men  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter. 
At  first,  M.  P.  was  unwilling  to  speak;  but  on 
being  pressed,  he  confessed  that  he  had  been 
seized   by  a  sudden  and   irresistible   impression 

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that  a  brother  he  had  then  in  India  Tvas  dead. 
"  He  died,"  said  he,  "  on  the  12th  of  August,  at 
six  o'clock;  I  am  perfectly  certain  of  it!"  No 
arguments  could  overthrow  tliis  conviction,  ■which, 
in  due  course  of  post,  was  veriiied  to  the  letter. 
The  young  man  had  died  at  Cawnpore,  at  the 
precise  period  mentioned. 

APPARITIONS. 

A  maid-servant,  in  one  of  the  midland  counties 
of  England,  being  up  early  one  morning,  heard 
her  name  called  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  be  her 
brother's,  a  sailor,  then  at  sea ;  and  running  up, 
she  found  him  standing  in  the  hall ;  he  said  he 
was  come  from  afar,  and  was  going  again,  and 
mentioned  some  other  things,  when  her  mistress, 
hearing  voices,  called  to  know  who  she  was  talk- 
ing to ;  she  said  it  was  her  brother,  from  sea. 
After  speaking  to  her  for  some  time,  she  suddenly 
lost  sight  of  him,  and  found  herself  alone.  Amazed 
and  puzzled,  she  told  her  mistress  what  had  hap- 
pened, who  being  thus  led  to  suspect  the  kind  of 
visiter  it  was,  looked  out  of  the  window  to  ascer- 
tain if  there  were  any  marks  of  footsteps,  the 
ground  being  covered  with  snow.  There  were, 
however,  none ;  and  it  was  therefore  clear  that 
nobody  could  have  entered  the  house.  Intelli- 
gence afterwards  arrived  of  the  young  man's 
death. 

TEOUBLED    SPIRITS. 

There  is  an  old  saying,  that  we  should  never  lie 
down  to  rest  at  enmity  with  any  human  being ; 
and  the  story  of  the  ghost  of  the  Princess  Anna 
of  Saxony,  who  appeared  to  Duke  Christian  of 
Saxe-Eisenburg,  is  strongly  confirmatory  of  the 
wisdom  of  this  axiom. 

Duke  Christian  was  sitting  one  morning  in  his 
study,  when  he  was  surprised  by  a  knock  at  his 
door — an  unusual  circumstance,  since  the  guards, 
as  well  as  the  people  in  waiting,  were  always  in 
the  ante-room.  He,  however,  cried,  "Come  in!" 
When  there  entered,  to  his  amazement,  a  lady  in 
an  ancient  costume,  who,  in  answer  to  his  in- 
quiries, told  him  that  she  was  no  evil  spirit,  and 
would  do  him  no  harm ;  but  that  she  was  one  of 
his  ancestors,  and  had  been  the  wife  of  Duke 
John  Casimer  of  Saxe-Coburg.  She  then  related 
that  she  and  her  husband  had  not  been  on  good 
terms  at  the  period  of  their  deaths,  and  that 
although  she  had  sought  a  reconciliation,  he  had 
been  inexorable,  pursuing  her  with  unmitigated 
hatred,  and  injuring  her  by  unjust  suspicions ; 
and  that,  consequently,  although  she  was  happy, 
he  was  still  wandei'ing  in  cold  and  darkness,  be- 
twixt time  and  eternity.  She  had,  however,  long 
known  that  one  of  their  descendants  was  destined 
to  effect  this  reconciliation  for  them,  and  they 
were  rejoiced  to  find  the  time  for  it  had  at  length 
arrived.  She  then  gave  the  duke  eight  days  to 
consider  if  he  were  willing  to  perform  this  good 
office,  and  disappeared ;  whereupon  he  consulted 
a  clergyman,  in  whom  he  had  great  confidence, 
who,  after  finding  the  ghost's  communications 
verified  by  a  reference  to  the  annals  of  the  family, 
advised  him  to  comply  with  her  request. 


As  the  duke  had  yet  some  difficulty  in  believing 
it  was  really  a  ghost  he  had  seen,  he  took  care  to 
have  his  door  well  watched ;  she,  however,  en- 
tered at  the  appointed  time,  unseen  by  the  attend- 
ants ;  and  having  received  the  duke's  promise,  she 
told  him  that  she  would  return  with  her  husband 
on  the  following  night;  for  that  although  she  could 
come  by  day,  he  could  not;  that  then,  having  heard 
the  circumstances,  the  duke  must  arbitrate  be- 
tween them,  and  then  unite  their  hands  and  bless 
them.  The  door  was  still  watched,  but  neverthe- 
less the  apparitions  both  came,  the  Duke  Casimer 
in  full  royal  costume,  but  of  a  livid  paleness ;  and 
when  the  wife  had  told  her  story,  he  told  his. 
Duke  Christian  decided  for  the  lady,  in  which 
judgment  Duke  Casimer  fully  acquiesced.  Chris- 
tian then  took  the  ice-cold  hand  of  Casimer,  and 
laid  it  in  that  of  his  wife,  which  felt  of  a  natural 
heat.  They  then  prayed  and  sang  together,  and 
the  apparitions  disappeared,  having  foretold  that 
Duke  Christian  would  ere  long  be  with  them.  The 
family  records  showed  that  these  people  had  lived 
about  one  hundred  years  before  Duke  Christian's 
time,  who  himself  died  in  the  year  1707,  two  years 
after  these  visits  of  his  ancestors.  He  desired  to 
be  buried  in  quick-lime  —  it  is  supposed,  from  an 
idea  that  it  might  prevent  his  ghost  from  walking 
the  earth.  The  costume  in  which  they  appeared, 
was  precisely  that  they  had  worn  when  alive,  as 
was  ascertained  by  a  reference  to  their  portraits. 

The  expression,  that  her  husband  was  wandering 
in  cold  and  darkness,  betwixt  time  and  eternity,  ai-fe 
here  very  worthy  of  observation ;  as  are  the  cir- 
cumstances that  his  hand  was  cold,  whilst  hers 
was  warm ;  and,  also,  the  greater  privilege  she 
seemed  to  enjoy.  The  hands  of  the  unhappy 
spirits  appear,  I  think,  invariably  to  communicate 
a  sensation  of  cold. 

CUSHMAN,    CHARLOTTE, 

An  American  Artiste  who  has,  deservedly,  be- 
come celebrated  in  her  profession,  holding  now 
the  highest  rank  for  original  genius,  in  the  per- 
sonation of  those  female  characters  which  display 
the  passions  in  their  greatest  intensity  and  power, 
of  any  living  actress  either  of  England  or  her  own 
country. 

Charlotte  Cushman  was  born  in  Boston,  being 
the  eldest  of  five  children,  who,  by  the  decease  of 
their  father,  were  left,  when  young,  wholly  de- 
pendent on  their  mother's  care  and  instruction. 
Mrs.  Cushman  seems  to  have  sustained  the  part 
of  double  guardianship  over  her  children,  which 
devolves  on  a  widowed  mother,  with  a  noble  cour- 
age and  firm  faith  in  God  ;  this  early  training  has, 
no  doubt,  had  great  influence  on  her  gifted  daugh- 
ter. The  sketch  we  shall  give  of  Miss  Cushman,  is 
chiefly  taken  from  "  The  People's  Journal,"  pub- 
lished in  London,  and  edited  by  AVilliam  Howitt. 
The  sketch  is  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Mary  Howitt. 

"Charlotte  Cushman  inherited  from  her  mo- 
ther, who  was  a  beautiful  singer,  a  fine  taste  for 
music.  As  a  child,  she  was  remarkable  for  hen 
grave  and  earnest  character ;  she  was  not  fond  of 
playing  with  other  children,  but  retired  apart, 
where  she  read  tragedies  and  practised  singing. 

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Seeing  her  great  taste  for  music,  her  mother  wisely 
determined  to  cultivate  it  to  the  utmost  in  her 
power.  She  was  not  wealthy  enough,  however,  to 
obtain  the  first-rate  masters  for  her  daughter ;  but 
native  talent  is  like  love,  give  it  only  breathing- 
room,  and  it  will  struggle  into  day;  so  it  was 
here.  Her  first  teacher  was  but  himself  at  that 
time  a  pupil;  but  she  improved  under  his  tuition. 


"  She  sang  in  the  chapel,  and  at  a  public  con- 
cert, where  she  was  heard  by  a  gentleman  of  great 
wealth  and  taste  in  the  city,  who  resolved  that 
such  extraordinary  promise  should  not  fail  for 
lack  of  cultivation.  Through  his  means,  there- 
fore, the  best  instruction  was  aiforded  her,  and 
she  was  placed  as  an  articled-pupil  for  three  years 
with  the  master  of  her  former  pupil-teacher,  an 
Englishman  of  the  name  of  Paddon,  formerly  an 
organist  in  London.  After  two  years,  being  in- 
vited by  some  wealthy  relations  in  New  York  to 
visit  them  for  a  month,  she  went  there.  Pier  re- 
lations were  delighted  with  their  young  and  won- 
derfully gifted  kinswoman,  and  wished  much  to 
adopt  her,  and  provide  for  her  for  life.  She  wrote 
for  her  mother's  consent  or  opinion ;  and  three 
months,  instead  of  one,  were  spent  in  deciding  the 
matter.  The  mother  would  not  consent  to  part- 
ing with  her  daughter,  and  Charlotte  returning 
home,  found  that  this  long  visit  had  broken  her 
articles  with  Mr.  Paddon.  This  caused  her  the 
less  regret,  as  she  had  found  that  he  could  give 
her  but  limited  instruction  which  would  not,  in 
the  end,  qualify  her  for  more  than  a  teacher  her- 
self. 

"  Soon  after  this,  Mrs.  Wood,  formerly  Miss 
Paton,  came  to  Boston,  and  with  her  she  sung  in 
a  concert.  Mrs.  Wood,  who  was  astonished  and 
delighted  with  her  voice,  declared  it  to  be  the 
finest  contralto  she  had  ever  heard,  and  advised 
her  to  turn  her  attention  to  singing  on  the  stage. 
This  advice  was  greatly  against  the  wishes  and 
views  of  her  family  and  connexions.  Both  in 
former  and  later  times,  her  family,  on  her  father's 
and  mother's  side,  had  been  rigid  Presbyterians, 
and   the   sons,  through   many   generations,    had 


often  been  preachers;  there  was,  therefore,  in 
the  minds  of  all,  an  inborn  horror  of  the  stage ; 
it  was  to  their  ideas  a  place  of  sin  and  degrada- 
tion. All,  therefore,  steadfastly  set  their  faces 
against  such  a  misuse  and  abuse  of  talent.  The 
young  genius  was  strong  in  her  own  wilfulness ; 
she  felt  that  a  great  and  pure  spirit  was  in  her, 
and  she  feared  no  evil. 

"  Mrs.  Wood  had  brought  over  with  her  a  young 
musical  director,  an  Irishman,  of  the  name  of 
Maeder,  who  afterwards  married  Clara  Fisher; 
and  under  his  care,  Charlotte  Cushman  was 
brought  out  as  a  public  singer,  in  the  character  of 
the  Countess,  in  the  Marriage  of  Figaro.  She  was 
then  just  nineteen,  and  her  success  was  complete. 
She  bade  fair  to  be  one  of  the  first  singers  of  the 
age ;  an  engagement  was  made  for  her  by  Maeder, 
in  which,  as  prima  donna,  she  was  to  accompany 
himself  and  his  wife  to  New  Orleans,  where  a  new 
theatre  had  been  erected,  and  here  she  became 
acquainted  with  Decamp,  and  Mrs.  Frederick 
Brown,  the  brother  and  sister  of  Mrs.  Charles 
Kemble. 

"  At  New  Orleans,  however,  5,  misfortune  befel  our 
young  singer,  which  must  inevitably  have  crushed 
any  spirit  less  buoyant  than  her  own ;  and  but  for 
her  own  scope  of  untried  powers,  which,  as  it  were, 
lay  in  reserve  for  the  evil  day,  she  must  have  sunk 
under  it.  The  change  of  climate  from  the  north 
to  the  south,  the  sevei'ity  of  practice  requisite,  and 
the  unwise  attempt  to  overstrain  her  voice  from  a 
pure  contralto  to  an  available  soprano,  certainly 
destroyed  it.  No  situation  can  be  conceived  more 
distressing,  or  more  calculated  to  drive  to  utter 
despair.  There  she  was,  in  a  strange  city,  away 
from  her  own  friends  and  family  —  disappointed, 
ruined,  as  it  seemed,  by  the  step  she  had  taken 
against  their  counsel.  What  was  to  be  done? 
She  could  not  return  to  her  mother  a  beggar,  after 
having  left  her  with  a  fortune,  as  she  believed,  in 
her  voice.     What,  indeed  was  to  be  done  ? 

"With  a  noble  resolution  not  to  sink,  she  took 
heart,  although  she  knew  not  then  upon  what 
plank  she  was  to  be  saved.  She  had  one  true 
friend,  howevei",  in  the  tragedian  of  the  theatre,  a 
gentleman  named  Barton,  now  a  professor  of  elo- 
cution in  the  West  of  England,  a  noble-hearted 
man  and  a  fine  scholar.  From  him  she  asked  ad- 
vice in  her  difficult  and  painful  circumstances ; 
and  he,  appreciating  her  yet  untried  talent  for 
acting,  recommended  that  as  a  profession.  With 
him,  therefore,  she  read  such  plays  as  Venice  Pre- 
served, Macbeth,  &c. ;  but  as  all  this  was  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  will  of  Maeder,  who  would  have  dis- 
countenanced any  attempt  of  the  kind,  she  was 
obliged  to  keep  it  secret  from  him,  and  her  stu- 
dies were  carried  on  in  a  little  garret,  where,  at 
least,  she  could  ensure  privacy ;  and  here,  in  this 
little  mean  room,  she  studied  and  conceived  all 
those  great  tragedy  parts  in  which  she  has  so  re- 
markably distinguished  herself.  Any  one  but  she 
must  have  been  daunted  by  the  outward  circum- 
stances that  surrounded  her ;  but  the  strength  of 
real  greatness  was  in  her,  and  few,  indeed,  are 
the  untoward  and  adverse  circumstances  which 
genius,  and  a  high,   clear  moral   nature  will  not 

638 


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overcome.  Charlotte  Cushman  is  one  of  these ; 
they  are  among  the  noblest  of  God's  creatures, 
whose  strength  and  truth  are  only  the  more  called 
out  by  trial.  Such  cannot  be  subdued,  and,  like 
the  acanthus  leaf  under  the  tile,  the  very  pressure 
which  would  have  crushed  a  meaner  weed,  fash- 
ions them  into  beauty,  which  becomes  a  decoration 
for  the  temple  of  the  gods. 

"  The  time  now  drew  near  when  she  was  to  have 
a  trial  in  her  new  vocation.  To  the  utter  aston- 
ishment of  every  one  conneeted  with  the  theati-e 
she  was  announced  for  Lady  Macbeth  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  benefit  of  her  friend  Mr.  Barton.  She 
had  no  dress  whatever  for  the  character,  and  fear- 
ing that  if  this  were  known  it  would  throw  an 
insuperable  impediment  in  the  way,  she  did  not 
mention  it  until  the  very  morning  of  rehearsal.  It 
was  then  too  late  to  make  any  alteration,  and  the 
manager,  in  great  dismay  and  anger,  sent  her  with 
a  note  to  Madame  Clozel,  of  the  French  Theatre, 
with  whose  personal  appearance  she  was  not  even 
acquainted.  She  took  the  note,  requesting  the 
loan  of  a  dress  for  lady  Macbeth,  herself.  She 
was  tall,  and  at  that  time  very  slender ;  of  course, 
therefore,  she  imagined  that  the  lady  whose  dress 
she  was  to  wear  was  of  a  figure  similar  to  her  own. 
Her  consternation  and  dismay  may  be  imagined, 
therefore,  when  we  say  that  Madame  Clozel  was  a 
■very  short  and  immensely  stout  woman,  whose 
waist  alone  would  measure  nearly  two  yards 
round.  However,  no  lions,  real  or  imaginary, 
ever  stood  in  Miss  Cushman's  path.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  ready  good  nature  of  the  kind- 
hearted  French  woman  ;  and  by  dint  of  taking  in 
huge  seams,  and  letting  down  broad  hems,  a  dress 
was  manufactured,  in  which  the  new  aspirant  for 
tragedy  fame  made  a  very  respectable  appearance. 
The  theatrical  corps  had  from  the  first  held  up 
their  hands  and  foretold  defeat,  and  many  a  one 
came  to  laugh.  But  the  performance  was  a  com- 
plete triumph ;  the  most  unanimous  applause 
showered  upon  her,  and  there  no  longer  existed 
any  doubt  regarding  her  being  a  great  tragic 
actress.  The  piece  was  repeated  many  nights, 
and  then,  with  her  fame  established,  as  far  as 
New  Orleans  was  concerned,  she  returned  to  New 
York,  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  new  path  to 
fame  and  independence,  and  thinking,  in  her 
young  imagination,  that  she  was  about  to  set  the 
world  on  fire. 

"  However,  all  was  not  as  smooth  and  easy  as 
she  had  anticipated.  At  the  principal  theatre  in 
New  York  she  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  an 
engagement  without  first  acting  on  trial.  An  en- 
gagement was  at  once  offered  her  by  a  minor 
theatre.  Pride  warred  against  it ;  but  pecuniary 
considerations  induced  her  to  accept  it;  more 
especially  as  by  so  doing  she  was  enabled  to  assist 
those  dearest  to  her,  and  who  now  needed  assist- 
ance. Her  engagement  here  was  for  three  years  ; 
and  during  this  time  she  determined  to  establish 
such  a  reputation  as  should  enable  her  to  make 
her  own  terms  with  any  theatre.  She  sent  ac- 
cordingly for  her  family  to  New  York ;  but  scarce- 
ly had  she  entered  on  her  engagement  when  she 
was  attacked  by  a  violent  illness,  which  completely 


prostrated  her  strength,  and  brought  her  very  low. 
She  suffered  extremely  both  in  body  and  mind ; 
she  was  unable  to  fulfil  her  engagement,  and  she 
had  induced,  in  the  certain  hope  of  success,  others 
to  depend  upon  her.  Her  anxieties  may  be  im- 
agined. As  soon  as  she  was  at  all  convalescent 
she  entered  upon  her  theatrical  duties ;  but  she 
had  done  this  before  her  strength  was  equal  to  it. 
For  one  whole  week  she  acted  and  every  night  a 
fresh  character ;  the  exertion  was  immense  ;  and 
on  the  Saturday  night  she  went  ill  to  her  bed,  and 
a  violent  and  long  attack  of  fever  was  the  conse- 
quence. On  the  following  Monday  the  theatre 
was  burnt  to  the  ground,  and  with  it  perished  all 
her  theatrical  wardrobe. 

"  Thus  was  she  left  penniless,  without  an  en- 
gagement, on  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  with  her 
family  dependent  upon  her." 

About  this  time,  her  young  sister,  Mrs.  Merri- 
man,  a  deserted  wife,  who  was  soon  left  a  widow, 
and,  reassuming  her  maiden  name,  was  known  as 
Miss  Susan  Cushman,  became,  with  her  infant 
child,  dependent  on  Charlotte  for  support.  The 
elder  persuaded  the  younger  to  enter  on  a  thea- 
trical life.    Mrs.  Howitt  thus  describes  the  result: 

"  The  most  beautiful  feature  in  this  narrative, 
perhaps,  is  the  afiection  of  these  two  noble-hearted 
sisters.  Charlotte's  was  a  character  on  which  her 
sister,  disappointed  and  heart-bi'oken,  could  lean, 
and  from  which  she  could  derive  strength.  She 
was  her  teacher ;  they  worked  hard  together,  and, 
as  was  natural,  the  sick  heart,  if  it  grew  not  well, 
at  least  grew  stronger. 

"Mrs.  Merriman,  or  Miss  Susan  Cushman,  as 
she  was  theatrically  called,  made  her  first  appear- 
ance before  the  public  in  a  manuscript  play  called 
The  Genoese,  written  by  a  young  American,  in 
which,  to  encourage  her  sister.  Miss  Cushman  took 
the  part  of  the  lover.  And  here  let  a  few  words  be 
said  on  a  subject  which  has  excited  some  remarks, 
and,  as  we  think,  needlessly,  to  Miss  Cushman's 
disadvantage — we  mean  on  her  taking  male  parts. 
We  can  assert  it  as  a  fact,  and  it  is  a  fact  full  of 
generosity  and  beautiful  affection,  that  it  is  solely 
on  her  sister's  account  that  she  has  done  so.  By 
taking  herself  the  male  character,  for  which  she 
was  in  many  cases  admirably  suited,  she  was  en- 
abled to  obtain  the  first  female  character  for  her 
sister ;  there  being,  as  is  well  known,  no  plays 
written  in  which  two  prominent  female  characters 
are  found.  Affection  for  one  who,  if  not  possessed 
of  her  strong,  original  masculine  talent,  had  yet 
beauty,  grace,  tenderness,  and  many  requisites 
for  a  successful  acti-ess,  made  her  willing  to  give 
her  every  support  and  advantage  she  could,  even 
where  she  herself  had,  as  it  seemed,  to  step  out 
of  a  woman's  province. 

*  *  -x-  *  * 

"  The  two  sisters  now  took  a  high  stand  to- 
gether, and  for  one  season  they  performed  in 
Philadelphia  all  the  principal  characters.  The 
next  year  they  returned  to  New  York.  During 
this  season,  while  that  celebrated  comedy  of  Lon- 
don Assurance  was  in  vogue,  they  acted  in  it  up- 
wards of  ninety  nights. 

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"  The  following  season,  Miss  Cushman  assumed 
the   management   of   the    Philadelphia   Theatre, 
where  she  remained  until  Mr.  Macready  came  to 
America,  when  he,  being  so  much  satisfied  with 
the  assistance  she  rendered  him,  solicited  her  to 
accompany  him  in  his  engagements  to  the  North. 
"  Soon  after  this,  a  desire  which  had  long  ope- 
rated upon  her  mind  took  a  more  determinate 
shape,  and  she  resolved  to  carry  it  into  effect; 
this  was  no  other  than  the  coming  to  England, 
and  trying  her  powers  before  a  higher  tribunal 
than  any  which  her  native  country  could  afford 
her.     Throughout  the  whole  of  her  career,  a  noble 
ambition  had  ever  urged  her  onward;  she  was  not 
satisfied  to  come  short  in  any  way  of  that  excel- 
lence at  which  she  aimed.     While  yet  young  in  her 
art,  she  aspired  to  stand  side  by  side  with  Mrs. 
Siddons.     Mrs.  Siddons,  or  rather  the  fame  which 
she  had  left  behind,  was  the  grand  ideal  after 
which  she  strove.     But  supposing  she  equalled, 
or  even,  were  such  a  thing  possible,  surpassed 
Mrs.  Siddons,  it  would  have  availed  her  very  little 
to  have  fame  awarded  to  her  by  America  alone. 
To  England  she  must  come.     It  was  an  idea  that 
haunted  her,  night  and  day.     To  be  loved  and  ap- 
preciated by  England,  that  was  her  great  ambi- 
tion, and  nothing  short  of  that  would  satisfy  her. 
"Like  all  Miss  Cushman's  great  steps  in  life, 
this  also  was  destined  to  be  taken  alone.     It  was 
at  the  commencement  of  winter,  1845,  that  she  set 
out  alone,   excepting  for  one  female   attendant. 
Many  difficulties  and  painful  circumstances  con- 
spired at  the  last  moments  to  throw  a  gloom  upon 
her  departure.    A  timid,  doubtful  mind  must  have 
turned  back  even  then ;  but  with  her,  to  resolve 
was  to  act.     On  the  voyage,   however,  the  full 
sense  of  the  bold,  uncertain  venture  on  which  she 
had  hazarded  so  much,  fell  heavily  on  her  mind ; 
she  was   depressed   and   unhappy.     The   gloom, 
however,  of  her  melancholy  thoughts  was  greatly 
diverted  by  the  kindness  of  an  American  family,  ' 
her  fellow-voyagers,  and  from  them,  on  her  first 
arrival  in  that  vast  world  of  London,  where  the 
friendless  feel  friendless  indeed,  she  continued  to 
receive  the  utmost  attention.     With  them,  soon 
after  her  arrival  in  this  country,  she  paid  a  short 
visit  to  Scotland  and  Paris,  being  really  and  na- 
turally anxious  to  see  something  of  this  wonderful 
old  world,  with  its  famous  cities,  and  realms  of 
poetry  and  romance,  while  her  mind  was  yet  un- 
tasked,  and  free  to  enjoy  all  things  fully ;  for  she 
knew,  as  who  would  not  have  known  ?  that  in  case 
of  failure  in  her  great  trial  with  the  British  public, 
she  would  be  disheartened  and  depressed  beyond 
the  power  of  enjoyment.     To  Scotland  and  Paris, 
therefore,  she  went;  and  parting  from  her  kind 
country-people  at  the  latter  place,  she  retm-ned 
alone  to  London,  to  put  her  fortune  at  once  to  the 
trial. 

"  She  received  offers  from  the  managers  of 
Covent-Garden  Theatre  —  then  open,  from  St. 
James's,  and  one  or  two  others ;  but  here,  again, 
a  difficulty  arose,  which  made  her  additionally 
unhappy.  She  knew  not  what  was  best  or  wisest 
for  her  to  decide  upon  or  do.  She  wanted  at  that 
moment  a  friend  and  counsellor;  but  she  had  none. 


However,  the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Forrest  coming 
to  England  afforded  her  an  opportunity  of  per- 
forming her  own  peculiar  characters  with  a  better 
chance  of  success,  and,  in  the  end,  she  accepted 
an  engagement  at  the  Princess's,  and  resolved  to 
make  her  de.hUt  before  a  London  audience  in  the 
character  of  Bianca,  in  Milman's  tragedy  of  Fazio. 
But  here  a  new  difficulty  presented  itself  in  the 
unwillingness  there  existed  on  the  part  of  the 
gentlemen  to  take  the  character  of  Fazio,  which 
is  considered  inferior  to  that  of  the  lady.  At 
length,  one  more  self- forgetting  than  the  rest  was 
found  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Graham,  who  admirably 
supported  her  in  her  part.  Her  success  was  great 
and  unquestioned ,  nor  must  it  be  forgotten,  that 
at  that  time  she  was  not  known  to  a  dozen  persons 
in  London,  and  no  means  had  been  taken  to  pre- 
pare the  press,  or  dispose  the  public  mind  to  her 
favour.  All  depended  upon  her  own  merit  and 
original  power ;  yet  only  one  opinion  prevailed 
regarding  her. 

"One  engagement  at  the  Princess's  succeeded 
another,  until  she  had  acted  there  eighty-four 
nights,  during  which  she  appeared  as  Emilia  to 
Mr.  Forrest's  Othello,  as  Lady  Macbeth,  Julia, 
in  the  Hunchback,  Mrs.  Haller,  Beatrice,  Lady 
Teazle,  Meg  Merrilies,  Kosalind,  and  Juliana,  in 
the  Honeymoon  —  a  range  of  characters  which  re- 
quired extraordinary  ability  and  power. 

"  Her  success  in  London  induced  her  sister  to 
hope  that  the  same  audience  which  received  with 
such  distinguished  favour  her  efforts  to  please 
them,  would  also  receive  hers  with  kindness.  She 
accordingly,  accompanied  by  her  mother,  joined 
her  sister  in  July,  1846,  and  made  her  first  ap- 
pearance before  a  London  public  in  the  following 
December,  at  the  Haymarket,  in  the  character  of 
Juliet. 

"  Since  then,  they  have  visited  together  all  the 
principal  towns  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  every- 
where, whilst  their  distinguished  talent  is  acknow- 
ledged by  the  public  at  large,  their  personal  ac- 
complishments, and  their  qualities  of  heart  and 
mind,  win  for  them  the  firmest  friends." 

Thvis  far  we  have  quoted  the  interesting  nar- 
rative of  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  need  only  add,  that  in 
the  autumn  of  1849  Miss  Cushman  returned  to 
New  York,  where  she  was  welcomed  by  the  friends 
of  dramatic  representations  with  warm  enthusiasm. 
She  has  since  performed  in  her  celebrated  charac- 
ters, not  only  in  New  York,  but  in  all  the  large 
cities  of  our  country,  with  great  applause.  Her 
sister  Susan  married  in  England,  where  she  now 
resides. 


D. 

DACRE,    LADY, 

Is  English  by  birth,  and  in  1833  published  a 
series  of  tales,  written  with  taste,  feeling  and  pas- 
sion, which  were  favourably  received  by  the  public. 
Another  work  of  hers,  "  Trevelyan,"  a  novel  of 
considerable  interest,  appeared  the  following  year, 
though  by  no  means  justifying  the  comparison 
which  a  leading  British  journal  made  between  it 

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and  Miss  Edgeworth's  "Vivian."  The  best  work 
of  Lady  Dacre  is  "  Recollections  of  a  Cliaperone," 
containing  several  stories.  Dr.  Johnson  has  been 
often  quoted  for  his  saying,  that  it  is  a  wonderful 
effort  of  mind  to  frame  a  good  plot,  even  if  it  be 
indifferently  filled  up.  The  first  of  these  stories 
has  certainly  surmounted  this  difficulty  ;  the  plot 
of  "Ellen  Wareham"  is  strikingly  interesting;  it 
has  been  dramatized  with  a  success  that  some  of 
our  best  novels  have  failed  to  obtain,  when  thus 
prepared  for  the  stage,  because  their  merit  was 
of  the  sort  that  did  not  admit  condensation.  The 
other  "  Recollections"  are  interesting  stories;  the 
second  has  some  admirable  scenes  of  common  life, 
describing  the  ludicrous  bathos  of  high-flown  ro- 
mance, when  "love  in  a  cottage"  has  to  descend 
to  the  common  cares  of  cookery  and  children. 
We  must  not  omit  to  notice  that  "Ellen  Ware- 
ham"  has,  most  imjustifiably,  been  taken  from  its 
rightful  author,  and  brought  out  in  America  with 
the  name  of  the  late  "  Ellen  Pickering,"  who 
being  favourably  distinguished  by  her  own  nume- 
rous and  popular  works,  does  not  need  to  borrow 
reputation  from  the  very  different  pen  of  Lady 
Dacre. 

DASH,    MADAME   LA   COMTESSE, 

Born  and  residing  in  Paris,  is  considered,  by 
that  large  class  of  novel-readers  who  love  romantic 
incident  and  sentimental  characters,  as  a  charming 
writer.  Her  works  are  numerous,  comprising  over 
thirty  volumes,  usually  found  in  the  "  Circulating 
Libraries"  of  Paris;  but  we  believe  none  of  her 
novels  have  been  translated  into  English,  nor  re- 
published in  America.  The  best  we  have  read, 
is  entitled  "Madame  Louise  de  France,"  a  work 
of  considerable  merit ;  among  the  others,  may  be 
named,  "Arabelle,"  "  Les  Bals  Masques,"  "  Les 
Chateaux  en  Afrique,"  "La  Chaine  d'Or,"  "Le 
Jeu  de  la  Reine,"  "  Madame  de  la  Sabli^re," 
"  Maurice  Robert,"  &c.  &c.  We  know  nothing  of 
the  private  history  of  the  Comtesse  Dash ;  but, 
judging  from  her  writings,  should  rank  her  among 
those  who  seek  to  promote  good  morals  through 
the  medium  of  what  they  consider  innocent  amuse- 
ments. Like  "  The  Children  of  the  Abbey,"  and 
other  fictions  of  the  sentimental,  romantic  kind, 
the  works  of  this  writer  are  read,  at  first,  with 
interest,  but  leave  little  impression  on  the  mind. 

DUDEVANT,  MARIE  AURORE, 

Better  known  as  George  Sand,  the  most  re- 
markable French  woman  of  our  time,  was  born  in 
the  province  of  Berry,  within  the  first  ten  years  of 
the  present  century.  A  royal  descent  is  claimed 
for  her,  through  her  paternal  grandmother,  a 
daughter  of  Marshal  Saxe,  well  known  to  be  a 
son  of  Augustus  II.,  king  of  Poland.  Her  father, 
Maurice  Dupin,  was  an  officer  in  the  Imperial 
service.  Dying  young,  he  left  his  daughter  to 
the  care  of  her  grandmother,  by  whom  she  was 
brought  up,  d  la  Rousseau.  At  the  age  of  four- 
teen, she  was  transferred  to  the  aristocratic  con- 
vent of  the  Dames  Anglaises,  in  Paris ;  the  religious 
reaction  which  followed  the  restoration,  rendering 
some  modification  of  Madame  Dupin's  philoso- 
Qq 


phical  sj'stem  of  education  necessary.  Here  the 
ardent,  excitable  imagination  of  the  young  Marie 
Aurore  exhibited  itself  in  a  fervour  of  devotion 
so  extreme  as  to  call  for  the  interposition  of  her 
superior.  Young,  rich,  and  an  orphan,  she  suf- 
fered herself,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  to  be  led  into 


one  of  those  marriages  —  called  '^suitable,"  by  the 
French  —  with  a  retired  Imperial  officer ;  an  up- 
right, honest,  but  very  dull  man.  Utterly  un- 
suited  to  one  another,  and  neither  of  them  willing 
to  make  sacrifices  to  duty,  the  unhappy  pair 
struggled  on  through  some  years  of  wretchedness, 
when  the  tie  was  snapt  by  the  abrupt  departure 
of  Madame  Dudevant,  who  fled  from  her  husband's 
roof  to  the  protection  of  a  lover.  While  living  in 
obscurity  with  this  lovei',  her  first  work,  "In- 
diana," was  published.  This  connexion,  which 
had  a  marked  and  most  deleterious  influence  upon 
her  mind  and  career,  did  not  continue  long.  She 
parted  from  her  lover,  assumed  half  of  his  name, 
and  has  since  rendered  it  famous  by  a  series  of 
writings,  amounting  to  more  than  forty  volumes, 
which  have  called  forth  praise  and  censure  in 
their  highest  extremes. 

Madame  Dudevant' s  subsequent  career  has  been 
marked  by  strange  and  startling  contrasts.  Taking 
up  her  residence  in  Paris,  and  casting  from  her 
the  restraints  and  modesty  of  her  sex,  she  has  in- 
dulged in  a  life  of  license,  such  as  we  shrink  from 
even  in  man.  Step  by  step,  however,  her  genius 
has  been  expanding,  and  working  itself  clear  of 
the  dross  which  encumbered  it.  Her  social  posi- 
tion having  been  rendered  more  endui-able  by  a 
legal  separation  from  her  husband,  which  restored 
her  to  fortune  and  independence,  a  healthier  tone 
has  become  visible  in  her  writings,  the  turbulence 
of  her  volcanic  nature  is  subsiding,  and  we  look 
forward,  hopingly,  to  the  day  of  better  things. 
She  has  lately  written  a  dramatic  piece,  called 
"  Fran9ois  le  Chamfri,"  which  has  been  highly 
successful  in  Paris,  and  is  represented  to  be  a  pro- 
duction of  unexceptionable  moinil  cliaracter  ;  it  is 
said  to  have  been  greatly  applauded. 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  of  the  intention 
of  Madame' Dudevant's  early  writings.     That  she 

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had  any  "intention"  at  all,  save  the  almost  ne- 
cessary one  of  wreaking  upon  expression  the  boil- 
ing tide  of  emotions  whicli  real  or  fancied  wrongs, 
a  higlily  poetic  temjjerament,  and  violent  passions 
engendered,  we  do  not  believe.  Endowed  with 
genius  of  an  order  capable  of  soaring  to  the  most 
exalted  heights,  yet  eternally  dragged  to  earth  by 
the  clogs  of  an  ill-regulated  mind,  never  disci- 
plined by  the  saving  iniluences  of  moral  and  Chris- 
tian training,  she  dipped  her  pen  into  the  gall  and 
wormwood  of  her  own  bitter  experience,  and  we 
have  the  result.  We  cannot  say  that  works  have 
an  immoral  intention,  which  contain  as  much  that 
is  high,  good  and  elevating,  as  there  is  of  an  op- 
posite character.  We  might  as  soon  declare  those 
arrows  pointed  by  design,  which  are  flung  from  the 
bow  of  a  man  stung  and  wounded  to  blindness. 

Of  their  tendency,  we  cannot  speak  so  favourably. 
Among  her  thousands  of  readers,  how  many  are 
there  who  pause,  or  who  are  capable  of  pausing, 
to  reflect  that  life  is  seen  from  only  one  point  of 
view  by  this  writer,  and  that  that  point  was  gained 
by  Madame  Dudevant  when  she  lost  the  approval 
of  her  own  conscience,  abjured  her  womanhood, 
and  became  George  Sand! 

However,  we  are  willing — ay,  more,  we  are  glad 
— to  hope  Madame  Dudevant  will  henceforth  strive 
to  remedy  the  evils  she  has  caused,  and  employ 
her  wonderful  genius  on  the  side  of  virtue  and 
true  progress.  To  do  this  effectually,  she  must 
throw  by  her  miserable  afi'ectation  of  manhood, 
and  the  wearing  of  man's  apparel,  which  makes 
her  a  recreant  from  the  moral  delicacy  of  her  own 
sex,  without  attaining  the  physical  power  of  the 
other.  Surely,  one  who  can  write  as  she  has 
lately  written,  must  be  earnestly  seeking  for  the 
good  and  true.  It  was,  probably,  this  which  led 
her,  in  the  Revolution  of  1848,  to  connect  herself 
with  the  Socialist  Party ;  but  she  will  learn,  if 
she  has  not  already,  that  political  combinations  do 
not  remove  moral  evils.  Her  genius  should  teach 
truth,  and  ins^jire  hearts  to  love  the  good;  thus 
her  influence  would  have  a  mightier  effect  on  her 
country  than  any  plan  of  social  reform  political 
expediency  could  devise.  That  she  does  now  write 
in  this  manner,  a  glance  at  one  of  her  late  works 
will  show.  "La  Mare  au  Diable,"  (The  Devil's 
Pond,)  notwithstanding  its  name,  is  as  sweet  a 
pastoral  as  we  have  ever  read.  There  is  a  naive 
tenderness  in  its  rural  pictures,  which  reminds 
one  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  while  its  femi- 
nine purity  of  tone  invests  it  with  a  peculiar 
charm.  We  will  make  some  extracts  from  the 
preface,  which  will  show  what  are  Madame  Dude- 
vant's  present  views  as  to  woi'ks  of  fiction. 

"  Certain  writers  of  our  dny,  looking  seriously 
upon  the  world,  apply  themselves  to  describing 
pain,  wretchedness,  poverty,  the  dung-hill  of 
Lazarus.  This  may  enter  into  the  domain  of  art, 
and  of  philosophy ;  but  in  depicting  poverty  so 
hideous,  so  debased,  often  so  vicious  and  so  cri- 
minal, have  they  effected  their  purpose  ?  and  is 
the  effect  as  salutary  as  might  be  desired  ?  We 
do  not  presume  to  decide  upon  this  point.  They 
inay  say,  that  in  showing  the  mine  prepared  under 


the  hollow  ground  of  opulence,  they  frighten  Dives. 
They  point  out  the  bandit  breaking  open  his  door, 
and  the  assassin  invading  his  slumbers.  We  con- 
fess that  we  cannot  well  see  how  he  is  to  be  re- 
conciled to  humanity  that  he  despises,  how  he  is 
to  be  rendered  compassionate  to  the  evils  of  po- 
verty, by  showing  him  the  poor  man,  under  the 
form  of  an  escaped  felon,  and  a  nocturnal  plun- 
derer. Albert  Durer,  Michael  Angelo,  Holbein, 
and  Callot,  composed  forcible  satires  on  the  evils 
of  their  age.  These  are  immortal  works,  and  his- 
torical pages  of  incontestable  value.  We  do  not 
deny  artists  their  right  to  probe  the  wounds  of 
society,  to  take  off  the  bandages  before  our  eyes ; 
but  can  art  do  nothing  but  present  these  loath- 
some and  terrifying  pictures  ?  In  this  literature 
qf  the  mysteries  of  iniquity,  that  talent  and  ima- 
gination have  brought  into  fashion,  we  greatly 
prefer  the  mild  and  gentle  personages  to  the  ter- 
rible dramatic  villains.  The  former  may  allure 
to  virtuous  thoughts  and  resolutions ;  the  others 
awaken  fear,  and  fear  does  not  cure  egotism  —  it 
increases  that  unworthy  sentiment. 

"  AVe  believe  that  the  mission  of  Art  is  a  mis- 
sion of  feeling  and  of  love  ;  that  the  modern  novel 
should  take  the  place  of  the  parable  of  primitive 
times,  and  that  the  author  has  a  task  more  lofty 
and  more  poetic  than  that  of  proposing  municipal 
measures  of  prudence  and  conciliation,  to  soften 
the  fright  his  pictures  inspire.  His  aim  should 
be  to  awaken  an  interest  for  the  objects  of  his 
solicitude  by  engaging  representations ;  and  I 
would  not  be  extreme  to  mark  a  little  heighten- 
ing and  embellishing  of  his  portraits.  Art  is  not 
confined  to  positive,  dry  reality ;  it  is  a  search 
after  ideal  beauty  ;  and  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield ' 
is  a  book  more  useful  and  salutary  to  the  mind, 
than  '  The  Profligate  Countryman,'  or  the  '  Dan- 
gerous Intrigues.'" 

The  story  that  follows  these  strictures  is  of  the 
most  simple  construction,  a  very  artless  tale  of 
jDcasant  life  ;  but  the  characters  are  so  individual- 
ized and  so  perfectly  drawn,  that  the  interest  never 
fails.  Yet  though  we  are  brought  into  an  atmo- 
sphere of  simplicity  and  innocence,  there  is  enough 
of  human  error  to  keep  up  the  sympathy  we  have 
with  our  own  imperfect  world,  to  relieve  us  from 
the  unreal  insipidity  of  the  golden  age.  The  shep- 
herds and  peasants  are  not  the  elegant  operatic 
figures  of  Florian,  talking  far-fetched  sentiment  in 
poetical  language ;  they  are  just  such  folks  in 
manners  and  discourse  as  we  would  be  likely  to 
meet  among  the  inhabitants  of  comfortable  farm- 
houses and  decent  cabins.  Germain,  a  young 
widower,  who  resides  with  his  father-in-law,  Mau- 
rice, a  rich  farmer,  is  urged  by  the  latter  to  marry 
again,  that  he  may  have  a  help-mate  in  rural  la- 
bour, and  especially  that  his  children  may  be  with- 
drawn from  hanging  as  a  burden  upon  their  old 
grandmother.  Germain  is  at  first  unwilling,  still 
dwelling  tenderly  on  the  memory  of  his  late  Avife  ; 
but  filial  obedience  and  the  excellent  reasoning  of 
Maurice  at  last  obtained  his  consent,  and  he  agreed 
to  go  on  Saturday  afternoon  to  visit  a  widowed 
daughter  of  one  of  the  father's  friends :  this  dame 
lives  at  a  place  called   '  The  Forks ;'    one  of  the 

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neighbours,  a  poor  widow,  solicits  the  good  Mau- 
rice to  persuade  his  son  to  take  her  little  daughter 
Mary  with  him,  as  she  is  to  go  to  service  iu  the 
vicinity  of  the  Forks,  and  has  no  means  of  getting 
there.  This  proposal  is  cheerfully  acceded  to, 
and  at  the  appointed  time,  they  set  out  on  a  fa- 
mous mare  that  is  accustomed  to  carrying  the 
farmer  and  his  wife  to  church.  After  proceeding 
some  distance  they  find  Pierre,  the  little  son  of 
Germain,  who  has  waylaid  his  father,  hoping  to 
be  taken  with  him  on  the  journey:  the  tears  of 
the  child,  added  to  the  persuasion  of  little  Mary, 
induce  the  father  to  consent,  and  the  three  con- 
tinue their  route.  Germain  is  not  well  acquainted 
with  the  way,  being  delayed  by  the  child,  night 
comes  on,  a  mist  arises  and  they  become  com- 
pletely lost ;  all  their  efforts  to  recover  the  track 
only  involve  them  in  thicker  woods,  till  at  last 
they  are  compelled  to  wait  till  morning  in  this 
wild  spot,  called  the  'Devil's  Pond.'  Here  little 
Mary  develops  extraordinary  genius  for  expedi- 
ents, and  adroitness  in  arrangements.  She  makes 
a  fire,  a  bed  for  the  child,  even  cooks  a  supper, 
when  Germain  had  quite  given  up  every  idea  of 
comfort.  Joined  with  all  this  usefulness  and 
ability,  there  is  a  childish  simplicity,  and  a  sweet 
disinterestedness  of  character  manifesting  itself 
continually,  and  Germain  begins  to  think  he 
would  rather  marry  little  Mary,  poor  and  young 
as  she  is,  than  the  rich  widow  of  the  Forks.  Upon 
visiting  the  latter,  he  finds  her  vain  and  disagree- 
able, and  decides  that  she  never  can  become  his 
wife.  Little  Mary  has  found  her  place  unsuitable, 
and  they  return  as  they  went.  The  family  of 
Germain  observe  that  he  has  lost  his  spirits,  and 
seems  to  work  without  heart ;  the  old  grand- 
mother undertakes  to  win  his  confidence,  and  upon 
discovering  that  he  cannot  be  happy  without  ob- 
taining little  Mary  as  his  wife, —  every  body  con- 
sents ;  and,  to  the  great  delight  of  little  Pierre, 
Mai-y  is  taken  into  the  family, —  he  is  delighted  to 
call  her  mother,  and  '  they  all  lived  happy ' —  as 
fairy  tales  were  wont  to  end.  This  is  a  very 
meagre  outline  of  the  book,  but  the  details  are 
charming — the  purity,  truth,  and  thorough  inte- 
grity of  little  Mary,  form  a  character  one  loves  to 
dwell  on.  The  old  folks,  as  beseems  experience  in 
this  sordid  world,  are  keen  to  see  and  value  the 
goods  of  life  —  they  are  by  no  means  indifferent  to 
money,  but  their  good  hearts  and  sterling  princi- 
ples, never  allow  the  cares  of  pelf  to  predominate 
over  what  is  due  to  feeling  and  kindness.  Ger- 
main is  the  beau  ideal  of  an  unlettered  hero,  spi- 
rited, gentle,  courageous,  and  true.  The  child, 
too,  is  remarkably  well  drawn.  If  we  are  to 
judge  of  a  book  by  the  impression  it  leaves,  we 
must  pronounce  this  a  very  valuable  one,  since  all 
our  feelings  and  reflections  are  drawn  to  the  side 
of  probity,  charity  and  virtue. 

Of  '  Consuelo,'  which  was  published  in  1842,  we 
must  say,  that  though  circumstances,  unconnected 
with  the  author,  have  given  this  novel,  unfortu- 
nately, a  bad  reputation  iji  our  own  country  — 
it  does  not  deserve  the  obloquy.  On  the  contrary, 
Madame  Dudevant,  doubtless,  intended  to  be  very 
good ;  it  was  the  first  of  her  works  which  decidedly 


manifested  the  reform,  in  her  views  of  life,  to 
which  we  have  already  alluded.  It  is  true,  her 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  morals  are  not  yet  ground- 
ed, as  a  woman's  should  be,  on  the  Word  of  God; 
and  there  are,  in  this  novel,  extravagant  philo- 
sophical theories,  and  too  much  German  mysti- 
cism ;  still  it  was  intended  to  exhibit  in  the  cha- 
racter of  Consuelo  the  heroism  of  chastity,  genius, 
truth  and  disinterestedness,  and  their  triumph  iu 
exalting  a  female  soul.  The  English  reviewers 
gave  the  work,  when  it  appeared,  warm  praise, 
acknowledging  its  wonderful  genius,  and  also  its 
freedom  from  the  usual  immoralities  of  French 
novels.  We  need  not  go  over  the  long  list  of 
Madame  Dudevant's  works,  (would  that  the  greater 
part  could  be  blotted  out  for  ever !)  the  last  of 
which,  '  True  Love,'  has  been  translated  into  Eng- 
lish, elegantly  illustrated  and  published  in  Phila- 
delphia; we  select  the  following  beautiful  thoughts 
from  another  of  her  works. 

From  "  Letters  of  a  Traveller." 
In  doing  good  to  our  fellow-creatures,  it  is 
from  God  alone,  that  we  must  seek  a  recompense ! 
To  labour  in  the  service  of  mankind  with  either 
gratitude  or  applause  in  view,  is  merely  courting 
the  triumphs  of  vanity,  and  benevolence  of  this 
kind  must  necessarily  die,  at  the  first  check  oi 
disappointment  it  meets. 

Let  us  never  expect  any  thing  for  ourselves, 
when  we  enter  the  barren  road  of  self-devotion. 
Our  own  heart  must  suffice  for  the  task,  and  then 
God  will  renew  it,  and  fortify  it  when  it  begins  to  fail. 

^  %  -H:  ^  % 

I  believe  that  the  smallest  virtue  put  in  action, 
and  sustained  with  energy,  will  do  more  good 
than  all  the  wisdom  of  the  age  diffused  through 
literary  disquisitions,  or  packed  away  in  philan- 
thropic meetings. 

***** 

A  man  of  good  sense,  and  pure  conscience,  with 
perseverance  and  firmness,  may  accomplish  great 
things,  if  he  act  at  a  propitious  moment,  and  when 
the  sympathies  of  mankind  pave  the  way  —  while 
the  most  profound  theories,  and  the  most  subtle 
demonstrations  will  profit  nothing  to  their  pro- 
pounder,  if  he  trust  to  the  moral  action  of  his  un- 
seasonable revelations. 

***** 

Raising  my  hand  towards  my  head,  I  breathed 
the  perfume  of  a  flower,  whose  leaves  I  had  touch- 
ed some  houi's  before.  This  little  plant  was  still 
floiirishing  on  its  mountain  several  leagues  from 
me  ;  I  had  only  carried  away  part  of  its  exquisite 
smell.  How  could  it  be  thus  imparted  ?  What  a 
precious  thing  is  the  perfume  which  without  any 
loss  to  the  plant  from  which  it  emanates  adheres 
to  the  hands  of  a  friend,  and  follows  him  in  his 
travels  to  charm  him,  and  recall  to  him  the  beauty 
of  the  flower  he  loves !  The  perfume  of  the  soul 
is  memory  ;  it  is  the  sweetest  and  most  delicate  part 
of  the  heart,  that  detaches  itself  to  cling  to  another's 
heart,  and  follow  it  every  where.  The  affection  of 
the  absent  is  but  a  perfume  ;  but  how  sweet  and 
refreshing  it  is !  What  comforting  thoughts  and 
hopes  it  brings  to  the  sick  and  bruised  spirit ! 

643 


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DU 


From  "  Consuelo." 
*POKPORA    TELLS    CONSUELO  HER    LOVER    IS    FALSE. 

'  Consuelo,'  said  Porpora,  in  a  low  tone,  'it  is 
useless  to  hide  your  featui-es,  I  heard  your  voice, 
and  cannot  mistake  it.  What  are  you  come  to  do 
here  at  this  hour,  poor  child,  and  whom  do  you 
look  for  in  this  house  ?'  '  I  seek  my  betrothed,' 
replied  Consuelo,  catching  the  arm  of  her  master, 
'  and  I  know  not  why  I  should  blush  to  own  it  to 
my  best  friend.  You  blame  my  attachment,  but  I 
cannot  tell  you  a  falsehood.  I  am  anxious.  Since 
the  day  before  yesterday  at  the  theatre  I  have  not 
seen  Anzoleto.  I  fear  he  may  be  ill.'  '  He,'  said 
the  Professor,  shrugging  his  shoulders, — '  come 
with  me,  poor  girl ;  we  must  talk  together :  and 
since  you  decide  at  last  on  opening  your  heart  to 
me,  mine  must  be  laid  open  also.  Give  me  your 
arm,  we  will  talk  as  we  go  on.  Listen,  Consuelo, 
and  mark  well  what  I  say  to  you.  You  cannot,  you 
must  not  be  the  wife  of  this  young  man  ;  I  forbid 
you  in  the  name  of  the  living  God  who  gave  me  for 
you  the  heart  of  a  father.'  '  Oh,  my  master,'  she 
replied,  sorrowfully,  '  ask  the  sacrifice  of  my  life, 
not  that  of  my  love.'  '  I  do  not  ask,  I  exact  it,' 
replied  Porpora,  firmly ;  '  your  lover  is  accursed  : 
he  will  cause  your  torment  and  your  shame  if  you 
do  not  renounce  him  now.'  '  Dear  master,'  she  re- 
plied, with  a  sad  caressing  smile,  'you  have  told  me 
this  very  often,  and  I  have  vainly  tried  to  obey  you : 
you  hate  the  poor  youth  because  you  do  not  know 
him,  you  will  abjure  your  prejudices.' 

'  Consuelo,'  said  the  maestro  more  forcibly,  '  I 
have  till  now  made  vain  objections,  and  issued  use- 
less commands :  I  know  it.  I  spoke  as  an  artist 
to  an  artist,  for  in  him  I  saw  the  artist  only.  But 
I  speak  now  as  a  man,  and  of  a  man,  and  as  to  a 
woman :  that  woman  has  ill  placed  her  love,  that 
man  is  unworthy  of  it:  he  who  tells  you  so  is  cer- 
tain.' '  Oh,  God  !  Anzoleto  unworthy  !  my  friend, 
my  protector,  my  brother !  you  do  not  know  what 
his  support  and  respect  have  been  ever  since  I 
came  into  the  world.'  And  Consuelo  told  the  de- 
tails of  her  life  and  her  love,  which  was  one  and 
the  same  story.  Porpora  was  affected  but  not 
shaken.  '  In  all  this,'  said  he,  '  I  see  your  inno- 
cence, your  fidelity,  your  virtue,  and  in  him  the 
need  of  your  society,  and  your  instruction,  to 
which,  whatever  you  may  think,  he  owes  the  lit- 
tle he  has  learned  and  the  little  he  is  worth;  but 
it  is  not  less  true  that  this  pure  lover  is  the  dis- 
carded of  the  frailest  of  Venice.'  'Beware  of 
■what  you  say,'  replied  Consuelo,  in  a  stifled  voice, 
'  I  am  accustomed  to  believe  in  you  as  in  Heaven. 
0,  my  master ;  but  in  what  concerns  Anzoleto,  I 
close  to  you  mine  ears  and  my  heart.  Let  me  quit 
you,'  she  added,  striving  to  unlink  her  arm  from 
that  of  the  Professor.  '  You  destroy  me.'  '  I  will 
destroy  your  unhappy  passion,  and  by  truth  I  will 
restore  you  to  life,'  he  replied,  pressing  the  child's 
ai'm  against  his  generous  and  indignant  breast.  '  I 
know  I  am  rough  and  I'ude,  Consuelo  ;  I  have  not 
learned  to  be  otherwise ;  and  it  was  for  this  I  re- 
tarded as  long  as  I  could  the  blow  I  was  to  deal  to 


''The  great  Italian  composer  and  teacher  of  singing. 


you.  I  had  hoped  that  your  eyes  would  open ; 
that  you  would  comprehend  what  was  passing 
round  you ;  but,  in  place  of  being  enlightened, 
you  cast  yourself  into  the  abyss  like  the  blind.  I 
will  not  let  you  fall :  you  are  the  sole  being  I  have 
esteemed  during  ten  years :  it  must  not  be  that 
you  shall  perish ;  no,  it  must  not.'  '  But,  my 
friend,  I  am  in  no  danger.  Do  you  think  I  speak 
falsely  when  I  swear  to  you  by  all  that  is  sacred 
that  I  have  respected  the  oath  sworn  by  the  mo- 
ther's deathbed  ?  Anzoleto  respects  it  also.  I  am 
not  yet  his  wife,  therefore  nothing  to  him.'  '  Let 
him  say  the  word,  and  you  will  be  all.'  '  My  mo- 
ther made  us  promise.'  '  And  you  came  here  to- 
night to  seek  the  man  who  cannot  and  will  not  be 
your  husband  ?'  '  Who  says  this  ?'  '  Would  Go- 
rilla permit  him  ?'  '  What  has  he  in  common  with 
Gorilla?'  'We  are  close  to  her  habitation;  you 
sought  your  betrothed,  let  us  go  there  to  find  him.' 
'  No,  no!  a  thousand  times  no,'  replied  Consuelo, 
staggering  as  she  stepped,  and  supporting  herself 
against  the  wall,  '  do  not  kill  me  ere  I  have  lived ! 
Leave  me  life,  0  my  master,  I  tell  you  I  shall 
die.'  '  You  must  drink  of  this  cup,'  said  the  inex- 
orable old  man,  '  I  perform  here  the  part  of  des- 
tiny. Having  caused  only  ingratitude  and  conse- 
quently sorrow  by  my  tenderness  and  mild  caution, 
I  must  speak  the  truth  to  those  I  love.  It  is  the 
sole  good  which  can  issue  from  a  heart  dried  up 
and  petrified  by  its  own  suffering.  I  pity  you,  my 
poor  child,  in  having  no  gentler  friend  to  support 
you  in  this  fatal  crisis ;  but  formed  as  I  am,  I  must 
light  as  by  the  ray  of  the  lightning,  since  I  can- 
not vivify  as  by  the  warmth  of  the  sun.  Thus 
then,  Consuelo,  let  there  be  between  us  no  weak- 
ness!  Come  to  this  palace.  If  you  cannot  walk,  I 
will  drag  you  ;  if  you  fall,  I  will  carry  you.  Old 
Porpora  is  strong  still,  when  the  fire  of  divine 
anger  burns  in  his  heart.'  '  Mercy,  mercy!'  ex- 
claimed Consuelo,  grown  paler  than  death ;  '  let 
me  doubt  still.  Give  me  one  day  more,  only  one 
day,  to  believe  in  him ;  I  am  not  prepared  for  this 
torture.'  '  No,  not  a  day,  not  an  hour,'  he  re- 
plied in  an  inflexible  tone ;  '  for  this  hour  which 
passes,  I  shall  not  find  again  to  place  the  truth 
before  your  eyes  ;  and  this  day  which  you  demand, 
the  wretch  would  profit  by  to  bow  you  again  be- 
neath the  yoke  of  his  falsehood.  You  shall  come 
with  me,  I  command  you.'  'AVell  then,  yes,  I 
will  go,'  said  Consuelo,  recovering  her  strength  by 
a  violent  revulsion  of  feeling:  '  I  will  go  to  prove 
your  injustice  and  his  faith  ;  for  you  deceive  your- 
self unworthily,  and  you  would  have  me  deceived 
along  with  you.  Go  then !  I  follow  and  do  not 
fear  you.' 


E. 


ELLET,   ELIZABETH   F., 

Daughter  of  Dr.  William  A.  Lummis,  a  man 
honourably  distinguisked  in  his  profession,  was 
born  at  Sodus,  a  small  town  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Ontario,  in  the  State  of  New  York.  Her 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  General  Maxwell,  an 

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officer  in  our  Revolutionary  war;  and  thus  the 
subject  of  this  sketch  was  in  childhood  imbued 
with  patriotic  feelings,  which,  next  to  the  reli- 
gious, are  sure  to  noui-ish  in  the  female  mind  the 
seeds  of  genius.  ]\Iiss  Lummis  was  early  distin- 
guished for  vivacity  of  intellect  and  a  thirst  for 
learning,  which  her  subsequent  life  has  shown  was 
no  evanescent  fancy,  but  the  natural  stamp  of 
her  earnest  mind.  She  was  married,  before  she 
was  seventeen,  to  Dr.  William  H.  EUet,  an  accom- 
plished scholar,  and  then  Professor  of  Chemistry 
in  Columbia  College,  New  York  city,  whither  he 
removed  his  youthful  bride.  There  she  had  such 
advantages  of  study  as  she  had  never  before  en- 
joyed, and  her  proficiency  was  rapid.  She  soon 
began  to  write  for  the  periodicals ;  her  first  piece, 
a  poem,  appeared  in  1833  in  the  "American 
Ladies'  Magazine,"  published  at  Boston.  Her 
articles  were  favourably  noticed,  and  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Ellet  became  known  among  literary  circles. 


In  1834,  appeared  her  translation  of  "  Euphemia 
of  Messina,"  one  of  the  most  admired  productions 
of  Silvio  Pelico ;  and  in  the  following  year,  an 
original  tragedy  from  her  pen,  "  Teresa  Conta- 
rini,"  was  successfully  represented  in  New  York, 
and  also  in  some  of  the  western  cities.  In  the 
same  year,  1835,  she  published  her  "Poems  — 
Translated  and  Original."  For  several  succeeding 
years,  Mrs.  Ellet  wrote  chiefly  for  periodicals ;  to 
the  American  Review,  she  contributed  "Papers 
on  Italian  Tragedy,"  "  Italian  Poets,"  "  Lamar- 
tine's  Poems,"  "  Andreini's  Adam,"  &c. 

Dr.  Ellet  receiving  the  appointment  of  Professor 
of  Chemistry  and  Natural  Philosophy  in  the  col- 
lege at  Columbia,  South  Carolina,  removed  thither, 
and  Mrs.  Ellet  found  herself  among  new  scenery 
and  new  friends,  but  her  old  love  of  literature  re- 
mained unchanged.  Besides  contributing  to  the 
North  American  Review,  Southern  Quarterly  Re- 
view, "  The  Lady's  Book,"  and  other  periodicals,  in 
1841  she  produced  "  The  Characters  of  Schiller," 
an  analysis  and  criticism  of  the  principal  persons 
in  Schiller's  plays,  with  an  essay  on  Schiller's 
genius,  and  translated  extracts  from  his  writings. 
''Joanna  of  Sicily"  was  her  next  work;  soon  fol- 


lowed by  "  Country  Rambles,"  a  spirited  descrip- 
tion of  the  scenery  she  had  observed  in  her  jour- 
neyings  through  the  United  States. 

In  the  autumn  of  1848,  her  most  elaborate,  as 
well  as  important  work,  was  published  in  New 
York,  "  The  Women  of  the  American  Revolution," 
in  two  volumes,  to  which  she  has  since  added  a 
third.  This  contribution  to  American  history,  and 
the  ability  with  which  it  was  executed,  has,  de- 
servedly, given  Mrs.  Ellet  a  high  place  among  our 
female  writers.  Of  the  plan  and  object,  we  shall 
quote  her  own  exposition,  written  in  the  unaiFected 
but  fervid  style  which  characterizes  the  work. 
Her  activity  of  mind  is  remarkable,  and  also  the 
judgment  and  taste  with  which  she  disposes  of  the 
materials  her  researches  accumulate.  In  1850, 
she  published  "  Domestic  History  of  the  American 
Revolution,"  in  one  volume,  designed  to  exhibit 
the  spirit  of  that  period,  to  pourtray,  as  far  as 
possible,  the  social  and  domestic  condition  of  the 
colonists,  and  the  state  of  feeling  among  the  people 
during  the  war.  Though  dealing  with  the  same 
great  events  which  developed  the  peculiar  charac- 
tei-istics  of  "  The  Women  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion," this  last  work  is  not  a  continuation,  but  a 
novel  and  interesting  view  of  that  tremendous 
struggle  which  resulted  in  gaining  for  America 
a  place  among  nations.  Another  work  of  hers, 
"  Pictures  from  Bible  History,"  was  also  published 
in  1850. 

Mrs.  Ellet  has  ti-ied  nearly  all  varieties  of  lite- 
rature, original  and  translation  —  poetry,  essay, 
criticism,  tragedy,  biography,  fiction,  history,  and 
stories  for  children ;  to  say,  as  we  truly  can,  that 
she  has  not  failed  in  any,  is  sufficient  praise. 
Still  she  has  not,  probably,  done  her  best  in  any 
one  department ;  the  concentration  of  genius  is 
one  of  the  conditions  of  its  perfect  development. 
She  is  yet  young,  hopeful,  and  studious.  Nor 
are  her  accomplishments  confined  to  the  merely 
literary ;  in  music  and  drawing  she  also  excels ; 
and  in  the  graces  that  adorn  society,  and  make 
the  charm  of  social  and  domestic  intercourse,  she 
is  eminently  gifted.  Her  residence  is  now  fixed 
in  the  city  of  New  York. 

From  "  The  Women  of  ihe  American  Revolution." 
PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

All  Americans  are  accustomed  to  view  with  in- 
terest and  admiration  the  events  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Its  scenes  are  vivid  in  their  memory,  and 
its  prominent  actors  are  regarded  with  the  deepest 
veneration.  But  while  the  leading  spirits  are  thus 
honoured,  attention  should  be  directed  to  the 
source  whence  their  power  was  derived  —  to  the 
sentiment  pervading  the  mass  of  the  people. 
The  force  of  this  sentiment,  working  in  the  public 
heart,  cannot  be  measured ;  because,  amidst  the 
abundance  of  materials  for  the  history  of  action, 
there  is  little  for  that  of  the  feeling  of  those  times. 
And,  as  years  pass  on,  the  investigation  becomes 
more  and  more  difficult.  Yet  it  is  both  interest- 
ing and  important  to  trace  its  operation.  It  gave 
statesmen  their  influence,  and  armed  heroes  for 
victory.     What  could  they  have  done  but  for  the 

645 


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home-sentiment  to  which  they  appealed,  and  which 
sustained  them  in  the  hour  of  trial  and  success  ? 
They  were  thus  aided  to  the  eminence  they  gained 
through  toils  and  perils.  Others  may  claim  a 
share  in  the  merit,  if  not  the  fame,  of  their  illus- 
trious deeds.  The  unfading  laurels  that  wreathe 
their  brows  had  their  root  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  and  were  nourished  with  their  life-blood. 

The  feeling  which  wrought  thus  powerfully  in 
the  community  depended,  in  great  part,  upon  the 
women.  It  is  always  thus  in  times  of  popular 
excitement.  Who  can  estimate,  moreover,  the 
controlling  influence  of  early  culture  !  During  the 
years  of  the  progress  of  the  British  encroachment 
and  colonial  discontent,  when  the  sagacious  poli- 
tician could  discern  the  portentous  shadow  of 
events  yet  far  distant,  there  was  time  for  the  nur- 
ture, in  the  domestic  sanctuary,  of  that  love  of 
civil  liberty,  which  aftei'wards  kindled  into  a 
flame,  and  shed  liglit  on  the  world.  The  talk  of 
matrons,  in  American  homes,  was  of  the  people's 
wrongs,  and  the  tyranny  that  oppressed  them, 
till  the  sons  who  had  grown  to  manhood,  with 
strengthened  aspirations  towards  a  better  state 
of  things,  and  views  enlarged  to  comprehend  their 
invaded  rights,  stood  up  prepared  to  defend  them 
to  the  utmost.  Patriotic  mothers  nursed  the  in- 
fancy of  freedom.  Their  counsels  and  their  pray- 
ers mingled  with  the  deliberations  that  resulted 
in  a  nation's  assertion  of  its  independence.  They 
animated  the  courage,  and  confirmed  the  self- 
devotion  of  those  who  ventured  all  in  the  common 
cause.  They  frowned  upon  instances  of  coldness 
or  backwardness ;  and  in  the  period  of  deepest 
gloom,  cheered  and  urged  onward  the  desponding. 
They  willingly  shared  inevitable  dangers  and  pri- 
vations, relinquished  without  regret  prospects  of 
advantage  to  themselves,  and  parted  with  those 
they  loved  better  than  life,  not  knowing  when 
they  were  to  meet  again.  It  is  almost  impossible 
now  to  appreciate  the  vast  influence  of  woman's 
patriotism  upon  the  destinies  of  the  infant  repub- 
lic. We  have  no  means  of  showing  the  important 
part  she  bore  in  maintaining  the  struggle,  and  in 
laying  the  foundations  on  which  so  mighty  and 
majestic  a  structure  has  arisen.  History  can  do 
it  no  justice ;  for  history  deals  with  the  workings 
of  the  head,  rather  than  the  heart.  And  the 
knowledge  received  by  tradition,  of  the  domestic 
manners,  and  social  character  of  the  times,  is  too 
imperfect  to  furnish  a  sure  index.  We  can  only 
dwell  upon  individual  instances  of  mangnanimity, 
fortitude,  self-sacrifice,  and  heroism,  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  feeling  of  Revolutionary  days,  indi- 
cative of  the  spirit  which  animated  all,  and  to 
which,  in  its  various  and  multiform  exhibitions, 
we  are  not  less  indebted  for  national  freedom, 
than  to  the  swords  of  the  patriots  who  poured  out 
their  blood. 

"  'Tis  true,  Oleander,"  says  a  writer  in  one  of 
the  papers  of  the  day,*  "  no  mean  merit  will  ac- 
crue to  him  who  shall  justly  celebrate  the  virtues 
of  our  ladies !  Shall  not  their  generous  contribu- 
tions to  relieve  the  wants  of  the  defenders  of  our 


■  New  Jersey  Gazette,  October  IJtIi,  1780. 


country,  supply  a  column  to  emulate  the  Roman 
women,  stripped  of  their  jewels  when  the  public 
necessity  demanded  them  ?"  Such  tributes  were 
often  called  forth  by  the  voluntary  exertions  of 
American  women.  Their  patriotic  sacrifices  were 
made  with  an  enthusiasm  that  showed  the  earnest 
spirit  ready  on  every  occasion  to  appear  in  gene- 
rous acts.  Some  gave  their  own  property,  and 
went  from  house  to  house  to  solicit  contributions 
for  the  army.  Colours  were  embroidered  by  fair 
hands,  and  presented  with  the  charge  never  to  de- 
sei-t  them ;  and  arms  and  ammunition  were  pro- 
vided by  the  same  liberal  zeal.  They  formed 
themselves  into  associations  renouncing  the  use  of 
teas,  and  other  imported  luxuries,  and  engaging 
to  card,  spin,  and  weave  their  own  clothing.  In 
Mecklenburgh  and  Rowan  counties.  North  Caro- 
lina, young  ladies  of  the  most  respectable  families 
pledged  themselves  not  to  receive  the  addresses 
of  any  suitors  who  had  not  obeyed  the  country's 
call  for  military  service. 

The  needy  shared  the  fruit  of  their  industry  and 
economy.  They  visited  hospitals  daily;  sought 
the  dungeons  of  the  provost,  and  the  crowded 
holds  of  prison-ships ;  and  provisions  were  carried 
from  their  stores  to  the  captives  whose  only  means 
of  recompense  was  the  blessing  of  those  who  were 
ready  to  perish.  Many  raised  grain,  gathered  it, 
made  bread,  and  carried  it  to  their  relatives  in  the 
army,  or  in  prisons,  accompanying  the  supply  with 
exhortations  never  to  abandon  the  cause  of  their 
country.  The  burial  of  friends  slain  in  battle,  or 
chance-encounters,  often  devolved  upon  them  ;  and 
even  enemies  would  not  have  received  sepulture 
without  the  service  of  their  hands. 

When  the  resources  of  the  country  scarcely  al- 
lowed the  scantiest  supply  of  clothing  and  provi- 
sions, and  British  cruisers  on  the  coast  destroyed 
every  hope  of  aid  from  merchant  vessels ;  when, 
to  the  distressed  troops,  their  cup  of  misfortune 
seemed  full  to  overflowing,  and  there  appeared  no 
prospect  of  relief,  except  from  the  benevolence  of 
their  fellow-citizens ;  when  even  the  ability  of 
these  was  almost  exhausted  by  repeated  applica- 
tions—  then  it  was  that  the  women  of  Pennsylva- 
nia and  New  Jersey,  by  their  zealous  exertions 
and  willing  sacrifices,  accomplished  what  had  been 
thought  impossible.  Not  only  was  the  pressure  of 
want  removed,  but  the  sympathy  and  favour  of 
the  fair  daughters  of  America,  says  one  of  the 
journals,  "  operated  like  a  charm  on  the  soldier's 
heart  —  gave  vigour  to  exertion,  confidence  to  his 
hopes  of  success,  and  the  ultimate  certainty  of 
victory  and  peace."  General  W^ashington,  in  his 
letter  of  acknowledgment  to  the  committee  of 
ladies,  says,  "  The  army  ought  not  to  regret  its 
sacrifices  or  its  sufferings,  when  they  meet  with 
so  flattering  a  reward,  as  in  the  sympathy  of  your 
sex;  nor  can  it  fear  that  its  interests  will  be 
neglected,  when  espoused  by  advocates  as  power- 
ful as  they  are  amiable."  An  officer  in  camp 
writes,  iu  June,  1780:  "The  patriotism  of  the 
women  of  your  city  is  a  subject  of  conversation 
with  the  army.  Had  I  poetical  genius,  I  would 
sit  down  and  write  an  ode  in  praise  of  it.  Bur- 
goyne,   who,    on    his   first   coming   to   America, 

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boasted  that  he  would  dance  with  the  ladies,  and 
coax  the  men  to  submission,  must  now  have  a 
better  understanding  of  the  good  sense  and  public 
spirit  of  our  females,  as  he  has  already  heard  of 
the  fortitude  and  inflexible  temper  of  our  men." 
Another  observes :  "  We  cannot  appeal  in  vain  for 
what  is  good,  to  that  sanctuary  where  all  that  is 
good  has  its  proper  home  —  the  female  bosom." 

How  the  influence  of  women  was  estimated  by 
John  Adams,  appears  from  one  of  his  letters  to 
his  wife : 

"  I  think  I  have  sometimes  observed  to  you  in 
conversation,  that  upon  examining  the  biography 
of  illustrious  men,  you  will  generally  find  some 
female  about  them,  in  the  relation  of  mother,  or 
wife,  or  sister,  to  whose  instigation  a  great  part 
of  their  merit  is  to  be  ascribed.  You  will  find  a 
cui'ious  example  of  this  in  the  case  of  Aspasia, 
the  wife  of  Pericles.  She  was  a  woman  of  the 
greatest  beauty,  and  the  first  genius.  She  taught 
him,  it  is  said,  his  refined  maxims  of  policy,  his 
lofty  imperial  eloquence,  nay,  even  composed  the 
speeches  on  which  so  great  a  share  of  his  reputa- 
tion was  founded. 

"  I  wish  some  of  our  great  men  had  such  wives. 
By  the  account  in  your  last  letter,  it  seems  the 
women  in  Boston  begin  to  think  themselves  able 
to  serve  their  country.  AVhat  a  pity  it  is  that  our 
generals  in  the  northern  districts  had  not  Aspasias 
to  their  wives. 

"  I  believe  the  two  Howes  have  not  vei-y  great 
women  for  wives.  If  they  had,  we  should  sufi'er 
more  from  their  exertions  than  we  do.  This  is 
our  good  fortune.  A  smart  wife  would  have  put 
Howe  in  possession  of  Philadelphia  a  long  time 
ago." 

The  venerable  Major  Spalding,  of  Georgia, 
writes,  in  reply  to  an  application  to  him  for  infor- 
mation respecting  the  revolutionary  women  of  his 
state :  "I  am  a  very  old  man,  and  have  read  as 
much  as  any  one  I  know,  yet  I  have  never  known, 
and  never  read  of  one  —  no,  not  one!  —  who  did 
not  owe  high  standing,  or  a  great  name,  to  his 
mother's  blood,  or  his  mother's  training.  .My 
friend  Randolph  said  he  owed  every  thing  to  his 
mother.  Mr.  Jeffei'son's  mother  was  a  Randolph, 
and  he  acknowledged  that  he  owed  every  thing  to 
her  rearing.  General  Washington,  we  all  know, 
attributed  every  thing  to  his  mother.  Lord  Bacon 
attributed  much  to  his  mother's  training.  And 
will  any  one  doubt  that  even  Alexander  believed 
he  owed  more  to  the  blood  and  lofty  ambition  of 
Olympia,  than  the  wisdom  or  cunning  of  Philip  ?" 

The  sentiments  of  the  women  towards  the  brave 
defenders  of  their  native  land,  were  expressed  in 
an  address  widely  circulated  at  the  time,  and  read 
in  the  churches  of  Virginia.  "  We  know,"  it 
says  —  "that  at  a  distance  from  the  theatre  of 
war,  if  we  enjoy  any  tranquillity,  it  is  the  fruit 
of  your  watchings,  your  labours,  your  dangers. 
«  *  *  *  j^nd  shall  we  hesitate  to  evince  to 
you  our  gratitude  ?  Shall  we  hesitate  to  wear 
clothing  more  simple,  and  dress  less  elegant,  while 
at  the  price  of  this  small  privation,  we  shall  de- 
serve your  benedictions  ?" 

The  same  spii-it  appears  in  a  letter  found  among 


some  papers  belonging  to  a  lady  of  Philadelphia. 
It  was  addressed  to  a  British  ofiBcer  in  Boston,  and 
written  before  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
The  following  extract  will  show  its  character: 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  done.  My  only 
brother  I  have  sent  to  the  camp  with  my  prayers 
and  blessings.  I  hope  he  will  not  disgrace  me ;  I 
am  confident  he  will  behave  with  honour,  and 
emulate  the  great  examples  he  has  before  him ; 
and  had  I  twenty  sons  and  brothers  they  should 
go.  I  have  retrenched  every  superfluous  expense 
in  my  table  and  family ;  tea  I  have  not  drunk 
since  last  Christmas,  nor  bought  a  new  cap  or 
gown  since  your  defeat  at  Lexington  ;  and  what  I 
never  did  before,  have  learned  to  knit,  and  am 
now  making  stockings  of  American  wool  for  my 
servants  ;  and  this  way  do  I  throw  in  my  mite  to 
the  public  good.  I  know  this  —  that  as  free  I  can 
die  but  once  ;  but  as  a  slave  I  shall  not  be  worthy 
of  life.  I  have  the  pleasure  to  assure  you  that 
these  are  the  sentiments  of  all  my  sister  Ameri- 
cans. They  have  sacrificed  assemblies,  parties  of 
pleasure,  tea  drinking  and  finery,  to  that  great 
spirit  of  patriotism  that  actuates  all  degrees  of 
people  throughout  this  extensive  continent.  If 
these  are  the  sentiments  of  females,  what  must 
glow  in  the  breasts  of  our  husbands,  brothers, 
and  sons  !  They  are  as  with  one  heart  determined 
to  die  or  be  free.  It  is  not  a  quibble  in  politics, 
a  science  which  few  understand,  that  we  are  con- 
tending for ;  it  is  this  plain  truth,  which  the  most 
ignorant  peasant  knows,  and  is  clear  to  the  weak- 
est capacity  —  that  no  man  has  a  right  to  take 
their  money  without  their  consent.  You  say  you 
are  no  politician.  Oh,  sir,  it  requires  no  Machia- 
velian  head  to  discover  this  tyranny  and  oppres- 
sion. It  is  written  with  a  sunbeam.  Every  one 
will  see  and  know  it,  because  it  will  make  every 
one  feel ;  and  we  shall  be  unworthy  of  the  bless- 
ings of  Heaven  if  we  ever  submit  to  it. 

***** 

"Heaven  seems  to  smile  on  us;  for  in  the 
memory  of  man,  never  were  known  such  quanti- 
ties of  flax,  and  sheep  without  number.  We  are 
making  powder  fast,  and  do  not  want  for  ammu- 
nition." 

From  all  portions  of  the  country  thus  rose  the 
expression  of  woman's  ardent  zeal.  Under  accu- 
mulated evils,  the  manly  spirit  that  alone  could 
secure  success,  might  have  sunk  but  for  the  firm- 
ness and  intrepidity  of  the  weaker  sex.  It  sup- 
plied every  persuasion  that  could  animate  to  per- 
severance, and  secure  fidelity. 

The  noble  deeds  in  which  this  irrepressible  spi- 
rit breathed  itself,  were  not  unrewarded  by  per- 
secution. The  case  of  the  Quakeress,  Deborah 
Franklin,  who  was  banished  from  New  York  by 
the  British  commandant  for  her  liberality  in  re- 
lieving the  sufferings  of  the  American  prisoners, 
was  one  among  many.  In  our  days  of  tranquillity 
and  luxury,  imagination  can  scarcely  compass  the 
extent  or  severity  of  the  trials  endured  ;  and  it  is 
proportionately  difficult  to  estimate  the  magnani- 
mity that  bore  all,  not  only  with  uncomplaining 
patience,  but  with  a  cheerful  forgetfulness  of  suf- 
fering in  view  of  the  desired  object.     The  alarms 

647 


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of  war  —  the  roar  of  the  strife  itself,  could  not 
silence  the  voice  of  woman,  lifted  in  encourage- 
ment or  prayer.  The  horrors  of  battle  or  massa- 
cre could  not  drive  her  from  her  post  of  duty. 
The  effect  of  this  devotion  cannot  be  questioned, 
though  it  may  not  now  be  traced  in  particular  in- 
stances. These  were,  for  the  most  part,  known 
only  to  those  who  were  themselves  actors  in  the 
scenes,  or  who  lived  in  the  midst  of  them.  The 
heroism  of  the  Revolutionary  women  has  passed 
from  remembrance  with  the  generation  who  wit- 
nessed it ;  or  is  seen  only  by  faint  and  occasional 
glimpses,  through  the  gathering  obscurity  of  tra- 
dition. 

To  render  a  measure  of  justice  —  inadequate  it 
must  be  —  to  a  few  of  the  American  matrons, 
whose  names  deserve  to  live  in  remembrance  — 
and  to  exhibit  something  of  the  domestic  side  of 
the  Revolutionary  picture  —  is  the  object  of  this 
work.  As  we  recede  from  the  realities  of  that 
struggle,  it  is  regarded  with  increasing  interest 
by  those  who  enjoy  its  results ;  while  the  ele- 
ments which  were  its  life-giving  principle,  too 
subtle  to  be  retained  by  the  grave  historian,  are 
fleeting  fast  from  apprehension.  Yet  without 
some  conception  of  them,  the  Revolution  cannot 
be  appreciated.  We  must  enter  into  the  spirit, 
as  well  as  master  the  letter. 

While  attempting  to  pay  a  tribute  but  too  long 
withheld,  to  the  memory  of  women  who  did  and 
endured  so  much  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  we 
should  not  be  insensible  to  the  virtues  exhibited 
by  another  class,  belonging  equally  to  the  history 
of  the  period.  These  had  their  share  of  reverse 
and  suffering.  Many  saw  their  children  and  re- 
latives espousing  opposite  sides  ;  and  with  ardent 
feelings  of  loyalty  in  their  hearts,  were  forced  to 
weep  over  the  miseries  of  their  families  and  neigh- 
bours. Many  were  driven  from  their  homes,  de- 
spoiled of  property,  and  finally  compelled  to  cast 
their  lot  in  desolate  wilds  and  an  ungenial  cli- 
mate.* And  while  their  heroism,  fortitude,  and 
spirit  of  self-sacrifice  were  not  less  brightly  dis- 
played, their  hard  lot  was  unpitied,  and  they  met 
with  no  reward. 

In  the  library  of  William  H.  Prescott,  at  his  re- 
sidence in  Boston,  are  two  swords,  crossed  above 
the  arch  of  an  alcove.  One  belonged  to  his  grand- 
father. Colonel  William  Prescott,  who  commanded 
the  American  troops  in  the  redoubt  at  Bunkerhill. 
The  other  was  the  sword  of  Captain  Linzee,  of  the 
royal  navy,  who  commanded  the  British  sloop  of 
war  —  The  Falcon,  then  lying  in  the  Mystic  ;  from 
which  the  American  troops  were  fired  upon  as 
they  crossed  to  Bunkerliill.  Captain  Linzee  was 
the  grandfather  of  Mrs.  Prescott.  The  swords  of 
those  two  gallant  soldiers  who  fought  on  different 
sides  upon  that  memorable  day  —  now  in  the  pos- 
session of  their  united  descendants,  and  crossed  — 
an  emblem  of  peace,  in  the  library  of  the  great 
American  historian — are  emblematic  of  the  spirit 


*  The  ancient  Acadia,  comprising  Nova  Scotia  and  New 
Brunswick,  was  settled  by  many  of  the  refugee  loyalists 
from  the  United  States. 


in  which  our  history  should  be  written.  Such  be 
the  spirit  in  which  we  view  the  loyalists  of  those 
days. 

From  '•  Poems,  Original  and  Translated." 
SODUS    BAT. 

I  bless  thee,  native  shore  ! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear! 

'Tis  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear 

As,  murmuring  up  the  sand. 
With  kisses  bright  they  lave  the  sloping  land. 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray; 

And  o'er  thy  lipadlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  evening  play  : 

Thy  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallowed  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found  ; 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around: 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 

Full  oft  my  heart  hath  yearned 
For  thy  sweet  shades  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ; 

Even  as  the  swan  returned. 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thy  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot 
Forsaken  long  —  but  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  forgot. 

'T  was  here  that  memory  grew  — 
'T  was  here  that  childhoods  hopes  and  cares  were  left ; 

Its  early  freshness,  too  — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  her  best  joys  bereft : 

Where  are  they  ?  —  o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back  ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still : 
Thou  art  nncjianged  —  as  bright  the  sunbeams  play: 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatched  away: 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resigned  to  thee. 

Give  back,  oh,  smiling  deep. 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep  — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth  ! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  nmrmurs,  once  again  restore. 

Where  have  they  vanished  all  ? — 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh; 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call. 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by? 

And  idle  as  the  air. 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  soul's  insatiate  prayer. 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts  — farewell ! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be 

A  deep  and  hallowed  spell 
Is  on  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me  : 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves. 

TO    THE    LANCE-FLT. 

Forth  with  the  breezy  sweep 

Of  spirit  wings  upon  thy  path  of  light. 

Thou  creature  of  the  sunbeam  1  upward  keep 
Thine  earth-defying  flight ! 

The  glowing  west  is  still  ; 

In  hallowed  slumber  sinks  the  restless  sea  ; 
And  heaven's  own  tints  have  wrought  o'er  tree  and  hill 

A  purpling  canopy. 

Go  —  bathe  thy  gaudy  wing 

In  freshened  azure  from  the  deepening  sky  — 
In  the  rich  gold  yon  parting  sunbeams  fling. 

Ere  yet  their  glories  die. 

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The  boundless  air  is  tliine, 

The  gorgeous  radiance  of  declining  day  ; 
Those  painted  clouds  their  living  hues  entwine, 

To  dark  thy  heavenward  way. 

Soar  on  !  my  fancies  too 

Would  quit  awhile  the  fading  beauties  here. 
To  roani  with  thee  that  waste  of  boundless  blue, 

And  view  yon  heaven  more  near ! 

Lost  — in  the  distant  page. 

Ere  my  bewildered  thoughts  for  flight  were  free  ; 
Farewell !  in  vain  upon  the  void  I  gaze,— 

I  cannot  soar  like  thee  ! 


ELLIS,  SARAH  STICKNEY, 
Was  first  known  as  a  -writer  by  her  maiden 
name,  Miss  Sarah  Stickney;  one  of  her  early 
works — "The  Poetry  of  Life" — giving  her  not 
only  celebrity  in  her  own  country,  England,  but 
also  introducing  her  favourably  to  the  reading 
public  of  America.  In  1837,  Miss  Stickney  was 
married  to  the  Rev.  AVilliam  Ellis,  widely  known 
and  highly  respected  for  his  indefatigable  labours, 
as  a  Christian  missionary,  to  promote  education, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  true  God  among  the  peo- 
ple of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  then  just  emerging 
from  the  most  awful  idolatry  and  barbarism. 
Mr.  Ellis  was  sent  out  in  1817,  by  the  London 
Missionary  Society,  and  he  it  was  who  established 
at  Tahiti  the  first  printing-press  ever  erected  in 
the  "  Green  Islands  of  the  Pacific."  He  devoted 
ten  years  to  this  arduous  and  effective  service, 
and  then  returned  to  London ;  and  some  years 
after  the  decease  of  his  first  wife,  who  had  been 
his  faithful  helper  and  tender  comforter  in  his 
missionary  trials  and  toils,  he  found  in  Miss 
Sarah  Stickney,  a  second  partner  worthy  to  share 
his  home,  and  aid  in  the  plans,  and  sympathize  in 
the  high  hopes  of  benefiting  societj'  which  he  had 
cherished.  "A  good  wife  is  from  the  Lord;" 
surely  the  man  who  has  been  thus  "  twice  blest," 
may  well  consider  the  female  sex  as  deserving 
peculiar  honour.  That  Mr.  Ellis  does  consider 
woman's  education  and  influence  of  paramount 
importance  in  the  progress  of  true  Christian  civili- 
zation, we  infer  from  Mrs.  Ellis's  constant  devo- 
tion to  this  cause.  The  wife,  doubtless,  expresses 
in  her  books  the  moral  sentiments,  and  inculcates 


the  principles  which  her  husband  approves,  and 
sees  verified  in  his  own  family.  Such  an  union  of 
souls  as  well  as  hearts  and  hands,  gives  the  most 
perfect  idea  of  the  Eden  happiness  true  marriage 
was  designed  to  confer  on  the  human  race,  which 
our  fallen  world  exhibits. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  since  her  marriage,  has  written  many 
books,  almost  every  year  sending  forth  a  new  one ; 
among  which  the  series  addressed  particularly  to 
the  women  of  her  own  land,  is  most  important. 
"  The  Women  of  England,"  appeared  in  1838,  and 
was  followed  by  "The  Daughters  of  England;" 
"  The  Wives  of  England;"  "  Hints  to  Make  Home 
Happy;"  "The  Iron  Rule ;  "Summer  and  Win- 
ter in  the  Pyrenees;"  "The  Sons  of  the  Soil;" 
"A  Voice  from  the  Vineyard;"  "Family  Se- 
crets;" &c.,  &c.  In  considering  the  writings  of 
Mrs.  Ellis,  an  estimate  of  praise  must  be  awarded 
ftir  beyond  that  which  falls  to  the  more  brilliant 
productions  of  the  day.  Candid  and  conscientious, 
her  principles  grounded  on  sincere  religion,  it 
seems  the  aim  of  this  excellent  woman,  to  be  hum- 
bly useful  in  her  generation,  and  make  the  utmost 
use  of  her  talents  in  doing  good.  Madame  de 
Stael  has  wittily  said  —  "  good  intentions  are  no- 
thing in  respect  to  fine  writing."  In  respect  to 
fine  writing  this  is  true  ;  but  in  respect  to  useful 
literature,  a  very  earnest  wish  to  do  good,  added 
to  moderate  abilities  and  untiring  industry,  will 
produce  much  fruit.  There  are  very  many  of  the 
half-educated,  and  wholly  untrained,  whom  Mrs. 
Ellis's  works  will  improve,  and  whom  they  have 
improved.  To  such  persons,  the  eloquence  and 
originality  of  a  higher  flight,  would  be  but  daz- 
zling, and  in  no  wise  illuminating.  Nor  must  it 
be  forgotten,  how  many  need  common-places,  sen- 
sibly and  clearly  expressed.  "  The  Women  of 
England,"  and  the  other  manuals  of  this  series, 
are  written  professedly  to  direct  the  young,  the 
unwise,  and  the  ignorant.  Neither  metaphysical 
subtlety  nor  novelty  was  required  to  strike  the 
sage  and  the  philosopher.  Well  known  truths, 
and  the  sensible  reiteration  of  useful  advice  are 
plainly  set  forth,  and  the  guide  of  the  whole  is 
Christian  doctrine.     Such  works  must  do  good. 

The  novels  of  Mrs.  Ellis,  as  novels,  are  not, 
certainly,  of  a  high  character.  According  to 
Rochefoucault,  there  are  two  classes  of  persons 
unfitted  to  delineate  human  nature ;  those  who 
never  look  into  themselves,  and  those  who  never 
look  out  of  themselves.  In  a  good  sense,  not  an 
egotistic  one,  Mrs.  Ellis  is  of  this  latter  class. 
She  has  a  certain  set  of  characters,  framed  out  of 
her  own  fancy,  not  found  in  the  wide  world,  and 
these  she  fits  into  her  moralities  as  is  convenient 
for  the  occasion.  Perhaps  we  underrate  her  power 
of  observation ;  but  we  are  loth  to  believe  she 
pictures  truly  the  condition  of  her  own  country- 
women, because,  if  she  does,  the  character  of  the 
men  of  England  must  be  selfish,  sensual,  hard 
and  coarse !  Where  women  are  represented,  not 
only  as  subordinate  but  inferior  to  men,  there  can 
be  no  true  progress  in  Christian  morals;  where 
women  are  constantly  reminded  that  they  must 
prepare  for  sufi'ering,  we  know  there  must  be 
oppression   of    the   worst    sort  —  even    domestio' 

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tyranny.  Both  "  Home,  or  Tlie  Iron  Rule,"  and 
"  Family  Secrets,"  leave  the  impression  that,  among 
the  middle  classes  in  England,  the  husband  is  what 
Jane  Eyre  calls  Mr.  Rochester — the  "master"  of 
his  "wife,  as  well  as  his  house.  Where  there  is  not 
companionship  there  can  be  no  sympathy,  nor  that 
mutual  love  and  trust  which  makes  the  married 
pair  one,  as  God  designed,  as  Christ  directed. 
Artistically  speaking,  "  The  Poetry  of  Life,"  is 
the  best  work  of  Mrs.  Ellis  ;  without  much  origin- 
ality of  thought,  or  any  peculiar  beauty  of  style, 
it  shows  refined  taste  and  a  well-cultured  mind ; 
and,  like  all  the  books  of  this  authoress,  an  at- 
tempt at  something  more  than  merely  pleasing, 
the  wish  to  inculcate  the  purest  morality  based 
upon  the  religion  of  the  Bible. 

From  "  The  Poetry  of  Life." 
M.\N    AND    WOMAN. 

Man  is  appointed  to  hold  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment, to  make  laws,  to  support  systems,  to  pene- 
trate with  patient  labour  and  undeviating  perse- 
verance into  the  mysteries  of  science,  and  to  work 
out  the  great  fundamental  principles  of  truth. 
For  such  purposes  he  would  be  ill  qualified,  were 
he  liable  to  be  diverted  from  his  object  by  the 
quickness  of  his  perception  of  external  things,  by 
the  ungovernable  impulse  of  his  own  feelings,  or 
by  the  claims  of  others  upon  his  regard  or  sensi- 
bility ;  but  woman's  sphere  being  one  of  feeling 
rather  than  of  intellect,  all  her  peculiar  character- 
istics are  such  as  essentially  qualify  her  for  that 
station  in  society  which  she  is  designed  to  fill,  and 
which  she  never  voluntarily  quits  without  a  sacri- 
fice of  good  taste  —  I  might  almost  say,  of  good 
principle.  Weak,  indeed,  is  the  reasoning  of  those 
who  would  render  her  dissatisfied  with  this  allot- 
ment, by  persuading  her  that  the  station,  which  it 
ought  to  be  her  pride  to  ornament,  is  one  too  in- 
significant or  degraded  for  the  full  exercise  of  her 
mental  powers.  Ca,n  that  be  an  unimportant  vo- 
cation to  which  peculiai-ly  belong  the  means  of 
happiness  and  misei'y  ?  Can  that  be  a  degraded 
sphere  which  not  only  admits  of,  but  requires  the 
full  development  of  moral  feeling  ?  Is  it  a  task 
too  trifling  for  an  intellectual  woman,  to  watch, 
and  guard,  and  stimulate  the  growth  of  reason  in 
the  infant  mind  ?  Is  it  a  sacrifice  too  small  to 
practise  the  art  of  adaptation  to  all  the  difi"erent 
characters  met  with  in  ordinary  life,  so  as  to  influ- 
ence, and  give  a  right  direction  to  their  tastes  and 
pursuits  ?  Is  it  a  duty  too  easy,  faithfully  and 
constantly  to  hold  up  an  example  of  self-govern- 
ment, disinterestedness,  and  zeal  for  that  which 
constitutes  our  highest  good  —  to  be  nothing,  or 
anything  that  is  not  evil,  as  the  necessities  of 
others  may  require  —  to  wait  with  patience — to 
endure  with  fortitude  —  to  attract  by  gentleness  — 
to  soothe  by  sympathy  judiciously  applied  —  to  be 
quick  in  understanding,  prompt  in  action,  and 
what  is  perhaps  more  difficult  than  all,  pliable  yet 
firm  in  will  —  lastly,  through  a  life  of  perplexity, 
trial,  and  temptation,  to  maintain  the  calm  dig- 
nity of  a  pure  and  elevated  character,  earthly  in 
nothing  but  its  suffering  and  weakness ;  refined 


almost  to  sublimity  in  the  seraphic  ardour  of  its 
love,  its  faith,  and  its  devotion. 

THE    LOT    OF    WOMAN. 

In  looking  at  the  situation  of  woman  merely  as 
regards  this  life,  we  are  struck  with  the  system  of 
unfair  dealing  by  which  her  pliable,  weak  and 
dependent  nature  is  subjected  to  an  infinite  variety 
of  suffering,  and  we  are  ready  to  exclaim,  that  of 
all  earthly  creatures  she  is  the  most  pitiable.  And 
so  unquestionably  she  is,  when  unenlightened  by 
those  higher  views  which  lead  her  hopes  away 
from  the  disappointments  of  the  present  world,  to 
the  anticipated  fruition  promised  to  the  faithful  in 
the  world  to  come. 

*  *  *  *  * 
When  we  think  of  the  falsehood  practised  to- 
wards women,  at  that  season  of  life  when  their 
minds  are  most  capable  of  receiving  impressions, 
and  when  their  intellectual  powers,  just  arriving 
at  maturity,  are  most  liable  to  serious  and  import- 
ant bias,  we  can  only  wonder  that  there  should  be 
any  substantial  virtue  found  amongst  them. 

woman's  disinterestedness. 
In  the  natural  delicacy  of  woman's  constitution, 
however,  we  see  only  one  of  the  slightest  causes 
of  sufi"ering  peculiar  to  her  character  and  station 
in  society ;  because  her  feelings  are  so  entirely 
relative  and  dependent,  that  they  can  never  be 
wholly,  or  even  half  absorbed  by  that  which  is 
confined  to  her  own  experience,  without  refer- 
ence to  that  of  others.  There  are  unquestionably 
many  exceptions  to  this  rule,  but  the  rule  is  the 
same  notwithstanding  ;  and  I  desire  to  be  under- 
stood to  speak  not  of  women  individually,  but  of 
the  essential  characteristics  of  woman  as  a  genius. 
Amongst  these  characteristics,  I  am  almost  proud 
to  name  her  personal  disinterestedness,  shown  by 
the  unhesitating  promptness  with  which  she  de- 
votes herself  to  watchfulness,  labour,  and  suffering 
of  almost  every  kind,  for,  or  in  lieu  of  others.  In 
seasons  of  helplessness,  misery,  or  degradation, 
who  but  woman  comes  forward  to  support,  to  con- 
sole, and  to  reclaim  ?  From  the  wearisome  dis- 
quietudes of  puling  infancy,  to  the  impatience  and 
decrepitude  of  old  age,  it  is  woman  alone  that 
bears  with  all  the  trials  and  vexations  which  the 
infirmities  of  our  nature  draw  down  upon  those 
around  us.  Through  the  monotony  of  ceaseless 
misery,  it  is  woman  alone  that  will  listen  to  the 
daily  murmurings  of  fruitless  anxiety,  and  offer 
again  the  cup  of  consolation  after  it  has  been  petu- 
lantly dashed  at  her  feet. 

*  *  45-  *  * 

It  is  considered  a  mere  duty,  too  common  for 
observation,  and  too  necessary  for  praise,  when  a 
woman  forgets  her  own  sorrows  to  smile  with  the 
gay,  or  lays  aside  her  own  secret  joys  to  weep 
with  the  sad.  But  let  lordly  man  make  the  expe- 
riment for  one  half  hour,  and  he  will  then  be  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  this  system  of  self-sacrifice, 
which  woman  in  every  station  of  society,  from  the 
palace  to  the  cottage,  maintains  through  the  whole 
of  her  life,  with  little  commendation,  and  with  no 

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reward,  except  tliat  which  is  attached  to  every 
effort  of  disinterested  virtue.  It  is  thought  much 
of,  and  blazoned  forth  to  the  world,  when  the  vic- 
tim at  the  stake  betrays  no  sign  of  pain ;  but  does 
it  evince  less  fortitude  for  the  victim  of  corroding 
care  to  give  no  outward  evidence  of  the  anguish 
of  a  writhing  soul  ?  —  to  go  forth  arrayed  in  smiles, 
when  burning  ashes  are  upon  the  heart  ?  —  to  meet, 
as  a  woman  can  meet,  with  a  never-failing  welcome 
the  very  cause  of  all  her  sulFei'ing  ?  —  and  to  woo 
back  with  the  sweetness  of  her  unchangeable  love, 
him  who  knows  neither  constancy  nor  truth  ? 

From  "  Home ;  or  The  Iron  Rule." 
THE    HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 

Stephen  Grey,  the  father  of  this  promising 
family,  was  a  man  who  gravely  and  thoughtfully 
studied  the  laws  of  his  country,  its  politics,  and 
the  religion  of  his  forefathers ;  he  had  even  ob- 
tained a  smattering  of  philosophy  under  some  of 
its  most  practical  forms  ;  but  of  the  study  of  the 
human  heart  he  had  scarcely  condescended  so 
much  as  to  think.  He  loved  his  children  because 
they  were  his  own  ;  he  determined  to  make  them 
good  citizens  because  it  was  decent  and  politic  to 
be  so ;  and  good  Christians,  let  us  hope,  for  a  bet- 
ter reason.  In  business,  his  alacrity,  promptness, 
and  ability,  were  such  as  to  render  his  influence 
extensive ;  while  in  his  household,  the  will  of  the 
master  was  law.  Whatever  he  chose  to  jilan  or 
put  into  execution,  passed  without  question  or 
comment,  unless  behind  the  scenes ;  for  like  Fal- 
staflf,  he  refused  to  tell  his  reasons  on  compul- 
sion. 

*  *  *  *  # 

He  believed  that  all  human  beings  were  to  be 
governed  by  the  same  iron  rule,  and  that  the 
errors  of  all  might  be  corrected  by  the  same  chas- 
tisement. The  principle  \ipon  which  he  main- 
tained his  authority  was  that  of  implicit  obedi- 
ence ;  but  he  overlooked  the  most  important  part 
of  moral  government,  the  necessity  of  making  obe- 
dience a  matter  of  choice,  and  not  of  coitijmlsion. 
Had  Stephen  Grey  permitted  the  good-will  he 
really  felt  for  his  fellow-creatures  sometimes  to 
appear  before  the  eyes  of  men,  more  especially 
had  he  occasionally  been  known  to  sacrifice  his 
own  personal  gratification  for  that  of  others,  he 
might  have  won  more  affection  from  the  warm 
young  hearts  around  him ;  but  it  is  not  in  human 
nature  to  love  long  or  consistentlj'  the  being  who 
never  makes  any  sacrifice  of  self,  or  who  never 
exhibits  such  natural  signs  of  tenderness  as  create 
a  bond  of  protection  and  dependence  between  the 
powerful  and  the  weak. 

Let  who  wovild  be  sick  or  sorry  around  the  board 
or  the  hearth  of  Stephen  Grey,  his  was  the  choice 
portion,  and  the  warmest  place.  Not  but  that 
these  privileges  would  have  been  willingly  con- 
ceded to  him  as  a  right;  but  his  manner  was  one 
that  conveyed  the  idea  of  seizing  rather  than  re- 
ceiving ;  and  it  is  wonderful  the  difference  these 
two  ideas  produce  in  the  feelings  of  the  party 
whose  place  it  is  to  resign. 

Yet  with  all  these  alarming  peculiarities,  Ste- 
phen Grey  was  a  good  neighbour,  a  lover  of  peace, 


an  impartial  judge,  a  powerful  defender  of  the  in- 
jured, and,  in  short,  a  man  who  maintained  both 
in  his  private  and  public  life  a  character  of  the 
most  scrupulous  integrity  and  independence.  In- 
deed, this  feeling  of  independence  was  carried  to 
such  an  extreme  in  all  his  pecuniary  affairs,  that 
it  became  questionable  whether  money-making 
was  not  the  primary  object  of  his  existence  ;  not 
certainly  for  the  purpose  of  hoarding,  for  he  was 
penurious  in  nothing  but  his  domestic  manage- 
ment. Here  the  same  rule  pervaded  the  kitchen, 
the  parlour,  and  the  school-room,  where  industry — 
that  is,  the  industry  of  turning  every  effort  and 
every  talent  into  gold,  was  established  as  the  car- 
dinal virtue.  '  How  much  will  it  save,'  or  '  how 
much  will  it  cost,'  was  the  universal  interlude  be- 
tween every  childish  petition  and  its  invariable 
denial ;  and  as  the  expenses  of  clothing  and  edu- 
cation increased  with  his  children's  growth,  he 
marked  their  necessities  with  as  many  reproaches 
as  if  it  had  been  unnatural  to  grow,  or  a  crime  to 
learn. 

Nor  were  the  religious  observances  of  this 
family  more  tempered  with  the  leaven  of  human- 
ity. There  was  no  pleasure,  no  congeniality,  no 
meeting  of  the  wants  and  wishes  of  our  weak  na- 
ture, in  the  Veligious  discipline  of  Stephen  Grey ; 
but  public  justice  for  the  erring,  a  sure  sentence 
for  the  culprit,  the  strong  arm  for  the  rebellious, 
and  the  same  uniform  law  of  implicit  obedience, 
from  which  there  was  no  appeal,  for  all. 

It  may  reasonably  be  asked,  how  such  a  man  as 
we  have  here  described  could  ever  stoop  to  solicit 
the  love  of  woman  —  a  question  which,  on  the  plea 
of  utter  ignorance,  the  writer  declines  to  answer ; 
it  having  always  appeared  to  her  one  of  the  great- 
est mysteries  in  life,  how  men  whose  very  birth- 
right seems  to  be  the  inalienable  privilege  of  com- 
manding, should  humble  themselves  to  the  common 
language  of  love  ;  yet  that  they  do  actually  solicit, 
and  not  command,  we  cannot  for  the  honour  of 
the  female  sex  permit  ourselves  to  doubt.  And 
certain  it  is,  that  Stephen  Grey  did  lead  to  the 
altar  a  fair  and  gentle  bride,  who  found  little  dif- 
ficulty in  conforming  to  the  very  letter  of  her  vow. 
It  is  true,  she  was  hardly  prepared  for  all  that 
followed ;  for  being  considered  merely  as  a  piece 
of  domestic  machinery,  whose  office  was  to  keep 
the  rest  of  the  household  furniture  in  order ;  she 
was  not  prepared  to  have  all  her  womanish  wishes 
thwarted  as  if  for  very  pastime,  or  to  bring  up 
children  whose  infantine  caresses  should  never 
meet  a  father's  tenderness  ;  and  for  some  time  she 
persisted  in  introducing  them  occasionally  to  his 
notice.  When  they  looked  their  loveliest,  and 
sometimes  when  her  heart  was  lightest,  she 
woiild  suffer  them  to  reach  so  far  as  the  sober 
page  upon  which  her  husband's  eye  was  fixed, 
while  the  merry  urchins  would  laugh  and  crow, 
and  pat  the  rustling  paper,  until  an  angry  growl, 
or  a  sharp  stroke  upon  the  little  rosy  fingers,  sent 
both  mother  and  children  into  the  nursery,  to 
hide  their  disappointment  and  their  tears.  Here 
it  was  that  Mrs.  Grey  learned,  like  many  other 
weak  women,  to  seek  the  sympathy  she  was 
denied,    elsewhere ;    for  with   her   servants    she 

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could  converse  nbout  her  children,  and  in  the  so- 
ciety of  her  humble  friends  she  could  freely  enjoy 
their  playful  prattle. 

Dangerous  as  this  system  of  confidence  was,  it 
would  have  been  well  if  the  stern  discipline  of  her 
husband  had  driven  the  helpless  wife  to  no  other 
resource ;  but  there  was  one  more  lamentable 
means  of  escaping  the  harshness  she  dared  not 
brook,  to  which  poor  Mrs.  Grey  at  last  descended, 
and  that  was  to  deceive.  It  was  not  her  nature, 
and  still  less  her  wish,  but  she  was  harassed, 
frightened,  and  systematically  denied  every  tri- 
fling request,  merely  because  it  was  a  woman's  ; 
and  though  she  could  have  borne  all  this  for  her- 
self, for  her  children  she  thought  it  not  only  justi- 
fiable, but  meritorious,  to  find  some  way  of  escape. 
Hence  followed  the  forbidden  wish  secretly  in- 
dulged ;  the  detected  transgression  covered  with 
an  evasion  —  perhaps  with  more;  the  unlawful 
treat  when  papa  was  gone  from  home ;  and  all 
that  fatal  undermining  of  domestic  comfort,  of 
social  union,  and  of  moral  rectitude,  so  sure  to 
follow  when  the  wide  field  of  deception  is  once 
thrown  open. 

From  "Tlie  Daughters  and  Wives  of  England." 
SECRET    SORROWS. 

Observation  and  experience  have  taught  me  to 
believe  that  many  of  the  secret  sorrows  of  woman's 
life,  owe  half  their  poignancy  to  the  disappoint- 
ment of  not  being  able  to  maintain  the  degree  of 
admiration  which  has  been  studiously  sought.  A 
popular  and  elegant  writer  has  said —  '  How  often 
do  the  wounds  of  our  vanity  form  the  secret  of 
our  pathos !'  And  to  the  situation,  and  the  feel- 
ings of  woman,  this  observation  is  more  especially 
applicable.  Still  there  is  much  to  be  said  for 
woman  in  this  respect.  By  the  nature  of  her  own 
feelings,  as  well  as  by  the  established  rules  of 
polished  life,  she  is  thrown,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
good-will  of  society.  Unable  to  assert  her  own 
claims  to  protection,  she  must  endeavour  to  ensure 
it  by  secondary  means,  and  she  knows  that  the 
protection  of  man  is  best  ensured  by  recommend- 
ing herself  to  his  admiration. 

DELICACY. 

Though  truth  should  be  engraven  upon  every 
thought,  and  word,  and  act,  which  occurs  in  your 
intercourse  with  the  man  of  your  choice,  there  is 
implanted  in  the  nature  of  woman,  a  shrinking 
delicacy,  which  ought  ever  to  prompt  her  to  keep 
back  some  of  her  affection  for  the  time  when  slie 
becomes  a  wife.  No  woman  ever  gained,  but 
many,  very  many  have  been  losers,  by  displaying 
all  at  first.  Let  sufficient  of  your  love  be  told,  to 
prevent  suspicion,  or  distrust;  and  the  self-com- 
placency of  man  will  be  sure  to  supply  the  rest. 
Suffer  it  not,  then,  to  be  unfolded  to  its  full  extent. 
In  the  trials  of  married  life,  you  will  have  ample 
need  for  an  additional  supply.  You  will  want  it 
for  sickness,  for  sorrow,  for  all  the  different  exi- 
gencies of  real  experience  ;  but,  above  all,  you  will 
want  it  to  re-awaken  the  tenderness  of  your  hus- 


band, when  worldly  cares  and  pecuniary  disappoint- 
ments have  too  much  absorbed  his  better  feelings ; 
and  what  surprise  so  agreeable  to  him,  as  to  dis- 
cover in  his  farther  progress  through  the  wilder- 
ness of  life,  so  sweet,  so  deep  a  fountain,  as  wo- 
man's perfect  love! 

FL.\TTERT. 

To  speak  of  the  popular  style  of  conversation 
used  by  gentlemen  when  making  themselves  agree- 
able to  young  ladies,  as  trifling,  is  the  best  thing 
we  can  say  of  it.  Its  worst  characteristic  is  its 
falsehood,  while  its  worst  tendency  is  to  call  forth 
selfishness,  and  to  foster  that  littleness  of  mind, 
for  which  man  is  avowedly  the  despiser  of  woman. 
If  intellectual  conversation  occupies  the  company, 
how  often  does  he  turn  to  whisper  nonsense  to 
woman ;  if  he  sees  her  envious  of  the  beauty  of 
her  friend,  how  often  does  he  tell  her  that  her  own 
charms  are  unrivalled ;  if  he  discovers  that  she  is 
foolishly  elated  with  the  triumph  of  having  gained 
his  attentions,  how  studiously  does  he  feed  her 
folly,  waiting  only  for  the  next  meeting  with  a 
boon  companion,  to  treat  the  whole  with  that  ridi- 
cule which  it  deserves  —  deserves,  but  not  from 
him. 

It  may  be —  I  would  fain  believe  it  is,  his  wish 
that  woman  should  be  simple-hearted,  intelligent, 
generous,  frank,  and  true ;  but  how  is  his  influ- 
ence in  society  exercised  to  make  her  any  one  of 
these?  Woman  is  blamed,  and  justly  so,  for  idle 
thoughts,  and  trifling  conversation  ;  but,  I  appeal 
to  experience,  and  ask,  whether,  when  a  young 
girl  first  goes  into  society,  her  most  trifling  con- 
versation is  not  that  which  she  shares  with  men. 
It  is  true  that  woman  has  the  power  to  repel  by  a 
look,  a  word,  or  even  a  tone  of  her  voice,  the  ap- 
proach of  falsehood  or  folly ;  and  admirable  are 
the  instances  we  sometimes  find  of  woman  thus 
surrounded  as  it  were  by  an  atmosphere  of  moral 
purity,  through  which  no  vulgar  touch  can  pene- 
trate. But  all  are  not  thus  happily  sustained, 
and  it  seems  hard  that  the  weaker  sex  should  not 
only  have  to  contend  with  the  weakness  of  their 
own  hearts  ;  but  that  they  should  find  in  this  con- 
flict, so  much  of  the  influence  of  man  on  the  side 
of  evil. 

SINGLE    LIFE. 

I  imagine  there  are  few,  if  any,  who  never  have 
had  a  suitable  or  unsuitable  offer  at  some  time  in 
their  lives ;  and  wise,  indeed,  by  comparison,  are 
those  who,  rather  than  accept  the  latter,  are  con- 
tent to  enjoy  the  pleasures,  and  endure  the  sor- 
rows of  life,  alone.  Compai-e  their  lot  for  an  in- 
stant with  that  of  women  who  have  married  from 
unworthy  motives.  How  incomparably  more  dig- 
nified, more  happy,  and  more  desirable  in  every 
way,  does  it  appear !  It  is  true  there  are  times  in 
their  experience  when  they  will  have  to  bear  what 
woman  bears  so  hardly — the  consciousness  of 
being  alone;  but  they  escape  an  evil  far  more 
insupportable  —  that  of  being  a  slighted  or  an  un- 
loved wife. 

652 


EM 


EM 


EMBURY,  EMMA  CATHARINE, 

Was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  -where  her 
father,  Dr.  James  R.  Mauley,  was  a  distinguished 
physician.  Miss  Manley  began  to  write  when  very 
young,  her  first  effusions  appearing  in  the  periodi- 
cals of  the  day,  under  the  name  of  "  lanthe." 


In  1828,  she  was  married  to  Daniel  Embury,  of 
Brooklyn ;  and  soon  afterwards  a  volume  of  her 
youthful  compositions  was  published  —  entitled 
"  Guido,  and  other  Poems  "  The  choice  of  sub- 
jects for  the  principal  poems  was  unfortunate. 
The  writer  had  entered  the  circle  in  which  L.  E.  L., 
Barry  Cornwall,  and  other  English  wi'iters  were 
then  strewing  their  flowers  of  fancy,  sentiment 
and  genius  ;  no  wonder  the  delicate  blossoms  oifer- 
ed  by  our  young  poetess  were  considered  merely 
exotics  which  she  had  trained  from  a  foreign  root ; 
imitations  in  style,  if  not  in  thought. 

It  is  the  natural  impulse  of  poetic  and  ardent 
minds  to  admire  the  genius  and  glory  of  Italy,  and 
to  turn  to  that  land  of  bright  skies  and  passionate 
hearts  for  themes  of  song.  Mrs.  Embury  did  but 
follow  the  then  expressed  opinion  of  all  European 
critics,  and  the  admitted  acknowledgment  of  most 
Americans  —  that  our  new  world  afforded  no  sub- 
jects propitious  for  the  muses. 

Yet  surely,  in  a  land  where  the  wonders  of  na- 
ture are  on  a  scale  of  vast  and  glorious  magni- 
ficence which  Europe  cannot  parallel ;  and  the 
beautiful  and  the  fertile  are  opening  their  trea- 
sures on  every  side ;  and  enterprise  and  change, 
excitement  and  improvement,  are  the  elements  of 
social  life,  — there  must  be  poetry  !  happily  "  Ger- 
trude of  Wyoming,"  to  say  nothing  of  what  Ameri- 
can poets  have  written,  has  settled  the  question. 
We  have  named  this  subject,  chiefly  for  the  pur- 
pose of  entreating  our  American  writers  to  look 
into  their  own  hearts,  not  into  the  poems  of  others, 
for  inspiration,  and  to  sing,  in  accordance  with 
nature  and  human  life  around  them, 

"  The  beauteous  scenes  of  our  own  lovely  land." 

Mrs.  Embury  has  a  fertile  fancy,  and  her  versi- 
fication flows  with  uncommon  ease  and  grace.     In 


her  later  poems  she  has  greatly  improved  her  style 
—  that  is,  she  writes  naturally,  from  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  not  from  a  model ;  and 
some  of  her  short  pieces  are  very  beautiful.  She 
is,  too,  a  popular  prose  writer;  many  sketches 
and  stories  from  her  pen  enrich  our  periodical 
literature.  She  is  also  warmly  engaged  in  the 
cause  of  improving  her  own  sex,  and  has  written 
well  on  the  subject  of  "  Female  Education."  Since 
her  marriage,  Mrs.  Embury  has  published  more 
prose  than  verse  ;  her  contributions  to  the  vai'ious 
periodicals,  amount  to  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  original  tales,  besides  her  poetical  articles, 
all  written  within  the  last  twenty  years.  Her  pub- 
lished works,  during  the  same  time,  are  "  Constance 
Latimer,  or  The  Blind  Girl;"  Pictures  of  Early 
Life;"  "  Natui-e's  Gems,  or  American  Wild  Flow- 
ers;" "The  Waldorf  Family;"  "Glimpses  of 
Home  Life."  An  eminent  American  critic  re- 
marks of  Mrs.  Embury's  works — "Her  stories 
are  founded  upon  a  just  observation  of  life,  al- 
though not  a  few  are  equally  remarkable  for  at- 
tractive invention.  In  point  of  style,  they  often 
possess  the  merit  of  graceful  and  pointed  diction, 
and  the  lessons  they  inculcate  are  invariably  of  a 
pure  moral  tendency."  Mrs.  Embury  has  been 
very  fortunate,  (we  do  not  say  singularly  so,  be- 
cause American  marriages  are  usually  happy,) 
in  her  married  life.  Mr.  Embury  is  a  scholar  as 
well  as  a  banker,  and  not  only  has  he  the  taste  to 
appreciate  the  talents  of  his  gifted  wife,  but  he 
has  had  also  the  good  sense  to  encourage  and  aid 
her.  The  result  has  been  the  most  perfect  con- 
cord in  their  domestic  as  well  as  literai'y  life  ;  the 
only  aim  of  each  being  to  secure  and  increase  the 
happiness  of  the  other,  the  highest  improvement 
and  happiness  of  both  have  been  the  result.  Nor 
have  the  pursuits  of  literature  ever  drawn  Mrs. 
Embury  aside  from  her  duties  as  a  mother ;  her 
three  children  have  been  trained  under  her  care- 
ful supervision,  and  her  daughter's  education  she 
has  entirely  conducted.  These  traits  of  character, 
corresponding  so  fitly  with  the  principles  she  has 
inculcated,  increase  greatly  the  value  of  her  works 
for  the  young.  Consistency  is  a  rare  and  excellent 
quality  ;  Mrs.  Hannah  More  placed  it  high  among 
female  virtues. 

From  "Glimpses  of  Home  Life." 
THE    ONE    FAULT. 

I  wonder  if  it  ever  occurred  to  a  discontented 
husband  that  much  of  the  discomfort  of  his  mar- 
ried life  might  be  attributed  to  this  over-estima- 
tion which  is  so  general  a  characteristic  of  the 
days  of  courtship.  To  man,  love  is  but  the  inter- 
lude between  the  acts  of  a  busy  life  —  the  cares 
of  business,  or  the  severe  studies  of  a  profession 
are  the  duties  of  his  existence,  while  the  atten- 
tions which  he  bestows  on  the  young  and  fair  be- 
ing whom  he  has  chosen  to  share  his  future  lot, 
are  the  actual  pleasures  of  his  life.  He  comes  to 
her  weary  with  the  sordid  anxieties  or  the  op- 
pressive intellectual  labours  in  which  he  has  been 
engaged,  and  he  finds  her  ever*he  gentle  minister 
to   his   happiness,    while   the    atmosphere  which 

653 


EM 


EM 


surrounds  her  is  one  of  such  purity  and  peace, 
that  all  his  better  nature  is  awakened  by  her  pre- 
sence. What  marvel,  then,  that  he  should  make 
her  the  idol  of  his  dreams,  and  enthrone  her  on 
high  in  his  imagination,  as  the  good  genius  of  his 
life  ?  Wilfully  blind  to  every  defect  in  her  charac- 
ter, he  views  her  through  the  medium  of  his  own 
excited  feelings,  and  thus,  like  one  who  should 
pretend  to  judge  of  the  real  landscape  by  behold- 
ing its  reflection  in  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass,  he 
sees  only  the  softened  lineaments  of  the  actual 
being.  Then  comes  the  hour  of  disenchantment. 
In  the  familiar  intercourse  of  wedded  life,  he 
ceases  to  be  the  worshipper  at  an  idol's  shrine. 
The  love  still  exists,  perhaps  even  increases  in  its 
fervour,  but  the  blind  worship  is  at  an  end ;  she 
is  now  his  fellow-traveller  through  the  rugged  and 
dusty  path  of  life,  and  she  must  bear  with  him 
the  heat  and  bui-den  of  the  day. 

But  it  often  happens  that  the  past  has  not  been 
without  its  evil  influence  upon  her.  She  has  been 
taken  from  among  her  companions,  and  set  on 
high  as  an  object  of  adoration ;  the  intellect  of 
man  has  been  humbled  before  her,  and  her  very^ 
caprices  have  been  laws  to  him.  Is  it  to  be  won- 
dered at,  if  she  cannot  at  once  resign  her  queenly 
station,  and  become  the  gentle  and  submissive 
and  forbearing  woman?  Is  it  strange  that  the 
reproof  or  the  cold  rebuke  of  him  who  once  taught 
her  that  she  was  all  perfection,  should  sound 
strangely  to  her  ear,  and  fall  with  bitterness  upon 
her  heart?  The  change  which  takes  place  in  the 
mere  manners  of  him  who  was  once  the  devoted 
lover,  is  hard  to  understand.  "I  cannot  de- 
scribe," said  a  lady,  who  was  by  no  means  re- 
markable for  sensitiveness  of  feeling,  "  I  cannot 
describe  how  unhappy  I  felt  the  first  time  after 
my  marriage,  that  my  husband  put  on  his  hat  and 
wAlked  out  of  the  house  to  his  daily  business, 
without  bidding  me  farewell.  I  thought  of  it  all 
the  morning,  and  wondered  whether  he  was  dis- 
pleased with  me,  nor  until  I  had  questioned  him 
on  the  subject,  did  I  discover,  (what  was  perhaps 
equally  painful  to  me  then,)  that  he  was  so  occu- 
pied with  his  business,  as  to  have  forgotten  it." 
Many  a  misunderstanding  in  married  life  has 
arisen  out  of  circumstances  as  trifling  as  the  one 
just  recorded  ;  for  when  a  woman  has  been  made 
to  believe  that  she  is  the  sole  object  of  her  lover's 
thoughts,  it  is  difficult  for  her  to  realize  that  the 
act  which  transfers  to  him  the  future  guardianship 
of  her  happiness,  exonerates  him  from  those  mi- 
nute attentions,  which  have  hitherto  contributed 
so  much  to  her  enjoyment.  Do  not  mistake  me, 
gentle  reader ;  I  do  not  mean  to  say  as  some  have 
ventured  to  assert,  that  "Courtship  is  a  woman's 
Paradise,  and  Marriage  hor  Purgatory,"  for  many 
a  blessed  experience  would  quickly  give  the  lie  to 
any  such  false  theory ;  but  I  would  mei-ely  suggest 
whether  this  exaltation  of  a  mistress  into  some- 
thing more  than  woman,  before  marriage,  does  not 
tend  to  produce  a  reaction  of  feeling,  which  is  apt 
to  degrade  her  into  something  less  than  the  rest 
of  her  sex  afterwards ;  and  whether  he  who  saw 
no  faults  in  his  "ladye-love"  will  not  be  likely  to 
see  more  than  she  ever  possessed,  in  his  uifc  f 


Charles  AVharton  had  certainly  committed  this 
common  error.  Loving  his  mother  and  sisters 
with  the  most  devoted  afi'ection,  he  had  learned  to 
regard  them  as  models  of  feminine  virtue  and 
grace,  yet  there  was  something  of  sombre  and 
grave  in  their  characters,  which  did  not  exactly 
agree  with  his  beau-ideal  of  woman, 

"Skilled  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please." 

He  was  therefore  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the 
charms  of  playful  wit  and  gayety  in  his  beloved 
Mary,  and  finding  her  thus  in  possession  of  the 
only  gift  which  was  wanting  in  his  home  circle, 
he,  by  a  vei-y  natural  error,  attributed  to  her  all 
the  other  qualities  which  he  found  there  in  such 
perfection.  He  had  created  an  imaginary  being, 
who  should  unite  the  lighter  graces  with  the  no- 
bler Virtues,  and  fascinated  by  the  beauty,  and 
the  sunny  temper  of  Miss  Lee,  he  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  embodying  in  her  form  his  ideal  mistress. 
For  a  time  he  was  perfectly  enchanted,  but  the 
familiar  intercourse  of  married  life  at  length  dis- 
covered some  defects  in  the  character  of  the  young 
and  light-hearted  wife,  and  AVharton,  feeling  as 
men  are  apt  to  do, 

"  As  charm  by  charm  unwinds, 
That  robed  tlieir  idol," 

was  almost  tempted  to  believe  that  he  had  utterly 
deceived  himself. 

But  in  this  opinion  he  was  as  far  wrong  as  when 
he  had  fancied  her  all  perfection.  Mary  possessed 
all  the  material  for  forming  an  estimable  woman, 
but  she  was  young,  thoughtless,  and  untaught. 
She  was  one  of  a  family  who  lived  but  for  society, 
and  whose  deportment  to  each  other  was  an  ex- 
emplification of  the  old  copy-book  apophthegm, 
"  Familiarity  breeds  contempt."  The  self-respect 
which  inculcates  personal  neatness  as  a  duty — the 
respect  towards  each  other,  which  should  be  as 
carefully  cherished  between  brothers  and  sisters, 
as  the  afi'ection  which,  in  truth,  will  not  long  exist 
without  it — were  entirely  unknown  among  them. 
In  society,  they  were  models  of  propriety,  but,  in 
the  domestic  circle,  there  was  a  want  of  method, 
and  a  neglect  of  neatness,  which  could  not  fail  to 
be  injurious  to  every  member  of  the  family.  I 
may  be  mistaken,  but,  it  seems  to  me,  that  habi- 
tual slovenliness  cannot  fail  to  have  its  e3"ect  upon 
the  mental  as  well  as  the  bodilj^  habits.  To  a  well 
balanced  mind,  external  order  seems  as  essential 
as  intellectual  purity,  and  however  great  may  be 
the  genius,  there  is  surely  something  wanting  to  a 
perfect  equilibrium  of  the  faculties,  when  the 
body — through  the  medium  of  which  ideas  must 
necessarily  be  conveyed  to  the  mind — is  habitually 
neglected,  and  consequently  exposed  to  disgustful 
rather  than  agreeable  images.  But  whatever  may 
be  the  efi'ect  of  a  want  of  neatness  on  one's  indi- 
vidual character,  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  its  influ- 
ence on  others.  No  man  can  have  a  proper  respect 
for  female  purity  and  delicacy,  when  he  has  been 
accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  witness  slovenly 
habits  in  his  mother  and  sisters  ;  for  that  chivalric 
feeling  towards  the  gentler  sex,  which  has  pre- 
served many  a  man  from  the  early  attacks  of  vice, 
never  exists  in  the  heart  of  him  who  has  had  the 

654 


EM 


EM 


barriers  of  refinement  broken  down,  ere  he  left  his 
childhood's  home. 

Mrs.  Wharton  was  not  deficient  in  personal 
cleanliness ;  few  women  are  found  guilty  of  so 
revolting  a  fault;  but  she  wanted  personal  neat- 
ness and  order.  She  had  learned  to  treat  her 
liusband  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do  her  bro- 
thers, and  while  she  never  appeared  before  com- 
pany in  an  undress,  scarcely  ever  honoured  him 
with  anything  else.  Her  brealcfast  dress  has 
already  been  described,  and  if  the  day  happened 
to  be  rainy,  or  anything  else  occurred  to  induce 
her  to  deny  herself  to  visitors,  she  generally  greet- 
ed her  husband's  eye  in  the  same  loose  and  flowing 
robes  at  dinner,  as  well  as  tea.  Her  total  igno- 
rance of  everything  like  method,  was  visible 
throughout  all  her  domestic  arrangements.  In- 
stead of  directing  her  servants,  she  only  reproved 
them,  for  she  found  it  much  easier  to  scold  when 
a  thing  was  ill  done,  than  to  attend  to  liaving  it 
loell  done.  Her  domestics  soon  became  familiar 
with  her  ignorance  of  the  details  of  housekeeping, 
and  availed  tliemselves  of  it  to  neglect  their  duty 
as  much  as  possible ;  and,  when  she  began  to  add 
to  her  other  defects,  that  of  indolence,  her  house- 
hold fell  into  a  state  whicli  cannot  be  better  de- 
signated than  by  the  expressive  Irish  word, 
"  l'hrouffhoihernes.s." 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  at  the  end  of  the 
first  two  years  of  their  married  life.  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton, disheartened  and  dispirited,  took  little  interest 
in  her  family  concerns,  while  her  husband,  accus- 
tomed to  seek  his  enjoyments  elsewhere,  found 
always  something  to  censure  at  home.  Fortu- 
nately his  good  principles  kept  him  from  the 
haunts  of  dissipation,  or  he  might  have  added  an- 
other to  the  list  of  those  who  have  been  driven,  by 
an  ill-ordered  home,  to  a  well-ordered  tavern  or 
billiard-room.  His  mother  had  long  seen  and 
mourned  his  evident  disquiet,  and,  while  she  par- 
tially divined  its  cause,  was  in  doubt  as  to  the 
course  which  she  ought  to  pursue.  She  was  aware 
of  the  danger  of  intei-ference  in  the  domestic 
concerns  of  another,  but  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  son  and  his  sweet-tempered  wife  so  estranged 
from  each  other. 

"  You  are  unhappy,  Charles."  said  the  old  lady, 
one  day,  when  they  were  alone.  "Will  you  not 
tell  me  the  cause  of  your  trouble  ?  Is  it  your 
business  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  my  business  was  never  in  a  more 
prosperous  condition." 

"  Then  something  is  wrong  at  home,  my  son; 
can  you  not  confide  in  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  to  tell ;  ]\Iary  is  one  of 
the  best-hearted  and  good-tempered  creatures  in 
the  world,  but — " 

"But  what,  Charles?" 

"  She  has  one  fault,  mother,  and  it  is  about  the 
worst  she  could  have." 

"  The  worst,  Charles?  Is  she  ill-tempered,  or 
deficient  in  aifection  for  you  ?  Does  she  run  into 
extravagant  excesses  for  dress  or  company  ?" 

"  Why,  mother,  you  know  she  has  none  of  these 
defects  ?" 


"  Then,  Charles,  she  has  not  the  worst  faults 
she  might  have." 

"Well,  well,  perhaps  I  used  too  strong  a  term, 
but  really  I  am  heart-sick  —  I  have  a  house,  but 
no  home — I  have  servants,  but  no  service  for  them 
—  I  have  a  wife,  but  no  helpmeet ;  I  cannot  yet 
afford  to  keep  a  housekeeper,  and  until  I  can,  I 
see  no  probability  of  finding  comfort  at  home. 
Mary  is  as  ignorant  as  a  baby,  of  all  that  the  mis- 
tress of  a  family  ought  to  know,  and  I  am  tired 
of  living  at  the  mercy  of  a  pack  of  careless  do- 
mestics." 

"  Mary  has  been  unfortunate  in  not  learning 
such  duties  in  her  early  home,  Charles,  but  cer- 
tainly there  is  no  difficulty  in  acquiring  a  know- 
ledge of  them  now ;  did  you  ever  try  to  teach 
her  ?" 

"Try  to  teach  housekeeping,  mother?  no,  in- 
deed ;  I  should  as  soon  think  of  teaching  a  woman 
how  to  put  on  her  dress;  who  ever  heard  of  a 
man  teaching  his  wife  how  to  keep  house?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Charles,  what  you  might  have 
taught  her ;  you  have  such  habits  of  order,  and 
are  so  systematic  in  your  arrangement  of  time, 
that  you  could  easily  have  imparted  to  her  your 
notions  on  such  subjects,  without  appearing  to 
meddle  with  woman's  affairs,  and  when  she  had 
once  learned  them,  half  her  task  would  have  been 
accomplished." 

"A  woman  ought  not  to  be  married  till  she 
knows  her  duties.  The  parent  who  allows  a  daugh^ 
ter  to  marry,  when  conscious  that  she  is  utterly 
ignorant  of  these,  is  guilty  of  an  actual  imposition 
upon  the  luckless  husband." 

"  You  would  scarcely  expect  a  parent  to  blazon 
his  child's  defects,  Charles ;  a  man  chooses  a  wife 
for  himself — he  marries  with  his  eyes  open." 

"  No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  does!  he  is  blinded 
by  a  pretty  face,  at  first,  and  then  the  lady  and 
her  friends  take  good  care  to  noose  him,  before  he 
gets  his  eyes  open." 

"You  are  angry,  Charles,  and  I  am  afi'aid  you 
have  used  bitter  words,  rather  than  arguments, 
with  poor  Mary." 

"  Mother,  I  am  as  unhappy  as  ever  was  mortal 
man;  I  love  home  —  I  love  my  wife,  but  when  I 
seek  both,  I  am  disgusted  by  the  sight  of  a  disor- 
dered house  and  a  slovenly  woman,  and  my  feel- 
ings are  instantly  changed  into  anger  and  aluxpst 
dislike.  I  shall  break  up  housekeeping  in  the 
spring;  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer." 

"  I  think  I  could  remedy  the  evil  of  which  you 
complain,  if  I  was  only  sure  that*  Mary  would  not 
resent  my  interference." 

"Resent!  why,  mother,  she  never  resents  any 
thing ;  I  never  heard  an  angrj'  word  from  her  in 
my  life,  and  I  have  given  lier  many  a  one."  Mrs. 
Wharton  looked  significantly  at  her  son,  as  he 
made  this  acknowledgment,  and  smiled,  as  she 
promised  to  make  the  attempt. 

It  happened,  not  long  after  the  conversation 
above  narrated,  that  Charles  Wharton  was  taken 
seriously  ill,  and  his  mother  became  an  inmate  of 
his  family  until  his  recovery.  There  is  nothing 
which  so  effectually  subdues  wrathful   feelings, 

655 


EM 


EM 


and  obliterates  the  recollection  of  past  unkindness, 
as  the  touch  of  sickness.  When  death  sits  watch- 
ing beside  the  bed  of  pain,  the  animosity  of  a  life- 
long enemy  seems  like  a  sin  against  the  charities 
of  life,  and  how  much  more  vain  and  wicked  seem 
the  angry  bickerings  of  those  whom  love  has  bound 
together !  Charles  saw  nothing  of  the  sloven  in 
the  attentive  and  devoted  nurse,  who  untiringly 
ministered  to  his  wants,  and  Mary  felt  more  hap- 
piness, notwithstanding  her  apprehensions,  than 
she  had  enjoyed  for  many  months.  But  Mrs. 
Wharton,  the  mother,  now  obtained  a  clear  insight 
into  the  difficulties  which  had  marred  their  domes- 
tic comfort,  and,  no  sooner  was  Charles  restored 
to  convalescence,  than  she  set  herself  to  the  task 
of  subduing  them.  Fortunately  for  her  scheme, 
Mary  possessed  that  perfect  good  temper  which 
was  not  to  be  ruffled  even  by  the  interference  of  a 
mother-in-law,  and  Mrs.  Wharton  had  sufficient 
tact  to  know  just  how  far  that  interference  could 
be  carried  with  success.  In  the  course  of  the  fre- 
quent confidential  conversations  which  occurred 
between  the  mother  and  wife,  during  the  time 
when  both  were  engrossed  in  the  care  of  the  in- 
valid, Mary  learned  much  of  her  husband's  early 
tastes  and  habits,  of  which  she  had  before  been 
utterly  ignorant.  She  heard,  but  not  in  the  lan- 
guage of  personal  rebuke,  of  his  peculiar  notions 
of  order  and  system,  and  her  mind,  which  had 
unconsciously  acquired  habits  of  reflection  and 
thought  in  her  hours  of  solitude,  began  to  under- 
stand the  benefit  of  a  regular  and  well-ordered 
plan  of  life.  But  still  she  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
exactly  how  to  arrange  such  a  plan,  and  it  was 
not  until  she  had  summoned  sufficient  moral  cour- 
age, (smile  not,  reader,  it  required  no  small  share 
of  it,)  to  explain  her  dilemma,  and  ask  the  aid  of 
her  mother-in-law,  that  she  was  enabled  to  enter 
upon  her  new  course  of  life. 

Following  the  advice  of  Mrs.  Wharton,  the  first 
bad  habit  which  she  corrected,  was  that  of  indulg- 
ing in  morning  slumbers.  Early  rising  afforded 
her  the  time  to  attire  herself  with  neatness  and 
propriety,  while  it  also  gave  her  the  opportunity 
of  visiting  the  important  domain  of  the  '  Land  of 
Cookery,'  and  of  inspecting  the  arrangement  of 
the  morning  meal.  It  required  a  serious  struggle 
with  that  hardest  of  all  tyrants.  Indolence,  but 
Mrs.  AVharton  soon  found  that  bad  habits  are  like 
the  bonds  with  which  the  Lilliputians  fettered  the 
slumbering  Gulliver  —  united,  it  was  impossible  to 
break  the  fragile  threads,  but  if  taken  singly  each 
could  be  severed  by  the  movement  of  a  finger. 
One  by  one  she  contended  against  her  former 
faults.  It  required  not  only  resolution,  but  the 
rarer  virtue  of  perseverance,  to  carry  all  her  good 
intentions  into  effect,  for  many  a  week  and  month 
elapsed,  ere  she  could  fully  arrange  the  mechan- 
ism of  her  domestic  concerns.  In  truth,  it  is  no 
small  task  to  regulate  the  microcosm  of  a  house- 
hold—  to  manage  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bestow 
the  greatest  proportion  of  comfort  upon  each  indi- 
vidual—  to  divide  the  duties  of  domestics,  so  as 
to  secure  the  performance  of  business  in  its  proper 
time,  and  the  enjoyment  of  leisure  when  the  tasks 


are  over —  to  remember  and  provide  for  the  wants 
of  all — to  study  the  peculiar  tastes  of  each  —  to 
preserve  order  and  neatness  throughout  the  multi- 
farious departments  of  domestic  life — and  to  do 
all  this  without  neglecting  the  claims  of  friendship 
and  society  —  without  relinquishing  the  cultiva- 
tion of  one's  mind,  and  the  study  of  one's  own  heart 
—  without  becoming  a  mere  household  drudge.  It 
is  no  easy  task,  yet  it  may  be  done ;  the  first  steps 
in  this,  as  in  all  other  labours,  are  the  most  diffi- 
cult ;  only  employ  the  aid  of  system  in  the  begin- 
ning, and  all  may  be  fully  accomplished. 

From  "  Poems." 
THE    widow's    wooer. 

He  woos  nie  with  those  honied  words 

That  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries  that  fall 

So  sweet  on  every  ear. 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 

Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade  ; 
My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 

In  sorrow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me,  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days. 
And  whispers,  in  love's  thrilling  tones, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise  ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks, 

Some  answering  love  to  see  — 
In  vain  !  he  there  can  only  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thonghts  a\vake, 

With  every  gentle  word  ; 
How,  by  his  looks  and  tones,  the  founts 

Of  tenderness  are  stirred. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  return, 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last ; 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss, 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 

Like  lamps  in  Eastern  sepulchres. 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom, 
AfTeclion  sheds  its  holiest  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb. 
And  as  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  more 

To  upper  air,  grow  dim, 
So  my  soul's  love  is  cold  and  dead, 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 


NEVER    FORGET. 

Never  forget  the  hour  of  our  first  meeting, 
When,  mid  tlie  sounds  of  revelry  and  song. 

Only  thy  soul  could  know  that  mine  was  greeting 
Its  idol,  wished  for,  waited  for,  so  long. 

Never  forget. 

Never  forget  the  joy  of  that  revealment. 
Centring  an  age  of  bliss  in  one  sweet  hour. 

When  Love  broke  forth  from  friendship's  frail  concealment. 
And  stood  confest  to  us  in  godlike  power: 

Never  forget. 

Never  forget  my  heart's  intense  devotion. 
Its  wealth  of  freshness  at  thy  feet  flung  free  — 

Its  golden  hopes,  whelmed  in  that  boundless  ocean. 
Which  merged  all  wishes,  all  desires,  save  thee: 
Never  forget. 

Never  forget  the  moment  when  we  parted  — 
When  from  life's  summer-cloud  the  bolt  was  hurled 

That  drove  us,  scathed  in  soul  and  broken-hearted, 
Alone  to  wander  through  this  desert  world. 

Never  forget. 

656 


FA 


FA 


STANZAS. 
"  The  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work." 
Ye  who  in  the  field  of  human  life 

Ciuickening  seeils  of  wisdom  fain  would  sow, 
Pause  not  for  the  angry  tempest's  strife. 

Shrink  not  from  the  noontide's  fervid  glow, 
Labour  on,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Sheds  upon  your  path  its  blessed  ray, 

For  the  Night  cometh  I 

Ye  who  at  man's  noblest  engine  stand; 

Moulding  noble  thought  into  opinion, 
Oh  !  stay  not  for  weariness  your  hand. 

Till  ye  fix  the  bounds  of  truth's  dominion. 
Labour  on  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Sheds  upon  your  path  its  blessed  ray. 

For  the  Night  cometh  ! 

Ye  to  whom  a  prophet-voice  is  given. 

Stirring  men  as  by  a  trumpet  call : 
Utter  forth  the  oracles  of  Heaven, 

Earth  gives  back  the  echoes  as  they  fall ; 
Oh,  speak  not,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Breaks  life's  slumber  with  its  blessed  ray. 

For  the  Night  cometh! 

Ye  who  in  home's  narrow  circle  dwell. 

Feeding  love's  flame  upon  the  household  hearth, 

Weave  the  silken  bond,  and  wake  the  spell, 
Binding  heart  to  heart  throughout  the  earth  ; 

Gentle  toil  is  yours,  the  light  of  day 

On  nought  holier  sheds  its  blessed  ray. 

Yet  the  Night  cometh  ! 

Diverse  though  our  paths  in  life  may  be, 

Each  is  sent  some  mission  to  fulfil. 
Fellow-workers  in  the  world  are  we 

While  we  seek  to  do  our  Master's  will, 
But  our  doom  is  labour,  while  the  light  of  day 
Lights  us  to  our  tasks  with  blessed  ray. 

For  the  Night  cometh! 

Fellow-workers  are  we,— hour  by  hour. 

Human  tools  are  shaping  Heaven's  great  schemes, 
Till  we  see  no  limit  to  man's  power. 

And  reality  outstrips  old  dreams  : 
Toil  and  struggle,  therefore,  work  and  weep, 
III  "  God's  Acre  *  "  ye  shall  calmly  sleep. 

When  the  Night  cometh  ! 


F. 

FANTASTICI,  EOSELLINA  MASSIMINA, 
Is  an  Italian,  born  in  the  city  of  Pisa,  near  the 

close  of  the  last  century.  The  daughter  of  a  very 
accomplished  mother,  Rosellina  had,  from  mater- 
nal care,  uncommon  advantages  of  education.  She 
appeared  at  an  early  age  to  have  a  remarkable 
talent  for  miniature-painting,  and  attained  great 
excellence  in  that  art.  Her  marriage  displayed 
her  good  qualities  as  a  'wife  and  mother,  and  also 
as  the  manager  of  household  economy ;  but  these 
occupations,  though  properly  fuliilled,  do  not,  or 
need  not,  suspend  the  intellectual  improvement 
of  -women.  Madame  Fantastici  found  time  to  pur- 
sue her  painting,  until  after  the  birth  of  her  fifth 
child ;  -when  her  eyes  failing  her,  she  was  obliged 
to  give  up  entirely  the  practice  of  this  art.  She 
then  occupied  her  leisure  hours  -with  literature, 
and  obtained  the  silver  medal  from  the  Academy 
of  Pistoia  for  one  of  her  poems.  When  her  chil- 
dren were  old  enough  to  require  her  constant 
attention,  she  devoted  her  time  entirely  to  their 
education,  and  wrote  nothing  but  little  plays  and 

•    *  The  German  name  of  a  burial  ground. 
2R 


stories,  expressly  for  their  improvement.  She 
experiences  the  reward  of  these  cares  in  the  love 
and  reverence  with  which  her  children  regard  her. 
She  is  now  emancipated  from  her  duties  as  teacher, 
and  has  rettrrned  with  renewed  ardour  to  her  be- 
loved studies,  the  fruits  of  which  will  no  doubt  in 
time  enrich  the  literature  of  her  country.  Her 
published  works  are  —  "A  Collection  of  Sonnets 
and  Odes,"  "Cefale  e  Procri,"  a  poem  in  octave- 
rhyme,  and  "Four  little  plays  for  children."  She 
now  resides  in  Pisa. 


FARLEY,  HARRIET, 
Well  and  widely  known  as  editor  of  "The 
Lowell,  or  New  England  Offering,"  a  monthly 
magazine  of  industry,  the  contributors  being  fac- 
tory girls,  employed  in  the  mills  at  Lowell,  Mas- 
sachusetts. This  work  has  excited  more  interest 
in  Europe  than  any  other  written  by  American 
female  authors,  because  it  is  entirely  unparalleled 
in  the  annals  of  factory  life ;  and  in  no  country, 
except  America,  is  such  a  proof  of  female  intellect 
yet  possible.  As  one  of  the  pioneers  in  this  new 
development  of  mental  culture  and  moral  progress, 
and  the  chief  agent  by  whom  it  has  been  upheld, 
Miss  Farley  deserves  the  g9od  celebrity  she  has 
gained.  We  design  to  let  her  tell  her  own  story, 
as  it  is  impossible  to  give  so  true  an  impression 
of  her  character  by  any  other  delineation.  The 
simplicity  and  earnest  sincerity  of  spirit  in  which 
her  letter  is  written,  make  this  scrap  of  autobio- 
graphy a  model  of  its  kind.  Yet,  lest  there  might 
be  one  read&r  who  would  be  offended  by  this  open- 
hearted  sketch,  and  call  it  egotistic,  we  add,  that 
Miss  Farley  had  no  idea  that  her  language  would 
be  quoted. 

"  My  father  is  a  congregational  clergyman,  and 
at  the  time  of  my  birth  was  settled  in  the  beau- 
tiful town  of  Claremont,  in  the  state  of  New 
Hampshire.  Though  I  left  this  place  when  six 
years  of  age,  I  still  remember  its  natural  beauties, 
which  even  then  impressed  me  deeply.  The  Ash- 
cutney  Mountain,  Sugar  River,  with  its  foaming 
falls,  the  distant  hills  of  Vermont,  all  are  in  my 
memory.     My  mother  was   descended  from  the 

667 


FA 


PA 


Moodys,  som^hat  famous  in  New  England  his- 
tory. One  of  them  was  the  eccentric  and  influen- 
tial Father  Moody.  Another  was  Handkerchief 
Moody,  the  one  who  wore,  so  many  years,  '  the 
minister's  veil.'  One  was  the  well-known  Trustee 
Moody,  of  Dummer  Academy,  who  educated  my 
grandmother.  She  was  a  very  talented  and  esti- 
mable lady. 

"  My  father  was  of  the  genuine  New  Hampshire 
stock  —  from  a  family  of  pious,  industrious,  agri- 
cultural people ;  his  brothers  being  deacons,  and 
some  of  his  sisters  married  to  deacons.  I  have 
not  leai'ned  that  any  one  of  them  ever  committed 
a  disgraceful  act.  His  grandmother  was  eminent 
for  her  medical  knowledge  and  skill,  and  had  as 
much  practice  as  is  usually  given  to  a  country 
doctor.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  fine  charac- 
ter, who  exerted  herself,  and  sacrificed  much,  to 
secure  his  liberal  education.  His  sisters  were  en- 
ergetic in  their  cooperation  with  their  husbands, 
to  secure  and  improve  homes  among  the  White 
and  the  Green  Mountains,  and  Wisconsin.  So 
much  for  progenitors. 

"I  was  the  sixth  of  ten  children,  and,  until 
fourteen,  had  not  that  health  which  promises  con- 
tinued life.  I  was  asthmatic,  and  often  thought 
to  be  in  a  consumption.  I  am  fortunate  now  in 
the  possession  of  excellent  health,  which  may  be 
attributed  to  a  country  rearing,  and  an  obedience 
to  physical  laws,  so  far  as  I  understand  them. 
At  fourteen  years  of  age,  I  commenced  exertions 
to  assist  in  my  own  maintenance,  and  have  at  dif- 
ferent times  followed  the  various  avocations  of 
New  England  girls.  I  have  plaited  palm-leaf  and 
straw,  bound  shoes,  taught  school,  and  worked  at 
tailoring ;  besides  my  labours  as  a  weaver  in  the 
factory,  which  suited  me  better  than  any  other. 

"  After  my  father's  removal  to  the  little  town 
of  Atkinson,  New  Hampshire,  he  combined  the 
labours  of  preceptor  of  one  of  the  two  oldest  Aca- 
demies in  the  State  with  his  parochial  duties ;  and 
here,  among  a  simple  but  intelligent  people,  I 
spent  those  years  which  give  the  tone  to  female 
character.  At  times,  there  was  a  preceptress  to 
the  academy  ;  but  it  was  in  the  summer,  when  I 
was  debilitated,  and  my  lessons  were  often  studied 
on  my  bed.  I  learned  something  of  French,  draw- 
ing, ornamental  needle-work,  and  the  usual  ac- 
complishments ;  for  it  was  the  design  of  my  friends 
to  make  me  a  teacher  —  a  profession  for  which  I 
had  an  instinctive  dislike.  But  my  own  feelings 
were  not  consulted.  Indeed,  perhaps  it  was  not 
thought  how  much  these  were  outraged ;  but  their 
efforts  were  to  suppress  the  imaginative  and  culti- 
vate the  practical.  This  was,  undoubtedly,  whole- 
some discipline ;  but  it  was  carried  to  a  degree 
that  was  painful,  and  drove  me  from  my  home. 
I  came  to  Lowell,  determined  that  if  I  had  my 
own  living  to  obtain,  I  would  get  it  in  my  own 
way ;  that  I  would  read,  think  and  write,  when  I 
could,  without  restraint;  that  if  I  did  well,  I  would 
have  the  credit  of  it ;  if  ill,  my  friends  should  be 
relieved  from  the  blame,  if  not  from  the  stigma. 
I  endeavoured  to  reconcile  them  to  my  lot,  by  a 
devotion  of  all  my  spare  earnings  to  them  and  their 
interests.     I  made  good  wages ;  I  dressed  econo- 


mically ;  I  assisted  in  the  liberal  education  of  one 
brother ;  and  endeavoured  to  be  the  guardian 
angel  to  a  lovely  sister,  who,  after  years  of  feeble- 
ness, is  now,  perhaps,  a  guardian  angel  to  me  in 
heaven.  Twice  before  this  had  I  left  "the  mill," 
to  watch  around  the  death-beds  of  loved  ones — my 
older  sister  and  a  beautiful  and  promising  brother. 
Two  others  had  previously  died ;  two  have  left 
their  native  State  for  a  Texan  home.  So  you  will 
see  that  my  feelings  must  have  been  severely 
tried.  But  all  this  has,  doubtless,  been  beneficial 
to  me. 

"  It  was  something  so  new  to  me  to  be  praised, 
and  encouraged  to  write,  that  I  was  at  first  over- 
whelmed by  it,  and  withdrew  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  attentions  that  some  of  my  first  contri- 
butions to  the  'Ofl'ering'  directed  towards  me. 
It  was  with  great  reluctance  that  I  consented  to 
edit,  and  was  quite  as  unwilling  at  first  to  assist 
in  publishing.  But  circumstances  seem  to  have 
compelled  me  forward  as  a  business  woman,  and 
I  have  endeavoured  to  do  my  duty. 

"  I  am  now  the  proprietor  of  '  The  New  England 
Offering.'  I  do  all  the  publishing,  editing,  can- 
vassing, and,  as  it  is  bound  in  my  ofiBce,  I  can,  in 
a  hurry,  help  fold,  cut  covers,  stitch,  &c.  I  have 
a  little  girl  to  -assist  me  in  the  folding,  stitching, 
&c. ;  the  rest,  after  it  comes  from  the  printer's 
hand,  is  all  my  own  work.  I  employ  no  agents, 
and  depend  upon  no  one  for  assistance.  My  edi- 
tion is  four  thousand. 

"  These  details,  I  trust,  are  not  tedious  ;  I  have 
given  them,  because  I  thought  there  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  the  'Offering'  but  its  source, 
and  the  mode  in  which  it  was  conducted. 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  at  one  time  of  begging  you 
not  to  insert  my  name  in  your  book ;  and  was  only 
dissuaded  by  the  reflection  that  you  could  not  be 
expected  to  unearth  all  the  gems  which  may  be 
hidden  in  the  caverns  of  this  age,  or  prophesy  of 
those  who  are  to  be  famous  in  the  future,  but 
only  to  note  those  whose  names,  from  whatever 
adventitious  or  meritricious  circumstances,  have 
gone  forth",  even  if  thrown  from  the  point  of  a 
/shuttle. 

"  I  consider  myself  superior  to  many  of  my  sex, 
principally  in  qualities  where  they  all  might  equal 
me  —  in  hope,  perseverance,  content  and  kindli- 
ness." 

Thus  frankly,  but  with  true  modesty,  does  this 
singularly  gifted  young  woman  close  her  reminis- 
cences, without  one  allusion  to  her  genius,  or  a 
complaint  that  she  has  only  had  a  few  fragments 
of  time  to  give  to  the  pursuit  of  literature,  which 
is,  in  truth,  the  desire  of  her  heart. 

The  greater  portion  of  all  she  has  written  has 
appeared  in  the  "Offering;"  but  in  1847  she  se- 
lected from  these  pieces,  and  added  a  few  original, 
making  a  volume,  published  in  Boston  under  the 
title  of  "  Shells  from  the  Strand  of  the  Sea  of 
Genius."  In  the  dedication  of  this  book,  Miss 
Farley  touches  a  string  which  should  make  every 
parental  heart  vibrate — "  To  my  Father  and  Mo- 
ther, who  gave  me  that  education  which  has  enli- 
vened years  of  labour ;  and,  while  constituting 
my  own  happiness,  has  enabled  me  to  contribute 

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to  the  enjoyment  of  others."  Let  those  who  think 
education  unnecessary  for  "  operatives,"  consider 
what  it  has  done  for  Harriet  Farley,  and  what 
sweet  reward  she  has  rendered  to  those  who  train- 
ed her ! 

Indeed  we  may  truly  say,  that  few  poets,  philo- 
sophers, or  fine  writers,  have  accomplished  half 
that  has  been  effected  by  the  Editor  of  the  "  New 
England  Offering."  Without  unnecessary  flou- 
rishes, we  may  call  the  consequences  that  must 
follow  the  impulse  she  has  given  to  her  own  order, 
immense  and  wonderful.  Iler  energy,  her  exam- 
ple, her  own  life,  standing  forth  to  prove  her  theo- 
ries, have  been  of  more  value  than  a  library  of 
dissertations,  to  advance  intellectual  improvement 
and  elevated  morality  among  thousands  of  the 
young  countrywomen  of  America  now  found  in 
the  large  and  constantly  increasing  class  of  "  fac- 
tory girls."  To  submit  these  unpretending  com- 
positions, written  to  improve  the  leisure  hours  of 
actual  labour,  to  the  rules  of  priticism,  made  for 
those  who  have  been  fed  upon  learning  in  college 
halls,  or  who  have  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  lite- 
rature, art,  and  elegance,  would  be  both  foolish 
and  ungenerous.  Yet  this  "Offering,"  the  pro- 
duction wholly  of  female  operatives,  is  a  work  of 
which  any  country  might  be  justly  proud.  The 
good  sense,  good  principles,  and  useful  informa- 
tion found  in  its  pages,  prove  the  respectable,  we 
may  say,  dignified,  position  in  which  industi-y  and 
laudable  ambition  for  intellectual  culture,  may 
maintain  the  opei-ative  portion  of  our  community. 
The  shocking  pictures  English  writers  give  us  of 
factory  life  in  their  own  land,  form  a  painful  con- 
trast to  this. 

Miss  Farley  stands  at  the  head  of  her  collabora- 
teurs,  not  only  in  her  capacity  of  editor,  but  in 
her  superiority  as  a  writer ;  yet  she  has  many  and 
talented  assistants,  contributors,  who  deserve  to 
share  with  her  in  the  honour  of  this  new  litera- 
ture. "  Mind  among  the  Spindles,"  is  the  title 
given  to  a  handsome  volume,  selected  from  the 
"  Lowell  Offering,"  and  published  in  London  in 
1849.  The  English  critics  have  acknowledged 
the  merit  of  the  work,  and  also  their  astonish- 
ment at  the  intellectual  progress  which  it  proves 
the  Amei'ican  pcoj)le  to  have  made.  But  we  do  not 
rate  the  genius  displayed  in  the  "  Ofltering"  as 
constituting  a  tithe  of  its  merit.  It  is  the  moral 
goodness,  the  true  Gospel  sentiment  pervading 
every  page  which  stamps  its  inestimable  value. 
Rejecting  all  the  fashionable  isms  of  the  day,  re- 
sisting all  persuasions  from  those  who  have  striven 
to  draw  their  journal  into  the  arena  of  party, 
these  noble-minded  young  women  have  been  true 
to  their  sex  and  to  their  Saviour.  The  "  Lowell 
Offering"  was  first  issued  in  January,  1841 ;  in 
1843,  Miss  Harriet  F.  Curtis,  an  operative,  was 
associated  with  Miss  Farley  in  the  editorial  de- 
partment, in  which  she  continued  two  years.  We 
quote  the  following  sound  doctrine  from  the  pen 
of  the  former — 

"We  started  with  no  lance  or  spear  to  fight 
battles,  not  even  our  own  —  our  aim  was  '  to  ele- 
vate the  humble,  and  show  that  good  might  come 
out  even  of  Nazareth.'     Individually  we  have  no 


sentiments  or  sympathies  in  unisonnvith  that  spirit 
which  would  reform  its  neighbour  and  leave  its 
own  heart  the  abode  of  every  bitter,  malignant 
passion — which  devotes  so  much  time  to  hunting 
the  mote  in  a  brother's  eye,  that  it  has  no  time  to 
find  the  beam  in  its  own,  and  which  publishes 
upon  the  folds  of  its  banner,  that  its  aim  is,  to 
level,  not  to  elevate.  We  would  not  pull  down  the 
superior  to  the  position  of  the  more  humble,  but 
would  raise  the  humble  to  the  elevation  of  the  su- 
perior. And  this,  we  feel  assured,  can  never  be 
done  but  by  the  moral  means  of  education,  and 
the  all-pervading  influence  of  true  Christianity." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  subject  of  our  sketch. 
The  following  are  from  Miss  Farley's  writings. 

From  "  Tlie  Lowell  Offering." 
THE    WINDOW    DARKENED. 

I  had  a  lovely  view  from  my  window,  but  it  was 
not  of  a  level  landscape,  nor  a  group  of  towering 
hills  ;  it  was  neither  city  nor  country  exclusively, 
but  a  combination  of  both.  I  looked  from  the 
central  street  of  a  city  across  a  narrow  strip  of 
vacant  land,  divided  by  a  quiet  stream,  to  a  slope, 
covered  with  the  residences  of  those  who  prefer 
the  comparative  stillness  of  the  suburb  to  the 
bustle  of  the  heart  of  a  city. 

It  was  like  a  beautiful  picture  —  that  glittering 
panorama  —  when  the  sunshine  flashed  back  from 
the  whitened  dwellings,  as  they  rose  one  above 
another  upon  the  green  amphitheatre  —  the  man- 
sions moi-e  distinct  and  more  splendid  as  they  ap- 
proached the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  but  two  or 
three  magnificent  dwellings  graced  like  a  radiant 
crown  its  verdant  brow.  Yes,  it  was  beautiful  in 
the  glorious  sunlight,  when  countless  windows 
flashed  forth  a  diamond  radiance,  but  just  ns 
lovely,  though  more  subdued  in  the  influence  of 
its  charms,  in  the  grey  twilight,  or  at  eve,  or 
moonlit  night. 

I  have  watched  the  footsteps  of  Night,  as  she 
crept  slowly  up  the  hill,  her  dark  shadow  falling 
before  her,  until  the  roof-tree  of  the  highest  man- 
sion lay  hid  beneath  her  shroud.  And  then  the 
moon,  like  a  gentle  conqueror,  stole  placidly  above 
the  brightening  horizon,  and  Night  awoke  to  smiles 
and  peace.  She  lifted  her  shroud  from  the  fair 
earth,  and  a  gentle  day  had  dawned  upon  the 
world.  Another  day  —  yes,  for  that  was  no  time 
to  sleep — it  was  no  night — while  so  soft,  so  exqui- 
site a  brilliance  bathed  that  congregated  mass  of 
life  and  beauty. 

My  window  !  —  it  was  my  only  constant  compa- 
nion. It  told  me  of  sunshine  and  of  storm ;  it 
heralded  the  morn,  and  warned  me  of  the  waning 
light  of  day.  It  gave  me,  gratis,  a  ticket  to  that 
picture-gallery,  where  my  eye  wandered  on  an  in- 
voluntary, though  oft-repeated,  tour  of  pleasure. 

My  window !  — it  has  taught  me  much  in  quiet 
pantomime;  and  its  lessons  did  not  weary,  for 
they  were  ever  varying,  and  ever  new. 

My  window  ! — it  gave  me  light  for  constant  oc- 
cupations —  it  gave  me  daily  bread  with  the  plea- 
sure and  instruction  which  it  afforded  me,  and  my 
icindow  teas  to  be  darkened. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  narrow  waste  beyond  the 

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stream.  My  window  told  me  that  there  was  to  be 
laid  the  foundation  of  a  mighty  structure.  It  was 
a  sad  tale  to  hear,  but,  as  if  to  make  amends,  my 
window  each  day  exhibited  an  active,  bustling  and 
novel  scene,  such  as  it  had  not  shown  me  before. 
There  were  shouting  crowds  of  men,  digging  deep 
the  trenches  for  the  foundation  stones,  and  boats 
came  up  the  monotonous  stream  with  the  solid 
granite  for  their  freight.  This  continued  so  long 
that  I  almost  wearied  of  my  window's  show;  but 
after  a  time  it  was  over,  and  the  walls  were  com- 
menced. Now  boats  came  up  the  stream  laden 
with  brick,  and  huge  red  piles  arose  upon  its 
banks.  The  red  walls  arose  —  red,  the  colour  of 
the  conqueror  —  and  they  proclaimed  a  victory 
over  my  pleasures.  With  one  story  of  the  great 
fabric  was  screened  from  me  whole  streets  of  plea- 
sant dwellings.  The  early  sum-ise  was  gone — the 
blush  of  morn — those  brilliant  clouds,  the  orphans 
of  departed  Night,  and  happy  wards  of  coming 
day.  The  first  soft  glance  of  moonlight  was  for- 
ever hid,  and  it  seemed  as  though  my  best  trea- 
sures were  taken  from  me.  But  I  clung  more 
fervently  to  those  which  were  left,  and  the  more 
tenaciously  as  I  saw  them  departing.  This  beau- 
tiful dwelling,  and  that  majestic  tree,  were  never 
to  me  so  lovely  as  when  they  were  shut  from  my 
window's  view.  Then  I  began  to  measure  with 
my  eye  the  scene,  and  to  calculate  how  long  I 
should  retain  this  or  that  beauty,  and  what  might 
remain  at  the  last.  The  church  spire  —  that  I 
should  always  have  —  and  those  highest  houses, 
and  the  brow  of  the  hill.  But  no !  I  had  not  cal- 
culated wisely.  They  began  to  recede  from  me — 
for  the  huge  building  rose  still  higher  and  higher. 
Men  walked  around  the  scaffoldings,  as  of  old  they 
patrolled  the  ramparts  of  some  giant  castle,  and 
at  night  the  unfinished  walls,  relieved  against  the 
dark  sky,  might  well  remind  a  reader  of  romance 
of  the  descriptions  of  ancient  chateaux,  with  their 
high  massive  turreted  walls. 

Higher,  higher  still,  arose  the  fabric.  The 
mansions  were  gone  —  the  church  —  the  brow  of 
the  hill — and  at  last  the  very  tip  of  the  spire  was 
taken  from  me.  Oh  !  how  was  my  window  dark- 
ened !  —  but  not  quite  dark,  for  there  still  was 
light  from  the  skies  above. 

And  thus,  methought,  it  is  in  life.  We  look, 
with  the  eye  of  youth,  through  Hope's  magical 
window,  upon  a  fair  world.  Earth  lies  like  a 
glorious  panorama  before  us.  Our  own  path  leads 
on  at  first  like  the  crowded  street,  amidst  the  hum 
of  business,  but  it  soon  stretches  forward  to  the 
place  where  lie  combined  the  pleasures  and  leisure 
of  the  country.  Yes,  our  anticipated  life  seems 
like  that  brilliant  amphitheatre,  crowded  and  ex- 
citing at  first,  but  more  quiet,  more  imposing  and 
beautiful,  as  we  look  upward.  The  minor  details 
of  the  scenery  are  not  carefully  scanned.  We  look 
not  at  the  narrow  dusty  paths  through  which  we 
must  trace  our  steps,  nor  at  the  stones  against 
which  we  may  often  dash  our  feet,  nor  the  intru- 
ders who  will  dispute  our  way.  We  consider  not 
that  we  may  falter,  or  faint,  or  fall ;  and  there  is 
always  at  the  top  of  the  hill  some  mansion  which 
is  to  us  the  temple  of  riches,  fame  and  pleasure. 


But  while  we  look  upon  the  scene,  it  sinks  from 
our  view.  The  stern  realities  of  life  arise  before 
us  like  the  brick-built  wall,  and  we  see  the  prose 
where  we  have  before  but  witnessed  the  poetry  of 
this  world's  scenes. 

We  know  that  our  pleasures  are  passing  away  — 
that  our  window  is  darkening  —  but  we  think  that 
the  tallest  trees,  the  highest  mansions,  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  will  yet  be  left.  But  sterner  and  higher 
still  arises  the  wall  before  us.  One  hope  after 
another  is  gone — one  pleasure  after  another  has 
been  taken  away —  one  image  after  another,  which 
has  been  lovely  to  our  eye,  and  dear  to  our  heai-t, 
has  forever  disappeared.  The  church-spire,  with 
its  heaven-pointing  finger,  leaves  us  last.  But 
finally  it  has  been  taken,  and  we  must  turn  to 
whatever  temple  we  may  have  prepared  within. 

How  has  the  scene  changed!  How  is  our  win- 
dow darkened !  Yet  we  grope  not  in  utter  dark- 
ness, for  there  still  is  light  from  the  heavens  above. 
We  are  subdued  —  with  hearts  rightly  attuned  not 
miserable.  We  look  forward  less,  but  upward 
more.  AVe  are  more  peaceful,  if  less  joyful ;  and 
we  transfer  the  bright  pictures,  which  the  window 
has  daguerreotyped  upon  our  memories,  to  another 
and  more  enduring  world.  We  think  that  had  the 
wall  been  still  higher  —  had  it  encircled  us  yet 
more  closely,  there  would  still  have  been  light 
above ;  and,  unless,  Heaven  itself  is  shut  from  our 
view,  there  will  be  bright  starbeams,  and  calm 
moonlight,  and  blessed  sunshine,  coming  down, 
and  struggling  towards  us  through  the  darkened 
window. 

DEAL    GENTLY. 

"  Can  you  name  her  now  so  lightly ! 
Once  tife  idol  of  you  all :  — 
When  a  star  has  shone  so  brightly, 
Can  you  glory  in  its  fall?"  T.  Moore. 

There  were  loud  voices  in  Madam  Bradshaw's 
little  sitting-room :  tones  of  anger,  derision,  and 
reproach,  uttering  words  of  detraction.  Madam 
sat  silently  listening  to  her  young  visitors,  but 
her  brow  contracted,  and  her  lips  compressed,  as 
harsh  feelings  seemed  to  strengthen  by  an  open 
expression  of  them.  She  remembered  that  just 
one  year  before  this  Sophy  Melton  had  come  to 
visit  her,  with  the  same  young  ladies  who  were 
now  paying  her  their  annual  visit. 

Madam  Bradshaw  was  the  widow  of  the  old  vil- 
lage clergyman ;  who,  when  he  died,  left  her  j^oor, 
though  not  destitute.  In  the  parish  she  had  been 
much  respected  and  beloved,  and  there  was  no 
fear  that  ISIadam  would  ever  be  left  to  want,  among 
so  many  friends.  They  had  a  very  delicate  way 
of  bestowing  their  bounty,  and  made  several  an- 
nual parties  ;  when  they  went  to  the  old  parson- 
age always  "carrying  their  welcome."  The  chil- 
dren went  when  her  cherries  were  ripe  ;  the  mar- 
ried ladies,  at  Thanksgiving  time,  bringing  their 
bounties  ;  the  elderly  spinsters  —  considerate  souls 
— just  after  Fast,  and  did  her  spring  cleaning  for 
her,  and  replenished  her  exhausted  winter  stores. 
The  misses  came  when  her  roses  were  in  blossom, 
and  her  front  garden  was  one  little  wilderness  of 
fragrant  beauty.     Then  they  did  up  her  summer 

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caps,  collars,  and  neckerchiefs,  and  saw  that  her 
wardrobe  needed  no  addition. 

Among  those  who  came  with  the  roses,  "  her- 
self a  fairer  flower,"  had  been  Sophy  Melton  ;  but 
this  year  she  was  absent,  and  Madam  missed  lier 
bright  smile  and  sweet  voice.  The  morning  was 
busily  passed  by  the  girls  in  washing,  starching, 
and  ironing  —  the  afternoon  in  mending  and  mak- 
ing for  the  good  old  lady. 

But  now  the  sewing  was  all  done,  the  tea-table 
had  been  nicely  cleared  away,  and,  as  twilight 
came  on,  the  girls  sat  in  the  old  parlour  talking  of 
their  past  and  future  annual  visits.  How  they 
loved  this  old  room — the  old  pictures  in  their 
heavy  frames  —  the  dark  mahogany,  polished  to 
the  brightness  of  crystal  —  the  worn  and  faded  but 
spotless  carpet,  the  old  china,  as  perfect  as  ever  — 
the  well  kept  silver,  and  her  store  of  curiosities, 
as  curious  as  ever.  Then  there  were  her  por- 
traits, upon  which  they  all  loved  to  gaze.  There 
was  the  old  pastor  himself,  looking  at  them  from 
the  canvass  as  benignly  as  he  had  ever  done  from 
the  pulpit.  There  was  the  son,  who  had  gone  a 
missionary  to  foreign  lands,  and  left  name  and 
fame,  if  nought  else,  to  his  fond  mother.  There 
was  the  noble  boy,  too,  who  left  his  mother  for  a 
long  voyage  to  the  Arctic  seas,  and  was  never 
heard  of  more.  There  was  the  mild  but  steadfast 
daughter,  who  had  gone  to  the  far  West,  and  laid 
down  her  life  in  that  home  missionary  enterprise, 
the  education  of  the  young.  The  girls  loved  to 
look  upon  those  relics,  and  feel,  awakening  in 
themselves,  aspirations  for  that  excellence  which 
had  been  embodied  and  lived  by  those  who  had 
now  passed  away. 

Perhaps  they  imagined  they  were  showing  re- 
spect for  virtue  by  their  severe  remarks  upon 
Sophy  Melton ;  but  Madam  Bradshaw  was  evi- 
dently displeased.     At  length  she  spoke  : 

"  Can  you  name  her  now  so  lightly  ?"  &c. 

The  girls  were  abashed  for  a  moment. 

But  Caroline  Freeman  replied,  "  Ma'  Bradshaw, 
I  have  not  yet  spoken ;  but  I  have  not  attempted 
to  stop  my  friends,  for  it  has  always  appeared  to 
me  that  the  reproach  of  the  good  was  but  the  just 
penalty  for  this  violation  of  the  laws  of  virtue. 
Sophy's  error  has  not  brought  upon  her  poverty, 
pain,  or  any  diminution  of  the  physical  enjoyments 
of  life.  If  her  friends  must  still,  from  motives  of 
compassion  or  philanthropy,  countenance  her, 
where  is  the  punishment  society  should  inflict  for 
contempt  of  its  opinions  ?" 

"  I  asked  you  not  to  countenance  her,  or  asso- 
ciate with  her,  not  to  speak  lightly  of  her  sin,  or 
accustom  yourselves  to  think  of  it  as  a  venial 
error ;  but,  my  dear  girls,  I  only  beg  of  you  to 
deal  gently.  Let  compassion,  rather  than  resent- 
ment, influence  your  thoughts  of  her.  I  have  seen 
anger  where  I  would  have  beheld  grief.  More- 
over, may  there  not  be  too  much  self-confidence 
exhibited  in  such  remarks  ?  You  place  yourselves 
among  the  good.  Sophy  has  perhaps  once  thought 
herself  as  good,  as  safe  as  either  of  you.  She  was 
the  most  beautiful,  the  most  fascinating  of  you  all, 
therefore,  the  most  tried  and  tempted.     Be  not 


angry  with  me,  when  I  bid  you  ask  yourselves 
whether  there  is  not  a  little  gratified  envy  in  all 
these  aspersions  of  your  fallen  sister;  whether 
there  is  not  a  slight  feeling  of  triumph,  that  the 
first  has  now  become  the  last ;  that  she  who  was 
greatest  is  now  the  least  among  you?" 

"  0,  Ma'  Bradshaw  !  deal  gently  with  us.  We 
never  envied  her ;  we  were  proud  that  one  so 
beautiful,  and,  as  we  thought,  so  good,  was  of  our 
little  band.  We  do  not  rejoice,  we  mourn  that  the 
most  beautiful  star  is  lost  from  our  little  constel- 
lation. But,  how  are  we  to  show  our  hatred  of 
wickedness,  unless  we  speak  severely  of  sin? 
Were  we  to  speak  mildly  of  this  fault,  might  we 
not  be  misunderstood  ?  You  must  remember  that 
our  principles  have  not  been  tested  by  a  long  life, 
as  our  dear  Ma'  Bradshaw's  have  been." 

"  My  dear  girls,"  said  Madam,  "do  not  think 
there  is  no  better  way  of  showing  your  detestation 
of  sin  than  by  reproach  or  vituperation  of  the  fel- 
low-being who  has  fallen  into  it.  Keep  your  own 
garments  spotless,  your  own  hearts  clean,  your 
own  hands  unstained,  and  then  fear  not  that  your 
commiseration  of  the  sinful  and  guilty  will  ever 
be  misunderstood  —  that  pity  will  be  mistaken  for 
sympathy,  that  kindness  will  be  thought  weakness. 
Never  fear,  with  a  clear  conscience  and  a  firm 
heart,  to  deal  gently. 

FERRIER,  MARY, 
Was  born  in  Edinburgh.  Her  father,  James 
Ferrier,  Esq.,  was  a  writer  to  the  Signet,  "one  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  brethren  of  the  clerk's  table;" 
and  the  great  novelist,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
"Tales  of  my  Landlord,"  alluded  to  his  "sister 
shadow,"  the  author  of  "  the  very  lively  work  en- 
titled Marriage,"  as  one  of  the  labourers  capable 
of  gathering  in  the  large  harvest  of  Scottish  cha- 
racter and  fiction.  In  his  private  diary.  Sir  Walter 
has  thus  jotted  down  his  reminiscences  of  Miss 
Ferrier:  —  "She  is  a  gifted  personage,  having, 
besides  her  great  talents,  conversation  the  least 
exigeante  of  any  author,  female  at  least,  whom  I 
have  ever  seen,  among  the  long  list  I  have  encoun- 
tered ;  simple,  full  of  humour,  and  exceedingly 
ready  at  repartee ;  and  all  this  without  the  least 
aS"ectation  of  the  blue-stocking."  Commenting  on 
this,  Mr.  Chambers,  in  his  "  Cycloptedia  of  Lite- 
rature," thus  endorses  the  opinion  of  the  great 
novelist:  —  "  This  is  high  praise;  but  the  readers 
of  Miss  Ferrier's  novels  will  at  once  recognise  it 
as  characteristic,  and  exactly  what  they  would 
have  anticipated.  Miss  Ferrier  is  a  Scottish  Miss 
Edgeworth — of  a  lively,  practical,  penetrating  cast 
of  mind ;  skilful  in  depicting  character,  and  seizing 
upon  national  peculiarities ;  caustic  in  her  wit  and 
humour,  with  a  quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous  ;  and 
desirous  of  inculcating  sound  morality  and  atten- 
tion to  the  courtesies  and  charities  of  life.  la 
some  passages,  indeed,  she  evinces  a  deep  reli- 
gious feeling,  approaching  to  the  evangelical  views 
of  Hannah  More ;  but  the  general  strain  of  her 
writing  relates  to  the  foibles  and  oddities  of  man- 
kind, and  no  one  has  drawn  them  with  greater 
breadth  of  comic  humour  or  etfect.  Her  scenes 
often  resemble  the  style  of  our  best  old  comedies, 

661 


F£ 


FE 


and  she  may  boast,  like  Foote,  of  adding  many 
new  and  original  characters  to  the  stock  of  our 
comic  literature.'' 

"Marriage."  the  first  work  of  Miss  Ferrier,  was 
published  in  1818.  '•  The  Inheritance"  appeared 
in  1824,  and  "  Destiny,  or  the  Chief's  Daughter," 
in  1831  —  all  novels  in  three  volumes  each,  ft  is 
I'ather  strange  that,  as  all  these  works  were  suc- 
cessful, the  author  has  never  tried  another  venture 
in  literature.  She  resides  chiefly  in  Edinburgh, 
where  she  is  highly  honoured.  Mr.  Chambers, 
from  whom  we  have  before  quoted,  pays  a  just  and 
elegant  ti'ibute  to  her  genius  ;  his  opinion  of  her 
merits  coincides  entirely  with  our  own,  and  as  be 
is  the  best  judge  of  her  Scotticisms,  we  subjoin 
his  remarks. 

"  Miss  Ferrier's  first  work  is  a  complete  gallei'y 
of  new  and  original  characters.  .  The  plot  is  very 
inartificial ;  but  after  the  first  twenty  pages,  when 
Douglas  conducts  his  pampered  and  selfish  Lady 
Juliana  to  Glenfern  castle,  the  interest  never  flags. 
The  three  maiden  aunts  at  Glenfern — Miss  Jacky, 
who  was  all  over  sense,  the  universal  manager  and 
detector,  Miss  Grizzy,  the  letter-writer,  and  Miss 
Nicky,  who  was  not  wanting  for  sense  either,  are 
an  inimitable  family  group.  Mrs.  Violet  j\Iac- 
shake,  the  last  remaining  branch  of  the  noble  race 
of  Girnachgowl,  is  a  representative  of  the  old  hard- 
featured,  close-handed,  proud,  yet  kind-hearted 
Scottish  matron,  vigorous  and  sarcastic  at  the  age 
of  ninety,  and  despising  all  modern  manners  and 
innovations.  Then  there  is  the  sentimental  Mrs. 
Gaffaw,  who  had  weak  nerves  and  headaches ;  was 
above  managing  her  house,  read  novels,  dyed  rib- 
bons, and  altered  her  gowns  according  to  every 
pattern  she  could  see  or  hear  of.  There  is  a  shade 
of  caricature  in  some  of  these  female  portraits,  not- 
withstanding the  explanation  of  the  authoress  that 
they  lived  at  a  time  when  Scotland  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  is  now  —  when  female  educa- 
tion was  little  attended  to,  even  in  families  of  the 
highest  rank ;  and,  consequently,  the  ladies  of 
those  days  possessed  a  raciness  in  their  manners 
and  ideas  that  we  should  vainly  seek  for  in  this 
age  of  cultivation  and  refinement.  It  is  not  only, 
liowever,  in  satirizing  the  foibles  of  her  own  sex 
that  Miss  Ferrier  displays  such  original  talent 
and  humour.  Dr.  Redgill,  a  medical  hanger-on 
and  diner-out,  is  a  gourmand  of  the  first  class, 
who  looks  upon  bad  dinners  to  be  the  source  of 
much  of  the  misery  we  hear  of  in  the  married 
life,  and  who  compares  a  woman's  rej^utation  to 
a  beefsteak — 'if  once  breathed  upon,  'tis  good 
for  nothing.'  Many  sly  satirical  touches  occur 
throughout  the  work.  In  one  of  Miss  Grizzy's 
letters,  we  hear  of  a  Major  MacTavish,  of  the 
militia,  who,  independent  of  his  rank,  which 
Grizzy  thought  was  very  high,  distinguished  him- 
self, and  showed  the  greatest  bravery  once  when 
there  was  a  very  serious  riot  about  the  raising  the 
potatoes  a  penny  a  peck,  when  there  was  no  occa- 
sion for  it,  in  the  town  of  Dunoon.  AVe  are  told, 
also,  that  country  visits  should  seldom  exceed 
three  days  —  the  rest  day,  the  dressed  day,  and  the 
pressed  day.  There  is  a  great  shrewdness  and 
knowledge  of  human   nature  in  the   manner  in 


which  the  three  aunts  got  over  their  sorrow  for 
the  death  of  their  father,  the  old  laird.  '  They 
sighed  and  mourned  for  a  time,  but  soon  found 
occupation  congenial  to  their  nature  in  the  little 
department  of  life:  dressing  crape;  reviving  black 
silk ;  converting  naiTow  hems  into  broad  hems ; 
and,  in  short,  who  so  busy,  so  important,  as  the 
ladies  of  Glenfern  V ' 

"Aware,  perhaps,  of  the  defective  outline  or 
story  of  her  first  novel,  Miss  Ferrier  has  bestowed 
much  more  i^ains  on  the  construction  of  the  '  In- 
hei'itance.'  It  is  too  complicated  for  an  analysis 
in  this  place  ;  but  we  may  mention  that  it  is  con- 
nected with  high  life  and  a  wide  range  of  cha- 
I'acters,  the  heroine  being  a  young  lady  born  in 
France,  and  heiress  to  a  splendid  estate  and  peer- 
age in  Scotland,  to  which,  after  various  adven- 
tures and  reverses,  she  finally  succeeds.  The  tale 
is  well  arranged  and  developed.  Its  chief  attrac- 
tion, however,  consists  in  the  delineation  of  cha- 
racters. Uncle  Adam  and  Miss  Pratt — the  former 
a  touchy,  sensitive,  rich  East  Indian,  and  the  latter 
another  of  Miss  Ferrier's  inimitable  old  maids  — 
are  among  the  best  of  the  portraits ;  but  the 
canvass  is  full  of  happy  and  striking  sketches. 
'  Destiny'  is  connected  with  Highland  scenery  and 
Highland  manners,  but  is  far  from  romantic. 
Miss  Ferrier  is  as  human  and  as  discerning  in  her 
tastes  and  researches  as  Miss  Edgeworth.  The 
chief,  Glenroy,  is  proud  and  irascible,  spoiled  by 
the  fawning  of  his  inferiors,  and  in  his  family 
circle  is  generous  without  kindness,  and  profuse 
without  benevolence.  The  Highland  minister,  Mr. 
Duncan  MacDow,  is  an  amiable  character,  though 
no  very  prepossessing  specimen  of  the  country 
pastor,  and,  either  in  his  single  or  married  state, 
is  sufl5ciently  amusing.  Edith,  the  heroine,  is  a 
sweet  and  gentle  creation,  and  there  is  strong 
feeling  and  passion  in  some  of  the  scenes.  In  the 
case  of  masculine  intellects,  like  those  of  the  au- 
thoress of  '  Marriage'  and  the  great  Irish  novelist, 
the  progress  of  years  seems  to  impart  greater 
softness  and  sensibility,  and  call  forth  all  the 
gentler  afi"ections." 

From  "  Destiny;  or,  the  Chief's  Daughter." 
A    BUSTLING    WIFE. 

Why  jMr.  Malcolm  had  married  Mrs.  Malcolm 
was  one  of  those  mysteries  which  had  baffled  all 
conjecture,  for  she  had  neither  beauty,  money, 
connexions,  talents,  accomplishments,  nor  common 
sense.  Not  that  she  was  ugly,  for  she  would  have 
looked  very  well  in  a  toy-shop  window.  She  had 
pink  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  and  a  set  of  neat  yellow 
curls  ranged  round  her  brow.  She  was  much 
younger  than  her  husband,  and  looked  still  more 
juvenile  than  she  reallj'  was,  for  not  all  the  con- 
tempt and  obloquy  that  had  been  poured  upon  her 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years  had  ever  made  her 
change  either  countenance  or  colour ;  in  fact,  she 
had  neither  passions,  feelings,  nei-ves  —  scarcely 
sensations.  She  seemed  precisely  one  of  those 
whom  nature  had  destined  to  "suckle  fools  and 
chronicle  small-beer;"  but  fate  had  denied  her 
the  fools,  and  Inch  Orran  had  debarred  her  from 
all  interference  even  with  the  small-beer ;  for  such 

662 


FE 


FE 


was  his  contempt  for  the  sex  in  general,  and  for 
his  own  portion  of  it  in  particular,  that  he  deemed 
a  woman  quite  incompetent  to  regulate  a  house- 
hold. His  domestic  concerns  were  therefore  con- 
ducted ostensibly  by  himself,  but  virtually  by  his 
fat  serving-man,  who  was  his  foster-brother,  and 
had  been  his  factotum  long  before  he  married. 
Even  his  dress,  to  the  most  minute  article,  was 
all  of  Simon's  providing.  Simon  alone  knew  to  a 
hair  the  cut  and  colour  of  his  wig,  the  pattern  of 
his  pocket-handkerchiefs,  the  texture  of  his  shirts 
and  neckcloths,  the  precise  latitude  and  longitude 
of  his  flannel  waistcoats,  with  various  other  par- 
ticulars incident  to  a  particular  man.  Now,  the 
chief  occupation  of  ]Mrs.  Malcolm's  life  was  trail- 
ing from  shop  to  shop,  in  search  of  anything  or 
nothing,  and  she  would  have  liked  to  have  the 
dressing  of  Mr.  Malcolm  for  the  pleasure  of  buy- 
ing bargains  for  him.  She  had  therefore  attempted 
to  wrest  this  privilege  out  of  Simon's  hands,  but 
in  vain;  she  had  picked  up  a  pennyworth  of  a  wig, 
which  she  said  "looked  remarkably  neat  on  the 
bead,"  but  which  Simon  turned  up  his  nose  at, 
and  his  master  threw  into  the  fire.  She  had  hag- 
gled till  she  was  hoarse  about  a  dozen  of  cotton 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  which,  after  all,  Simon  pro- 
nounced to  be  perfectly  useless,  as  they  were  of 
the  diamond  pattern,  and  his  master  would  not 
blow  his  nose  with  anything  but  a  spot.  Her  im- 
provements upon  flannel  jackets  had  very  nearly 
caused  a  formal  separation,  and  from  that  time 
her  active  energies  not  being  permitted  to  exercise 
themselves  either  upon  her  household  affairs  or 
her  husband's  wardrobe,  had  centered  entirely  in 
her  own  person.  She  lived  in  a  perpetual,  weak, 
impotent  bustle  about  nothing,  spent  her  money 
in  buying  hoards  of  useless  clothes,  and  her  time 
in  looking  at  them,  folding  and  unfolding  them, 
airing  them,  locking  them  up,  protecting  them 
from  the  moths  in  summer,  and  mildew  in  winter, 
and  so  on.  To  crown  the  whole,  she  set  up  for 
being  a  sensible  woman,  and  talked  maudlin  non- 
sense by  the  yard ;  for  she  was  one  of  those  who 
would  ask  if  the  sea  produced  corn,  rather  than 
hold  her  tongue.  Here  it  may  be  remarked,  that 
it  requires  a  great  deal  of  mind  to  be  silent  at  the 
right  time  and  place.  True,  there  are  some  few 
gifted  individuals,  whose  conversation  flows  like  a 
continued  stream,  fertilizing  all  around,  enriching 
others  without  impoverishing  themselves  ;  but  how 
different  from  the  idle  chatter  of  empty  heads, 
whose  only  sounds  are  caused  by  their  own  hol- 
lowness  !  "Two  things  there  are  indicative  of  a 
weak  mind,"  says  Saadi,  the  Persian  sage,  "  to  be 
silent  when  it  is  proper  to  speak,  and  to  apeak 
when  it  is  proper  to  be  silent."  Such  was  the 
helpmate  of  Inch  Orran. 

"  I  am  happy  to  see  you,  gentlemen,"  said  she, 
in  her  little  tiresome  croaking  voice;  "indeed  I 
am  thankful  to  see  anybody,  for  this  is  such  a 
lonely  out-of-the-way  place.  I  was  just  saying 
this  morning,  what  an  improvement  a  town  would 
be  on  the  water-side ;  it  would  be  a  great  orna- 
ment, and  of  great  use  in  making  a  stir,  and  giv- 
ing employment  to  poor  people,  and  very  conve- 
nient too.     I  'm  surprised  it  has  never  struck  any 


body  to  set  such  a  thing  a-going,  when  there  's 
such  a  want  of  employment  for  the  poor." 

"  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,  you  know, 
ma'am,"  said  the  facetious  Mr.  M'Dow,  with  one 
of  his  loud  laughs  :  "  but  if  you  will  use  your  in- 
fluence with  Inch  Orran,  and  prevail  upon  liim  to 
begin,  there  's  no  saying  where  it  may  end" — an- 
other peal  —  "  and  I  hope  the  kirk  and  the  manse 
will  not  be  forgot.  Inch  Orran." 

"Still  less  the  stipend,  sir,"  said  Inch  OiTan, 
with  one  of  his  vicious  sneers. 

"I'll  answer  for  it  the  stipend  will  no  get  leave 
to  be  forgot,"  returned  the  incorrigible  Mr.  M'Dow, 
with  one  of  his  loudest  roars ;  "  you  may  trust  the 
minister  for  keeping  you  in  mind  of  that." 

"I  believe  I  may,  sir." 

"And  let  it  be  a  good  one  at  the  first.  Inch 
Orran,  that  he  may  not  have  such  a  battle  to  fight 
for  his  augmentation  as  I  have  had.  I  really 
think  the  Teind  Court  has  taken  an  entire  wrong- 
view  of  the  subject  there,  or  they  would  have 
given  me  the  decreet  at  once.  You  '11  no  go  along 
with  me  there,  Glenroy." 

But  Glenroy  disdained  to  reply;  so  the  littU' 
old  man  said,  "  It  was  the  saying,  sir,  of  one  of 
the  wisest  judges  who  ever  sat  upon  the  Scottisli 
bench,  that  a  poor  clergy  made  a  pure  clergy  —  a 
maxim  which  deserves  to  be  engraven  in  letters 
of  gold  on  every  manse  in  Scotland." 

"Deed,  then,  I  can  tell  you,  Inch  Orran,  tlie 
gold  would  be  very  soon  picket  ofi","  returned  Mr. 
M'Dow,  with  redoubled  bursts  of  laughter.  "  Sa, 
na,  you  must  keep  the  gold  for  your  fine  English 
Episcopalian  palaces,  where  it 's  no  so  scarce  as 
it 's  among  us  ;"  and  Mr.  M'Dow  perfectly  revelled 
in  the  delight  of  this  jcu  d' esprit.  Mrs.  Malcolm 
now  struck  in.  "  I  'm  quite  tormented  with  these 
midges.  I  don't  think  they  '11  leave  the  skin  upon 
me.     I  wish  they  would  bite  you,  IMr.  Malcolm." 

SUNDAY. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday — day  of  rest  to  the 
poor  and  the  toil-worn  —  of  weariness  to  the  rich 
and  the  idle.  Ah !  little  do  they  enter  intO'  tlie 
feelings  of  many  who  look  forward  to  this  day  as 
the  day  when  even  the  "  wicked  cease  from  trou- 
bling, and  the  weary  are  at  rest,"  as  the  day  bless- 
ed and  hallowed  to  those  on  whom  rests,  in  its  full 
force,  the  primeval  command,  "  Six  days  shall 
thou  labour ;"  and  which  makes  the  Sabbath  lovely 
in  the  sight 

"  Of  blessed  angels,  pitying  human  cares  ;" 

as  the  day  when  heavenly  truths  are  proclaimed 
alike  to  all  from  the  prince  to  the  beggar ;  from 
the  man  of  grey  hairs  standing  on  tlie  threshold 
of  the  grave,  to  the  young  who  have  lately  entered 
the  arena  of  this  life  ; — there,  in  the  house  of  God, 
"  the  rich  and  the  poor  meet  together ;"  and  there 
they  are  reminded  of  those  impressive  truths,  so 
humbling  to  the  haughty,  so  elevating  to  the  lowly 
— "  that  the  Lord  is  the  maker  of  them  all,"  and 
that  one  day  they  shall  stand  before  his  judgment- 
seat,  without  respect  of  persons,  to  "receive  tiiv 
reward  of  the  deeds  done  in  the  body."  On  that 
day,  how  many  a  sorrowing  heart  ean  Hiore  fref>y 

COS 


FE 

pour  forth  its  griefs  to  that  gracious  ear  ■which  is 
ever  open  to  the  cry  of  the  afflicted ! 

DISAPPOINTED    lOVE. 

And  now  Edith  felt  as  though  her  destiny  was 
sealed.  Never  more,  did  it  seem,  could  her  heart 
awaken  to  the  love  of  aught  that  life  could  be- 
stow. The  idol  her  imagination  had  fashioned 
had  fallen ;  but  even  while  it  lay  in  shivers  at  her 
feet,  still  her  fond,  credulous  heart  had  uncon- 
sciously hovered  amid  the  broken  fragments,  in 
the  vain  hope  that  the  image  it  had  so  adored 
might  again  rise,  to  receive  the  homage  of  a  still 
enslaved  soul.  But  now  it  had  turned  to  very  dust 
and  ashes  in  her  sight  —  now  the  illusion  was  dis- 
pelled, and  the  selfish,  hollow  character  of  her 
lover  appeared  in  its  true  colours.  It  was  then  a 
purer  light  dawned  upon  the  darkness  of  her 
spirit.  She  now  discerned  that  the  image  of  the 
creature  had  held  that  place  in  her  heart,  and 
exercised  that  sway  over  her  mind  which  belonged 
only  to  the  Creator.  The  enchantment  of  life  was 
then  indeed  dissolved,  but  what  heir  of  immor- 
tality would  wish  to  remain  the  dupe  of  this 
world's  enchantments  ? 

*  *  *  »  * 

Edith  felt  as  all  must  feel,  more  or  less,  at  the 
breaking  of  so  dear  and  sacred  a  tie.  Friendship 
and  love,  dear  and  holy  affections  as  they  may  be, 
are  the  affections  we  ourselves  have  formed  and 
chosen — we  can  look  back  upon  the  time  when  as 
yet  they  were  not,  and  their  existence  was  not 
linked  with  ours ;  but  from  the  first  dawn  of  con- 
sciousness, it  was  a  parent's  love  that  beamed 
upon  our  hearts,  and  awakened  all  their  best  and 
holiest  sympathies.  Friends  may  meet  as  stran- 
gers—  the  tenderest  bands  of  love,  even  wedded 
love,  maybe  broken  —  but  'tis  God  himself  who 
has  formed  that  one  indissoluble  bond  which  nei- 
ther human  power  nor  human  frailty  ever  can 
dissolve. 

SUDDEN    POVEETY. 

It  is  not  those  who  have  been  born  and  bred  in 
affluence  who  can  all  at  once  comprehend  the  na- 
ture of  absolute  poverty  —  those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  will  their  every  gratification  can  ill 
conceive  the  privations  of  want  —  the  shifts  and 
expedients  of  fallen  fortune — the  difficulty  which 
the  mind  has  to  contract  its  desires,  and  the  habits 
of  self-indulgence  and  luxury  which  have  to  be 
overcome  or  annihilated ;  in  short,  no  things  differ 
more  than  abstract  and  actual  poverty. 

SECOND    LOVE. 

How  like  a  dream,  a  vision  of  the  night,  did 
this  brief  and  passing  scene  appear  to  Edith  !  — 
Again  and  again  she  asked  herself,  could  it  be  that 
the  lost,  the  lamented,  had  thus,  as  it  were,  started 
into  life — that  the  loved  companion  of  her  childish 
days  was  now  the  chosen  of  her  matured  affec- 
tions ?  And  these  affections,  had  they  been  lightly 
transferred  —  could  affections,  once  so  blighted  as 
hers  had  been,  ever  again  revive,  and  own  a  se- 
cond spring  ?  Was  it  indeed  love  that  she  now 
owned  and  felt  ?     Oh,   how  different   from   that 


FO 


which  had  cast  its  dazzling  and  delusive  glare 
over  her  young  imagination,  and  tinged  so  many 
of  the  radiant  years  of  youth  with  colours  fair, 
'tis  true,  but  fading  as  the  tints  of  the  rainbow ! 

Love  had  formei-ly  been  a  sentiment  —  a  false, 
narrow,  exclusive  sentiment  —  shared  only  by  the 
object  which  inspired  it ;  now,  it  was  a  noble, 
generous,  diffusive  principle,  which  glowed  in  her 
heart,  and  sought  to  impart  a  portion  of  its  own 
blessedness  around.  She  had  loved  Reginald,  as 
she  could  have  loved  anything  that  fancy  had 
painted  to  her  as  fair  and  fascinating.  She  had 
invested  him  with  every  noble  and  generous  attri- 
bute which  the  young  and  imaginative  so  lavishly 
bestow  on  those  they  love.  But  the  illusion  had 
long  since  been  dispelled,  never  again  to  gather 
over  her  heart.  Again  she  loved,  but  by  a  light 
which  could  not  deceive ;  by  that  divine  light 
which  taught  her  not  to  love  the  mere  perishing 
idol  of  life's  passing  hour,  but  the  immortal  being 
with  whose  soul  her  own  might  joy  to  claim  kin- 
dred throughout  eternity.  And  the  dear  ones  who 
still  mourned  his  loss  —  Oh,  theirs  would  be  rap- 
ture almost  to  agony  I  But  she  dared  not  allow 
her  thoughts  to  dwell  on  such  a  theme. 

FOLLEN,   ELIZA   LEE, 

Whose  maiden-name  was  Cabott,  was  born  in 
Boston,  Mass.  In  1828,  she  married  Charles  Fol- 
len,  a  native  of  Germany,  and  Professor  of  the 
German  language  and  literature  in  Harvard  Col- 
lege. He  was  lost  or  perished  in  the  conflagra- 
tion of  the  Lexington,  January  13th,  1840.  Mrs. 
Follen  is  a  well-known  wiiter.  Her  principal 
works  are — "Sketches  of  Married  Life,"  "The 
Skeptic,"  and  a  "Life  of  Charles  Follen,"  pub- 
lished in  1844.  She  has  also  edited  the  works  of 
her  late  husband,  in  four  volumes,  besides  con- 
tributing to  various  literary  periodicals,  and  has 
written  a  volume  of  Poems,  which  appeared  in 
1839.  And,  moreover,  she  has  prepared  several 
books  for  the  young ;  her  talents  as  an  educator 
being,  perhaps,  more  successful  than  in  lite- 
rary pursuits.  Mrs.  Follen,  on  the  death  of  her 
lamented  husband,  was  left  to  provide  for  the 
education  of  their  only  child,  a  son,  of  nine  or  ten 
years  of  age.  She  resolved  to  conduct  the  in- 
struction of  her  son,  and  receiving  into  her  homo 
a  few  boys,  sons  of  her  beloved  and  true  friends, 
as  companions  for  her  child  and  pupils  of  her  care, 
she  fitted  these  youths  for  Harvard  University. 
Such  honourable  exertions  to  perform  faithfully 
the  duty  of  father  as  well  as  mother  to  her  son, 
demand  a  warmer  tribute  of  praise  than  the 
highest  genius,  disconnected  from  usefulness,  can 
ever  claim  for  a  Christian  woman. 

From  "  Poems." 

THE    exiled    stranger. 

Hark  !  what  sweetly  solemn  sound 

Rises  on  the  morning  air? 
Shedding  gentle  peace  around, 

And  stilling  busy  earthly  care. 

The  mighty  city  holds  its  breath, 

As  the  sacred  music  swells ; 
And  discord  dies  a  transient  death, 

While  listening  to  those  Sahbath  bells. 

664 


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Hearts  that  had  forgot  to  pray. 

Eyes  that  had  been  fixed  bekiw. 
Now  look  to  Heaven,  and  ask  the  way, 

As  to  the  house  of  God  they  go. 

But  there  is  one  who  hears  those  notes. 
To  whom  like  angels'  songs  they  seem  ; 

O'er  whose  glad  soul  the  music  floats, 
Like  memory  of  a  youthful  dream  ;  — 

Far  from  his  wellloved  father-land. 
From  early  friends,  and  blessed  home. 

Chased  by  the  tyrant's  bloody  hand, 
An  exiled  stranger,  doomed  to  roam: 

In  freedom's  land  a  home  to  find. 
He  hastens  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea. 

Leaving  each  youthful  joy  behind. 
And  asking  only  to  be  free. 

And  now  the  blessed  tones  he  hears 
Of  those  soft,  soothing  Sabbath  bells; 

And  as  the  shore  the  vessel  nears. 

More  full  and  strong  the  anthem  swells. 

And  as  he  hears  the  solemn  sound, 
He  leaps  with  rapture  on  the  shore : 

He  feels  he  stands  on  holy  ground  ; 
Feels  that  his  perils  are  all  o'er. 

And  see,  amidst  the  gazing  crowd, 
Unheeding  all,  he  's  kneeling  there: 

To  the  free  earth  his  head  is  bowed ; 
His  full  wrapt  soul  is  lost  in  prayer. 

That  prayer  shall  not  be  breathed  in  vain ; 

Nor  vain  the  sacrifice  be  made  : 
There  is  a  Hand  will  give  again 

The  wreath  that's  on  his  altar  laid. 


VPINTER    SCENES    IN    THE    COUNTRY. 

The  short,  dull,  rainy  day  drew  to  a  close ; 

No  gleam  burst  forth  upon  the  western  hills, 

With  smiling  promise  nf  a  brighter  day. 

Dressing  the  leafless  woods  with  golden  light ; 

But  the  dense  fog  hung  its  dark  curtain  round. 

And  the  unceasing  rain  poured  like  a  torrent  on. 

The  wearied  inmates  of  the  house  draw  near 

The  cheerful  fire;  the  shutters  all  are  closed  ; 

A  brightening  look  spreads  round,  that  seems  to  say. 

Now  let  the  darkness  and  the  rain  prevail ; 

Here  all  is  bright !     How  beautiful  is  the  sound 

Of  the  descending  rain  !  how  soft  the  wind 

Through  the  wet  branches  of  the  drooping  elms ! 

But  hark !  far  off,  beyond  the  sheltering  hills 

Is  heard  the  gathering  tempest's  distant  swell. 

Threatening  the  peaceful  valley  ere  it  comes. 

The  stream  that  glided  through  its  pebbly  way 

To  its  own  sweet  music,  now  roars  hoarsely  on  ; 

The  woods  send  forth  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh ; 

The  gentle  south  has  ceased  ;  the  rude  northwest. 

Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  comes  rushing  forth. 

The  rain  is  changed  into  a  driving  sleet, 

And  when  the  fitful  wind  a  moment  lulls, 

The  feathery  snow,  almost  inaudible, 

Falls  on  the  window-panes  as  soft  and  still 

As  the  light  brushings  of  an  angel's  wings. 

Or  the  sweet  visitings  of  quiet  thoughts 

'Midst  the  wild  tumult  of  this  stormy  life. 

The  tightened  strings  of  nature's  ceaseless  harp 

Send  forth  a  shrill  and  piercing  melody. 

As  the  full  swell  returns.    The  night  comes  on. 

And  sleep  upon  this  little  world  of  ours. 

Spreads  out  her  sheltering,  healing  wings  ;  and  man  - 

The  heaven-inspired  soul  of  this  fair  earth. 

The  bold  interpreter  of  nature's  voice. 

Giving  a  language  even  to  the  stars  — 

Unconscious  of  the  throbbings  of  his  heart,  — 

Is  still ;  and  all  unheeded  is  the  storm, 

Save  by  the  wakeful  few  who  love  the  night ; 

Those  pure  and  active  spirits  that  are  placed 

As  guards  o'er  wayward  man  ;  they  who  show  forth 

God's  holy  image  on  the  soul  impressed, 

They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  storm. 


And  hold  high  converse  with  the  unseen  world  ; 
They  wake,  and  watch,  and  pray,  while  othe  s  sleep. 

The  siormy  night  has  passed ;  the  eastern  clouds 
Glow  with  the  morning's  ray  ;  but  who  shall  tell 
The  peerless  glories  of  this  winter  day  ? 
Nature  has  put  her  jewels  on,  one  blaze 
Of  sparkling  light  and  ever-varying  hues 
Bursts  on  the  enraptured  sight. 
The  smallest  twig  with  brilliants  hangs  its  head  ; 
The  graceful  elm  and  all  the  forest  trees 
Have  on  a  crystal  coat  of  mail,  and  seem 
All  decked  and  tricked  out  for  a  holiday, 
And  every  stone  shines  in  its  wreath  of  gems. 
The  pert,  familiar  robin,  as  he  flies 
From  spray  to  spray,  showers  diamonds  around. 
And  moves  in  rainbow  light  where'er  he  goes. 
The  universe  looks  glad  ;  but  words  are  vain. 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  splendid  show. 
The  heart  exults  with  uncontrolled  delight. 
The  glorious  pageant  slowly  moves  away. 
As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  hills. 
So  fancy,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  day, 
May  shed  upon  the  cold  and  barren  earth 
Her  bright  enchantments  and  her  dazzling  hues  ; 
And  thus  they  melt  and  fade  away,  and  leave 
A  cold  and  dull  reality  behind. 

But  see  where  in  the  clear,  unclouded  sky. 
The  crescent  moon,  with  calm  and  sweet  rebuke. 
Doth  charm  away  the  spirit  of  complaint. 
Her  tender  light  falls  on  the  snow-clad  hills. 
Like  the  pure  thoughts  that  angels  might  bestow 
Upon  this  world  of  beauty,  and  of  sin. 
That  mingle  not  with  that  whereon  they  rest ;  — 
So  should  immortal  spirits  dwell  below. 
There  is  a  holy  influence  in  the  moon. 
And  in  the  countless  hosts  of  silent  stars. 
The  heart  cannot  resist :  its  passions  sleep. 
And  all  is  still ;  save  that  which  shall  awake 
When  all  this  vast  and  fair  creation  sleeps. 

FULLER,  SARAH  MARGARET,* 
Was  the  daughter  of  Timothy  Fuller,  a  member 
of  the  Boston  bar,  but  a  resident  of  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  where  Margaret  was  born.  From 
1817  until  1825,  Mr.  Fuller  was  sent  to  Congress, 
representative  of  the  district  of  Middlesex.  At 
the  close  of  these  political  duties,  he  retired  from 
his  profession  and  settled  in  the  country  as  an 
agriculturist ;  soon  afterwards  he  died. 

Margaret  was  the  oldest  child  of  the  family,  and 
at  an  early  age  evinced  remarkable  aptitude  for 
study ;  it  became  her  father's  pride  and  pleasure 
to  cultivate  her  intellect  to  the  utmost  degree.  We 
are  told  that  his  tasks  were  often  oppressive,  and 
that  her  juvenile  brain  was  taxed  to  the  disad- 
vantage of  her  physical  healthy  development. 
Most  particularly  did  the  father  instruct  his 
daughter  in  the  learning  he  considered  of  the 
first  importance  —  the  classic  tongues.  An  ac- 
quaintance with  these,  subsequently  led  her  to 
study  the  modern  languages,  and  Miss  Fuller 
was,  from  her  youth,  distinguished  for  her  extra- 
ordinary philological  accomplishments.  Of  course, 
the  German  literature  exercised  a  potent  sway 
over  her  taste  and  genius ;  such  influence  being 
now-a-days  too  common,  with  both  adepts  and 
dabblers  in  learning,  to  excite  wonder.  Yet  why 
is  this  enthusiasm  for  German  ?  this  peculiar  reve- 
rence for  its  unpronounceable  vocabularies,  and 

*  We  give  the  name  by  which  only  she  was  known  in 
America ;  and  we  give  her  a  place  among  the  living,  where 
she  was  numbered  when  our  Third  Era  was  complete<l. 
Her  death  can  hardly  yet  be  realized  :  she  seems  only  to 
have  withdrawn,  not  passed  away  forever 

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unfathomable  philosophy?  Where  all  is  mysti- 
cism, nothing  can  be  clear ;  even  truth,  when 
thus  shadowed,  loses  its  strength  as  well  as  sim- 
plicity. 

Miss  Fuller  was,  however,  besides  her  classical 
studies,  most  thoroughly  exercised  in  every  solid 
and  elegant  department  of  literatui-e,  and  probably 
no  American  woman  was  ever  before  so  fully  edu- 
cated, as  that  term  is  usually  applied.  After  her 
father's  decease,  she  devoted  her  talents  and  ac- 
quirements to  the  assistance  of  her  mother  and 
sisters,  by  opening  classes  for  the  instruction  of 
ladies,  both  single  and  married,  first  in  Boston, 
then  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island ;  and  afterwards 
ia  Boston  again.  During  this  pei'iod  her  womanly 
characteristics, — self-sacrificing  generosity,  in- 
dustry, untiring  kindness  in  the  domestic  circle,  — 
were  beautifully  displa^'ed.  Her  memory  is  more 
sanctified  by  the  love  her  exemplary  qualities  call- 
ed forth  in  the  privacy  of  home,  than  by  all  the 
literary  laurels  her  admirers  wish  to  offer  her. 


In  1839,  she  made  a  translation  of  Goethe's 
•'Conversations;"  —  this  is  her  first  work.  She 
was,  in  the  following  year,  concerned  with  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson  in  editing  the  "  Dial,"  a  period- 
ical of  some  note  in  its  day;  to  which  both  these 
writers  contributed  essays,  highly  applauded  by 
their  transcendental  readers.  To  those  who  re- 
quire perspicuity  as  a  condition  of  excellence  in 
literature,  such  "  wanderings  round  about  a  mean- 
ing," however  fine  may  be  the  diction,  are  never 
appreciated;  yet  it  is  but  fair  to  say,  that  the 
meaning  of  Miss  Fuller  was  always  honest  and 
generous.  She  was  so  fiir  from  being  in  adora- 
tion before  herself,  that  she  seemed  ever  aiming 
to  enlarge  the  moral  good  of  her  "brother  man 
and  sister  woman." 

In  1843,  she  published  a  volume — "Summer 
on  the  Lakes,"  being  an  account  of  a  tour  to  Illi- 
nois. This  book  contains,  with  much  irrelevant 
matter,  some  sensible  remarks;  but  there  is  little 
in  it,  as  far  as  regards  style  or  story,  beyond  what 
might  be  found  in  the  letters  of  any  well-educated 
gentlewoman  of  moderate  abilities,  who  thought  it 


worth  while  to  journalize  on  a  summer's  ramble. 
About  this  period  Miss  Fuller  resided  for  a  time 
in  New  York,  where  she  edited  the  literary  de- 
partment of  the  "  Tribune,"  contributing  papers 
on  various  subjects,  but  chiefly  ci'itical  notices  of 
the  works  of  distinguished  authors,  for  which  task 
both  education  and  genius  seemed  peculiarly  to 
fit  her. 

In  1845,  her  most  important  work,  "Woman  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century,"  was  published  in  New 
York.  It  is  evident  that  a  strong  wish  to  benefit 
her  own  sex,  moved  her  heart  and  guided  her  pen. 
One  male  critic,  whose  title  of  Reverend  should 
have  inspired  more  charity,  has  flippantly  remark- 
ed, that  Miss  Fuller  wrote  because  she  was  vexed 
at  not  being  a  man. —  Not  so.  Though  discon- 
tented with  her  woman's  lot,  she  does  not  seek  to 
put  aside  any  duty,  or  lower  the  standard  of  vir- 
tue in  order  to  escape  the  pressure  of  real  or 
imagined  evils  in  her  position.  Nor  was  it  for 
herself  that  she  sought  freedom ;  she  wanted  a 
wider  field  of  usefulness  for  her  sex ;  and  unfortu- 
nately for  her  own  happiness,  which  would  have 
been  secured  by  advancing  that  of  others,  she  mis- 
took the  right  path  of  progress.  With  her  views 
we  are  far  from  coinciding ;  she  abandoned  the 
only  safe  guide  in  her  search  for  truth.  •  Whatever 
be  the  genius  or  intellectual  vigour  possessed  by 
a  woman,  these  avail  her  nothing  without  that 
moral  strength  which  is  nowhere  to  be  obtained, 
save  from  the  aid  God  has  given  us  in  His  revealed 
Word.  Experience  and  observation  prove  that  the 
greater  the  intellectual  force,  the  greater  and  more 
fatal  the  errors  into  which  women  fall  who  wander 
from  the  Rock  of  Salvation,  Christ  the  Saviour, 
who,  "made  of  a  woman,"  is  peculiai-ly  the  stay 
and  support  of  the  sex. 

But  though  INIiss  Fuller's  theories  led  to  mazes 
and  wanderings,  her  mind  was  honest  in  its  search 
for  truth,  and  with  much  that  is  visionary  and 
impracticable,  "  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury" contains  many  useful  hints  and  noble  sen- 
timents. 

In  1844,  a  selection  from  her  contributions  to 
various  periodicals  was  issued,  under  the  title  of 
"Papers  on  Literature  and  Art;"  a  work  much 
admired  by  those  who  profess  to  understand  the 
new  thoughts,  or  new  modes  of  expressing  old 
apothegms,  which  the  transcendental  philsophy 
has  introduced.  It  was  her  last  published  work. 
In  the  summer  of  1845,  Miss  Fuller  accompanied 
some  dear  friends  to  Europe  ;  after  visiting  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  France,  and  passing  through  Italy 
to  Rome,  they  spent  the  ensuing  winter  in  the 
"Eternal  City,"  where  she  continued,  while  her 
friends  returned  to  America.  In  the  following 
3'ear,  Miss  Fuller  was  married,  in  Rome,  to  Gio- 
vanni jNIarquis  d'Ossoli,  an  Italian.  She  remained 
in  Rome  till  the  summer  of  1849,  when,  after  the 
surrender  of  that  city  to  the  French,  the  Marquis 
d'Ossoli  and  his  wife,  having  taken  an  active  part 
in  the  Republican  movement,  considered  it  neces- 
sary to  emigrate.  They  went  to  Florence,  and 
remained  there  till  June,  1850,  when  they  deter- 
mined to  come  to  the  United  States,  and  accord- 
ingly embarked  at  Leghorn,  in  the  brig  Elizabeth, 

G66 


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bound  for  New  York.  The  deplorable  and  melan- 
choly catastrophe  is  well  known ;  the  ship,  as  she 
neared  our  coast,  encountered  a  fearful  storm, 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  8th  of  August  was 
wrecked  on  Fire  Island,  south  of  Long  Island ; 
sind  the  D'Ossoli  family  —  husband,  wife,  infant 
son  and  nurse  —  all  perished  ! 

Margaret  Fuller,  or  the  Marchioness  d'Ossoli, 
possessed  among  a  host  of  professed  admirers, 
many  gi-ateful,  loving  friends,  to  whom  her  sad, 
untimely  death  was  a  bitter  grief.  These  mourn 
also,  that  she  left  her  mission  unfinished,  because 
they  believe  a  work  she  had  prepared  "  On  the 
Revolution  in  Italy,"  (the  MS.  was  lost  with  her), 
would  have  given  her  enduring  fame.  One  indi- 
cation of  true  mental  improvement  she  exhibited 
—  her  enthusiasm  for  Goethe  had  abated ;  and  a 
friend  of  hers,  a  distinguished  scholar,  asserts 
that,  "  with  the  Reformers  of  the  Transcendental 
School  she  had  no  communion,  nor  scarcely  a 
point  in  common."  Whatever  she  might  have 
done,  we  are  constrained  to  add,  that  of  the  books 
she  has  left,  we  do  not  believe  that  they  are  des- 
tined to  hold  a  high  place  in  female  literature. 
There  is  no  true  moral  life  in  them.  The  simple 
"Prose  Hymns  for  Children,"  of  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
or  the  "  Poems  "  of  Jane  Taylor,  will  have  a  place 
in  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
as  long  as  our  language  endures ;  but  the  genius  of 
Margaret  Fuller  will  live  only  while  the  tender 
remembrance  of  personal  friendship  shall  hold  it 
dear.  Her  fame,  like  that  of  a  great  actor,  or 
singer,  was  dependent  on  her  living  presence, — 
gained  more  by  her  conversational  powers  than  by 
her  writings.  Those  who  enjoyed  her  society  de- 
clare, that  her  mind  shone  most  brightly  in  colli- 
sion with  other  minds,  and  that  no  adequate  idea 
of  her  talents  can  be  formed  by  those  who  never 
heai'd  her  talk.  This  was  also  true  of  Coleridge ; 
and  Dr.  Johnson  is  certainly  a  greater  man  in 
Boswell's  Reports  than  in  the  "  Rambler."  Mar- 
garet Fuller  had  no  reporter. 

From  "  Summer  on  the  Lakes." 
A    NIGHT    IN    MICHIGAN. 

No  heaven  need  wear  a  lovelier  aspect  than 
earth  did  this  afternoon,  after  the  cleanng  up  of 
the  shower.  We  traversed  the  blooming  plain, 
unmarked  by  any  road,  only  the  friendly  track  of 
wheels  which  tracked,  not  broke  the  grass.  Our 
stations  were  not  from  town  to  town,  but  from 
grove  to  grove.  These  groves  first  floated  like 
blue  islands  in  the  distance.  As  we  drew  nearer, 
they  seemed  fair  parks,  and  the  little  log  houses 
on  the  edge,  with  their  cui'ling  smokes,  harmo- 
nized beautifully  with  them. 

One  of  these  groves,  Ross's  grove,  we  reached 
just  at  sunset.  It  was  of  the  noblest  trees  I  saw 
during  this  journey,  for  the  trees  generally  were 
not  large  or  lofty,  but  only  of  fair  proportions. 
Here  they  were  large  enough  to  form  with  their 
clear  stems  pillars  for  grand  cathedral  aisles. 
There  was  space  enough  for  crimson  light  to 
(stream  through  upon  the  floor  of  water  which  the 
shower  had  left.  As  we  slowly  plashed  through,  I 
thought  I  was  never  in  a  better  place  for  vespers. 


I  That  night  we  rested,  or  rather  tarried  at  a 
grove  some  miles  beyond,  and  there  partook  of  the 
'  misei-ies  so  often  jocosely  poi-trayed,  of  bed-eham- 
j  bers  for  twelve,  a  milk-dish  for  universal  hand- 
basin,  and  expectations  that  you  would  use  and 
lend  your  "handkerchief"  for  a  towel.  But  this 
was  the  only  night,  thanks  to  the  hospitality  of 
private  families,  that  we  passed  thus,  and  it  was 
well  that  we  had  this  bit  of  experience,  else  might 
we  have  pronounced  all  Trollopian  records  of  the 
kind  to  be  inventions  of  pure  malice. 

AVith  us  was  a  young  lady  who  showed  herself 
to  have  been  bathed  in  the  Britannic  fluid,  wittily 
described  by  a  late  French  wi-iter,  by  the  impossi- 
bility she  experienced  of  accommodating  herself 
to  the  indecorums  of  the  scene.  We  ladies  were 
to  sleep  in  the  bar-room,  from  which  its  drinking 
visitors  could  be  ejected  only  at  a  late  hour.  The 
outer  door  had  no  fastening  to  prevent  their  re- 
turn. However,  our  host  kindly  requested  we 
would  call  him,  if  they  did,  as  he  had  "  conquered 
them  for  us,"  and  would  do  so  again.  We  had 
also  rather  hard  couches,  (mine  was  the  supper- 
table;)  but  we  yankees,  born  to  rove,  were  altoge- 
ther too  much  fatigued  to  stand  upon  trifles,  and 
slept  as  sweetly  as  we  would  in  the  "  bigly  bower" 
of  any  baroness.  But  I  think  England  sat  up  all 
night,  wrapped  in  her  blanket  shawl,  and  with  a 
neat  lace  cap  upon  her  head ;  so  that  she  would 
have  looked  perfectly  the  lady,  if  any  one  had 
come  in ;  shuddering  and  listening.  I  know  that 
she  was  very  ill  next  day,  in  requital.  She  watch- 
ed, as  her  parent  country  watches  the  seas,  that 
nobody  may  do  wrong  in  any  case,  and  deserved 
to  have  met  some  interruption,  she  was  so  well 
prepared.  However,  there  was  none,  other  than 
from  the  nearness  of  some  twenty  sets  of  power- 
ful lungs,  which  would  not  leave  the  night  to  a 
deadly  stillness.  In  this  house  we  had,  if  not 
good  beds,  yet  good  tea,  good  bread,  and  wild 
strawberries,  and  were  entertained  with  most  free 
communications  of  opinion  and  history  from  our 
hosts.  Neither  shall  any  of  us  have  a  right  to  say 
again  that  we  cannot  find  any  who  may  be  willing 
to  hear  all  we  may  have  to  say.  "  A 's  fish  that 
comes  to  the  net,"  should  be  painted  on  the  sign 
at  Papaw  grove. 

THE    PKAIRIE. 

In  Chicago  I  first  saw  the  beautiful  prairie  flow- 
ers. They  were  in  their  glory  the  first  ten  days 
we  were  there — 

"  The  golden  ami  the  flame-like  flowers." 

The  flame-like  flower  I  was  taught  afterwards, 
by  an  Indian  girl,  to  call  "  Wickapee;"  and  she 
told  me,  too,  that  its  splendours  had  a  useful  side, 
for  it  was  used  by  the  Indians  as  a  remedy'  for  an 
illness  to  which  they  were  subject. 

Beside  these  brilliant  flowers,  which  gemmed 
and  gilt  the  grass  in  a  sunny  afternoon's  drive 
near  the  blue  lake,  between  the  low  oakwood  and 
the  narrow  beach,  stimulated,  whether  sensuously 
by  the  optic  nerve,  unused  to  so  much  gold  and 
crimson  with  such  tender  green,  or  symbolically 
through  some  meaning  dimly  seen  in  the  flowers, 

6G7 


FU 


FU 


I  enjoyed  a  sort  of  fairy-land  exultation  never  felt 
before,  and  the  first  di-ive  amid  the  flowers  gave 
me  anticipation  of  the  beauty  of  the  prairies. 

At  first,  the  prairie  seemed  to  speak  of  the  very 
desolation  of  dulness.  After  sweeping  over  the 
vast  monotony  of  the  lakes  to  come  to  this  mono- 
tony of  land,  with  all  around  a  limitless  horizon, 
—  to  walk,  and  walk,  and  run,  but  never  climb, 
oh !  it  was  too  dreary  for  any  but  a  Hollander  to 
bear.  How  the  eye  greeted  the  approach  of  a 
sail,  or  the  smoke  of  a  steamboat ;  it  seemed  that 
any  thing  so  animated  must  come  from  a  better 
land,  where  mountains  gave  i-eligion  to  the  scene. 

The  only  thing  I  liked  at  first  to  do,  was  to 
trace  with  slow  and  unexpecting  step  the  narrow 
margin  of  the  lake.  Sometimes  a  heavy  swell 
gave  it  expression ;  at  others,  only  its  varied  co- 
louring, which  I  found  more  admirable  every  day, 
and  which  gave  it  an  air  of  mirage  instead  of  the 
vastness  of  ocean.  Then  there  was  a  grandeur  in 
the  feeling  that  I  might  continue  that  walk,  if  I 
had  any  seven-leagued  mode  of  conveyance  to 
save  fatigue,  for  hundreds  of  miles  without  an  ob- 
stacle and  without  a  change. 

But  after  I  had  rode  out,  and  seen  the  flowers 
and  seen  the  sun  set  with  that  calmness  seen  only 
in  the  prairies,  and  the  cattle  winding  slowly  home 
to  their  homes  in  the  "island  groves" — peaceful- 
lest  of  sights — I  began  to  love  because  I  began  to 
know  the  scene,  and  shrank  no  longer  from  "  the 
encircling  vastness." 

It  is  always  thus  with  the  new  form  of  life ;  we 
must  learn  to  look  at  it  by  its  own  standard.  At 
first,  no  doubt  my  accustomed  eye  kept  saying,  if 
the  mind  did  not.  What!  no  distant  mountains? 
what,  no  valleys  ?  But  after  a  while  I  would 
ascend  the  roof  of  the  house  where  we  lived,  and 
pass  many  hours,  needing  no  sight  but  the  moon 
reigning  in  the  heavens,  or  starlight  falling  upon 
the  lake,  till  all  the  lights  were  out  in  the  island 
grove  of  men  beneath  my  feet,  and  felt  nearer 
heaven  that  there  was  nothing  but  this  lovely, 
still  reception  on  the  earth ;  no  towering  moun- 
tains, no  deep  tree-shadows,  nothing  but  plain 
earth  and  water  bathed  in  light. 

From  "  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth  Century." 

AMERICAN    WOMEN. 

In  our  own  country,  women  are,  in  many  re- 
spects, better  situated  than  men.  Good  books  are 
allowed,  with  more  time  to  read  them.  They  are 
not  so  early  forced  into  the  bustle  of  life,  nor  so 
weighed  down  by  demands  for  outward  success. 
The  perpetual  changes,  incident  to  our  society, 
make  the  blood  circulate  freely  through  the  body 
politic,  and,  if  not  favourable  at  present  to  the 
grace  and  bloom  of  life,  they  are  so  to  activity, 
resource,  and  would  be  to  reflection,  but  for  a  low 
materialist  tendency,  from  which  the  women  are 
generally  exempt  in  themselves,  though  its  exist- 
ence, among  the  men  has  a  tendency  to  repress 
their  impulses  and  make  them  doubt  their  instincts, 
thus,  often,  paralyzing  their  action  during  the  best 
years. 

But  they  have  time  to  think,  and  no  traditions 


chain  them,  and  few  conventionalities  compared 
with  what  must  be  met  in  other  nations.  There 
is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  discover  that 
the  secrets  of  nature  are  open,  the  revelations  of 
the  spirit  waiting  for  whoever  will  seek  them. 
When  the  mind  is  once  awakened  to  this  conscious' 
ness,  it  will  not  be  restrained  by  the  habits  of  the 
past,  but  fly  to  seek  the  seeds  of  a  heavenly  future. 

Their  employments  are  more  favourable  to  medi- 
tation than  those  of  men. 

Woman  is  not  addressed  religiously  here,  more 
than  elsewhere.  She  is  told  she  should  be  worthy 
to  be  the  mother  of  a  Washington,  or  the  compa- 
nion of  some  good  man.  But  in  many,  many  in- 
stances, she  has  already  learnt  that  all  bribes  have 
the  same  flaw ;  that  truth  and  good  are  to  be 
sought  solely  for  their  own  sakes.  And,  already, 
an  ideal  sweetness  floats  over  many  forms,  shines 
in  many  eyes. 

Already  deep  questions  are  put  by  young  girls 
on  the  great  theme :  What  shall  I  do  to  enter  upon 
the  eternal  life  ? 

Men  are  very  courteous  to  them.  They  praise 
them  often,  check  them  seldom.  There  is  chi- 
valry in  the  feeling  towards  "the  ladies,"  which 
gives  them  the  best  seats  in  the  stage-coach,  fre- 
quent admission,  not  only  to  lectures  of  all  sorts, 
but  to  courts  of  justice,  halls  of  legislature,  re- 
form conventions.  The  newspaper  editor  "would 
be  better  pleased  that  the  Lady's  Book  should 
be  filled  up  exclusively  by  ladies.  It  would  then, 
indeed,  be  a  true  gem,  worthy  to  be  presented  by 
young  men  to  the  mistresses  of  their  afi'ections." 
Can  gallantry  go  further  ? 

In  this  country  is  venerated,  wherever  seen,  the 
character  which  Goethe  spoke  of  an  Ideal,  which 
he  saw  actualized  in  his  friend  and  patroness,  the 
Grand  Duchess  Amelia.  "  The  excellent  woman 
is  she,  who,  if  the  husband  dies,  can  be  a  father 
to  the  children."  And  this,  if  read  aright,  tells  a 
great  deal. 


To  you,  women  of  America,  it  is  more  especially 
my  business  to  address  myself  on  this  subject,  and 
my  advice  may  be  classed  under  three  heads : 

Clear  your  souls  from  the  taint  of  vanity. 

Do  not  rejoice  in  conquests,  either  that  your 
power  to  allure  may  be  seen  by  other  women,  or 
for  the  pleasure  of  rousing  passionate  feelings  that 
gratify  your  love  of  excitement. 

It  must  happen,  no  doubt,  that  frank  and  gene- 
rous women  will  excite  love  they  do  not  recipro- 
cate, but,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  woman  has, 
half  consciously,  done  much  to  excite.  In  this 
case  she  shall  not  be  held  guiltless,  either  as  to 
the  unhappiness  or  injury  to  the  lover.  Pure 
love,  inspired  by  a  worthy  object,  must  ennoble 
and  bless,  whether  mutual  or  not ;  but  that  which 
is  excited  by  coquettish  attraction  of  any  grade  of 
refinement,  must  cause  bitterness  and  doubt,  as  to 
the  reality  of  human  goodness,  so  soon  as  the  flush 
of  passion  is  over.  And  that  you  may  avoid  all 
taste  for  these  false  pleasures, 

"  steep  the  soul 
In  one  pure  love,  and  it  will  last  thee  long." 

668 


FU 


FU 


TRUE    MARRIAGE. 

We  are  now  in  a  transition  state,  and  but 
few  steps  have  yet  been  taken.  From  polygamy, 
Europe  passed  to  the  marriage  de  convenance. 
This  was  scarcely  an  improvement.  An  attempt 
was  then  made  to  substitute  genuine  marriage, 
(the  mutual  choice  of  souls  inducing  a  perma- 
nent union,)  as  yet  baffled  on  every  side  by  the 
haste,  the  ignorance,  or  the  impurity  of  man. 

Where  man  assumes  a  high  principle  to  which 
he  is  not  yet  ripened ;  it  will  happen,  for  a  long 
time,  that  the  few  will  be  nobler  tlian  before ;  the 
many  worse.  Thus  now.  In  the  country  of  Sid- 
ney and  Milton,  the  metropolis  is  a  den  of  wick- 
edness, and  a  stye  of  sensuality ;  in  the  country 
of  Lady  Russell,  the  custom  of  English  Peeresses, 
of  selling  their  daughters  to  the  highest  bidder,  is 
made  the  theme  and  jest  of  fashionable  novels  by 
unthinking  children  who  would  stare  at  the  idea 
of  sending  them  to  a  Turkish  slave-dealer,  though 
the  circumstances  of  the  bargain  are  there  less 
degrading,  as  tlie  will  and  thoughts  of  the  person 
sold  are  not  so  degraded  by  it,  and  it  is  not  done 
in  defiance  of  an  acknowledged  law  of  right  in  the 
land  and  the  age. 

I  must  here  add  that  I  do  not  believe  there 
ever  was  put  upon  record  more  depravation  of 
man,  and  more  despicable  frivolity  of  thought  and 
aim  in  woman,  than  in  novels  which  purport  to 
give  the  picture  of  English  fashionable  life,  which 
are  read  with  such  favour  in  our  drawing-rooms, 
and  give  the  tone  to  the  manners  of  some  circles. 
Compared  with  the  hard-hearted  cold  folly  there 
desci'ibed,  crime  is  hopeful,  for  it,  at  least,  shows 
some  power  remaining  in  the  mental  constitution. 

FEMALE    PROGRESS. 

Another  sign  ol  the  times  is  furnished  by  the 
triumphs  of  female  authorship.  These  have  been 
great  and  constantly  increasing.  Women  have  taken 
possession  of  so  many  provinces  for  which  men 
had  pronounced  them  unfit,  that  though  these  still 
declare  there  are  some  inaccessible  to  them,  it  is 
difficult  to  say  just  ivhere  they  must  stop. 

The  shining  names  of  famous  women  have  cast 
light  upon  the  path  of  the  sex,  and  many  obstruc- 
tions have  been  removed.  When  a  Montagu 
could  learn  better  than  her  brother,  and  use  her 
lore  afterward  to  such  purpose,  as  an  observer,  it 
seemed  amiss  to  hinder  women  from  preparing 
themselves  to  see,  or  from  seeing  all  they  could, 
when  prepared.  Since  Somerville  has  achieved 
so  much,  will  any  young  gii-l  be  prevented  from 
seeking  a  knowledge  of  the  physical  sciences,  if 
she  wishes  it?  De  Stael's  name  was  not  so  clear 
of  offence ;  she  could  not  forget  the  woman  in  the 
thought ;  while  she  was  instructing  you  as  a  mind, 
she  wished  to  be  admired  as  a  woman  ;  sentiment- 
al tears  often  dimmed  the  eagle  glance.  Her  in- 
tellect too,  with  all  its  splendour,  trained  in  a 
drawing-room,  fed  on  flattery,  was  tainted  and 
flawed ;  yet  its  beams  make  the  obscurest  school- 
house  in  New  England  warmer  and  lighter  to  the 
little  rugged  girls,  who  are  gathered  together  on 
its  wooden  bench.     They  may  never  through  life 


hear  her  name,  but  she  is  not  the  less  their  bene- 
factress. 

The  influence  has  been  such,  that  the  aim  cer- 
tainly is,  now,  in  arranging  school  instruction  for 
girls,  to  give  them  as  fair  a  field  as  boys.  As  yet, 
indeed,  these  arrangements  are  made  with  little 
judgment  or  reflection  ;  just  as  the  tutors  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey,  and  other  distinguished  women  of  her 
time,  taught  them  Latin  and  Greek,  because  they 
knew  nothing  else  themselves,  so  now  the  im- 
provement in  the  education  of  girls  is  to  be  made 
by  giving  them  young  men  as  teachers,  who  only 
teach  what  has  been  taught  themselves  at  college, 
while  methods  and  topics  need  revision  for  these 
new  subjects,  which  could  better  be  made  by  those 
who  had  experienced  the  same  wants.  Women 
are  often  at  the  head  of  these  institutions,  but 
they  have,  as  yet,  seldom  been  thinking  women, 
capable  to  organize  a  new  whole  for  the  wants  of 
the  time,  and  choose  persons  to  officiate  in  the 
departments.  And  when  some  portion  of  instruc- 
tion is  got  of  a  good  sort  from  the  school,  the  far 
greater  proportion  which  is  infused  from  the  gene- 
ral atmosphere  of  society  contradicts  its  purport. 
Yet  books  and  a  little  elementary  instruction  are 
not  furnished  in  vain.  Women  ai-e  better  aware 
how  great  and  rich  the  universe  is,  not  so  easily 
blinded  by  narrowness  or  partial  views  of  a  home 
circle.  "  Her  mother  did  so  before  her,"  is  no 
longer  a  sufficient  excuse.  Indeed,  it  was  never 
received  as  an  excuse  to  mitigate  the  severity  of 
censure,  but  was  adduced  as  a  reason,  rather,  why 
there  should  be  no  effort  made  for  reformation. 

AVhether  much  or  little  has  been  done  or  will  be 
done,  whether  women  will  add  to  the  talent  of  nar- 
ration, the  power  of  systematizing,  whether  they 
will  carve  marble,  as  well  as  draw  and  paint,  is 
not  important.  But  that  it  should  be  acknow- 
ledged that  they  have  intellect  which  needs  devel- 
oping, that  they  should  not  be  considered  com- 
plete, if  beings  of  affection  and  habit  alone,  is 
important. 

Yet  even  this  acknowledgment,  rather  conquered 
by  woman  than  proffered  by  man,  has  been  sullied 
by  the  usual  selfishness.  So  much  is  said  of  wo- 
men being  better  educated,  that  they  may  become 
better  companions  and  mothers  for  men.  They 
should  be  fit  for  such  companionship,  and  we  have 
mentioned  with  satisfaction,  instances  where  it 
has  been  established.  Earth  knows  no  fairer, 
holier  relation  than  that  of  a  mother.  It  is  one 
which,  rightly  understood,  must  both  promote  and 
require  the  highest  attainments.  But  a  being  of 
infinite  scope  must  not  be  treated  with  an  exclu- 
sive view  to  any  one  relation.  Give  the  soul  free 
course,  let  the  organization,  both  of  body  and 
mind,  be  freely  developed,  and  the  being  will  be 
fit  for  any  and  every  relation  to  which  it  may  be 
called.  The  intellect,  no  more  than  the  sense  of 
hearing,  is  to  be  cultivated  merely  that  she  may 
be  a  more  valuable  companion  to  man,  but  be- 
cause the  Power  who  gave  a  power,  hy  its  mere 
existence,  signifies  that  it  must  be  brought  out 
towards  perfection. 

In  this  regard  of  self-dependence,  and  a  greater 
simplicity  and  fulness  of  being,  we  must  hail  as  a 

GG9 


FU 


GA 


preliminary  the  increase  of  the  class  contemptu- 
ously designated  as  old  maids. 

From  "  Poems." 

ON    LEAVING    THE    WEST. 

Farewell,  ye  soft  and  sumptuous  solitudes  ! 

Ve  fairy  distances,  ye  lordly  woods, 

Haunted  by  paths  like  those  that  Poussin  knew, 

When  after  his  all  gazers'  eyes  he  drew : 

I  go —  and  if  I  never  more  may  sleep 

An  eager  heart  in  your  erjchantments  deep. 

Vet  ever  to  itself  that  heart  may  say, 

Be  not  exacting  —  thou  hast  lived  one  day  — 

Hast  looked  on  that  which  matches  with  thy  mood. 

Impassioned  sweetness  of  full  being's  flood, 

Where  nothing  checked  the  bold  yet  gentle  wave. 

Where  naught  repelled  the  lavisli  love  that  gave. 

A  tender  blessing  lingers  o'er  the  scene. 

Like  some  young  mother's  thought,  fond,  yet  serene, 

And  through  its  life  new  horn  our  lives  have  been. 

Once  more  farewell —  a  sad,  a  sweet  farewell  ; 

And  if  I  never  must  behold  you  more. 
In  other  worlds  I  will  not  cease  to  tell 

The  rosary  I  here  have  numbered  o'er; 
And  bright-haired  Hope  will  lend  a  gladdened  ear. 
And  Love  will  free  him  from  the  grasp  of  Fear, 
And  Gorgon  critics,  while  the  tale  they  hear, 
Shall  dew  their  stony  glances  with  a  tear. 
If  I  but  catch  one  echo  from  your  spell : 
And  so  farewell  —  a  grateful,  sad  farewell ' 


TO    ALLSTON  S    PICTURE,    "THE    BRIDE. 

Not  long  enough  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 

Nor  pure  enough  the  life  with  which  we  live. 
To  be  full  tranced  by  that  softest  grace. 

To  win  all  pearls  those  lucid  depths  can  give ; 
Here  Fantasy  has  borrowed  wings  of  Even, 

And  stolen  Twilight's  latest,  sacred  hues, 
A  soul  has  visited  the  woman's  heaven, 

Where  palest  lights  a  silver  sheen  diffuse. 
To  see  aright  the  vision  which  he  saw, 

We  must  ascend  as  high  upon  the  stair 
Which  leads  the  human  thought  to  heavenly  law. 

And  see  the  flower  bloom  in  its  natal  air  ; 
Thus  might  we  read  aright  the  lip  and  brow, 
Where  Thought  and  Love  beam  too  subduing  for  our  senses 

now. 

THE    SACRED    MARRIAGE. 

And  has  another's  life  as  large  a  scope  ? 
It  may  give  due  fulfilment  to  thy  hope, 
And  every  portal  to  the  unknown  may  ope. 
If,  near  this  other  life,  thy  inmost  feeling 
Trembles  with  fateful  prescience  of  revealing 
The  future  Deity,  time  is  still  concealing  : 
If  thou  feel  thy  whole  force  drawn  more  and  more 
To  launch  that  other  bark  on  seas  without  a  shore, 
And  no  still  secret  must  bo  kept  in  store  — 
If  meannesses  that  dim  each  temporal  deed. 
The  dull  decay  that  mars  the  fleshly  weed. 
And  flower  of  love  that  seems  to  fall  and  leave  no  seed- 
Hide  never  the  full  presence  from  thy  sight 
Of  nmtnal  aims  and  tasks,  ideals  bright. 
Which  feed  their  roots  to-day  on  all  this  seeming  blight. 

Twin  stars  that  mutual  circle  in  the  heaven. 

Two  parts  for  spiritual  concord  given. 

Twin  sabbaths  that  inlock  the  sacred  seven  — 

Still  looking  to  the  centre  for  the  cause. 

Mutual  light  giving  to  draw  out  the  powers. 

And  learning  all  the  other  groups  by  cognizance  of  one 

another's  laws : 
The  parent  love  the  wedded  love  includes, 
The  one  permits  the  two  their  mulual  moods, 
The  two  each  other  know  mid  myriad  multitudes; 
With  childlike  intellect  discerning  love. 
And  mutual  action  energizing  love. 
In  myriad  forms  affiliating  love. 
A  world  whose  seasons  bloom  from  pole  to  pole, 
A  force  which  knows  both  staniag-point  and  goal, 
A  home  in  heaven  —the  union  in  the  soul. 


a. 

GAY,  SOPHIE, 
Was  born  in  Paris,  where  she  now  resides.  She 
is  a  writer  of  considerable  talent  and  great  indus- 
try, and  has  long  been  a  favourite  with  French 
novel  readers.  None  of  her  works  have  been 
translated  into  English,  nor  are  the  French  edi- 
tions often  met  with  in  America.  Her  style  is 
pleasing ;  she  describes  a  drawing-room  circle  with 
liveliness ;  her  dialogues  are  natural  and  appro- 
priate, and  she  sometimes  rises  to  the  pathetic. 
"Anatole"  is,  perhaps,  her  most  finished  pro- 
duction. "  La  Duchess  de  Chateroux,"  "  Marie 
Louise  d'Orleans,"  "Salons  C616bres,"  "  Souve- 
niers  d'une  Vielle  Femme,"  have  all  enjoyed  a 
very  favourable  reputation.  But  greater  interest 
has  attached  to  the  name  of  Madame  Sophie 
Gay  from  her  motherhood  than  her  authorship. 
Her  celebrated  daughter,  Delphine,  now  Jladame 
Emile  Girardin,  is  the  living  page  which  enlarges 
as  well  as  reflects  the  genius  of  Sophie  Gay. 


GILMAN,    CAROLINE, 

One  of  those  estimable  women,  true-born  Ame- 
ricans, who  are  doing  good  in  whatever  way  duty 
opens  before  them,  be  it  to  write,  teach,  or  work, 
with  unfailing  zeal  and  cheerfulness.  We  are  glad 
to  give  the  reminiscences  of  her  early  days  in  her 
own  pleasant  vein ;  such  glimpses  of  the  inner 
workings  of  a  female  mind  have  great  value  on 
the  question  of  female  education. 

"I  am  asked  for  some  'particulars  of  my  lite- 
rary and  domestic  life.'  It  seems  to  me,  and  I 
suppose  at  first  thought  it  seems  to  all,  a  vain  and 
awkward  egotism  to  sit  down  and  inform  the  world 
who  you  are.  But  if  I,  like  the  Petrarchs  and 
Byrons,  and  Hemanses,  greater  or  less,  have 
opened  my  heart  to  the  public  for  a  series  of 
years,  with  all  the  pulses  of  love,  and  hatred,  and 
sorrow,  so  transparently  unveiled,  that  the  throbs 
may  be  almost  counted,  why  should  I  or  they  feel 
embarrassed  in  responding  to  this  request?  Is 
there  not  some  inconsistency  in  this  shyness  about 
autobiography "? 

670 


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GI 


"  I  find  myself,  tlien,  at  nearly  sixty  years  of 
age,  somewhat  of  a  patriarch  in  the  line  of  Ame- 
rican female  authors  —  a  kind  of  past-master  in 
the  order. 

"The  only  interesting  point  connected  with  my 
birth,  which  took  place,  October  8th,  1794,  in 
Boston,  Mass.,  is  that  I  first  saw  the  light  where 
the  Mariner's  Church  now  stands,  in  the  North 
Square.  My  father,  Samuel  Howard,  was  a  ship- 
wright ;  and,  to  my  fancy,  it  seems  fitting  that 
seamen  should  assemble  on  the  former  homestead 
of  one,  who  spent  his  manhood  in  planning  and 
perfecting  the  noble  fabrics  which  bear  them  over 
the  waves.  All  the  record  I  have  of  him  is,  that 
on  every  State  Thanksgiving-Day  he  spread  a 
liberal  table  for  the  poor ;  and  for  this,  I  honour 
his  memory. 

"My  father  died  before  I  was  three  years  old, 
and  was  buried  at  Copp's  Hill.  ]\Iy  mother,  who 
was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  nature,  retired  into 
the  country  with  her  six  children,  and  placing  her 
boys  at  an  academy  at  Woburn,  resided  with  her 
girls,  in  turn,  at  Concord,  Dedham,  Watertown, 
and  Cambridge,  changing  her  residence  almost 
annually,  until  I  was  nearly  ten  years  old,  when 
she  passed  awaj',  and  I  followed  her  to  her  rest- 
ing-place, in  the  burial-ground  at  North  Andover. 

"  i\Iy  education  was  exceedingly  ii-regular  —  a 
perpetual  passing  from  school  to  school — -from  my 
earliest  memory.  I  drew  a  very  little,  and  worked 
the  Babes  in  the  Wood  on  white  satin ;  my  teacher 
and  my  grandmother  being  the  only  persons  who 
recognised,  in  the  remarkable  individuals  that 
issued  from  my  hands,  a  likeness  to  those  innocent 
sufferers.  I  taught  myself  the  English  guitar,  at 
fifteen,  from  hearing  a  school-mate  take  lessons, 
and  composed  a  tune,  which  I  doubt  if  posterity 
will  care  to  hear.  By  depriving  myself  of  some 
luxuries,  I  purchased  an  instrument,  over  which 
my  whole  soul  was  poured  in  joy  and  sorrow  for 
many  years.  A  dear  friend  was  kind  enough  to 
work  out  all  my  sums  for  me,  while  I  wrote  a 
novel  in  a  series  of  letters,  under  the  euphonious 
name  of  Eugenia  Fitz-AUen.  The  consequence  is, 
that,  so  far  as  arithmetic  is  concerned,  I  have  been 
subject  to  perpetual  mortifications,  and  shudder 
to  this  day  when  any  one  asks  me  how  much  is 
seven  times  nine. 

"  The  religious  feeling  was  always  powerful 
within  me,  and  at  sixteen  I  joined  the  communion 
at  the  Episcopal  church  in  Cambridge.  At  the 
age  of  eighteen,  I  made  another  sacrifice  in  dress 
to  purchase  a  Bible,  with  a  margin  sufficiently 
wide  to  enable  me  to  insert  a  commentary.  To 
this  object  I  devoted  several  months  of  study, 
transferring  to  its  pages  my  deliberate  convic- 
tions. I  am  glad  to  class  myself  with  the  few 
who  first  established  the  Sabbath-school  and  be- 
nevolent society  at  Watertown,  and  to  say,  that  I 
have  endeavoured  under  all  circumstances,  wher- 
ever my  lot  has  fallen,  to  carry  on  the  work  of 
social  love. 

"  At  sixteen,  I  wrote  '  .Jephthah's  Rash  Vow,'  and 
was  gratified  by  the  request  of  an  introduction 
from  Miss  Hannah  Adams,  the  erudite,  the  simple- 
minded,  and  gentle-mannered  author  of  '  The  His- 


tory of  Religions.'  The  next  effusion  of  mine  was 
'  Jairus'  Daughter,'  which  I  inserted,  by  request, 
in  'The  North  American  Review,'  then  a  miscel- 
lany. A  few  years  later,  I  passed  four  winters  at 
Savannah,  Ga.,  and  remember  still  vividly  the  love 
and  sympathy  of  that  genial  community. 

"In  1819,  I  mai'ried  Samuel  Gilman,  and  came 
to  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  he  was 
ordained  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  church. 

"In  1832,  I  commenced  editing  the  'Rose  Bud." 
a  hebdomadal,  the  first  juvenile  netvsjjaper,  if  I 
mistake  not,  in  the  Union.  From  this  periodical 
I  have  reprinted,  at  various  times,  the  following- 
volumes  :  '  Recollections  of  a  New  England  House- 
keeper,' 'Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron." 
'Ruth  Raymond,  or  Love's  Progress,'  'Poetry  of 
Travelling  in  the  United  States,'  '  Tales  and 
Ballads,'  'Verses  of  a  Life-Time,'  'Letters  of 
Eliza  AVilkinson  during  the  invasion  of  Charleston." 
Also  several  volumes  for  youth,  now  collected  in 
one,  and  recently  published  as  '  Mrs.  Gilman's 
Gift-Book.' 

"  On  the  publication  of  '  The  Recollections  of  t\ 
New  England  Housekeeper,'  I  received  thanks  and 
congratulations  from  every  quarter,  and  I  attri- 
bute its  popularity  to  the  fact,  that  it  was  the 
first  attempt,  in  that  particular  mode,  to  enter 
into  the  recesses  of  American  homes  and  hearths 
—  the  first  unveiling  of  what  I  may  call  the  altar 
of  the  Lares  in  our  cuisine. 

"I  feel  proud  to  say,  that  a  chapter  in  that 
work  was  among  the  first  heralds  of  the  tempe- 
rance movement  —  a  cause  to  which  I  shall  cheer- 
fully give  my  later  as  well  as  my  earlier  powers. 

"  I  have  purposely  confined  myself  to  my  earlier 
recollections,  believing  that  my  writings  will  be 
the  best  exponents  of  my  views  and  experience. 

"My  Heavenly  Father  has  called  me  to  vai'ious 
trials  of  joy  and  sorrow,  and  I  trust  they  have  all 
drawn  me  nearer  to  Him.  I  have  resided  in 
Charleston  thirty-one  years,  and  shall  probably 
make  my  final  resting-place  in  the  beautiful  ceme- 
tery adjoining  my  husband's  church  —  the  church 
of  my  faith  and  my  love." 

The  character  of  Mrs.  Gilman's  writings,  both 
prose  and  poetry,  is  that  of  a  healthy  imagination 
and  cheerful  mind — just  what  her  reminiscences 
would  lead  us  to  expect.  She  sees  no  "lions  in 
her  path,"  and  she  never  parades  fictitious  woes. 
She  admires  nature,  delights  in  social  enjoyments, 
and  chooses  the  dear  domestic  affections  and  house- 
hold virtues  for  themes  of  story  and  song.  Her 
pictures  of  southern  life  are  vivid  and  racy ;  she 
excels  in  these  home-sketches,  and  her  moral  les- 
sons evince  the  true  nobility  of  her  soul. 

From  tlie  "  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron.' 
FAJIILY    EDUCATION. 

After  the  departure  of  our  Connecticut  teacher, 
Mr.  Bates,  papa  resolved  to  carry  on  our  education 
himself.  We  were  to  rise  by  daylight,  that  he 
might  pursue  his  accustomed  ride  over  the  fields 
after  breakfast.  New  writing-books  were  taken 
out  and  ruled,  fresh  quills  laid  by  their  side,  our 
task  carefully  committed  to  memory,  and  we  sat 
with  a  mixture  of  docility  and  curiosity  to  know 

671 


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how  he  would  manage  as  a  teacher.  The  first 
three  days,  our  lessons  being  on  trodden  ground, 
and  ourselves  under  the  impulse  of  novelty,  we 
were  very  amiable,  he  very  paternal ;  on  the 
fourth,  John  was  turned  out  of  the  room,  Richard 
was  pronounced  a  snub,  and  I  went  sobbing  to 
mamma,  as  if  my  heart  would  break,  while  papa 
said  he  might  be  compelled  to  ditch  rice-fields, 
but  he  never  would  undertake  to  teach  children 
again. 

A  slight  constraint  was  thrown  over  the  family 
for  a  day  or  two,  but  it  soon  wore  off,  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  good-nature.  For  three  weeks  we 
were  as  wild  as  fawns,  until  mamma's  attention 
was  attracted  by  my  sun-burnt  complexion,  and 
my  brother's  torn  clothes. 

"  This  will  never  answer,"  said  she  to  papa. 
"  Look  at  Cornelia's  face  I  It  is  as  brown  as  a 
chinquapin.  Richard  has  ruined  his  new  suit,  and 
John  has  cut  his  leg  with  the  carpenter's  tools.  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  keep  school  for  them  myself." 

Papa  gave  a  slight  whistle,  which  seemed  rather 
to  stimulate  than  check  her  resolution.  "Cor- 
nelia," said  she,  "  go  directly  to  your  brothers, 
and  prepare  your  books  for  to-morrow.  /  will 
teach  you." 

The  picture  about  to  be  presented  is  not  over- 
wrought. I  am  confident  of  the  sympathy  of  many 
a  mother,  whose  finger  has  been  kept  on  a  word 
in  the  lesson,  amid  countless  interruptions,  and 
finished  with  a  frolic. 

One  would  suppose  that  the  retirement  of  a  plan- 
tation was  the  most  appropriate  spot  for  a  mother 
and  her  children  to  give  and  receive  instruction. 
Not  so ;  for  instead  of  a  limited  household,  her  de- 
pendants are  increased  to  a  number  which  would 
constitute  a  village.  She  is  obliged  to  listen  to 
cases  of  grievance,  is  a  nurse  to  the  sick,  and  dis- 
tributes the  half-yearly  clothing;  indeed,  the  mere 
giving  out  of  thread  and  needles  is  something  of 
a  charge  on  so  large  a  scale.  A  planter's  lady 
may  seem  indolent,  because  there  are  so  many 
under  her  who  perform  trivial  services ;  but  the 
very  circumstance  of  keeping  so  many  menials 
in  order  is  an  arduous  one,  and  the  keys  of  her 
establishment  are  a  care  of  which  a  northern 
housekeeper  knows  nothing,  and  include  a  very 
extensive  class  of  duties.  Many  fair,  and  even 
aristocratic  girls,  if  we  may  use  this  phrase  in  our 
republican  country,  who  grace  a  ball-room,  or  loll 
in  a  liveried  carriage,  may  be  seen  with  these  steel 
talismans,  presiding  over  store-rooms,  and  mea- 
suring, with  the  accuracy  and  conscientiousness 
of  a  shopman,  the  daily  allowance  of  the  family, 
or  cutting  homespun  suits,  for  days  together,  for 
the  young  and  the  old  negroes  under  their  charge ; 
while  matrons,  who  would  ring  a  bell  for  their 
pocket-handkerchief  to  be  brought  to  them,  will 
act  the  part  of  a  surgeon  or  physician  with  a 
promptitude  and  skill  which  would  excite  aston- 
ishment in  a  stranger.  Very  frequently,  servants, 
like  children,  will  only  take  medicine  from  their 
superiors,  and  in  this  case  the  planter's  wife  or 
daughter  is  admirably  fitted  to  aid  them. 

There  are  few  establishments  where  all  care  and 
responsibility  devolves  on  the  master;  and  even 


then  the  superintendence  of  a  large  domestic 
circle,  and  the  rites  of  hospitality,  demand  so 
large  a  portion  of  the  mistress's  time,  as  leaves 
her  but  little  opportunity  for  systematic  teaching 
in  her  family.  In  this  case  she  is  wise  to  seek  an 
efficient  tutor,  still  appropriating  those  opportu- 
nities which  perpetually  arise  under  the  same 
roof  to  improve  their  moral  and  religious  culture, 
and  cultivate  those  sympathies  which  exalt  these 
precious  beings  from  children  to  friends. 

The  young,  conscientious,  ardent  mother  must 
be  taught  this  by  experience.  She  has  a  jealousy 
at  first  of  any  instruction  that  shall  come  between 
their  dawning  minds  and  her  own ;  and  is  only 
taught  by  the  constantly  thwarted  recitation,  that 
in  this  country,  at  least,  good  housekeeping  and 
good  teaching  cannot  be  combined. 

But  to  return  to  my  narrative.  The  morning 
after  mamma's  order,  we  assembled  at  ten  o'clock. 
There  was  a  little  trepidation  in  her  manner,  but 
we  loved  her  too  well  to  annoy  her  by  noticing  it. 
Her  education  had  been  confined  to  mere  rudi- 
ments, and  her  good  sense  led  her  only  to  conduct 
our  reading,  writing,  and  spelling. 
We  stood  in  a  line. 

"  Spell  irriyate,"  said  she.  Just  then  the  coach 
man  entered,  and  bowing,  said, 

"  Maussa  send  me  for  de  key  for  get  four  quart 
o'  corn  for  him  bay  horse." 
The  key  was  given. 
"  Spell  imitate,"  said  mamma. 
"  We  did  not  spell  irrigate,"  we  all  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  no,"  said  she  ;   "  irrigate." 
By  the  time  the  two  words  were  well  through, 
Chloe,   the  most  refined  of  our  coloured  circle, 
appeared. 

"Will  mistress  please  to  viedjure  out  some  calo- 
mel for  Syphax,  who  is  feverish  and  onrestless?" 
During  mamma's  visit  to  the  doctor's-shop,  as 
the  medicine-closet  was  called,  we  turned  the  ink- 
stand over  on  her  mahogany  table,  and  wiped  it 
up  with  our  pocket-handkerchiefs.  It  required 
some  time  to  cleanse  and  arrange  ourselves ;  and 
just  as  we  were  seated,  and  had  advanced  a  little 
way  on  our  orthographical  journey,  Maum  Phillis 
entered  with  her  usual  drawl, 

"  Little  maussa  want  for  nurse,  marm." 
While  this  operation  was  going  on,  we  gathered 
round  mamma  to  play  bo-peep  with  the  baby,  until 
even  she  forgot  our  lessons.  At  length  the  little 
pet  was  dismissed,  with  the  white  drops  still  rest- 
ing on  his  red  lips,  and  our  line  was  formed  again. 
Mamma's  next  interruption,  after  successfully 
issuing  a  few  words,  was  to  settle  a  quarrel  be- 
tween Lafayette  and  Venus,  two  little  blackies, 
who  were  going  through  their  daily  drill  in  learn- 
ing to  rub  the  furniture,  which,  with  brushing 
flies  at  meals,  constitutes  the  first  insti-uction  for 
house-servants.  These  important  and  classical 
personages  rubbed  about  a  stroke  to  the  minute 
on  each  side  of  the  cellaret,  rolling  up  their  eyes 
and  making  grimaces  at  each  other.  At  this 
crisis,  they  had  laid  claim  to  the  same  rubbing- 
cloth  ;  mamma  stopped  the  dispute,  by  ordering 
my  seamstress.  Flora,  who  was  sewing  for  me,  to 
apply  the  weight  of  her  thimble,  that  long-known 

672 


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GI 


weapon  of  offence,  as  well  as  implement  of  indus- 
try, to  their  organ  of  firmness. 

"Spell  accentuate,'"  said  mamma,  whose  finger 
had  slipped  from  the  column. 

"  No,  no,  that  is  not  the  place,"  we  exclaimed, 
rectifying  the  mistake. 

"  Spell  irritate,"  said  she,  with  admirable  cool- 
ness; and  John  fairly  succeeded,  just  as  the  over- 
seer's son,  a  sallow  little  boy,  with  yellow  hair  and 
blue  homespun  dress,  came  in  with  his  hat  on,  and 
kicking  up  one  foot  for  manners,  said, 

"  Fayther  says  as  how  he  wants  Master  Richard's 
horse  to  help  tote  some  tetters  to  tother  field." 

This  pretty  piece  of  alliteration  was  complied 
with,  after  some  remonstrance  from  brother  Dick, 
and  we  finished  our  column.  At  this  crisis,  before 
we  were  fairly  seated  at  writing,  mamma  was  sum- 
moned to  the  hall  to  one  of  the  field-hands,  who 
had  received  an  injury  in  the  ankle  from  a  hoe. 
Papa  and  the  overseer  being  at  a  distance,  she 
was  obliged  to  superintend  the  wound.  We  aU 
followed  her,  Lafayette  and  Venus  bringing  up 
the  rear.  She  inspected  the  sufferer's  great  foot, 
covered  with  blood  and  perspiration,  superin- 
tended a  bath,  prepared  a  healing  application, 
and  bound  it  on  with  her  own  delicate  hands, 
first  quietly  tying  a  black  apron  over  her  white 
dress.  There  was  no  shrinking,  no  hiding  of  the 
eyes ;  and  while  extracting  some  extraneous  sub- 
stance from  the  wound,  her  manner  was  as  reso- 
lute as  it  was  gentle  and  consoling.  This  episode 
gave  Richard  an  opportunity  to  unload  his  pockets 
of  groundnuts,  and  treat  us  therewith.  We  were 
again  seated  at  our  writing-books,  and  were  going 
on  swimmingly  with  ^^ Avoid  evil  covipany,"  when 
a  little  crow-minder,  hoarse  from  his  late  occupa- 
tion, came  in  with  a  basket  of  eggs,  and  said, 

"  Mammy  Phillis  send  missis  some  eggs  for  buy, 
ma'am ;  she  an't  so  berry  well,  and  ax  for  some 
'baccer." 

It  took  a  little  time  to  pay  for  the  eggs  and 
Bend  to  the  store-room  for  the  Virginia  weed,  of 
which  opportunity  we  availed  ourselves  to  draw 
figures  on  our  slates.  JIamma  reproved  us,  and 
we  were  resuming  our  duties,  when  the  cook's  son 
approached,  and  said, 

"  Missis,  Daddy  Ajax  say  he  been  broke  de  axe, 
and  ax  me  for  ax  you  for  leu  him  de  new  axe." 

This  made  us  shout  with  laughter,  and  the  busi- 
ness was  scarcely  settled,  when  the  dinner-horn 
sounded.  That  evening  a  carriage  full  of  friends 
arrived  from  the  city  to  pass  a  week  with  us,  and 
thus  ended  mamma's  experiment  in  teaching. 

YOUNG   MEN. 

There  is  no  moral  object  so  beautiful  to  me  as 
a  conscientious  young  man !  I  watch  him  as  I  do 
a  star  in  the  heavens  :  clouds  may  be  before  him, 
but  we  know  that  his  light  is  behind  them,  and 
will  beam  again ;  the  blaze  of  others'  prosperity 
may  outshine  him,  but  we  know  that,  though  un- 
seen, he  illumines  his  true  sphere.  He  resists 
temptation  not  without  a  struggle,  for  that  is  not 
virtue,  but  he  does  resist  and  conquer ;  he  hears 
the  sarcasm  of  the  profligate,  and  it  stings  him, 
for  that  is  the  trial  of  virtue,  but  he  heals  the 
2S 


wound  with  his  own  pure  touch ;  he  heeds  not 
the  watch-word  of  fashion,  if  it  leads  to  sin ;  the 
atheist  who  says,  not  only  in  his  heart  but  with 
his  lips,  "  There  is  no  God,"  controls  him  not,  for 
he  sees  the  hand  of  a  creating  God,  and  reverences 
it — of  a  preserving  God,  and  rejoices  in  it.  Woman 
is  sheltered  by  fond  arms,  and  guided  by  loving 
counsel ;  old  age  is  protected  by  its  experience, 
and  manhood  by  its  strength ;  but  the  young  man 
stands  amid  the  temptations  of  the  world  like  a 
self-balanced  tower.  Happy  he  who  seeks  and 
gains  the  prop  and  shelter  of  Christianity. 

Onward,  then,  conscientious  youth !  raise  thy 
standard  and  nerve  thyself  for  goodness.  If  God 
has  given  thee  intellectual  power,  awaken  it  in 
that  cause ;  never  let  it  be  said  of  thee,  he  helped  to 
swell  the  tide  of  sin,  by  pouring  his  influence  into 
its  channels.  If  thou  art  feeble  in  mental  strength, 
throw  not  that  poor  drop  into  a  polluted  current. 
Awake,  arise,  young  man !  Assume  the  beautiful 
garments  of  virtue !  It  is  easy,  fearfully  easy,  to 
sin ;  it  is  difficult  to  be  pure  and  holy.  Put  on 
thy  strength,  then ;  let  thy  chivalry  be  aroused 
against  error  —  let  truth  be  the  lady  of  thy  love — 
defend  her. 

THE    SOUTHERN   WIFE. 

This  club  engagement  brought  on  others.  I  was 
not  selfish,  and  even  urged  Arthur  to  go  to  hunt 
and  to  dinner-parties,  although  hoping  that  he 
would  resist  my  urging.  He  went  frequently', 
and  a  growing  discomfort  began  to  work  upon 
my  mind.  I  had  undefined  forebodings ;  I  mused 
about  past  days ;  my  views  of  life  became  slowly 
disorganized ;  my  physical  powers  enfeebled ;  a 
nervous  excitement  followed  ;  I  nursed  a  moody 
discontent,  and  ceased  a  while  to  reason  clearly. 
Woe  to  me,  had  I  yielded  to  this  irritable  tempera- 
ment !  I  began  immediately,  on  principle,  to  busy 
myself  about  my  household.  The  location  of 
Bellevue  was  picturesque  —  the  dwelling  airy  and 
commodious ;  I  had,  therefore,  only  to  exercise 
taste  in  external  and  internal  arrangement,  to 
make  it  beautiful  throughout.  I  was  careful  to 
consult  my  husband  in  those  points  which  inte- 
rested him,  without  annoying  him  with  mere 
trifles.  If  the  reign  of  romance  was  really  waning, 
I  resolved  not  to  chill  his  noble  confidence,  but  to 
make  a  steadier  light  rise  on  his  affections.  If 
he  was  absorbed  in  reading,  I  sat  quietly  waiting 
the  pause  when  I  should  be  rewarded  by  the  com- 
munication of  ripe  ideas ;  if  I  saw  that  he  prized 
a  tree  which  interfered  with  my  flowers,  I  sacri- 
ficed my  preference  to  a  more  sacred  feeling ;  if 
any  habit  of  his  annoyed  me,  I  spoke  of  it  once 
or  twice  calmly,  and  then  bore  it  quietly  if  unre- 
formed ;  I  welcomed  his  friends  with  cordiality, 
entered  into  their  family  interests,  and  stopped 
my  yawns,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  was  sometimes 
an  almost  desperate  effort,  before  they  reached 
eye  or  ear. 

This  task  of  self-government  was  not  easy.  To 
repress  a  harsh  answer,  to  confess  a  fault,  and  to 
stop  (right  or  wrong)  in  the  midst  of  self-defence, 
in  gentle  submission,  sometimes  requires  a  struggle 
like  life  and  death ;  but  these  three  efforts  are  the 

673 


GI 


GI 


golden  threads  witli  ■which  domestic  happiness  is 
woven ;  once  begin  the  fabric  with  this  woof,  and 
trials  shall  not  break  or  sorrow  tarnish  it. 

Men  are  not  often  unreasonable ;  their  diffi- 
culties lie  in  not  understanding  the  moral  and 
physical  structure  of  our  sex.  They  often  wound 
through  ignorance,  and  are  surprised  at  having 
offended.  How  clear  is  it,  then,  that  woman  loses 
by  petulance  and  recrimination  !  Her  first  study 
must  be  self-control,  almost  to  hypocrisy.  A  good 
wife  must  smile  amid  a  thousand  perplexities,  and 
clear  her  voice  to  tones  of  cheerfulness  when  her 
frame  is  drooping  with  disease,  or  else  languish 
alone.  Man,  on  the  contrary,  when  trials  beset 
him,  expects  to  find  her  ear  and  heart  a  ready 
receptacle ;  and,  when  sickness  assails  him,  her 
soft  hand  must  nurse  and  sustain  him. 

I  have  not  meant  to  suggest  that,  in  ceasing  to 
be  a  mere  lover,  Arthur  was  not  a  tender  and  de- 
voted husband.  I  have  only  described  the  natural 
progress  of  a  sensible,  independent  married  man, 
desirous  of  fulfilling  all  the  relations  of  society. 
Nor  in  these  remarks  would  I  chill  the  romance 
of  some  young  dreamer,  who  is  reposing  her  heart 
on  another.  Let  her  dream  on.  God  has  given 
this  youthful,  luxui'ious  gift  of  trusting  love,  as 
he  has  given  hues  to  the  flower  and  sunbeams  to 
the  sky.  It  is  a  superadded  charm  to  his  lavish 
blessings;  but  let  her  be  careful  that  when  her 
husband 

"Wakes  from  love's  romantic  dream, 
His  eyes  may  open  on  a  sweet  esteem." 

Let  him  know  nothing  of  the  struggle  which 
follows  the  first  chill  of  the  affections ;  let  no 
scenes  of  tears  and  apologies  be  acted  to  agitate 
him,  until  he  becomes  accustomed  to  agitation ; 
thus  shall  the  star  of  domestic  peace  arise  in  fix- 
edness and  beauty  above  them,  and  shine  down  in 
gentle  light  on  their  lives,  as  it  has  on  ours. 

MISTAKES    OF    STKANGERS. 

I  was  prepared  one  morning  to  call  on  a  stran- 
ger, when  visitors  were  announced;  and,  glancing 
round  the  drawing-room,  I  perceived  on  the  sofa 
a  rattan,  which  had  been  brought  in  by  one  of  my 
young  brothers.  I  caught  it  up,  and,  twisting  it 
in  a  coil,  thrust  it  into  my  velvet  reticule,  and 
received  my  guests.  As  soon  as  they  departed,  I 
sprang  into  the  carriage,  which  was  in  waiting, 
and  drove  away.  The  ladies  were  at  home.  In 
the  course  of  conversation,  I  unthinkingly  drew 
my  scented  pocket-handkerchief  from  my  bag, 
when  out  flew  the  rattan  with  a  bound,  and  rolled 
to  the  feet  of  the  stranger.  My  deep  and  inex- 
tinguishable blush  probably  helped  on  any  un- 
charitable surmises  that  she  might  have  made, 
and  who  can  blame  her,  after  such  evidence,  for 
reporting  that  Charleston  ladies  carried  cow-skins 
in  their  pockets  ! 

From  "  Poems  " 

THE    MOCKING-BIRD    IN    THE    CITY. 

Bird  of  the  Soutli !  is  tliis  a  scene  to  waken 

Thy  native  notes  in  thrilling,  gushing  tone  ? 
Thy  woodland  nest  of  love  is  all  forsaken  — 
Thy  mate  alone  I 


While  stranger-throngs  roll  by,  thy  song  is  lending 

Joy  to  the  happy,  soothings  to  the  sad  ; 
O'er  my  full  heart  it  flows  with  gentle  blending. 
And  /  am  glad. 

And  /  will  sing,  though  dear  ones,  loved  and  loving. 

Are  left  afar  in  my  sweet  nest  of  liome ; 
Though  from  that  nest,  with  backward  yearnings  moving 
Onward  I  roam  ! 

And  with  heart-music  shall  my  feeble  aiding 

Still  swell  the  note  of  human  joy  aloud  ; 
Nor,  with  untrusting  soul  kind  Heaven  upbraiding. 
Sigh  'mid  the  crowd. 


6IRARDIN,    DELPHINE   DE, 

A  DAUGHTER  of  the  Celebrated  Sophia  Gay,  and 
the  wife'  of  the  poet  de  Girardin,  was  born  in  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  in  1808.  She  has  gained  a  high  repu- 
tation among  French  poets.  In  1820,  she  ob- 
tained the  prize  of  the  Academie  Frangaise ;  her 
theme  was  "  An  Eulogy  on  the  Sacrifice  and  Devo- 
tion of  the  French  Physicians  and  Nuns  during 
the  prevalence  of  the  Cholera."  In  1827,  she  was 
chosen  a  member  of  the  Tiber  Academy,  at  Rome, 
an  honour  never  before  confex-red  on  a  woman. 
Her  larger  poems  are  "  Le  Retour,"  and  "  Napo- 
line."  A  collection  of  her  smaller  poems  has  been 
published  under  the  title  of  "Essais  Poetiques." 
But  her  prose  works,  written  chiefly  since  her 
marriage,  are  now  more  popular  than  her  poems. 
Perhaps  she  has  gained,  not  only  in  intellectual 
culture,  but  in  the  art  of  using  her  resources  to 
the  best  advantage,  by  her  union  with  a  man  of 
such  acknowledged  talents  as  M.  Emile  de  Girar- 
din, who  has  shown  the  real  nobleness  of  genius — 
that  which  does  not  fear  a  rival  in  his  wife.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  her  fictitious  narratives  evince  in- 
tellectual powers  of  the  highest  order.  She  has  a 
very  striking  originality  of  thought,  while  her 
skill  in  the  development  of  characters,  her  pene- 
tration into  motives,  and  her  power  of  unravelling 
the  twisted  threads  that  impel  human  inconsist- 
ency, are  really  wonderful.  "  Le  Marquis  de  Pon- 
tignac  ;"  "  La  Canne  de  M.  de  Balzac;"  "  Contes 
d'une  vielle  Fille  ;"  "  L'Ecole  des  Journalistes," 
are  amongst  the  best. 

674 


01 


GI 


The  novels  of  Madame  de  Girardin  are  written 
■with  an  artistic  perfection,  that  prevents  extract- 
ing the  highest  spiritual  and  poetic  ideas.  Every 
evolvement  of  character,  every  moral  sentiment 
is  so  incorparated  with  the  person  or  incident  de- 
scribed, that  taken  separately  it  loses  its  essence. 
The  subjoined  extracts  will  give  some  notion  of 
the  sparkling  vivacity  and  wit  which  she  pos- 
sesses to  perfection,  but  she  manifests  also  much 
sensibility — much  tenderness — and  the  little  poems 
here  and  there  introduced  are  quite  equal  to  any 
French  verses  of  that  sort ;  her  style  is  peculiarly 
elegant  and  appropriate. 

From  "  La  Canne  de  Balzac." 
[We  must  premise,  for  the  understanding  of 
the  following  extract,  by  a  little  explanation. 
Mr.  Tancred  Dorimont  is  a  young  gentleman, 
lately  arrived  in  Paris  to  seek  employment,  and 
has  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  Mr.  Poirceau, 
President  of  an  Insurance  Company,  to  whose 
house  he  goes.] 

"  Is  Mr.  Poirceau  at  home  ?" 

"Yes,  sir  —  shall  I  trouble  you  to  step  this 
way." 

Trouble,  was  the  exact  word,  for  to  get  through 
the  interposing  barriers  was  like  entering  by  siege. 

The  hall  —  the  landing-place  of  the  stair-case  — 
were  barricaded  by  benches  set  one  upon  another 
cross- ways  —  and  every  possible  way  —  and  com- 
pletely barring  up  the  road. 

Tancred,  with  great  difficulty,  worked  his  way 
to  the  ante-chamber  —  here  he  had  to  stop  again. 
An  enormous  roll  of  carpeting  obstructed  the  pas- 
sage—  behind  this  carpet  was  the  large  dinner- 
table  covered  with  chairs  sitting  in  one  another's 
laps  —  behind  that  more  benches  —  then  a  step- 
ladder,  then  a  stand  covered  with  china,  then 
flower-pots  waiting  for  flowers,  then  candelabras 
waiting  for  candles,  then  the  marble  top  of  a 
table,  on  which  were  heaped  cushions,  shovel  and 
tongs,  stools,  bellows,  and  cofiFee-pot. 

Tancred  traversed  this  chaos  without  accident, 
and  got  into  the  dining-room. 

New  difficulties. —  In  the  dining-room  was  cast 
into  a  general  mel6e,  all  the  parlour  furniture, 
sofa,  arm-chairs,  divans  —  then  came  valuable  ar- 
ticles—  the  mantel-clock  with  its  tottering  shade 
—  vases  for  flowers  too  beautiful  ever  to  put  flow- 
era  in  them  —  bust  of  the  uncle,  the  general,  so 
like  —  work-table,  work-box,  above  all  the  piano. 
Tancred  felt  as  if  he  were  standing  over  the  wreck 
of  the  world,  like  another  Attila.  He  had  never 
beheld  such  arrangements.  He  imagined  that 
this  furniture  had  all  been  saved  from  a  fire  of 
the  preceding  night,  and  had  been  deposited  there 
till  its  owner  was  furnished  with  another  dwell- 
ing. He  looked  —  climbed  over  a  pile  of  chairs  — 
skirted  round  an  enormous  sofa  as  one  skirts  a 
mountain  —  encountered  many  things  on  the  way, 
but  saw  no  person. 

"  Is  Mr.  P in  ?"  asked  he,  a  second  time. 

"  This  way,  this  way," — cried  a  distant  voice. 
Tancred  saw  nothing  still.     He  arrived,  at  last, 
at  the   parlour-door.     In   the   parlour,  the  bed- 


chamber furniture,  proud  of  its  promotion,  spread 
itself  about. —  But  —  still  —  nobody. 

Tancred  turned  towards  the  chamber-door — the 
same  voice  :   "  Here's  a  present  for  you  !" 

At  the  same  moment  a  great  bundle,  thrown  by 
an  invisible  band,  struck  Tancred  in  the  face, 
and  he  felt  himself  stifled,  covered  up  by  a  deluge 
of  little  petticoats  and  frocks  of  every  colour,  and 
every  size,  from  which  he  had  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty to  free  himself — some  had  a  thousand  little 
strings  that  hooked  on  to  his  buttons  —  others  had 
little  sleeves  that  his  hand  went  in  —  the  whole 
pretty  well  seasoned  with  dust. 

When  Tancred  was  able  to  see,  he  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  a  great  gawky  servant,  armed 
with  a  brush  and  duster ;  the  fellow  looked  fright- 
ened and  awkward. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  thought  it  was  the 
upholsterer's  boy,  who  is  coming  to  take  down 
the  bedstead,  and  I  thought  I  'd  have  a  little  fun 
with  him." 

"Is   Mr.  P in," — interrupted    Tancred  — 

then  seeing  that  the  room  was  quite  without  fur- 
niture; "but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  see  him  —  I 
suppose  you  are  moving?" 

"Oh,  no!  we  are  not  moving,"  answered  the 
man;  "things  are  topsy-turvy,  it  is  because  of 
the  ball  and  that  confounded  upholsterer  who  has 
not  come." 

"A  ball  to-night?     I  will  come  another  time." 
"  Oh,  this  is  not  the  fii'st  time  we  have  a  ball ; 

Mr.  P will  see  you  ;  step  into  the  office." 

***** 
She  had  one  of  those  faces ;  beautiful  to  talk 
about,  not  at  all  to  look  at;  large  eyes,  aquiline 
nose,  little  mouth,  oval  face,  well-turned  chin.  If 
Madame  P —  had  been  courted  by  an  embassa- 
dor, like  a  princess,  she  would  have  done  well  to 
send  her  description,  not  her  portrait.  No  matter 
—  she  was  what  is  called  a  handsome  woman;  a 
perfect  doll,  never  out  of  order,  never  in  undress ; 
always  laced,  pinched,  corseted ;  not  a  hair  out 
of  place,  not  a  ribbon  floating.  She  looked  dressed 
in  a  wrapper,  and  armed  in  a  ball-dress ;  she 
followed  every  fashion  —  because  she  was  fond  of 
it?  No  —  but  as  a  matter  of  conscience.  Her 
coifl"eur  was  the  best  in  Paris,  and  whatever  head- 
dress it  pleased  him  to  arrange  for  her,  she  re- 
spected it,  and  would  nqt  dare  to  put  a  finger  to  it. 
Suppose  this  head-dress  unbecoming  ?  What  mat- 
ter— it  is  not  her  responsibility.  If  a  hair-pin 
hurts  her?  No  matter  —  it  would  not  do  to  spoil 
the  head-dress.  The  same  respect  for  the  mantua- 
maker.  She  followed  the  laws  of  fashion  rigor- 
ously—  the  laws  of  the  world  scrupulously — the 
laws  of  nature  when  they  did  not  clash  with  the 
other  more  important  ones.  She  said,  with  a  pe- 
dantic air,  that  women  ought  not  to  occupy  them- 
selves with  literature — but  she  talked  of  house- 
keeping like  a  professor  —  her  mind  was  slow,  and 
she  looked  upon  every  piece  of  wit  she  could  not 
comprehend  as  something  improper.  Her  pre- 
sence had  a  chilling  eflTect — it  was  like  the  open- 
ing of  a  door  in  a  box  at  the  theatre. 

***** 
When  a  disagreeable  man  is   described,   they 

676 


GO 


GO 


s«y,  he  is  so  satisfied -with  himself !  Very  well.  I 
know  what  is  more  disagreeable  —  a  man  who  is 
dissatisfied  with  himself.  With  him  there  is  no 
getting  along ;  no  way  of  pleasing ;  flattery  irri- 
tates him —  politeness  seems  to  him  pity;  a  pre- 
sent—  charity;  he  is  desperately  humble,  and 
nervously  tenacious.  If  you  ask  him  to  dinner, 
he  answers,  "Thank  you,  no  —  I  am  not  good 
company  —  I  know  you  don't  want  me."  If  you 
invite  him  to  hear  music ;  "  No,  I  thank  you," 
says  he,  "  I  am  too  insignificant  to  go  to  such 
gay  parties."  If  you  propose  a  pic-nic;  "  No,  I 
thank  you,"  he  answers,  "such  expeditions  re- 
quire gayety  —  invite  your  agreeable  friends  —  I 
am  not  suitable."  This  man  enjoys  nothing  —  is 
fit  for  nothing ;  he  is  eaten  up  with  modesty  — 
but  a  disagreeable  modesty ;  it  is  an  imaginary 
leprosy  which  makes  him  shun  his  fellow-crea- 
tures. 

This  malady  is  fortunately  very  rare  in  our 
country ;  I  only  speak  of  it  to  announce  the  fact 
of  its  existence. 


GORE,    MRS.    CHARLES, 

Is  ONE  of  the  most  popular  of  the  living  female 
novelists  of  England  ;  the  number  of  her  works 
would  give  her  celebrity,  had  she  no  other  claim. 
She  is,  however,  a  powerful  and  brilliant  writer, 
and  it  seems  almost  a  parody  to  assert,  that  her 
surprising  fertility  of  imagination  should  be  an 
obstacle  to  her  attaining  the  high  literary  reputa- 
tion she  merits.  But  her  works  are  so  unfailingly 
j^resented  to  the  public,  so  constantly  poured  out, 
that  they  are  received  like  the  flowers  and  fruits, 
acceptable  and  delightful,  but  not  to  be  sought 
for  and  praised,  as  some  rare  occasional  produc- 
tion. We  revel  in  our  showers  of  roses,  but  they 
are  common-place,  while  we  make  a  wonder  of 
some  prickly  production  of  a  foreign  bed.  We  are 
led  to  these  thoughts  while  looking  over  a  notice 
of  Mrs.  Gore's  writings,  which  appeared  in  Cham- 
bers's Cyclopaedia:  the  critic  says, —  "  This  lady 
is  a  clever  and  prolific  writer  of  tales  and  fashion- 
able novels.  Her  first  work  (published  anony- 
mously) was,  we  believe,  a  small  volume  contain- 


ing two  tales,  '  The  Lettre  de  Cachet,'  and  '  The 
Reign  of  Terror,'  1827.  One  of  these  relates  to 
the  times  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  other  to  the 
French  Revolution.  They  are  both  interesting, 
graceful  tales  —  superior,  we  think,  to  some  of  the 
more  elaborate  and  extensive  fictions  of  the  au- 
thoress. In  1830,  appeared  '  Women  as  They 
Are ;  or.  The  Manners  of  the  Day,'  three  vol- 
umes—  an  easy  sparkling  narrative,  with  correct 
pictures  of  modern  society  —  much  lady-like  writ- 
ing on  dress  and  fashion,  and  some  rather  mis- 
placed derision  or  contempt  for  '  excellent  wives,' 
and  'good  sort  of  men.'  This  novel  soon  went 
through  a  second  edition,  and  Mrs.  Gore  continued 
the  same  style  of  fashionable  portraiture.  In 
1831,  she  issued  '  Mothers  and  daughters,  a  Tale 
of  the  Year,'  1830.     Here  the  manners  of  gay  life 

—  balls,  dinners,  and  fetes  —  with  clever  sketches 
of  character,  and  amusing  dialogues,  make  up  the 
customary  three  volumes.  The  same  year,  we 
find  Mrs.  Gore  compiling  a  series  of  narratives  for 
youth,  entitled  '  The  Historical  Traveller.'  In  1882, 
she  came  forward  with  '  The  Fair  of  May  Fair,'  a 
series  of  fashionable  tales  that  were  not  so  well 
received.  The  critics  hinted  that  Mrs.  Gore  had 
exhausted  her  stock  of  observation,  and  we  be- 
lieve she  went  to  reside  in  France,  where  she  con- 
tinued some  years.  Her  next  tale  was  entitled 
'Mrs.  Armitage.'  In  1838,  she  published  'The 
Book  of  Roses,  or  the  Rose-Fancier's  Manual,'  a 
delightful  little  work  on  the  history  of  the  rose, 
its  propagation  and  culture.  France  is  celebrated 
for  its  rich  varieties  of  the  queen  of  flowers,  and 
Mrs.  Gore  availed  herself  of  the  taste  and  experi- 
ence of  the  French  floriculturists.  A  few  months 
afterwards  came  out  '  The  Heir  of  Selwood,  or 
Three  Epochs  of  a  Life,'  a  novel  in  which  were 
exhibited  sketches  of  Parisian  as  well  as  English 
society,  and  an  interesting  though  somewhat  con- 
fused plot.  The  year  1839  witnessed  three  more 
works  of  fiction  from  this  indefatigable  lady,  '  The 
Cabinet  Minister,'  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  dur- 
ing the  regency  of  George  IV.,  and  includes  among 
its  characters  the  great  name  of  Sheridan ;  '  Prefer- 
ment, or  my  Uncle,  the  Earl,'  containing  some  good 
sketches  of  drawing-room  society,  but  no  plot ; 
and  the  '  Courtier  of  the  Days  of  Charles  II.,'  and 
other  tales.  Next  year  we  have  the  '  Dowager,  or 
the  New  School  for  Scandal;'  and  in  1841  '  Gre- 
ville,  or  a  Season  in  Paris;'  'Dacre  of  the  South, 
or  the  Olden  Time '  (a  drama) ;  and  '  The  Lover 
and  her  Husband,'  &c.,  the  latter  a  free  transla- 
tion of  M.  Bertrand's  Gerfaiit.  In  1842,  Mrs. 
Gore  published  '  The  Banker's  Wife,  or  Court  and 
City,'  in  which  the  efforts  of  a  family  in  the  middle 
rank  to  outshine  a  nobleman,  and  the  consequences 
resulting  from  this  silly  vanity  and  ambition,  are 
truly  and  powerfully  painted.  The  value  of  Mrs. 
Gore's  novels  consists  in  their  lively  caustic  pic- 
tures of  fashionable  and  high  society.  '  The  more 
respectable  of  her  personages  are  afi"ecters  of  an 
excessive  prudery  concerning  the  decencies  of  life 

—  nay,  occasionally  of  an  exalted  and  mystical  re- 
ligious feeling.  The  business  of  their  existence 
is  to  avoid  the  slightest  breach  of  conventional  de- 
corum.    Whatever,  therefore,  they  do,  is  a  fair 

676 


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GO 


and  absolute  measure  of  the  prevailing  opinions 
of  the  class,  and  may  be  regarded  as  not  deroga- 
tory to  their  position  in  the  eyes  of  their  equals. 
But  the  low  average  standard  of  morality  thus  de- 
picted, with  its  conventional  distinctions,  cannot 
be  invented.  It  forms  the  atmosphere  in  which 
the  parties  live  ;  and  were  it  a  compound,  fabri- 
cated at  the  author's  pleasure,  the  beings  who 
breathe  it  could  not  be  universally  acknowledged 
as  fantastical  and  as  mere  monstrosities ;  they 
would,  indeed,  be  incapable  of  acting  in  harmony 
and  consistence  with  the  known  laws  and  usages 
of  civil  life.  Such  as  a  series  of  parliamentary 
reports,  county  meetings,  race-horse  transactions, 
&c.,  they  will  be  found,  with  a  reasonable  allow- 
ance of  artistic  colouring,  to  reflect  accurately 
enough  the  notions  current  among  the  upper 
classes  respecting  religion,  politics,  domestic  mo- 
rals, the  social  affections,  and  that  coarse  aggre- 
gate of  dealing  with  our  neighbours,  which  is  em- 
braced by  the  term  common  honesty.'*  Besides 
the  works  we  have  mentioned,  Mrs.  Gore  has  pub- 
lished '  TheDesennuy^e,'  'The Peeress,'  'The  Wo- 
man of  the  World,'  '  The  Woman  of  Business,' 
'  The  Ambassador's  Wife,'  and  other  novels.  She 
contributes  tales  to  the  periodicals,  and  is  per- 
haps unparalleled  for  fertility.  Her  works  are  all 
of  the  same  class  —  all  pictures  of  existing  life 
and  manners ;  but  the  want  of  genuine  feeling,  of 
passion  and  simplicity,  in  her  living  models,  and 
the  endless  frivolities  of  their  occupations  and  pur- 
suits, make  us  sometimes  take  leave  of  Mrs.  Gore's 
fashionable  triflers  in  the  temper  with  which  Gold- 
smith parted  from  Beau  Tibbs  — '  The  company 
of  fools  may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but  at  last 
never  fails  of  rendering  us  melancholy.'  " 

The  defects  of  Mrs.  Gore's  works,  which  these 
critics  point  out,  seem  rather  to  belong  to  English 
fashionable  life,  than  to  the  delineator  thereof; 
nor  do  we  think  she  has  had  justice  rendered  her 
genius.  Two  or  three  of  her  novels  might  be 
selected,  which  would  found  a  reputation  for  an 
author  who  had  written  nothing  else ;  nay,  we 
will  go  farther —  "Cecil,"  one  of  her  most  viva- 
cious but  least  satisfactory  works,  would  by  itself 
confer  celebrity,  as  was  plainly  seen  when,  upon  its 
anonymous  appearance,  it  was  haileti  with  eager- 
ness as  the  debut  of  a  new  and  clever  masculine  pen. 
Mrs.  Gore  possesses  great  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  is  well  skilled  in  developing  the  pecu- 
liarities of  character ;  she  can  even  be  pathetic. 
In  one  of  her  very  best  tales  —  "  Female  Domina- 
tion"—  the  sorrows  of  the  oppressed  daughter 
are  told  in  a  very  touching  manner ;  the  charac- 
ter of  Mrs.  Armitage,  in  this  book,  is  a  remark- 
ably well-sustained  delineation,  and  the  evolve- 
ment  of  the  plot  is  effected  in  a  masterly  way. 
But  the  most  remarkable  quality  of  our  authoress 
is  wit ;  this  she  possesses  in  such  superabundance 
that  she  actually  wasters  it ;  good  things  lie  in  out 
of  the  way  places,  where  they  are  hardly  recog- 
nized, and  where  they  lose  the  effect  they  might 
have,  if  reserved  for  their  fitting  application. 

It  has  been  said  of  a  very  rich  Russian  prince, 

*Athenseum,  li?39. 


who  visited  London  some  years  ago,  that  to  show 
the  little  account  he  made  of  pearls,  he  had  them 
loosely  stitched  in  ornamenting  his  attire,  on  pur- 
pose that  they  might  fall,  while  he  walked  on, 
heedless  of  their  fate.  Mrs.  Gore  is  equally  pro- 
digal of  the  little  gems  of  her  epigrammatic  wit ; 
they  fall  from  her  when  least  expected,  and  some- 
times when  least  needed.  Her  literary  industry 
cannot  be  estimated,  as  it  is  well  known  that, 
together  with  the  very  wonderful  number  of  her 
acknowledged  works,  she  has  sent  out  many  with- 
out her  name.  Besides  these  narrative  fictions, 
Mrs.  Gore  has  made  some  contributions  to  the 
stage  —  "The  Maid  of  Croissy,"  "The  Sledge- 
Driver," —  little  dramas  from  the  French, — "The 
School  for  Coquettes,"  and  other  comedies.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  showed,  by  the  examples  of  Le  Sage 
and  Fielding,  that  a  successful  novelist  could 
scarcely  be  fitted  for  dramatic  compositions ;  his 
own  attempt  in  that  way  came  afterwards  to  sup- 
port his  theory.  The  plays  of  Mrs.  Gore  may, 
then,  without  disparaging  her  abilities,  be  ac- 
knowledged but  mediocre  achievements. 

Some  masculine  critics  have  pronounced  it  im- 
possible that  the  classical  allusions  and  quotations, 
interspersed  through  Mrs.  Gore's  works,  should 
have  proceeded  from  herself.  The  Latin  and 
Greek  of  these  gentlemen  must  have  found  very 
diiBcult  access  into  their  brains,  but  they  may  be 
assured  such  trifling  accomplishments  can  be,  and 
are,  acquired  every  year  by  hundreds  of  school- 
boys, who  would  be  entirely  puzzled  were  a  single 
'  chapter,  such  as  the  most  indifferent  of  Mrs.  Gore's 
;  works  would  furnish,  to  be  expected  of  them. 
Memory  is  a  faculty  possessed  equally,  we  believe, 
by  the  sexes ;  but  the  greater  vivacity  of  the  female 
intellect  renders  the  acquisition  of  language  easier 
for  girls  than  for  boys ;  and  when  similar  advan- 
tages shall  be  given  to  both,  women  will  excel 
men  in  that  knowledge  of  languages  which  gives 
facility  to  expression,  and  makes  all  tongues  ren- 
der tribute  in  the  service  of  Genius.  Mrs.  Gore 
has  the  honour  of  being  a  leader  in  this  learning- 
made-popular-style  of  novel-writing. 

From  "Self;"  a  novel. 
Thanks  to  the  march  of  civilization,  privacy  has 
been  exploded  among  us,  and  individuality  effaced. 
People  feel  in  thousands,  and  think  in  tens  of 
thousands.  No  quiet  nook  of  earth  remaining  for 
the  modern  Cincinnatus  to  cultivate  his  own  car- 
rots and  opinions,  where  humours  may  expand 
into  excrescence,  or  originality  let  grow  its  beard ! 
Robinson  Crusoe's  island  has  been  invaded  by 
missionary  societies  or  colonization  committees  ; 
and  even  in  our  scarcely  less  barbarous  midland 
counties,  railroads  are  cutting  their  way  into 
Harlowe  Place,  and  puffing  their  desecrations  into 
the  venerable  face  of  Grandison  Hall.  The  word 
"  tender"  has  acquired,  in  modern  parlance,  a 
sense  that  would  have  distracted  the  chivalrous 
authors  of  the  "Arcadia;"  nor  is  there  a  vicarage 
in  the  land  sufficiently  remote  from  the  shriek  of 
the  engine-driver,  to  foster  the  ingenuousness  of 
a  Dr.  Primrose. 


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The  literature  of  the  country  was  just  then  at 
a  discount.  Prophets  had  appeared,  indeed,  but 
they  prophesied  in  the  wiklerness.  Those  great 
writers,  whose  names  are  now  inscribed  on  corner- 
stones of  the  temple  of  fame,  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, Southey,  were  damned  by  an  epithet ;  while 
Moore,  like  a  frisky  lord  in  a  police-office,  was 
fain  to  shelter  his  irregularities  under  a  feigned 
name.  The  uproar  of  war's  alarms  had  some- 
what deafened  the  ear  of  the  public  to  the  music 
of  Apollo's  flute.  The  fashionable  world,  accord- 
ingly, restricted  its  literary  enjoyments  to  laugh- 
ing at  the  waggeries  of  the  Anti-Jacobin,  or 
shrieking  at  the  diabolisms  of  Monk  Lewis ;  dim 
foreshadowing  of  the  romantic  school,  on  the  eve 
of  its  creation  by  Scott,  or  gurglings  of  the  vitriolic 
Ilippocrene,  about  to  start  from  the  earth  on  the 
stamping  of  Byron's  Pegasus.  The  belles-lettres, 
which  for  two  centuries  past  had  received  their 
impulse  from  France,  had  undergone  a  staggering 
blow  at  the  revolution,  under  the  efi'ects  of  which 
they  still  languished ;  and  behold,  as  in  the  case 
of  other  extenuated  patients,  hysteria  supervened. 

From  "  Modern  Chivalry."* 
HOW    TO    MANAGE    THE    WORLD.  ^ 

Waterton,  the  naturalist,  who,  like  Mungo  Park, 
and  other  bold  adventurers  into  lands  beyond  the 
sea,  passes  for  the  fabricator  of  half  the  marvels 
he  was  the  first  to  witness,  asserts  that  whenever 
he  encountered  an  alligator  iele-d-tete,  in  the  wil- 
derness, he  used  to  leap  on  his  back,  and  ride  the 
beast  to  death.  This  feat,  so  much  discredited 
by  the  stay-at-home  critics,  was  an  act  of  neither 
bravery  nor  braggartry — but  of  necessity.  Either 
the  man  or  the  alligator  must  have  had  the  upper 
hand.     II  afallu  opter. 

Just  so  are  we  situated  with  regard  to  the  world. 
Either  we  must  leap  upon  its  back,  strike  our  spur 
into  its  panting  sides,  and,  in  spite  of  its  scaly  de- 
fences, compel  it  to  obey  our  glowing  will,  or  the 
animal  will  mangle  us  with  its  ferocious  jaws,  and 
pursue  its  way  toward  its  refuge  in  the  cool  waters, 
leaving  us  expiring  in  the  dust.  Either  the  world 
or  the  individual  must  obtain  the  upper  hand. 
Happy  he  who  hath  the  genius  and  presence  of 
mind  of  a  Waterton  ! 

The  greatest  difficulty  experienced  now-a-days 
in  accomplishing  the  subjugation  of  the  brute,  is 
to  get  it  on  foot,  with  the  view  of  mounting. 
Lazy  and  over-fed,  it  lies  ruminating,  half  lost 
amid  the  springing  grass  of  its  fertile  meadows, 
like  a  Cheshire  cow,  which,  when  roused  by  an 
occasional  impulse  of  friskiness,  goes  cumbrously 
frolicking  round  the  pastures,  without  aim  or  end, 
save  that  of  its  own  cork-screwed  tail,  only  to 
subside  anew  into  the  apathetic  torpor  of  obesity. 
What  is  to  be  done  with  such  a  world  ?  A  prick 
less  penetrating  than  that  of  a  goad  will  not 
awaken  it  from  its  luxurious  and  self-sufficing 
ruminations ;   nay,  a  stunning  blow  between  the 

♦This  work  was  sent  out  by  Mrs.  Gore  anonymously; 
when  reprinted  in  America,  it  was  attributed  to  that  chro- 
nicler of  crime,  Harrison  Ainsworth!  Very  complimentary 
to  him. 


horns  is  absolutely  indispensable  to  overmaster 
its  huge,  heavy,  and  powerful  organization. 

Between  the  somnolence  and  selfishness  of  the 
applauding  classes,  celebrity  has  become  a  thing 
of  yesterday !  There  is  neither  courage  nor  energy 
left  in  the  world  to  engender  a  great  reputation. 
As  of  old  the  gods  deserted  Greece,  great  men  are 
deserting  Great  Britain. 


Society  has  become  a  vast  platitude,  like  a  calm 
at  sea,  painted  by  Vandervelde,  or  the  Looking- 
Glass  Prairies,  described  by  Boz.  No  man  blushes 
at  being  stupid  and  insignificant  as  his  neighbours. 
The  happy  medium  of  dulness  envelopes  and  en- 
virons every  object,  passive  or  active;  and  we  say 
to  each  other,  as  Louis  XIII.  said  to  Cinq  Mars, 
"Mon  mignon!  let  us  go  and  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow: et  ennuyons  nous — ennuyons  nous  Men!"  The 
moment  insignificance  and  monotony  become  the 
normal  state  of  a  society,  yawns  are  out  of  place. 

The  predominant  growth  of  such  an  order  of 
things  is  unhappily  a  monstrous  egoism,  like  the 
hippopotamus  and  other  frightful  creatures  en- 
gendered amid  the  verdure  of  the  level  pastures  of 
the  Nile.  Self  becomes  the  One  Divinity ;  amal- 
gamating the  worship  due  to  Apollo  and  Diana, 
Isis  and  Osiris ;  and  superseding  at  once  the  golden 
image  set  up  for  public  adoration  and  the  Lares 
and  Penates  of  domestic  piety,  a  prodigious  eco- 
nomy of  devotion  !  For  the  egoist  has  so  far  the 
advantage  over  every  other  species  of  devotee, 
that  his  idol  is  ever  present.  Like  the  Catholic 
priests,  who,  during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  carried 
portable  altars  in  their  pockets,  and  the  insignia 
of  their  faith  concealed  in  a  walking-stick,  he  is 
always  prepared  for  his  devotions.  The  shrine 
and  the  lamp  burning  before  it,  are  identical. 
His  faith  knows  no  misgivings,  his  fervour  no  in- 
termission. Like  the  Delhai  Lama,  he  is  eternally 
absorbed  in  ecstatic  contemplation  ctf  his  own 
divinity. 

From  "  Abednego,  the  Money-Leiider." 

THE    FEMALE    SPENDTHKIFT. 

"  We  are  bound,  in  this  world,  to  keep  up  the 
decencies  of  life,  due  to  our  position  in  society," 
interrupted  the  Countess,  in  a  haughty  tone. 

"I  thoroughly  agree  with  your  ladyship,"  was 
the  fearless  reply  of  Abednego;  "and  it  is  pre- 
cisely for  that  reason  I  have  it  at  heart  to  see  the 
valuables  of  the  Countess  of  Winterfield  removed 
from  the  custody  of  a  money-lending  Jew." 

His  lovely  visitor  blushed  to  the  temples  at  this 
unexpected  retort,  but  more  in  anger  than  in 
sorrow. 

"A  step  lower  in  the  scale  of  degradation," 
calmly  resumed  Abednego,  "and  they  would  ap- 
pear among  the  unredeemed  pledges  in  a  pawn- 
broker's window.  Think  of  the  brilliant  Countess 
of  Winterfield  presenting  herself  at  court  with 
duplicates  in  her  pocket!" 

"  You  presume  upon  my  necessities  to  insult  me 
thus !"  cried  the  indignant  woman,  roused  by  this 
terrible  sentence. 

"  Necessities,   madam,  permit  me  to  observe, 

C78 


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GO 


wholly  of  your  own  creation !  I  am  not  unfre- 
quently  compelled  to  witness  the  woes  of  my  fel- 
low-creatures, —  ay,  even  those  of  your  own  sex. 
But  how  different  is  their  nature  from  those  of 
which  you  complain !  Trust  me,  there  are  severer 
pangs  in  the  world  than  arise  from  the  rumpling 
of  the  rose-leaf!  I  have  seen  mothers  of  families 
struggling  for  their  children's  bread ;  I  have  seen 
devoted  wives  beggared  by  the  improvidence  of 
their  husbands,  yet  exerting  themselves  diligently, 
humbly,  and  silently,  to  extricate  themselves  from 
ruin.  Such  misfortunes,  madam,  and  such  penury, 
I  respect.  Nay,  I  have  known  well-born  women 
subject  themselves  to  wretchedness  and  privation 
for  the  sake  of  their  lovers — and  even  those  I  have 
respected !  But  I  have  neither  respect  nor  pity 
for  the  wantonness  of  waste  that  purports  only 
the  entanglement  of  frivolous  admirers.  The  dis- 
play intended  to  deceive  some  unhappy  dupe  into 
offering  you  his  hand,  moves  only  my  contempt. 
If  you  must  needs  have  an  opera-box,  for  the 
young  Marquis  to  sit  beside  you  throughout  the 
evening  as  throughout  the  morning, — if  you  must 
needs  have  a  succession  of  showy  dresses,  to  en- 
hance your  beauty  to  secure  these  danglers,  —  if 
you  must  needs  have  brilliant  equipages  to  fly 
about  the  town  —  to  wander  from  races  to  break- 
fasts—  from  Greenwich  parties  to  pic-nics  at  Ken 
Wood  (your  ladyship  perceives  that  I  am  tolerably 
well  versed  in  your  movements!) — have  them  at 
other  cost  than  mine !  I  have  no  money  to  throw 
away  on  the  maintenance  of  your  follies." 

Lady  AVinterfield  started  up.  Galled  beyond 
endurance  by  the  humiliations  thus  inflicted  upon 
her,  she  resolved  to  obey  the  harsh  injunction  of 
Abednego,  and  seek  assistance  elsewhere.  But, 
alas  !  a  moment's  reflection  served  to  remind  her 
that  she  had  already  sought  it,  and  in  vain ;  that 
she  had  no  resource  —  no  hope  —  save  in  the  inso- 
lent rebuker  of  her  faults.  She  submitted,  there- 
fore,—  rendered  docile  by  the  iron  pressure  of 
necessity.  In  a  moment  she  subdued  her  temper, 
and  humbled  her  pride, — reduced  to  tameness, 
like  the  beasts  of  the  field,  by  the  pangs  of  pri- 
vation. 

"You  are  most  severe  upon  me,"  said  she,  in 
the  pretty  coaxing  voice  that  none  knew  better 
how  to  assume  when  her  purpose  needed,  "  though 
perhaps  not  more  so  than  I  deserve.  But  when  I 
assure  you,  that  if  you  persist  in  refusing  me  this 
five  hundred  pounds  I  am  utterly  ruined  —  ruined 
both  in  fortune  and  reputation — " 

"  My  refusal  will  not  render  your  ladyship  a 
shilling  poorer  than  you  are  now.  In  what  way, 
therefore,  can  you  charge  me  with  your  ruin  ?" 

"You  will  have,  at  least,  exposed  it  to  the 
world." 

Abednego  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  ex- 
pose yourself,  madam,"  said  he,  "by  using  such 
arguments !  Once  for  all,  I  repeat  that  you  are 
wasting  the  substance  of  others,  and  of  your  chil- 
dren, merely  to  keep  up  false  appearances  in  the 
world.  So  long  as  you  enjoy  luxuries  which  you 
do  not  and  cannot  pay  for,  you  are  shining  at  the 
cost  of  your  coach-makers,  jewellers,  milliners, 
money  •  lenders  —  the   abject   obligee   of  humble 


tradesmen.  At  this  moment — woman  and  Coun- 
tess as  you  are  —  you  stand  before  me  as  an  in- 
ferior. Though  you  may  be  a  Countess  of  the 
realm,  and  I  the  villified  A.  0.,  I  rise  above  you 
as  a  capitalist, — I  rise  above  you  as  a  moralist,  in 
whose  hands  you  have  placed  weapons  of  ofi^ence." 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  Lady  AVinterfield  to 
shrug  her  shouldei's ;  but  with  impatience  rather 
than  contempt. 

"  Last  week,"  resumed  Abednego,  careless  of 
the  variations  of  her  countenance,  "  there  came 
hither  to  me  a  woman,  young  and  lovely  as  your- 
self, who,  like  yourself,  had  exceeded  her  means, 
and  broken  her  engagements.  She  came  hither 
to  me,  not  like  your  ladyship, — hoping  to  move 
me  to  pity  by  the  sight  of  her  loveliness  and  her 
aflfected  despair,  —  she  had  other  arms  for  the 
combat ;  and  those  arms,  madam,  prevailed !  To 
her  I  assigned  thrice  the  sum  of  her  original  debt, 
and  at  my  own  instigation." 

"And  of  what  nature  were  those  arms?"  de- 
manded Lady  AVinterfield,  colouring  deeply,  and, 
by  casting  down,  her  eyes,  showing  that  she  was 
prepared  for  expressions  of  gallantry  and  admira- 
tion on  the  part  of  one  whom  she  loathed  like  a 
harpy. 

"  It  avails  little  to  explain,"  replied  Abednego, 
with  an  ill-repressed  smile  of  exultation,  as  he 
rose  from  his  chair  and  approached  her ;  '■'■  for 
they  are  such  as  it  were,  perhaps,  unbecoming  so 
great  a  lady  as  the  Countess  of  AA'interfield  to  put 
to  profit." 

"I  am  willing  to  use  any  arms,  —  make  any. 
concession,"  faltered  the  fair  bankrupt,  a  deadly 
paleness  succeeding  to  her  previous  flush,  as  she 
contemplated  the  growing  audacity  of  the  Money- 
Lender. 

Abednego  folded  his  meagre  hands  carelessly 
before  him,  and,  throwing  back  his  head,  stood: 
contemplating  her  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  smile 
of  indescribable  expression.  It  was  impossible  to 
behold  a  more  lovely  woman ;  and  the  Money- 
Lender  gazed  upon  her  as  if  taking  an  appraise- 
ment of  her  charms. 

"  The  arms  to  which  /alluded,  are  not  at  your 
ladyship's  disposal !"  was  at  length  his  sarcastic 
reply.  "  For  they  were  tears  of  genuine  remorse 
for  an  involuntary  breach  of  faith  ;  they  were  the 
worn  and  haggard  looks  which  labour  and  want 
impose  upon  the  fairest  face.  She  was  a  woman 
of  the  people,  madam  ;  like  you,  left  young,  u 
widow — like  you,  with  helpless  children  dependent 
upon  her  prudence.  She  told  me  —  and  her  mien 
attested  her  vei'acity — that  for  them  she  had  toiled 
day  and  night, — for  them  abstained  from  food  and 
rest.  But  the  outlay  that  was  to  set  her  up  in 
business,  (borrowed  of  one  of  the  agents  of  A.  0., 
and  at  usurious  interest.)  was  still  unrepaid.  She 
was  still  poor,  still  insolvent,  still  needing  indul- 
gence ;  and  came  hither,  like  the  fashionable  Coun- 
tess of  AVinterfield,  to  beg  for  mercy  !" 

Greatly  relieved,  even  while  writhing  under  the- 
severe  lesson  imparted  by  Abednego,  the  fashion- 
able spendthrift  gasped  for  breath. 

"I  granted  it,"  resumed  the  harsh  admonitor. 
"And  I  granted  her  also  my  respect  —  almost  mj 

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affection.  The  old  Money-Lender  soothed  her  as 
a  father  might  have  done,  and  sent  her  home  in 
peace  and  comfort  to  her  children.  Yours,  madam, 
will  have  less  to  thank  you  for !  I  will  not  expose 
you, — I  will  not  pursue  you  with  the  rigour  of  the 
law.  But  I  choose  to  retain  in  security,  for  the 
property  of  mine  which  you  have  squandered,  the 
diamonds  pledged  to  me  to  that  eflFect ;  and  with- 
out affording  you  another  guinea  in  extension  of 
the  loan,  —  aware  that  neither  that,  nor  millions, 
would  impede  your  ruin  and  disgrace." 

GOULD,    HANNAH   FLAGG, 

Is  a  native  of  Lancaster,  in  the  State  of  Ver- 
mont; but  in  her  early  youth  her  father,  who  was 
a  veteran  of  the  Revolution,  removed  to  Newbury- 
port,  in  Massachusetts,  where  she  has  since  re- 
sided. Her  mother  died  when  Hannah  was  young, 
and  for  many  years,  even  until  the  decease  of  her 
beloved  father,  she  was  his  housekeeper,  nurse, 
companion,  and  the  chief  source  of  his  earthly 
happiness.  She  has,  in  several  poems,  touchingly 
alluded  to  incidents  in  the  soldier-life  of  her  vene- 
rable parent ;  and  the  patriotic  glow  which  imbues 
many  of  her  strains  was,  no  doubt,  fed  by  such 
reminiscences  as  the  "Scar  of  Lexington"  would 
suggest. 

Miss  Gould  commenced  her  literary  career  as 
nearly  all  our  Ameincan  authors  do,  by  writing 
for  periodicals.  Her  contributions  were  chiefly 
poetical;  these  she  collected,  and  in  1832  her  first 
volume  of  poems  was  published  in  Boston.  Since 
then,  two  additional  volumes  of  her  poems  have 
been  issued ;  and  in  1846,  a  volume  of  prose,  en- 
titled "  Gathered  Leaves,  or  Miscellaneous  Pa- 
pers," which  had  previously  been  contributions  to 
annuals,  appeared.  In  1850,  "  Diosma — a  peren- 
nial," a  volume  of  poems,  selected  and  original, 
and  "  The  Youth's  Coronal,"  a  little  book  of 
poems  for  children,  were  published.  Miss  Gould 
is  preparing  her  lyrical  compositions,  some  of 
which  have  been  set  to  music,  for  publication  —  a 
task  which  her  friends  are  solicitous  she  should 
perform,  and  thus  give  permanency  to  her  pro- 
ductions. 

The  great  popularity  of  Miss  Gould  we  consider 
a  most  encouraging  omen  for  the  lovers  of  genuine 
poetry,  of  that  which  is  true  in  thought  and  natu- 
ral in  description.  She  charms  by  the  rare  merit 
of  imparting  interest  to  small  things  and  common 
occurrences.  These  make  up  far  the  greater  part 
of  life's  reality,  and,  if  truth  be  the  essence  of 
poetry,  they  must  be  poetical.  Unfortunately, 
but  few  poets  have  had  the  power  or  the  inclina- 
tion to  invest  the  actual  world  with  the  beauty 
and  attractiveness  which  has  been  lavished  on 
ideal  and  false  creations  of  fancy  ;  and  hence  it  is 
that  their  labours  have  been  accounted  idle,  and 
their  profession  degraded.  Passion  has  too  often 
usurped  the  place  of  reason,  and  a  selfish  sensi- 
tiveness been  fostered,  instead  of  that  healthful 
sentiment  of  complacency  in  the  happiness  of 
others,  which  all  high  exercise  of  the  mental 
faculties  should  exalt  and  encourage.  It  is  this 
enlarging  and  elevating  the  affections,  which  im- 
proves the  heart  and  purifies  the  taste.     And  this 


is  one  important  office  of  true  poetry — such  poetry 
as  Miss  Gould  has  written. 

She  also  possesses  great  delicacy  and  scope  of 
imagination ;  she  gathers  around  her  simple  themes 
imagery  of  peculiar  beauty  and  uncommon  associa- 
tion— and  yet  this  imagery  is  always  appropriate. 
Then  she  has  a  very  felicitous  command  of  lan- 
guage, and  the  skill  of  making  the  most  uncouth 
words  "lie  smooth  in  rhyme,"  which  the  greatest 
poet  of  the  age  might  envy.  And  she,  not  seldom, 
displays  humorous  turns  of  thought,  and  a  sportive 
raillery  which  is  very  amusing. 

Wit  is  a  much  rarer  quality  than  wisdom  in 
female  writers.  We  shall  not  here  enter  into 
the  inquiry  why  it  is  that  women,  who  are,  pro- 
verbially, quick  in  perception,  and  who  are  often 
accused  of  delighting  in  repartee  and  scandal, 
should  nevertheless,  when  submitting  their  senti- 
ments to  the  public,  almost  scrupulously  avoid 
ridicule  and  satire,  even  when  the  subjects  treated 
of  seemed  to  justify  or  demand  these  forms  of 
expression.  But  such  is  the  fact  —  and  hence 
Miss  Gould's  sprightly  wit  has  the  advantage  of 
appearing  quite  original.  She,  however,  uses  it 
with  great  delicacy,  and  always  to  teach  or  en- 
force some  lesson  which  would  not  disparage  "  di- 
vine Philosophy  "  to  inculcate. — In  truth,  the  great 
power  of  her  poetry  is  its  moral  application.  This 
hallows  every  object  she  looks  upon,  and  ennobles 
every  incident  she  celebrates.  She  takes  lowly 
and  homely  themes,  but  she  turns  them  to  the 
light  of  heaven,  and  they  are  beautified,  and 
refined,  and  elevated.  She  brings  to  her  God  the 
rich  treasures  of  her  intellect,  and  the  warm  feel- 
ings of  her  heart.  Everywhere  and  in  every  thing 
she  sees  and  feels  His  presence ;  and  her  song 
rises  in  those  "spiritual  breathings,"  which  lift 
the  hearts  of  her  readers,  to  unite  with  her  in 
praise  to  the  Lord. 

The  mania  for  melancholy  and  despairing  poetry, 
which  the  Byronian  era  introduced,  never  found 
any  favour  in  the  clear,  calm,  sensible  mind  of  our 
poetess-  Her  philosophy  is  as  practical  and  con- 
tented as  her  piety  is  ardent.  Her  motto  seema 
to  have  been, 

"  The  Muee  should  gladden  the  seasons, 
Should  strengthen  the  heart  in  pain  "— 

and  like  her  own,  "Ground  Laurel"  she  adds 
cheerfulness  to  every  scene,  however  sequestered 
or  lonely,  which  her  fancy  pictures.  Truly  such 
a  genius  is  a  blessing  to  the  world. 

Her  poems  will  be  popular  while  truth  has 
friends  and  nature  admirers,  and  while  children 
are  readers.  And  what  praise  is  sweeter  to  a 
pure,  good  mind  than  the  praise  of  childhood,  in 
which  the  heart  is  always  given  with  the  lips  ? 

THE  MOON  UPON  THE  SPIRE. 

The  full-orbed  moon  has  reached  no  higher 
Than  yon  old  church's  mossy  spire, 
And  seems,  as  gliding  up  the  air, 
She  saw  the  fane,  and,  pausing  there, 
Would  worship,  in  the  tranquil  night. 
The  Prince  of  peace  —  the  Source  of  lisht. 
Where  man,  for  God,  prepared  the  place. 
And  God,  to  man,  unveils  his  face. 

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Her  tribute  all  around  is  seen  — 
Slie  bends,  and  worships  like  a  queen  ! 
Her  robe  of  light,  and  beaming  crown. 
In  silence  she  is  casting  down  ; 
And,  as  a  creature  of  the  earth. 
She  feels  her  lowliness  of  birth  — 
Her  weakness  and  inconstancy 
Before  unchanging  Purity. 

Pale  traveller  on  thy  lonely  way, 
'T  is  well  thine  honours  thus  to  pay  — 
To  reverence  that  ancient  pile  ; 
And  spread  thy  silver  o'er  the  aisle, 
Which  many  a  pious  foot  hath  trod. 
That  now  is  dust  beneath  the  sod  — 
Where  many  a  sacred  tear  was  wept. 
From  eyes  that  long  in  death  have  slept. 

The  temple's  builders,  where  are  they  ? 

The  worshippers?  —  all  passed  away; 

Who  came  the  first  to  offer  there 

The  song  of  praise,  the  heart  of  prayer! 

Man's  generation  passes  soon  — 

It  wanes  and  changes  like  the  moon ! 

He  rears  the  perishable  wall  — 

But  ere  it  crumble,  he  must  fall ! 

And  does  he  fall  to  rise  no  more? 
Hath  he  no  part  to  triumph  o'er 
The  pallid  king  ?  —  no  spark  to  save 
From  darkness,  ashes  and  the  grave? 
Tlion  holy  place  !  the  answer  wrought 
In  thy  firm  walls  forbids  the  thought ! 
The  spirit  that  established  thee 
Nor  death  nor  darkness  e'er  shall  see  ! 

THE    SNOWFLAKE. 

Now,  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  lone  and  lowly  spot 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen,  or  forgot  ? 

And  there  will  my  course  be  ended  ?" 
'T  was  this  a  feathery  Snovvflake  said. 
As  down  through  measureless  space  it  strayed. 
Or  as,  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid. 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

'  Oh,  no !"  said  the  Earth,  "  thou  shalt  not  lie 
Neglected  and  lone  on  my  lap  to  die. 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky! 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form  — 
Thou  wilt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm. 
But  revive,  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 
And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping! 

'  And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea. 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone. 
Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness  ; 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  head 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the  mead. 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed. 
Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness. 

'  I  'II  let  thee  awake  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep. 
In  a  tremulous  tear;  or,  a  diamond,  leap 
In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain  ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath. 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
Go  up  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 
Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

'  Or  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  1  'II  let  thee  arise. 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending! 
But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I  'II  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth. 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth. 
And  never  regret  descending!" 

'  Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  Flake; 
"  But,  bear  it  in  mind,  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  wake ; 
Nor  the  mist,  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning. 


For,  things  of  thyself,  they  will  die  with  thee; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me. 
Must  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free. 
To  the  regions  above  returning. 

And  if  true  to  thy  word  and  just  thou  art. 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart. 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart. 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven. 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow. 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow ; 
So  thou  mayest  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow 

By  the  promise  that  God  hath  given  !'" 


THE    SCAB    OF    LEXINGTON. 

With  cherub  smile,  the  prattling  boy. 

Who  on  the  veteran's  breast  reclines. 
Has  thrown  aside  his  favourite  toy, 

And  round  his  tender  finger  twines 
Those  scattered  locks,  that,  with  the  flight 
Of  fourscore  years,  are  snowy  white  ; 
And,  as  a  scar  arrests  his  view. 
He  cries,  "  Grandpa,  what  wounded  you  ?" 

"  My  child,  't  is  five-and-fifty  years, 

This  very  day,  this  very  hour. 
Since,  from  a  scene  of  blood  and  tears. 

Where  valour  fell  by  hostile  power, 
I  saw  retire  the  setting  sun 
Behind  the  hills  of  Lexington  ; 
While  pale  and  lifeless  on  the  plain 
My  brothers  lay,  for  freedom  slain  ! 

"  And  ere  that  fight,  the  first  that  spoke 

In  thunder  to  our  land,  was  o'er. 
Amid  the  clouds  of  fire  and  smoke, 

I  felt  my  garments  wet  with  gore  ! 
'Tis  since  that  dread  and  wild  affray. 
That  trying,  dark,  eventful  day. 
From  this  calm  April  eve  so  far, 
I  wear  upon  my  cheek  the  scar. 

"  W^hen  thou  to  manhood  shalt  be  grown. 

And  I  am  gone  in  dust  to  sleep. 
May  freedom's  rights  be  still  thine  own. 

And  tlwu  and  thine  in  quiet  reap 
The  unblighted  product  of  the  toil 
In  which  my  blood  bedewed  the  soil  ! 
And,  while  those  fruits  thou  shalt  enjoy. 
Bethink  thee  of  this  scar,  my  boy. 

"  But  should  thy  country's  voice  be  heard 

To  bid  her  children  fly  to  arms. 
Gird  on  thy  grandsire's  trusty  sword  : 

And,  undismayed  by  war's  alarms. 
Remember,  on  the  battle  field. 
I  made  the  hand  of  God  my  shield  : 
And  be  thou  spared,  like  me,  to  tell 
What  bore  thee  up,  while  others  fell!" 

FOREST    MUSIC. 

There's  a  sad  loneliness  about  my  heart, — 
A  deep,  deep  solitude  the  spirit  feels 
Amid  this  multitude.    The  things  of  art 
Pall  on  the  senses  —  from  its  pageantry, 
Loathing,  my  eye  turns  off";  and  my  ear  shrinks 
From  the  harsh  dissonance  that  fills  the  air. 

My  soul  is  growing  sick  —  I  will  away 

And  gather  balm  from  a  sweet  forest  walk  ! 

There,  as  the  breezes  through  the  branches  sweep. 

Is  heard  aerial  minstrelsy,  like  harps 

Untouched,  unseen,  that  on  the  spirit's  ear 

Pour  out  their  numbers  till  they  lull  in  peace 

The  tumult  of  the  bosom.    There's  a  voice 

Of  music  in  the  rustling  of  the  leaves: 

And  the  green  boughs  are  hung  with  living  lutes. 

Whose  strings  will  only  vibrate  to  His  hand 

Who  made  them,  while  they  sound  His  untaught  praise! 

The  whole  wild  wood  is  one  vast  instrument 
Of  thousand,  thousand  keys;  and  all  its  notes 
Come  in  sweet  harmony,  while  Nature  plays 
To  celebrate  the  presence  of  her  God' 

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THE    SHIP    IS    READT. 

Fare  thee  well !  the  ship  is  ready, 
And  the  breeze  is  fresh  and  steady. 
Hands  are  fast  the  anchor  weighing ; 
High  in  air  the  streamer's  playing. 
Spread  tlie  sails  —  the  waves  are  swelling 
Proudly  round  thy  buoyant  dwelling. 
Fare  thee  well !  and  when  at  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  sigh  for  thee. 

When  from  land  and  home  receding, 
And  from  hearts  that  ache  to  bleeding, 
Think  of  those  behind,  who  love  thee. 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee ! 
Then,  as,  down  to  ocean  glancing. 
In  the  waves  his  rays  are  dancing. 
Think  how  long  the  night  will  be 
To  the  eyes  that  weep  for  thee  ! 

When  the  lonely  night-watch  keeping. 
All. below  thee  still  and  sleeping  — 
As  the  needle  points  tlie  quarter 
O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  water. 
Let  thy  vigils  ever  find  thee 
Mindful  of  the  friends  behind  thee ! 
Let  thy  bosom's  magnet  be 
Turned  to  those  who  wake  for  thee  ! 

When,  with  slow  and  gentle  motion. 
Heaves  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  — 
While  in  peace  thy  bark  is  riding, 
And  the  silver  moon  is  gliding 
O'er  the  sky  with  tranquil  splendour. 
Where  the  shining  hosts  attend  her; 
Let  the  brightest  visions  be 
Country,  home,  and  friends,  to  thee  I 

When  the  tempest  hovers  o'er  thee. 
Danger,  wreck,  and  death,  before  thee, 
While  the  sword  of  fire  is  gleaming. 
Wild  the  winds,  the  torrent  streaming. 
Then,  a  pious  suppliant  bending. 
Let  thy  thoughts,  to  Heaven  ascending. 
Reach  the  mercy  seat,  to  be 
Met  by  prayers  that  rise  for  thee  ! 

THE    GROUND    LAUREL. 

I  love  thee,  pretty  nursling 

Of  vernal  sun  and  rain; 
For  thou  art  Flora's  firstling. 

And  leadest  in  her  train. 
When  far  away  I  found  thee. 

It  was  an  April  morn  ; 
The  chilling  blast  blew  round  thee, 

No  bud  had  decked  the  thorn. 
And  thou  alone  vvert  hiding 

The  mossy  rocks  between. 
Where,  just  below  them  gliding. 

The  Merrimac  was  seen. 
And  while  my  hand  was  brushing 

The  seary  leaves  from  thee. 
It  seemed  as  thou  wert  blushing 

To  be  disclosed  by  me. 
So  modest,  fair,  and  fragrant. 

Where  all  was  wild  and  rude, 
To  cheer  the  lonely  vagrant 

Who  crossed  thy  solitude,— 
Thou  didst  reward  my  ramble 

By  shining  at  my  feet. 
When,  over  brake  and  bramble, 

I  sought  thy  lone  retreat,— 

As  some  sweet  flower  of  pleasure 
Upon  our  path  may  bloom, 

'Mid  rocks  and  thorns  that  measure 
Our  journey  to  the  tomb. 

THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

"  I  am  a  Pebble !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone  — 
••  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me  : 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 


The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain  ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There  's  none  can  tell  about  my  birth. 
For  I'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world,  like  blades  of  grass ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod. 
That's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod. 
I  am  a  Pebble!  but  who  art  thou. 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  ?" 

The  Acorn  was  shocked  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abashed  and  nmte; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  ,'ind  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort. 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort, 
At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"Since  it  has  happened  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element  where  I  grew, 
Dow  11  to  another  so  hard  and  new. 
And  beside  a  personage  so  august. 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust. 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun. 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel. 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon  in  the  earth  she  sank  away 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak! 
And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread. 
The  Pebble  looked  up,  and,  wondering,  said, 
"  A  modest  Acorn  —  never  to  tell 
What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ! 
That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 
In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup ! 
And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 
Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth  I 
And,  oh  I  how  many  will  tread  on  me. 
To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree. 
Whose  head  is  towering  toward  the  sky, 
Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 
Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 
I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 
But  never  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 
From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard. 
Till  something  without  me  or  within 
Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I  've  been  ?" 
The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget. 
And  it  lies  there  wrapped  in  silence  yet. 


A    NAME    IN    THE    SAND. 

Alone  I  walked  the  ocean  strand ; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand: 
I  stooped  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 

My  name  —  the  year  —  the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  1  passed. 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast  : 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast. 

And  washed  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me  : 
A  wave  of  dark  Oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  Time,  and  been  to  be  no  more. 
Of  me  —  my  day  —  the  name  1  bore. 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
1  know  a  lasting  record  stands. 

Inscribed  against  my  name. 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought ; 
Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought ; 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught 

For  glory  or  for  stiaine 

682 


GR 


HA 


GREY,    MRS. 

Is  quite  a  popular  English  authoress,  -whom  we 
may  term  "  a  Triton  among  the  minnows."  She 
is  decidedly  at  the  head  of  that  class  of  novel- 
writers  who  administer  to  the  amusement  of  those 
who  read  merely  for  something  to  do.  If  we  find 
nothing  very  new  or  exciting,  we  find  nothing  in- 
jurious or  distasteful  to  the  most  fastidious.  Her 
books,  with  respect  to  the  moral  tone,  may  be 
safely  allowed  to  "  the  fair  and  innocent,"  who 
will  believe  them  to  be  finely  written.  The  cha- 
racters are  such  as,  in  our  experience  in  that  line 
of  writing,  we  have  had  the  opportunity  to  see 
portrayed  many  hundreds  of  times.  Mrs.  Grey 
dresses  them  up,  however,  very  cleverly,  and  pre- 
sents them  to  the  public  suitably.  "  The  Gam- 
bler's Wife,"  one  of  her  early  works,  has  enjoyed 
a  wonderful  popularity ;  this  argues  some  occult 
merits,  which  we  were  never  able  to  discover.  In 
her  later  works  there  is  much  improvement  in  the 
style,  which  is  now  generally  correct.  "  Aleine  " 
is  decidedly  the  best  of  her  productions,  where 
there  is  a  very  successful  imitation  of  Mrs.  Marsh ; 
in  spirit  and  feeling  some  portions  of  it  might 
fairly  challenge  competition  with  "  The  Two  Old 
Men's  Tales."  The  other  works  of  Mrs.  Grey, 
reprinted  in  America,  are  "  The  Duke  and  the 
Cousin,"  "The  Belle  of  the  Family,"  "  The  Little 
Wife,  a  Record  of  Matrimonial  Life,"  "  The  Ma- 
noeuvering  Mother,"  "  Sybil  Lennard,"  "  The 
Young  Prima  Donna,"  "  The  Baronet's  Daugh- 
ters," "  Hyacinthe,  or  the  Contrast,"  "  Lena  Ca- 
meron," "The  Old  Dower  House,"  "Alice  Sey- 
mour," and  "  Harry  Monk." 

GROSS,    AMALIE   VON, 

Better  known  under  her  nonime  deplume,  Amalie 
Winter,  was  born  in  1803,  at  Weimar.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Leebach.  In  early  life  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  Goethe,  and  her  taste  and  mind  were 
formed  under  the  influence  of  that  remarkable 
man.  She  appeared  as  an  authoress  at  the  age 
of  thirty,  by  contributing  to  a  popular  annual. 
In  1838,  she  published  "  Pictures  of  German 
Life,"  and  afterwards  novelettes ;  "  Pictures  of 
AVomen,"  "  Recollections  of  a  Berlin  Doll,"  "  Re- 
collections of  a  Leaden  Soldier,"  "  Fairy  Tales  of 
Nature,"  and  "  The  Diadem  and  Sceptre."  She 
has  written  a  great  many  minor  tales  and  poems. 
None  of  her  works  have  been  translated  into 
English. 


H. 


HAHN-HAHN,  IDA  MARIA  LOUISA  FREDE- 
RICA  GUSTAVA,  COUNTESS  OF, 

W.\s  born  in  June,  180.5,  at  Tressow,  in  the 
grand-duchy  of  jNIecklenburg-Schwerin.  She  was 
a  daughter  of  Count  Von  Hahn,  an  officer  in  the 
military  service  of  the  grand-duke.  In  182G,  she 
was  married  to  another  Count  Von  Hahn,  belong- 
ing to  a  collateral    branch   of  her  own    family. 


Hence  it  was  that  she  received  the  duplicate  ap- 
pellation of  Hahn-IIakn.  Her  father,  who  was 
passionately  fond  of  theatrical  representations, 
became,  notwithstanding  his  rank,  the  director  of 
a  dramatic  corps ;  and  from  him  she  imbibed  lite- 
rary tastes  which  materially  influenced  her  future 
destiny.  The  want  of  congeniality  between  her 
husband  and  herself,  led  to  her  being  divorced 
from  him  in  1829.  She  first  appeared  before  the 
public,  as  the  author  of  a  volume  of  poems,  in 
1835 ;  and  this  was  followed  by  her  "  New  Poems," 
in  1836,  the  "Venetian  Nights"  in  the  same  year, 
and  a  volume  of  "  Songs  and  Poems,"  in  1837. 
She  next  composed  a  series  of  novels,  depicting, 
in  a  very  aristocratical  spirit,  the  manners  of 
high  life  in  Germany.  The  most  noted,  and  the 
latest  of  these  are,  "  The  Countess  Faustina," 
1841 ;  "  Ulrick,"  1841 ;  "  Sigismund  Forster," 
1841,  and  "  Cecil,"  a  continuation  of  it,  1844. 
The  Countess  Hahn-Hahn  has  made  her  home  al- 
ternately at  Grief swald,  Berlin,  and  Dresden,  but 
has  also  travelled  extensively.  In  1835,  she  vis- 
ited Switzerland;  in  1836  and  1837,  Vienna;  in 
1838  and  1839,  Italy;  in  1840  and  1841,  Italy, 
Spain  and  France  ;  in  1842,  Sweden  ;  and  she  has 
since  made  an  excursion  to  Syria  and  the  East. 
Her  observations  during  these  successive  journeys 
are  recorded  in  her  "  Beyond  the  Mountains,"  2 
vols.  1840  ;  "  Letters  on  a  Journey,"  2  vols.  1841 ; 
"  Reminiscences  of  and  Concerning  France,"  1842 : 
"A  Northern  Tour,"  1843;  "Oriental  Letters," 
3  vols.  1844,  &c. 

An  eminent  English  critic  has  thus  expressed 
his  opinion  of  the  writings  of  this  German  lady  — 
"  The  Countess  Ida  Hahn-Hahn's  name  is  well 
known  as  the  authoress  of  light  and  amusing  no- 
vels ;  works  which,  in  this  instance,  owe  their 
popularity  equally  to  the  perfectly  Germa?i  tone  of 
manners  and  morals  they  express,  as  to  the  bril- 
liant talent  they  exhibit.  These  novels  that  ap- 
peared with  a  rapidity  bespeaking  productive  pow- 
ers of  no  common  kind,  were  occasionally  inter- 
spersed with  accounts  of  trips  to  neighbouring 
countries,  and  intermingled  with  episodes  of  storj' 
or  verse.  Of  late,  however,  the  Countess  Hahn- 
Hahn  has  appeared  almost  exclusively  as  a  tourist. 
"  The  merits  and  demerits  of  her  writing  are  so 
interwoven  that  it  is  hard  to  pronounce  upon  them, 
without  being  unjust  to  the  one  or  far  too  lenient 
to  the  other.  Whether  also  Countess  Hahn-Hahn, 
the  novelist,  has  been  a  profitable  predecessor  to 
Countess  Hahn-Hahn,  the  tourist,  is  a  question 
which  we  are  inclined  to  answer  in  the  negative. 
The  tourist  has  the  same  smartness  of  idea,  light- 
ness of  step,  and  play  of  language,  but  she  has 
also  less  scope  for  her  fancy,  and  less  disguise  for 
her  egotism.  What,  therefore,  is  the  chief  attrac- 
tion of  the  one,  viz.,  the  personal  nature  of  her 
writings,  becomes  the  greatest  drawback  in  the 
other.  The  whole  field  of  emotions  and  feelings, 
the  whole  train  of  internal  experiences,  as  German 
ladies  call  them,  are  Countess  Hahn-Hahn's  par- 
ticular view.  And  with  young,  pretty,  clever, 
rich,  independent  heroines  to  express  them,  and 
every  imaginable  romantic  position  to  excite  them, 
they  are  ])erfectly  in  their  jilace,  though  seldom 

G83 


HA 


HA 


what  we  may  approve.  But  the  case  is  widely 
different  the  moment  the  feigned  name  is  dropped. 
For  when  a  lady  invites  you  to  accompany  her  in 
her  own  person,  through  countries  suggestive  of 
outer  impressions  of  the  utmost  interest  and  no- 
velty, yet  pauses  every  moment  to  tell  you  not 
only  her  own  particular  thoughts  and  feelings,  but 
also  those  habits,  peculiarities,  preferences  and 
antipathies,  which  one  would  have  thought  even 
she  herself  on  such  an  occasion  would  have  for- 
gotten, we  feel  tied  to  one  who  at  home  would 
be  rather  tiresome,  but  abroad  becomes  insuffer- 
able,—  to  one  who  never  leaves  sc?/"  behind. 

"  Like  almost  all  her  countrywomen  whom  we 
have  the  honour  of  knowing  in  print,  this  lady 
commits  the  mistake  of  saying  all  she  thinks  — 
forgetful  that  few  may,  and  those  few  don't — and 
not  only  what  she  thinks,  but  why  she  thinks,  and 
how  she  thinks,  till  any  process  of  that  kind  on 
the  part  of  the  reader  becomes  somewhat  difficult. 

"  To  turn,  however,  to  those  brilliant  powers 
which  so  irksome  a  defect,  and  others  of  a  far 
graver  nature,  have  not  been  able  to  obscure,  we 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  countess 
possesses  some  of  the  requisites  for  a  traveller  in 
a  most  uncommon  degree.  In  liveliness  of  obser- 
vation, readiness  of  idea,  and  spirited  ease  of  ex- 
pression, she  is  unsurpassed  by  any  lady  writer  we 
know — far  less  bj'  any  of  her  own  countrywomen. 
Whenever,  therefore,  her  pen  engages  on  a  subject 
where  the  mawkish  egotism  of  the  German  woman 
is  not  excited,  or  the  decorous  principle  of  the 
English  reader  not  offended,  we  follow  her  with 
the  admiration  due  to  rare  talents." 

The  cause  of  her  later  travels  was  a  misfortune, 
which,  doubtless,  has  had  some  influence  on  her 
character.  She  was  afflicted  with  that  peculiarity 
of  vision  called  "  a  squint,"  and,  in  1839,  under- 
went an  operation  for  its  remedy,  which  resulted 
in  the  loss  of  the  use  of  one  eye,  and  for  a  long 
time  she  was  apprehensive  of  becoming  totally 
blind.  To  relieve  her  mind  of  the  melancholy 
caused  by  such  a  grievous  misfortune,  the  Countess 
Hahn-Hahn  was  induced  to  visit  different  coun- 
tries ;  the  tone  of  her  remarks  frequently  shows 
the  sufferings  she  endured  from  her  affliction. 

From  "  Reisebriefe  ;  a  Traveller's  Letters." 
RESTLESSNESS    OF    SPRING. 

Oh  !  this  restlessness  of  spring,  this  longing  for 
a  new  sphere,  for  a  fresh  life,  for  increased  ac- 
tivity, for  a  more  sunny  existence !  This  impulse 
to  rush  forth,  to  rise  to  light,  to  beauty,  to  happi- 
ness, how  it  reveals  itself  throughout  all  nature  ! 
Must  not  man,  with  his  finer  senses,  with  his  more 
excitable  nerves,  be  more  susceptible  to  its  influ- 
ence than  the  animal  and  vegetable  creation  ? 
For  my  own  part,  I  wonder  every  spring  that  I 
don't  grow  several  inches  taller.  One  thing  vexes 
me :  I  must  always  remain  myself.  Whether 
others  feel  this,  I  know  not:  those,  for  instance, 
who  live  in  the  gay  world,  or  those  who  are  en- 
gaged in  any  other  constant  and  laborious  occu- 
pation. I  might  ask  them :  but  who  speaks  the 
truth  of  himself,  unless  he  know  beforehand  that 


the  truth  redounds  to  his  praise  ?....!  am  my- 
self troubled  by  all  the  restlessness  to  which  a 
meditated  journey  naturally  gives  rise ;  and  this 
restlessness  is  the  greater,  because  I  am  uncertain 
whither  I  shall  go,  anc^  because  my  poor  eyes, 
constantly  liable  to  inflammation,  may  at  any  time 
frustrate  all  my  schemes.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
a  new  and  oppressive  feeling  it  is  to  me,  to  know 
that  my  plans  are  dependent  on  my  health.  The 
want  of  money,  of  time,  or  of  anything  else  that 
is  requisite,  may  frustrate  one's  designs  just  as 
effectually,  but  not  so  afflictingly,  as  when  the 
helplessness  of  the  body  is  the  cause.  It  never 
occuiTcd  to  me  before  that  bodily  infirmity  might 
hinder  me  from  writing  at  night,  or  from  exposing 
myself  to  wind  and  weather  by  day.  I  have  been 
learning  this  during  the  last  year.  Alas !  I  receive 
the  chastening  patiently,  but  I  would  that  Provi- 
dence had  given  me  less  occasion  to  convince  my- 
self of  my  docility. 


I  have  now  been  a  month  here,  and  can  say 
something  more  of  Nice  than  I  did  when  I  came. 
My  exclamation  then  was,  "  the  only  thing  that 
pleases  me  about  the  place  is,  to  know  that  it 's 
the  end  of  the  journey."  This  was  partly  the 
effect  of  weariness  and  vexation ;  yet  not  wholly 
so,  for  Nice  has  an  uncomfortable  look  to  one  who 
hopes  to  find  simplicity  and  tranquillity  there. 
It  looks  less  like  a  settled  place  than  like  an  em- 
bryo city.  It  is  a  huge  plan,  that  has  yet  to  be 
filled  up ;  where  dust,  confusion,  donkeys,  brick- 
layers, and  all  that  is  noisy,  and  all  that  I  hate, 
are  gathered  together,  and  have  taken  up  their 
abode.  A  stranger  seeks  a  temporary  home,  and 
fifty  are  offered  to  him,  as  he  wanders  among  the 
vast  barracks  of  hotels  garnis  that  are  built  here 
on  speculation.  The  natives  build  as  if  they  hope 
to  lodge  their  guests  by  regiments.  These  hopes 
are  far  from  being  realized ;  many  are  held  back 
by  the  apprehension  of  wiir,  or  by  the  dangerous 
vicinity  of  the  French  frontier.  The  consequence 
is,  that  the  large  empty  houses,  with  their  closed 
jalousies,  produce  a  gloomy  effect,  which  is  height- 
ened by  the  surrounding  desolation,  always  in- 
separable from  ground  laid  out  for  building,  but 
not  yet  built  upon.  There  is  the  sea,  to  be  sure ; 
but  I  hate  to  be  folded  in  with  a  herd  ;  to  hear 
people  dance  over  my  head,  sing  under  me,  and 
romp  about  in  the  room  next  my  own.  I  like  not 
to  be  compelled  to  participate  in  the  diversions  of 
all  who  are  under  the  same  roof  with  me.  I  am 
like  a  forest-bird,  who  sings  and  makes  the  woods 
merry,  whom  every  wayfarer  may  listen  to,  but 
who  lives  not  the  less  for  himself,  and  is  seen  by 
none.  Moreover,  I  was  obliged  to  sacrifice  the 
view  of  the  sea,  because  it  was  too  dazzling  for 

my  poor  eyes In  the  clear  sunshine,  it  is 

impossible  for  me  to  look  upon  the  bounding, 
foaming,  azure  tide,  or  upon  the  millions  of  glit- 
tering spangles  with  which  it  seemed  to  be  decked. 
On  such  golden  days,  when  heaven,  water,  and 
earth  are  trying  which  can  be  brightest  and  most 
beautiful,  I  walk  into  the  plain,  through  narrow 
and  entangled  paths,  that  lead  from  garden  to 

684 


HA 


HA 


garden,  ■wLere  I  may  hope  to  find  verdure  and 
shade ;  but  on  the  mother-of-pearl  days,  that 
would  be  leaden  days  in  the  north,  I  can  abandon 
my  fondness  for  the  sea.  Then  a  gentle  cloudy 
breath  has  dimmed  the  brightness  of  the  sky ; 
the  sun  is  not  seen,  though  his  presence  is  felt ; 
he  stands  behind  a  cloud  like  a  lamp  whose  light 
is  concealed  by  an  alabaster  column ;  he  silvers 
the  outline,  yet  plays  in  faint  prismatic  colours 
through  the  mass.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  rains 
on  such  days ;  but  in  such  a  case,  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done,  either  here  or  elsewhere,  but  to  roll 
oneself  up  like  a  bird  in  one's  nest,  and  lie  there 
as  quiet  as  a  mouse. 

FRANCE. 

I  shall  now  go  to  France,  Heaven  knows  what 
the  consequence  may  be,  for  I  hate  France!  I 
hate  the  spirit  of  vanity,  fanfaronade,  insolence, 
and  superficialness ;  in  short,  I  hate  the  national 
character  of  the  French.  It  is  unmitigated  bar- 
barism, lam  of  a  soft  and  humane  disposition, 
but  love  and  hatred  must  take  precedence  of  every 
other  sentiment. 

Steht  mirdas  Lieben  und  Hassen  nicht  frei, 
So  ist  es  mit  meinem  Lebon  vorbei.* 


We  walked  about  the  town  last  night,  and  never 
in  my  life  did  I  behold  a  place  so  completely  the 
picture  of  decline.  There  were  small  houses  with- 
out windows,  and  large  houses  of  which  the  doors 
had  been  walled  up.  There  were  towers,  from 
which  every  gust  of  wind  brought  down  fragments 
of  masonry,  and  which,  nevertheless,  served  as  a 
support  to  the  habitations  of  wretchedness.  The 
shops  were  disgustingly  dirty,  and  every  thing  had 
a  spectral  look.  I  lingered  at  a  book-stall,  in 
search  of  an  old  edition  of  St.  Augustine.  I  found 
it  not,  but  while  I  lingered  darkness  came  on,  yet 
not  a  light  began  to  glimmer  from  any  of  the  dis- 
mal windows  around  us.  We  met  a  few  ill-clad 
men,  and  some  hooded  women  thronged  around  us, 
importuning  us  for  alms.  I  hurried  back  to  the 
hotel.  There  a  huge  fire  was  lighted  on  the  spa- 
cious hearth  cased  in  black  marble,  and  was  still 
burning  when  I  went  to  bed.  The  flames  threw 
dark  shadows  and  a  lurid  glare  upon  my  red  cur- 
tains, and  there  I  lay,  conjuring  up  images  of  the 
piles  on  which  so  many  heretics  and  witches  had 
here  been  tortured  to  death  by  papal  cruelty.  I 
thought  of  all  the  blood  shed  here  during  the  re- 
volution, and  of  Marshal  Brune  murdered,  in  1815, 
by  the  mob,  at  the  hotel  opposite  to  mine.  I 
shuddered  as  all  these  recollections  came  throng- 
ing upon  my  mind,  and  felt  that  a  long  mourning 
train  must  be  still  sweeping  over  the  haunted  city. 
I  saw  the  forms  of  soi-row,  the  instruments  and 
the  ministers  of  priestly  torture,  and  the  ugly 
spectres  seemed  to  hiss  about  by  the  fitful  flicker- 
ing light,  till,  fairly  frightened  by  the  shadowy 
creations  of  my  own  fancy,  I  was  glad  to  be  deliv- 
ered from  my  ghostly  visitors  by  sleep. 


^  To  love  and  hate  when  I  'm  no  longer  free, 
Life  will  itself  be  valueless  to  rae. 


From  "  Orientalische  Briefe."   Travels  in  the  East. 

CONSTANTINOPLE. 

If  none  but  dogs  were  the  inhabitants  of  Con- 
stantinople, you  would  find  it  sufficiently  difficult 
to  make  your  way  through  a  city  where  heaps  of 
dirt,  rubbish,  and  refuse  of  every  credible  and  in- 
credible composition,  obstruct  you  at  every  step, 
and  especially  barricade  the  corners  of  the  streets. 
But  dogs  are  not  the  only  dwellers.  Take  care  of 
yourself — here  comes  a  train  of  horses,  laden  on 
each  side  with  skins  of  oil  —  all  oil  without  as  well 
as  within.  And,  oh  I  take  care  again,  for  behind 
are  a  whole  troop  of  asses,  carrying  tiles  and 
planks,  and  all  kinds  of  building  materials.  Now 
give  way  to  the  right  for  those  men  with  baskets 
of  coals  upon  their  heads,  and  give  way,  too,  to 
the  left  for  those  other  men  —  four,  six,  eight  at  a 
time,  staggering  along  with  such  a  load  of  mer- 
chandise, that  the  pole,  thick  as  your  arm,  to 
which  it  is  suspended,  bends  beneath  the  weight. 
Meanwhile,  don't  lose  your  head  with  the  braying 
of  the  asses,  the  yelling  of  the  dogs,  the  cries  of 
the  porters,  or  the  calls  of  the  sweetmeat  and 
chestnut  venders,  but  follow  your  dragoman,  who, 
accustomed  to  all  this  turmoil,  flies  before  you  with 
winged  steps,  and  either  disappears  in  the  crowd 
or  vanishes  round  a  corner.  At  length  you  reach 
a  cemetery.  We  all  know  how  deeply  the  Turks 
respect  the  graves  of  the  dead  —  how  they  visit 
them  and  never  permit  them  to  be  disturbed,  as 
we  do  in  Europe,  after  any  number  of  years.  In 
the  abstract  this  is  very  grand,  and  when  we  ima- 
gine to  ourselves  a  beautiful  cypress  grove  with 
tall  white  monumental  stones,  and  green  grass  be- 
neath, it  presents  a  stately  and  solemn  picture. 
Now  contemplate  it  in  the  reality.  The  monu- 
ments are  overthrown,  dilapidated,  or  awry  — 
several  roughly  paved  streets  intersect  the  space 
—  here  sheep  are  feeding  —  there  donkeys  are 
waiting — here  geese  are  cackling  —  there  cocks 
are  crowing  —  in  one  part  of  the  ground  linen  is 
drying  —  in  another  carpenters  are  planing  —  from 
one  corner  a  troop  of  camels  defile  —  from  another 
a  funeral  procession  approaches  —  children  are 
playing — dogs  rolling  —  every  kind  of  the  most 
unconcerned  business  going  on.  And  what  can 
be  a  greater  profanation  of  the  dead  ?  But,  true 
enough,  where  they  were  buried  four  hundred 
years  ago,  there  they  lie  still. 

THE    PYRAMIDS. 

If  any  one  had  said  to  me  up  there,  between 
the  foundation  of  this  pyramid  and  that  of  the 
railroad  at  Vienna  there  are  as  many  thousand 
years  as  there  are  thousands  of  miles  from  the 
planet  Earth  to  the  planet  Sirius,  I  should  have 
answered  at  once,  "  Of  course  there  are."  I 
seemed  to  be  standing  on  an  island  in  the  midst 
of  the  ether,  without  the  slightest  connection  with 
all  that  hearts  are  throbbing  with  below.  Time 
seemed  to  have  rent  a  cleft  around  me  deeper 
than  the  deepest  ravine  in  the  highest  mountain 
of  the  Alps.  Then  one's  very  view  below  becomes 
so  utterly — what  shall  I  say  ? — so  utterly  lifeless. 

685 


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In  the  -whole  immense  plain  beneath  you  there  is 
not  one  prominent  feature.  It  is  merely  a  geo- 
graphical map  with  coloured  spaces  —  blue-green, 
yellow-green,  sap-green — just  as  the  culture  may 
be.  Among  them,  palm-woods  and  gardens  like 
dark  spots,  canals  like  silver  stripes,  and  banks 
like  black  bars.  Far  and  faint  the  brownish,  form- 
less masses  of  the  city,  wrapt  in  its  own  exhala- 
tions. And  last  of  all,  but  seemingly  quite  near, 
the  Desert  —  here  no  longer  horrible.  If  in  time 
itself  there  be  such  enormous  deserts,  where  hun- 
dreds of  years  lie  bare  and  waste,  and  only  here 
and  there  some  intellectual  building,  together  with 
the  builder,  appear  in  the  midst,  like  an  oasis  for 
the  mind,  why  should  not  a  few  hundred  miles  of 
sand  lie  barren  here  upon  earth  ?  But  even  if 
Fairyland  itself  lay  smiling  round,  it  would  make 
no  difference.  The  pyramid  is  every  thing.  Like 
a  great  mind,  it  overpowers  all  in  its  vicinity. 
Even  the  Nile  becomes  insignificant.  As  the  moun- 
tains attract  the  clouds,  so  does  the  pyramid  at- 
tract the  thoughts,  and  make  them  revolve  perpe- 
tually round  it.  Dear  brother,  it  is  a  wonderful 
sight  when  man  gets  up  his  creations  in  a  kind  of 
rivalship  with  Eternity,  as  this  old  Cheops  has 
done. 

HALE,    SARAH   JOSEPHA, 

As  AUTHOR  of  this  work,  "  Woman's  Record," 
may  hope  that  her  name  here  will  not  be  consid- 
ered out  of  place.  From  a  brief  account  of  her 
writings,  which  appeared  in  the  Lady's  Book,  in 
1850,  she  selects  the  following  particulars;  pre- 
mising that  her  maiden  name  was  Buell,  and  her 
birth-place,  Newport,  a  pleasant  village  nestled 
among  the  green  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  "  By 
the  death  of  her  husband,  David  Hale,  a  young 
lawyer  of  distinguished  abilities  and  great  excel- 
lence of  character,  Mrs.  Hale  was  left  the  sole 
protector  of  five  children,  the  eldest  then  but  seven 
years  old ;  it  was  in  the  hope  of  gaining  the  means 
for  their  support  and  education  that  she  engaged 
in  the  literai'y  profession.  '  Northwood,'  a  novel 
in  two  volumes,  was  her  first  published  work  ;  (a 
little  volume  of  poems  had  been  previously  printed 
for  her  benefit  by  the  Freemasons,  of  which  fi-a- 
ternity  Mr.  Hale  had  been  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber.) 'Northwood'  was  issued  in  Boston,  De- 
cember, 1827,  under  the  title  of  '  The  Book  of 
Flowers.' 

"  Early  in  the  following  year,  ]\Irs.  Hale  was 
invited  from  her  home  in  the  '  Old  Granite  State ' 
to  go  to  Boston  and  take  charge  of  the  editorial 
department  of  '  The  Ladies'  Magazine,'  the  first 
pei-iodical  exclusively  devoted  to  her  sex  whicli 
appeared  in  America.  She  removed  to  Boston  in 
1828,  and  continued  to  edit  the  Ladies'  Magazine 
until  1837,  when  it  was  united  with  the  Lady's 
Book  in  Philadelphia,  of  the  literary  department 
of  which  work  she  has  ever  since  had  charge. 

"  Mrs.  Hale  continued  to  reside  in  Boston,  after 
she  became  editor  of  the  Lady's  Book,  for  several 
years,  while  her  sons  were  in  Harvard  College. 
In  1841,  she  removed  to  Philadelphia,  where  she 
now  resides. 

"Besides  '  Northwood,'  which  was  reprinted  in 


London  under  the  title  of  '  A  New  England  Tale,' 
and  well  commended  in  several  English  journals, 
her  published  works  are,  '  Sketches  of  American 
Character;'  'Traits  of  American  Life;'  'Flora's 
Interpreter,'  (this  also  has  been  reprinted  in  Lon- 
don ;)  '  The  Ladies'  Wreath,  a  selection  from  the 
Female  Poets  of  England  and  America ;'  '  The 
Way  to  Live  AVell,  and  to  be  AVell  while  we  Live ;' 
'  Grosvenor,  a  Tragedy;'  'Alice  Ray,  a  Romance 
in  Rhyme;'  'Harry  Guy,  the  Widow's  Son,  a 
Story  of  the  Sea ' — (the  last  two  were  written  for 
charitable  purposes,  and  the  proceeds  given  away 
accordingly ;)  '  Three  Hours,  or  the  Vigil  of  Love, 
and  other  Poems,'  published  in  1848;  '  A  Com- 
plete Dictionary  of  Poetical  Quotations,  contain- 
ing Selections  from  the  writings  of  the  Poets  of 
England  and  America.'  This  volume  contains 
nearly  six  hundred  double  column  large  octavo 
pages,  and  is  the  most  complete  work  of  the  kind 
in  the  English  language. 

"  Mrs.  Hale  has  also  edited  several  annuals  — 
'The  Opal;'  'The  Crocus,'  &c.,  and  prepared 
quite  a  number  of  books  for  the  young.  '  The 
Judge;  A  Drama  of  American  Life,'  lately  pub- 
lished in  the  '  Lady's  Book,'  is  the  latest  of  her 
writings. 

"  Moreover,  in  addition  to  all  these  productions 
of  Mrs.  Hale's  fertile  mind,  a  large  number  of  sto- 
ries, poems,  essays,  &c.,  many  without  her  name, 
sufficient  to  fill  several  large  volumes,  lie  scattered 
among  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  These  she  will 
collect  and  publish  when  she  concludes  her  edito- 
rial duties.  Of  these  duties  it  is  scarcely  worth  our 
while  to  speak,  writing,  as  we  are,  for  the  read- 
ers of  the  Lady's  Book,  who  know  so  well  how 
thoroughly  and  usefully  they  have  been  performed. 
Quite  pertinent  is  the  following  extract  from  a 
newspaper  in  Massachusetts,  which  comes  timely 
to  our  hands  while  writing.  In  noticing  the 
Lady's  Book,  the  editor  says :  '  Mrs.  Sarah  J. 
Hale,  the  lady  editor,  is  one  of  the  most  sensible 
and  energetic  of  all  the  conductors  of  the  nume- 
rous magazines  that  are  now  published ;  and  as 
she  was  the  pioneer  in  this  species  of  literature, 
no  one  has  had  a  greater  influence,  or  become  more 
universally  popular  among  her  countrywomen.'  " 
Her  success  is  richly  deserved,  and  her  energy, 
devotion,  and  perseverance  under  circumstances 
the  most  trying,  aS"ord  a  cheering  example  to  her 
sex.' " 

A  few  words  respecting  the  influences  which 
have,  probably,  caused  me  to  become  the  Chron- 
icler of  my  own  sex,  may  not  be  considered  ego- 
tistical. I  was  mainly  educated  by  my  mother, 
and  strictly  taught  to  make  the  Bible  the  guide  of 
my  life.  The  books  to  which  I  had  access  were 
few,  very  few,  in  comparison  with  the  number 
given  children  now-a-days  ;  but  they  were  such  aa 
required  to  be  studied  —  and  I  did  study  them 
Next  to  the  Bible  and  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  my 
earliest  reading  was  Milton,  Addison,  Pope,  John- 
son, Cowper,  Burns,  and  a  portion  of  Shakspeare. 
I  did  not  obtain  all  his  works  till  I  was  nearly  fif- 
teen. The  first  regular  novel  I  read  was  "  The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  when  I  was  quite  a  child. 
I  name  it  on  account  of  the  influence  it  exercised 

686 


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over  my  mind.  I  had  remarked  that  of  all  the 
books  I  saw,  few  were  written  by  Americans,  and 
none  by  women.  Here  was  a  woi"k,  the  most  fas- 
cinating I  had  ever  read,  always  excepting  "The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,"  written  by  a  woman  !  How 
happy  it  made  me  !  The  wish  to  promote  the  repu- 
tation of  my  own  sex,  and  do  something  for  my 
own  country,  were  among  the  earliest  mental  emo- 
tions I  can  recollect.  These  feelings  have  had  a 
salutary  influence  by  directing  my  thoughts  to  a 
definite  object ;  my  literary  pursuits  have  had  an 
aim  beyond  self-seeking  of  any  kind.  The  men- 
tal influence  of  woman  over  her  own  sex,  which 
was  so  important  in  my  case,  has  been  strongly 
operative  in  inclining  me  to  undertake  this  my 
latest  work,  "Woman's  Record,"  &c.  I  have 
sought  to  make  it  an  assistant  in  home  education ; 
hoping  the  examples  shown  and  charactei's  por- 
trayed, might  have  an  inspiration  and  a  power  in 
advancing  the  moral  progress  of  society.  Yet  I 
cannot  close  without  adverting  to  the  ready  and 
kind  aid  I  have  always  met  with  from  those  men 
with  whom  I  have  been  most  nearly  connected. 
To  my  brother*  I  owe  what  knowledge  I  possess 
of  the  Latin,  and  the  higher  branches  of  mathe- 
matics, and  of  mental  philosophy.  He  often  la- 
mented that  I  could  not,  like  himself,  have  the 
privilege  of  a  college  education.  To  my  husband 
I  was  yet  more  deeply  indebted.  He  was  a  num- 
ber of  years  my  senioi",  and  far  more  my  superior 
in  learning.  We  commenced,  soon  after  our  mar- 
riage, a  system  of  study  and  reading  which  we 
pursued  while  he  lived.  The  hours  allowed  were 
from  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  till  ten ;  two 
liours  in  the  twenty-four:  how  I  enjoyed  those 
hours !  In  all  our  mental  pursuits,  it  seemed  the 
aim  of  my  husband  to  enlighten  my  reason,  — 
strengthen  my  judgment,  and  give  me  confidence 
in  my  own  powers  of  mind,  which  he  estimated 
much  higher  than  I.  But  this  approbation  which 
he  bestowed  on  my  talents  has  been  of  great  en- 
couragement to  me  in  attempting  the  duties  that 
have  since  become  my  portion.  And  if  there  is 
any  just  praise  due  to  the  works  I  have  prepared, 
the  sweetest  thought  is  —  that  his  name  bears  the 
celebrity. 

As  sufficient  specimens  of  my  prose  will  be 
extant  in  this  work,  I  wiU  select  only  from  my 
poetical  writings. 

From  "The  Rhyme  of  Life." 

THE    HAND    AND    ITS    WOKK. 

The  stars  that  shine  in  Afric's  sky, 

Lighting  all  Invely  things. 
Have  seen,  though  hid  from  human  eye, 

Two  tiny,  trembling  Springs, 
Whose  silvery,  softton'd  flowing  seems 
Like  whispers  heard  in  lovers' dreams, 

That  wake  an  answering  smile;  — 
And  yet  those  star-kiss'd  springs  send  forth 
The  proudest  flood  that  tracks  the  earth  — 

The  world-renown'd  Old  Nile  :  — 
Swart  Egypt's  sands,  beneath  his  wave, 
Are  whelm'd,  as  in  at)  ocean  grave; 
Anon,  from  out  his  slimy  tide, 

J,ike  earth  from  Chaos  raised  again, 
The  rich  green  harvest  waveth  wide. 

And  hope,  and  joy,  and  beauty  reign. 

*  The  late  Judge  Buell  of  Glen's  Falls,  New  York. 


Thus  powerless,  as  the  oozing  rill, 

The  infant's  small,  soft  hand  appears. 
But  wielded  by  stern  manhood's  will. 

And  strengthen'd  by  life's  rolling  years. 
That  wonder-working  Hand  may  pour. 

Like  Nile,  when  bursting  every  bound, 
A  flood  of  devastation  o'er 

The  prostrate  world  around; 
Or,  like  Nile's  fertilizing  tide. 
May  scatter  blessings  far  and  wide. 

The  human  Hand  !    Would'st  number  o'er 
Us  mighty  works  of  strength  and  skill  ? 
The  trophies  cumber  every  shore  ;  — 
'Mid  desert  wastes,  —  on  mountains  hoar. 
Where  fool  may  press,  or  eye  e.\plore, 

Its  presence  meets  us  still;  — 
From  Babylonia's  crumbling  tower. 
Religion's  earliest  dome  of  power, 

To  Zion's  holy  Hill,— 
And  downward,  through  the  lapse  of  time, 
Where'er  is  heard  the  voice  or  chime. 

That  summons  men  to  praise  and  prayer, 
From  minaret  or  Gothic  pile. 
From  shingled  roof  or  pillar'd  aisle  — 
The  Workman's  Hand  is  there. 
****** 
Man's  Work  —  how  much  the  word  has  said  I 
From  MoEiis'  Lake  to  fountain,  set, 
Like  diamond  in  a  coronet. 
Within  some  emerald  shade; 
From  garden-pale  to  China's  Wall; 
From  Pyramid  to  plaything  small 

Which  infant's  touch  has  sway'd; 
From  mud-scoop'd  hut  to  royal  hall; 
From  burial-vault  to  lighthouse  tall, — 
The  loftiest  work,  the  lowest  — all 
Man's  master  Hand  has  made. 
****** 
Art's  glorious  things,  that  give  the  Mind 

Dominion  over  time  and  space; 
The  silken  car,  that  rides  the  wind : 

The  steel,  that  pathless  seas  can  trace; 
The  engine,  breathing  fire  and  smoke. 
Which  first  old  Neptune's  trident  broke, 

And  sails  its  ships  'gainst  wind  and  tide ; 
The  telescope,  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
And  brings  the  pilgrim  planet  nigh, 
Familiar  as  the  Sun's  pale  bride ; 
The  microscopic  lens,  which  finds 

On  every  leaf  a  peopled  land, 
All  these,  which  aid  the  mightiest  minds. 
Were  wrought  and  fashion'd  by  the  Hand. 
****** 
Oh,  when  its  gather'd  trophies  stand. 
Like  magic  forms,  on  sea  and  land, 
In  Fancy's  view,  —  who  doth  not  cry, 
As  the  bright  vision  glideth  by, 
In  beauty,  power,  and  majesty, — 
"Though  Mind,  Aladdin's  lamp  might  be. 
Ills  Genie  was  the  Haiidl" 
****** 
While  thus  to  ceaseless  task-work  doom'd,  to  make  the  world 

his  own, 
—  Lest,  in  the  struggle,  sense  should  drag  the  spirit  from  its 

throne, 
Woman's  warm  heart  and  gentle  hand,  in  God's  eternal  plan. 
Were  form'd  to  soften,  soothe,  refine,  exalt,  and  comfort  Man, 
And  win  from  pleasure's  poison  cup  to   life's  pure  fount 

above, 
And  rule  him,  as  the  angels  rule,  by  deeds  of  peace  and 

love : — 
And  so  the  tender  Mother  lays,  on  her  soft  pillowing  breast, 
With  gentle  hand,  her  infant  son,  and  lulls  him  to  his  rest. 
And  dries  his  tears,  and  cheers  his  smiles,  and  iiy  her  wise 

control. 
She  checks  his  wayward  moods,  and  wakes  the  seraph  in 

his  soul ; 
And  when  life's  Work  commands  him  forth,  no  more  to 

dwell  with  her. 
She  points  him  to  the  Hand  that  saved  the  sinking  mariner. 
And  broke  the  bread  for  famish'd  men,  and  bids  him  trust 

that  stay  — 
And  then,  her  hands  unclasp'd  from  his,  are  lifted  up  to  pray. 

687 


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But  man  could  never  Work  alone,  and  even  in  Eden's  bowers 
He  pined  for  woman's  smile  to  cheer  his  task  of  tending 

flowers  ; 
And  soon  a  fair  young  bride  is  sought  and  found  to  bless  the 

youth, 
Who  gives,  for  his  protecting  hand,  her  heart  of  love  and 

truth ;  — 
And  now  his  Work  has  higher  aims,  since  she  its  blessings 

shares, 
And  oft  her  hand  will  roses  strew,  where  his  would  scatter 

tares  ; 
And,  like  a  light  within  a  vase,  his  home  enshrines  her  form, 
Which  brightens  o'er  his  world-toss'd  mind,  like  sunshine 

o'er  the  storm  : 
And  when  she  pleads  in  sorrow's  cause,  he  cannot  choose 

but  hear. 
And  when  her  soul  with  Heaven  communes,  she  draws  his 

spirit  near; 
And  thus  they  live  till  age  creeps  on,  or  sickness  lays  him 

low, 
Tlien  will  she  gird  her  woman's  heart  to  bear  life's  bitterest 

woe. 
And  soothe  his  pain,  and  stay  his  head,  and  close  his  dying 

eyes  — 
While  praying  Angel  hands  may  guide  his  soul  to  Paradise. 

•WORSHIP    IN    THE    TEMPLE. 

Jerusalem!  Jerusalem!  the  blessing  lingers  yet 

On  the  city  of  the  Cliosen,  where  the  Sabbath  seal  was  set ; 

And  though  her  sons  are  scatter'd,  and  her  daughters  weep 

apart. 
While  desolation,  like  a  pall,  weighs  down  each  faithful 

heart,— 
As  the  palm  beside  the  waters,  as  the  cedar  on  the  hills, 
She  shall  rise  in  strength  and  beauty  when  the  Lord  Jehovah 

wills; 
He  has  promis'd  her  protection,  and  his  holy  pledge  is  good,— 
'T  is  whisper'd  through  the  olive-groves,  and  murmur'd  by 

the  flood. 
As  in  the  Sabbath  stillness  the  Jordan's  flow  is  heard. 
And  by  the  Sabbath  breezes  the  hoary  trees  are  stirr'd. 

Oh!  glorious  were  the  Sabbaths  Jerusalem  has  known. 

When  the  presence  of  the  Highest  was  so  wonderfully  shown; 

And  the  holy  Law  was  guarded  by  cherubin»divine; 

And  the  Temple's  awful  Worship  drew  the  nation  to  its 
shrine  ; 

And  the  "  Song  of  songs"  was  sounded,  till  the  melody  pro- 
found. 

Shook  the  golden  roof  and  arches  with  its  ocean  power  of 
sound ; 

And  wreathing  clouds  of  incense  rose,  like  doves  upon  the 
air, 

Upbearing  on  their  balmy  wings  the  sacrifice  of  prayer ; 

And  sweet  as  angel  greetings,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 

O'er  the  heart  of  gather'd  Israel  came  the  Sabbath  and  its 
rest. 

But  the  glory  all  departed  when  the  Temple  was  laid  low. 
And  like  a  childless  mother,  mourns  the  city  in  her  woe; 
Still  a  people  never  perish  who  in  Sabbath  worship  bend,— 
God  has  kept  his  Chosen  —  He  will  keep  them  to  the  end. 
Soon  the  days  of  expectation  and  of  e.xile  will  be  o'er. 
And  Israel  return  to  his  heritage  once  more. 
'J'hen  shall  bloom  the  rose  of  Sharon,  and  the  lilies  of  the 

vale. 
By  the  dews  of  Hermon  freshen'd,  breathe  their  fragrance  on 

the  gale : 
As  the  seed  for  centuries  buried,  when  laid  open  to  the  day. 
Bursts  forth  in  life  and  beauty  'neath  the  vivifying  ray. 
So  Jerusalem  shall  triumph,  when  her  cliililren  are  restored, 
And  with  songs  of  peace  and  gladness  hail  the  Sabbath  of 

the  Lord. 

WORSHIP    IN    THE    FOREST. 

What  numbers,  when  the  Sabbath  comes, 
Are  trooping  from  their  forest  homes! 
The  maiden,  pure  as  prairie  rose, 
Beside  her  bending  grandsire  goes; 
The  fawn-eyed  children  bound  at  large, 
The  mother  brings  her  nursling  charge, 
And,  bearing  some  pale,  sickly  child. 
Stalks  the  strong  hunter  of  the  wild. 


And  he  may  see,  through  copse-wood  near, 
The  antlers  of  the  browsing  deer  ; 
Or,  as  his  path  through  prairie  goes, 
Hear  the  dull  tramp  of  buffaloes; 
Or  savage  foe,  or  beast  of  prey. 
May  haunt  his  steps,  or  bar  his  way ; 
So,  like  a  knight,  he  goes  prepared 
His  foes  to  meet,  his  friends  to  guard : 
'J'he  rifle  in  his  ready  hand 
Proclaims  the  forester's  command ; 
And  as  his  glance  is  onward  cast, 
Or  wild-wood  sounds  go  rustling  past. 
His  flasliing  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Betray  the  wish  he  may  not  speak  ; — 
But  soon  these  fancies  fade  away, 
Chocked  by  the  thought  —'tis  Sabbat h-Day! 
And  when  he  gains  the  house  of  prayer. 
Heart,  soul  and  mind,  are  centered  there. 

That  house  of  prayer  —  how  mean  beside 
The  grand  cathedral's  sculptured  pride  ! 
Yet  He  who  in  a  manger  slept. 
And  in  the  wilds  his  vigils  kept. 
Will  breathe  a  holy  charm  around. 
Where  His  true  followers  are  found. 
Oh !  never  deem  it  low  and  rude. 

Though  fashioned  by  the  settler's  axe, 
The  sap  still  weeping  from  the  wood. 
As  loath  to  leave  its  brother  trees. 
That  wave  above  it  in  the  breeze, —  ^ 

No  pomp  it  needs,  no  glory  lacks;  — 
The  holy  angels  are  its  guard. 

And  pious  feet  its  planks  have  trod, 
'T  is  consecrated  to  the  Lord, 

The  Temple  of  the  living  God  ! 

But  when  the  Sabbath  gatherings  press, 

Like  armies,  from  the  wilderness, 

'T  is  then  the  dim,  old  woods  afl'ord 

The  sanctuary  of  the  Lord  I 

The  Holy  Spirit  breathes  around  — 

That  forest  glade  is  sacred  ground. 

Nor  Temple  built  with  hands  could  vie 

In  glory  with  its  majesty. 

1'lie  trees  like  living  columns  rise. 

Whose  tops  sustain  the  bending  skies; 

And  o'er  those  earnest  worshippers, 

God's  love,  like  golden  roof,  is  spread. 
And  every  leaf  the  zephyr  stirs, 

Some  heavenly  promise  seems  to  shed  ; 
The  flowers'  sweet  breath  and  gladson>e  eyes 
Recall  the  joys  of  Paradise, 
When  God  and  man  were  garden-friends ; 
And  now  the  loving  Saviour  bends  — 
So  do  they  deem,  those  fervent  bands  — 
With  blessings  in  his  bleeding  hands ! 

And  though  the  organ's  ocean  swell 
Has  never  shook  that  woodland  air, 

Vet  do  the  soul's  emotions  tell 
That  music's  monarch  power  is  there. 

It  litis  the  mortal's  hope  above  — 

It  draws  to  earth  the  angels'  love  — 

The  eye  of  faith  may  see  them  near. 

Their  golden  harps  forgotten  when, 

As  breathed  from  lips  of  contrite  man, 

Redemption's  joyful  song  they  hear! 

From  "The  Judge." 

A    BLIND    girl's    IDEA    OF    LADIES. 

I  have  a  fancy  ladies  are  like  flowers. 
And  so  I  class  and  keep  them  in  my  mind. 
The  delicate  and  gentle  are  the  jasmines  ; 
The  mirthful  and  warm-hearted  — these  are  pinks; 
The  loving  are  the  rose,  for  love  is  sweet. 
And  beautiful  in  mother  as  in  bride  : 
The  stately  and  precise  are  dahlias,  set 
As  they  were  carved  and  coloured  for  a  show } 
The  tulips,  such  as  talk  of  love  and  beau.x  ; 
The  spiritual,  whose  pure,  sweet  thoughts  seem  givei 
As  are  the  star-beams  from  the  vault  of  heaven  — 
These  are  the  lilies:  and  the  violets 
Are  gentle-hearted  ones  who  love  the  lilies. 
And  would  be  like  them  could  they  chose  their  fate. 
.    688 


HA 


HA 


A    THOUGHT. 

Wliat  might  a  single  mind  may  wield, 
\Villi  Truth  for  sword,  and  Faith  for  shield. 

And  Hope  to  lead  the  way  ! 
Thus  all  high  triumphs  are  obtain'd; 
From  evil,  good— as  God  ordain'd 

The  night  before  the  day. 


From  "Poems." 

THE    WATCHER. 

The  night  was  dark  and  fearful, 

The  blast  went  wailing  by  ; — 
A  Watcher,  pale  and  tearful, 

Looked  forth  with  an.xioiis  eye ; 
Hovs-  wistfully  she  gazes,  — 

No  gleam  of  morn  is  there  ! 
.^nd  then  her  heart  upraLses 

Its  agony  of  prayer '. 

Within  that  dwelling  lonely, 

Where  want  and  darkness  reign. 
Her  precious  child,  her  only. 

Lay  moaning  in  his  pain  : 
And  death  alone  can  free  him, — 

She  feels  that  this  must  be: 
"  But  oh  1  for  morn  to  see  him 

Smile  once  again  on  me  1" 

A  hundred  lights  are  glancing 

In  yonder  mansion  fair. 
And  merry  feet  are  dancing, — 

They  heed  not  morning  there : 
Oh  !  young  and  joyous  creatures. 

One  lamp,  from  out  your  store, 
\Vould  give  that  poor  boy's  features 

To  her  fond  gaze  once  more. 

The  morning  sun  is  shining, — 

She  heedeth  not  its  ray  ; 
Beside  her  dead,  reclining, 

That  pale,  dead  mother  lay  ! 
A  smile  her  lip  was  wreathing, 

A  smile  of  hope  and  love, 
As  though  she  still  were  breathing- 

"  There's  light  for  us  above  1" 


THE     LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

My  son,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go; — but  never,  when  there. 

Forget  the  light  of  Home  ! 

Though  pleasures  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright. 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray  ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,  'twill  deepen  the  night 

When  treading  thy  lonely  way. — 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

.\nd  pure  as  vestal  tire,^ 
'T  will  burn,  'twill  burn  for  ever  the  same 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest-tossed, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam, — 

When  sails  are  shivered  and  compass  lost. 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  Home  ! 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  midnight  cloud. 

Thou'lt  see  the  beacon  bright ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud. 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame  may  gild  the  name 

But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray  ; 
And  fashion's  smiles  that  rich  ones  claim. 

Are  beams  of  a  wintry  day : 

How  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be, 

Should  Life's  poor  wanderer  come  I — 
My  son,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee 

Then  turn  to  the  light  of  Home. 
2T 


I    SINQ    TO    HIM. 

I  sing  to  /lim!    I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love, 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thoughts  above. 
Ye  say  't  is  idle  thus  to  dream  — 

But  why  believe  it  so? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  wo. 

Love  gives  to  nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand,  — 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone 

Are  peopled  by  his  wand  ; 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  pulses  thrill 

While  gazing  on  a  flower. 
And  from  the  gently  whisp'ring  rill 

Is  heard  the  words  of  power. 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherished  name, 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise  ; 
Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same 

The  same  Hope's  kindling  skies; — 
The  violet  bank,  the  moss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree, 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet. 

My  buried  love,  with  thee, — 

O,  these  are  all  before  me,  when 

In  fancy's  realms  I  rove; 
Why  urge  me  to  the  world  again  ? 

Why  say  the  ties  of  love, 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven, 

Unite  no  more  below  ? 
I'll  sing  to  him  —  for  though  in  heaven. 

He  surely  heeds  my  woe. 


'Truth  shall  spring  out  of  the  earth."— PsaZm  lixxv.  It 

As,  in  lonely  thought,  I  pondered, 

On  the  marv'lous  things  of  earth. 
And,  in  fancy's  dreaming,  wondered 

At  their  beauty,  power,  and  wortli, 
Came,  like  words  of  prayer,  the  feeling  — 

Oh!  that  God  would  make  nie  know 
Through  the  spirit's  clear  revealing, 

What,  of  all  his  works  below. 
Is  to  man  a  boon  the  greatest, 

Brightening  on  from  age  to  age. 
Serving  truest,  earliest,  latest. 

Through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage. 

Soon  vast  mountains  rose  before  me, 

Shaggy,  desolate,  and  lone. 
Their  scarred  heads  were  threatening  o'er  me. 

Their  dark  shadows  round  me  thrown  ; 
Then  a  voice,  from  out  the  mountains, 

As  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground. 
And  like  frishtened  fawns  the  fountains. 

Leaping,  fled  before  the  sound; 
And  the  .\nak  oaks  bowed  lowly. 

Quivering,  aspen-like,  with  fear  — 
While  the  deep  response  came  slowly. 

Or  it  must  have  crushed  mine  ear  f 

"Iron!  iron!  iron!" — crashing. 

Like  the  baltle-a.\e  and  shield  ' 
Or  the  sword  on  helmet  clashing, 

Through  a  bloody  battle-field  : 
"Iron!  iron!  iron!"  —  rolling, 

Like  the  far-oflT  cannon's  boom; 
Or  the  death-knell,  slowly  tolling, 

Through  a  dungeon's  charnel  gloom  I 
"Iron!  iron  I  iron  !"  — swinging. 

Like  the  summer  winds  at  play  ; 
Or  as  chimes  of  heaven  ringing 

In  the  blest  Millennial  day  ! 

Then  the  clouds  of  ancient  fable 
Cleared  away  before  mine  eyes; 

Truth  could  tread  a  footing  stable 
O'er  the  gulf  of  mysteries! 

680 


HA 


HA 


Words,  the  prophet  bards  had  uttered 

Signs,  the  oracle  foretold, 
Spells,  the  weird-like  sibyl  muttered, 

Through  the  twilight  days  of  old, 
Rightly  read,  beneath  the  splendour 

Shining  now  on  history's  page. 
All  their  faithful  witness  render  — 

All  portend  a  better  age. 

Sisyphus,  for  ever  toiling. 

Was  the  type  of  toiling  men, 
While  the  stone  of  power,  recoiling. 

Crushed  them  back  to  earth  again  ! 
Stern  Prometheus,  bound  and  bleeding. 

Imaged  man  in  mental  chain. 
While  the  vultures  on  him  feeding. 

Were  the  passions'  vengeful  reign ; 
Still  a  ray  of  mercy  tarried 

On  the  cloud,  a  while-winged  dove, 
For  this  mystic  faith  had  married 

Vulcan  to  the  Uueen  of  Love  !  * 

Rugged  Strength  and  radiant  Beauty  — 

These  were  one  in  nature's  plan  ; 
Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty  — 

These  will  form  the  perfect  man  ! 
Darkly  was  this  doctrine  taught  us 

By  the  gods  of  heathendom ; 
But  the  living  light  was  brought  us, 

When  the  Gospel  morn  had  come  ! 
How  the  glorious  change,  expected, 

Could  be  wrought,  was  then  made  free  ; 
Of  the  earthly,  when  perfected, 

Rugged  iron  forms  the  key  ! 

"Truth  from  out  the  earth  shall  flourish," 

This  the  Word  of  God  makes  known  — 
Thence  are  harvests  men  to  nourish  — 

There  let  iron's  power  be  shown. 
Of  the  swords,  from  slaughter  gory, 

Ploughshares  forge  to  break  tbt  soil ; 
Then  will  Mind  attain  its  gloiy, 

Then  will  Labour  reap  the  spoil  — 
Error  cease  the  soul  to  wilder. 

Crime  be  checked  by  simple  good, 
As  the  little  coral  builder 

Forces  back  the  furious  flood. 

While  our  faith  in  good  grows  stronger, 

Means  of  greater  good  increase ; 
.  Iron,  slave  of  war  no  longer. 

Leads  the  onward  march  of  peace ; 
Still  new  modes  of  service  finding, 

Ocean,  earth,  and  air,  it  moves, 
And  the  distant  nations  binding. 

Like  the  kindred  tie  it  proves ; 
With  its  Atlas-shoulder  sharing 

Loads  of  human  toil  and  care 
On  its  wing  of  lightning  hearing 

Thought's  sweet  mission  through  the  air  : 

As  the  rivers,  farthest  flowing. 

In  the  highest  hills  have  birth  ; 
As  the  banyan,  broadest  growing, 

Oftenest  bows  its  head  to  earth  — 
So  the  noblest  minds  press  onward. 

Channels  far  of  good  to  trace  ; 
So  the  largest  hearts  bend  downward. 

Circling  all  the  human  race; 
Thus,  by  iron's  aid,  pursuing 

Through  the  earth  their  plans  of  love, 
Men  our  Father's  will  are  doing. 

Here  as  angels  do  above ! 


*  This  poem  was  written  in  1845,  and  published  in  Janu- 
ary, 1846.  1  name  this  because  in  1848,  Lord  Morpeth  — 
now  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  —  in  a  speech  he  made  at  Sheffield, 
England,  introduced  this  idea  of  Vulcan  and  Venus  represent- 
ing strength  and  beauty  in  a  very  happy  manner.  I  do  not 
know  that  he  was  Indebted  to  my  i)oem  ;  but  as  the  thoughts 
were  similar,  and  as  T  might  be  accused  of  imitation,  I  here 
give  the  date  of  "  Iron."  One  merit  I  may  justly  claim  for 
my  poems  — a  negative  one  —  they  are  not  imitations  nor 
versifications  of  the  thoughts  of  others. 


THE    POWER    OF    MUSIC. 

When  Orpheus  struck  his  burning  lyre, 
Mute  nature  caught  creative  fire,— 
Rough  stones  obeyed  the  swelling  sound, 
In  mystic  measure  moved  around, 
Till,  polished  by  the  harmony. 
The  finished  structure,  grand  and  free. 
Rose  like  the  star  that  heralds  day, 
To  show  Man's  Mind  its  work  and  way ! 

The  sword  may  sever  slavery's  chain  — 
The  strong  arm  crush  the  tyrant's  reign. 
As  lightning  from  the  lurid  sky 
Shatters  and  scathes  the  Temple  high  ;  — 
But  'tis  the  sweet- voiced  Spring  that  calls 
The  ivy  o'er  the  broken  walls. 
And  gently  swaying  in  the  blasts. 
The  fragile  plant  the  Pile  outlasts. 

And  thus  the  power  of  Music's  breath 
Re-clothes  the  wastes  of  Time  and  Deatli. 
The  "  blind  old  man"  begins  his  slraiii, 
And  Greece  is  "  living  Greece"  again  1 
The  Songs  that  flowed  on  Zion's  Hill 
Are  chanted  in  God's  Temples  still. 
And  to  the  eye  of  faith  unfold 
The  glories  of  His  House  of  old 

Each  Prophet-Bard  of  ancient  days 
Still  breathes  for  us  his  lofty  lays  ; 
The  words  that  bear  a  mission  high. 
If  Music-hallowed,  never  die;  — 
And  thus  Religion,  Law  and  Art, 
Sow  their  choice  seeds  in  every  heart ; 
From  age  to  age  the  Song  flows  on, 
And  blends  fresh  life  with  glories  gone. 

A  mystery  this — but  who  can  see 
The  soft  south  wind  that  sways  the  tree 
And  warms  its  vital  flood  to  flow. 
And  wakes  its  folded  buds  to  blow  7 — 
Even  thus  the  power  of  Music,  felt. 
The  soul  is  swayed,  the  heart  will  melt. 
Till  Love  and  Hope  so  bless  the  Houis, 
Life's  dial-plate  is  marked  by  flowers. 

And  every  Temple  Art  has  reared 
Some  truth  has  taught,  some  error  cleared  ; 
But  only  Music's  voice  leads  on 
When  Time  is  o'er  and  Heaven  is  won  ; 
The  Angel-Art  to  mortals  taught,— 
The  golden  chord  of  human  thought. 
When  pure  and  tuned  by  Faith  and  Love, 
Linked  with  the  golden  harps  above ! 


IT    SNOWS. 

"  It  snows  !"  cries  the  School-boy — "  hurrah  I"  and  his  shout 

Is  ringing  through  parlour  and  hall. 
While  swift,  as  the  wing  of  a  swallow,  he's  out 

And  his  playmates  have  answered  his  call : 
It  makes  the  heart  leap  but  to  witness  their  joy, — 

Proud  wealth  has  no  pleasures,  I  trow. 
Like  the  rapture  that  throbs  in  the  pulse  of  the  boy, 

As  he  gathers  his  treasures  of  snow  ; 
Then  lay  not  the  trappings  of  gold  on  thine  heirs. 
While  health,  and  the  riches  of  Nature,  are  theirs. 

"It  snows!"  sighs  the  Imbecile — "  Ah  !"  and  his  breath 

Comes  heavy,  as  clogged  with  a  weight; 
While  from  the  pale  aspect  of  Nature  in  death, 

He  turns  to  the  blaze  of  his  grate : 
And  nearer,  and  nearer,  his  soft-cushioned  chair 

Is  wheeled  tow'rds  the  life-giving  flame  — 
He  dreads  a  chill  puft'of  the  snow-burdened  air, 

Lest  it  wither  his  delicate  frame: 
Oh!  small  is  the  pleasure  existence  can  give. 
When  the  fear  we  shall  die  only  proves  that  we  live  ! 

"It  snows!"  cries  the  Traveller—"  Ho!"  and  the  word 

Has  quickened  his  steed's  lagging  pace ; 
The  wind  rushes  by,  but  its  howl  is  unheard  — 

Unfelt  the  sharp  drift  in  his  face ; 

690 


HA 


HA 


For  bright  through  the  tempest  his  own  home  appeared  — 
Ay,  though  leagues  intervened,  he  can  see; 

There's  the  clear,  glowing  hearth,  and  the  talile  prepared. 
And  his  wife  with  their  babes  at  her  knee. 

Blest  thought!  how  it  lightens  the  grief-laden  hour, 

That  those  we  love  dearest  are  safe  from  its  power. 

"  It  snows !"  cries  the  Belle—"  Dear,  how-  lucky  !"  and  turns 

From  her  mirror  to  w  atch  the  flakes  fall ; 
Like  the  first  rose  of  summer,  her  dimpled  cheek  burns 

While  musing  on  sleigh-ride  and  ball; 
There  are  visions  of  conquest,  of  splendour,  and  mirth. 

Floating  over  each  drear  winter's  day; 
But  the  timings  of  Hope,  on  this  storm-beaten  earth, 

Will  melt,  like  llie  snow-flakes,  away  ; 
Turn,  turn  thee  to  Heaven,  fair  maiden,  for  bliss, 
That  world  has  a  fountain  ne'er  opened  in  this. 

"  It  snows  !"  cries  the  Widow  —  "  Oh  God  !"  and  her  sighs 

Have  stifled  the  voice  of  her  prayer ; 
Its  burden  ye  'II  read  in  her  tear-swollen  eyes. 

On  her  cheek,  sunk  with  fasting  and  care. 
'Tis  night—  and  her  fatherless  ask  her  for  bread  — 

But  "  He  gives  the  young  ravens  their  food," 
And  she  trusts,  till  her  dark  hearth  adds  horror  to  dread 

And  she  lays  on  her  last  chip  of  wood. 
Poor  suft'rer  !  that  sorrow  thy  God  only  knows  — 
'T  is  a  pitiful  lot  to  be  poor,  when  it  snows  ! 


THE    MOTHERS    GIFT    TO    MISSIONS. 

"  Oh  !  had  I  mines  of  treasure. 

How  would  I  pour  them  forth. 
And  send  the  Messengers  of  love 

To  bless  the  waiting  earth  I 
How  can  the  heathen  woman 

Her  hopeless  lot  endure  ? 
Would  I  had  power  to  give  her  light, 

But  I  am  weak  and  poor !" 

Thus  thought  a  gentle  mother. 

While,  bowed  in  love  and  awe. 
She  heard  the  fervent  preacher's  voice 

Enforce  the  Saviour's  law  — 
"Go  ye  to  every  nation. 

And  teach  the  Gospel  lore; 
My  spirit,  while  the  world  endures, 

Is  with  you  evermore." 

She  felt,  that  meek-eyed  mother. 

How  sweet  the  Christian's  trust; 
As  flowers  from  winter's  icy  shroud 

Beneath  the  warm  Spring  burst, 
So  from  the  blight  of  sorrow, 

Of  winter-like  despair. 
Her  heart  to  Faith's  warm  light  had  turned. 

And  bloomed  in  hope  and  prayer. 

But  now  her  soul  was  saddened  — 

What  mite  had  she  to  give? 
Her  feeble  efforts  scarce  can  gain 

The  scanty  means  to  live; 
The  widow's  lot,  like  killing  frost, 

Her  world  had  desert  made  — 
All,  save  one  flower,  had  passed  away — 
All,  save  one  hope,  decayed. 

She  wept,  that  pale  young  mother, 

In  humble  grief  she  wept. 
While  pillowed  on  her  heaving  breast, 

In  peace  her  fair  child  slept; 
She  wept  to  think  the  Saviour's  love 

tieaven's  grace  for  her  had  won. 
And  she  no  gift  to  aid  His  cause,  — 

"  Oh !  mother,  give  thy  son  i" 

Thus,  in  her  soul's  deep  chambers. 

The  Spirit's  voice  was  heard; 
And  though  before  her  shrinking  sense. 

The  thorns,  the  cross  appeared,  — 
The  parting,  and  the  dangers. 

Fear,  doubt,  and  dread  combine, 
She  clasped  him  to  her  throbbing  heart  — 

"  Yes,  Lord,  he  shall  be  thine  I" 


Oh!  when  the  "Books"  are  opened, 

And  deeds  and  motives  known. 
And  honour  to  the  holiest 

Before  the  world  is  shown, 
How  high  above  the  queens  of  earth. 

The  rich,  the  proud  above. 
Will  stand  that  lowly  mother's  name. 

Joined  with  her  gift  of  love ! 


HALL,    ANNA   MARIA, 

Is  a  native  of  Ireland ;  her  birth-place  was  in  Wex- 
ford county,  where  her  family,  whose  name  was 
Fielding,  was  of  high  respectability.  When  Miss 
Fielding  was  about  fifteen,  she  was  taken  by  her 
mother  to  England,  and  there  they  resided  several 
years,  before  revisiting  her  native  country.  But 
the  scenes  which  were  familiar  to  her  as  a  child, 
must  have  made  a  vivid  and  lasting  impression  on 
her  mind ;  and  all  her  sketches  evince  so  much 
freshness  and  vigour,  that  her  readers  might  easily 
imagine  she  had  passed  her  life  among  the  scenes 
she  describes.  An  able  critic  observes  that,  "To 
her  early  absence  from  her  native  country  is  pro- 
bably to  be  traced  one  strong  characteristic  of  all 
her  wi'itings  —  the  total  absence  of  party  feeling 
on  subjects  connected  with  politics  or  religion."* 

Miss  Fielding  was  very  fortunate  in  her  mar- 
riage connexion  with  her  husband,  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall, 
an  English  gentleman,  whose  talents  and  taste,  as 
a  successful  writer  and  artist,  are  widely  known. 
Soon  after  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Hall  commenced 
her  literary  career ;  no  doubt  the  sympathy  and 
approval  of  her  husband  incited  her  genius,  and 
assisted  materially  in  developing  her  powers.  Her 
first  work,  entitled  "  Sketches  of  Irish  Character," 
appeared  in  1829.  Of  this,  and  her  succeeding 
works,  the  following  is,  probably,  a  correct,  though 
by  no  means  a  flattered  estimate.  "Mrs.  Hall's 
sketches  bear  a  closer  resemblance  to  the  tales  of 
Miss  Mitford  than  to  the  Irish  stories  of  Banira 
or  GrifiBn,  though  the  latter  may  have  tended  to 
direct  Mrs.  Hall  to  the  peculiarities  of  Irish  cha- 
racter. They  contain  some  fine  rural  description, 
and  are  animated  by  a  healthy  tone  of  moral  feel- 
ing and  a  vein  of  delicate  humour.     The  coquetry 

*  Dublin  University  Magazine  for  1840. 
691 


HA 


HA 


of  her  Irish  girls  (very  different  from  that  in  high 
life)  is  admirably  depicted.  Next  year,  Mrs.  Hall 
issued  a  little  volume  for  children,  "Chronicles 
of  a  School-Room,"  consisting  also  of  a  series  of 
tales,  simple,  natural,  and  touching.  The  home- 
truths  and  moral  observations  conveyed  in  these 
narratives,  reflect  great  credit  on  the  heart  and 
the  judgment  of  the  writer.  Indeed,  good  taste 
and  good  feeling  may  be  said  to  preside  over  all 
the  works  of  our  authoress.  In  1831,  she  issued 
a  second  series  of  "Sketches  of  Irish  Character," 
fully  equal  to  the  first,  which  was  well  received. 
The  "Rapparee"  is  an  excellent  story,  and  some 
of  the  satirical  delineations  are  hit  ofi"  with  great 
truth  and  liveliness.  In  1832,  she  ventured  on  a 
larger  and  more  difficult  work  —  an  historical  ro- 
mance in  three  volumes,  entitled  "  The  Buc- 
caneer." The  scene  of  this  tale  is  laid  in  Eng- 
land, at  the  time  of  the  Protectorate,  and  Oliver 
himself  is  among  the  characters.  The  plot  of 
"  The  Buccaneer"  is  well  managed,  and  some  of 
the  characters  (as  that  of  Barbara  Iverk,  the  Pu- 
ritan) are  skilfully  delineated ;  but  the  work  is  too 
feminine,  and  has  too  little  of  energetic  passion 
for  the  stormy  times  in  which  it  is  cast.  In  1834, 
Mrs.  Hall  published  "  Talcs  of  Woman's  Trials," 
short  stories  of  decidedly  moral  tendency,  written 
in  the  happiest  style  of  the  authoress.  In  1835, 
appeared  "  Uncle  Horace,"  a  novel,  and  in  1838 
"  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Irish  Life,"  three  volumes. 
The  latter  had  been  previously  published  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  enjoyed  great  popu- 
larity. The  principal  tale  in  the  collection,  "The 
Groves  of  Blarney,"  was  dramatised  at  one  of  the 
theatres  with  distinguished  success.  In  1840, 
Mrs.  Hall  issued  what  has  been  styled  the  best 
of  her  novels,  "  Marian  ;  or  a  Young  Maid's  For- 
tunes," in  which  her  knowledge  of  Irish  character 
is  again  displayed.  Katty  i\Iacane,  an  Ii-ish  cook, 
who  adopts  Marian,  a  foundling,  and  watches  over 
her  with  untiring  affection,  is  ecjual  to  any  of  the 
Irish  portraitures  since  those  by  Miss  Edgeworth. 
The  next  work  of  our  authoress  was  a  series  of 
"  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,"  contributed  to 
Chambers'  Edinburgh  Journal,  and  afterwards 
published  in  a  collected  form.  In  1840,  Mrs. 
Hall  aided  her  husband  in  a  work  chiefly  com- 
posed by  him,  and  which  reflects  credit  upon  his 
talents  and  industry — "Ireland,  its  Scenery,  Cha- 
racter," &c.  Topographical  and  statistical  infor- 
mation is  here  blended  with  the  poetical  and  ro- 
mantic features  of  the  country  —  the  legends  of 
the  peasantry  —  scenes  and  chai-acters  of  humour 
and  pathos — and  all  that  could  be  gathered  in  five 
separate  tours  through  Ireland,  added  to  early  ac- 
quaintance and  recollection  of  the  country.  The 
work  was  highly  embellished  by  British  artists, 
and  extended  to  three  large  volumes.  In  tasteful 
description  of  natural  objects,  and  pictures  of 
every-day  life,  Mrs.  Hall  has  few  superiors.  Her 
humour  is  not  so  broad  or  racy  as  that  of  Lady 
Morgan,  nor  her  observation  so  pointed  and  select 
as  Miss  Edgeworth's.  Her  writings  are  also  un- 
equal, but,  in  general,  they  constitute  easy,  de- 
lightful reading,  and  possess  a  simple  truth  and 
purity  of  sentiment  that  is  ultimately  more  fasci- 


nating than  the  darker  shades  and  colourings  of 
imaginative  composition."* 

Mrs.  Hall's  residence  was  for  a  number  of  years 
at  The  Rosery,  Old  Brompton,  near  London ; 
where  her  home  was  distinguished  for  its  simple 
elegance,  and  the  refined  taste  and  hospitality  of 
the  gifted  pair  who  presided  in  this  pleasant  lite- 
rary retreat.  At  present  they  reside  in  Surrey, 
about  eighteen  miles  from  London ;  Mr.  Hall  is 
editor  of  the  "  Art-Union,"  and  Mrs.  Hall  a  con- 
stant contributor  to  its  pages.  There  her  latest 
and  one  of  her  most  interesting  works,  "  Midsum- 
mer Eve ;  a  Fairy  Tale  of  Love,"  first  appeared, 
with  superb  illustrations.  The  most  distinguished 
artists  in  Great  Britain  furnished  the  pictorial  sem- 
blances of  the  author's  pure  and  beautiful  ideas; 
we  hardly  know  which  deserves  most  praise.  The 
volume  was  issued  in  1848,  and  well  sustains  the 
intention  of  the  authoress :  "  I  have  endeavoured," 
she  says,  "  to  trace  the  progress  of  a  young  girl's 
mind  from  infancy  to  womanhood  ;  the  Good  and 
Evil  Influences  to  which  it  is  subje<;ted;  and  the 
Trials  inseparable  from  a  contest  with  the  World." 
Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  as  she  always  gives  her  name  to 
her  works,  seemingly  desirous  of  associating  her 
husband's  fame  with  her  own,  never  loses  an  op- 
portunity of  inculcating  those  virtues  as  well  as 
graces  which  make  the  happiness  and  enlarge  the 
best  influence  of  her  own  sex.  Another  beautiful 
trait  of  her  character,  is  her  active  benevolence  : 
she  engages  in  those  associated  efi'orts  to  benefit 
society  by  taking  care  for  woman's  education  and 
comfort,  now  beginning  to  be  made  in  England. 
We  find  her  name  on  the  Committee  for  the  Asy- 
lum of  the  "Governesses'  Benevolent  Institution;" 
and  in  the  establishment  of  "  The  Queen's  Col- 
lege "  for  the  better  promotion  of  female  educa- 
tion, Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  was  warmly  interested. 

From  "  Marian  ;  or  a  Young  Maid's  Fortunes." 
5i.vri.\n's  character. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  analyze  the  feelings  with 
which  Marian  awoke  to  this  new  existence — for 
new  indeed  it  was ;  the  kindness  of  Lady  Isabel, 
the  dean's  benevolence,  the  joy  of  her  beloved 
nurse,  each  succeeding  the  other,  were  more  like 
spells,  the  spells  of  a  happy  land,  where  there 
were  no  tears,  no  anxieties,  no  troubles.  She  was 
filled  with  joy  and  gratitude.  Not  many  weeks  had 
elapsed,  and  she  was  living  a  new  life,  in  a  new 
world,  remembering  only  the  past  to  enhance  the 
sweetness  of  the  present.  Her  heart's  beating.«, 
lest  it  should  be  a  dream,  not  a  reality,  had  hardly 
subsided  ;  and  when  each  morning  she  awoke,  she 
could  scarcely  believe  that  what  surrounded  her 
was  less  than  fairy-land.  It  was  with  mingled 
delight  and  astonishment  that  Lady  Isabel  disco- 
vered her  rare  excellence  in  music.  She  had  not 
only  completely  mastered  the  mechanical  part  of 
the  science,  but  infused  into  her  performance  that 
pure  and  exquisite  spirit  which,  like  genius,  can- 
not be  taught — it  cometh  we  know  not  whence; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  listen  to  vocal  or  instru- 
mental music  such  as  hers,  without  feeling  that 


Chambers'  Cyclopedia. 


692 


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Nature  has  bestowed  "  a  grace  beyond  the  reach 
of  art."  Her  voice  was  a  soprano,  not  of  exten- 
sive compass,  but  of  the  finest  tone,  particularly 
on  the  middle  notes,  where  expression  so  fully  tells. 

Lady  Isabel,  accustomed  to  the  best  music  of 
Italy,  was  astonished  not  only  at  its  richness,  as 
it  rolled  forth  in  purest  melody,  but  at  the  beauty 
of  her  conceptions  and  the  truth  of  their  delinea- 
tion. The  few  songs  she  sang  were  chosen  with 
admirable  skill,  and  she  succeeded  in  exciting 
whatever  interest  she  pleased  in  her  hearers. 
Lady  Isabel  was  spell-bound  by  the  charm  of  this 
extraordinary  talent;  it  was  something  so  origi- 
nal, so  different  from  any  thing  she  had  expected. 
As  yet  Marian  had  only  learned  the  simple  melo- 
dies of  her  own  land,  and  a  few  as  simple  French 
songs ;  but  hers  was  a  voice  which  evidently  could 
sing  any  thing — round  and  flexible,  perfect  in  its 
intonations,  and  capable  of  the  highest  culture. 
To  have  understood  the  pleasure  experienced  by 
Lady  Isabel  at  this  discovery,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  understand  the  power  sweet  sounds  pos- 
sessed over  her  feelings ;  to  those  who  compre- 
hend this,  explanation  would  be  unnecessary ; 
those  who  do  not  would  think  us  gone  mad  on  the 
subject.  It  is  indeed  labour  in  vain  to  attempt 
proving  to  the  unmusical  the  power  of  music ; 
that  high,  and  pure,  and  holy  enjoyment,  which, 
as  we  may  believe,  is  one  of  the  delights  we  are 
to  experience  in  heaven. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  see  tears  in  your  eyes,  Lady 
Isabel,"  said  Marian,  when  she  finished  singing 
one  of  the  sweet  ballads  of  poor  Ireland,  whose 
euphonious  termination,  "  Colleen  das  crutheen 
amo,"  she  had  learnt  to  pronounce  with  its  natu- 
ral softness,  from  our  friend  Katty  Macane.  "  I 
do  not  like  to  see  tears  in  your  eyes,  dear  Lady 
Isabel;  why  should  you  ever  shed  tears?  —  you, 
60  good,  so  happy,  so  rich,  so  independent :  what 
made  you  cry,  dear  lady  V 

"  Your  music,  my  dear  child." 

"  I  ought  to  be  happy  at  that !  to  think  of  my 
nurse's  ballad  making  you  weep!" 

"  It  is  even  so,"  replied  Lady  Isabel ;  "  ballads 
such  as  that  excite  in  a  double  way,  by  the  words 
and  music,  both  playing  on  the  feelings  together. 
That  voice,  Marian,  is  a  fortune!" 

"  I  wish  it%vould  make  me  one :  do  you  think 
it  would  1"  inquired  the  girl,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it  —  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  the  matter." 

"  Oh,  then,  dear  Lady  Isabel,"  she  exclaimed, 
joyfully,  "  only  tell  me  how  I  can  set  about  it ; 
you  have  been  so  good,  so  generous  to  me,  that 
you  will  not  refuse  me  this  request,  and  then  I 
should  be  independent ;  it  would  make  me  very, 
very  miserable  if  I  thought  that  all  my  life  I  was 
to  be  only  a  dependant ;  a  thing  to  subsist  upon 
the  cast-ofF  food  and  cast-ofi"  smiles  of  others ! 
Oh,  Lady  Isabel,  if  I  could  once,  even,  earn  my 
own  bread !" 

"You  earned  it  with  Mrs.  Jones,  my  poor  girl 
—  you  surely  earned  it  there." 

"  I  might  perhaps  have  earned  food,  dear  Lady 
Bell,  but  not  money.  I  wore  the  cast-oflF  gar- 
ments of  charity." 


"  Say,  of  justice  rather;  they  were  earned." 
"  My  dear  lady,  I  could  not  think  they  were ; 
when  any  thing  approaching  finery  was  given  to 
me,  I  could  not  bear  to  put  it  on  —  I  felt  how 
strange  the  charity-child  that  crossed  my  path 
would  look  decked  out  in  ribands.  I  loathed  my- 
self." 

"  No,  Marian,"  replied  her  friend,  "  you  loathed 
your  dependence ;  you  were  proud,  child,  too 
proud;  that  was  the  pride  that  '  apes  humility.' 
I  do  not  wish  to  wound  your  feelings,  Marian ; 
but,  in  the  many  tales  you  have  told  me,  where 
you  were  stern  and  stubborn  —  and  I  loved  you 
all  the  better,  because  you  did  not  spare  yourself 

—  I  traced  it  all  to  pride." 

"  But  I  could  kneel  and  kiss  the  dust  beneath 
your  feet,  and  the  good  dean,  too ;  I  could  serve 
Lord  Augustus  not  only  as  a -servant  but  as  a 
slave ;  my  old  nurse,  my  fond  and  faithful  nurse, 
I  could  beg  for  her.  Oh,  Lady  Isabel,  is  that 
pride  ?" 

"It  is  not  humility,  my  dear  child  ;  it  is  affec- 
tion.    AVe  have  not  insulted  you  ;  if  we  had " 

"  Dear  Lady  Isabel !"  exclaimed  Marian,  aston- 
ished at  the  idea  ;  but  seeing  her  ladyship  smile, 
she  reverted  to  her  old  jjurpose.     "  But  this  voice 

—  I  have  practised  it  as  you  told  me ;  and  now 
that  I  understand  the  Italian  words  your  ladyship 
so  kindly  translated,  I  think  I  do  better ;  I  shall 
not  be  content  with  doing  better,  I  want  to  do 
well." 

"Marian,"  said  Lady  Isabel,  "listen  to  me. 
You  have,  above  all  others,  a  quality  which  will 
render  you  either  very  great  or  very  mean  —  there 
is  no  medium  —  it  is  pride." 

"Oh,  Lady  Isabel,"  she  interrupted  warmly, 
"  what  should  a  foundling  do  with  pride?" 

"  True ;  and  I  may  add,  what  should  any  one 
do  with  pride? — false  pride,  that  builds  unto 
itself  a  pyramid  of  false  greatness,  and  frets  itself 
into  perpetual  agitation,  lest  its  pyramid  should 
be  assailed.  You  have  unhappily  lived  with  those 
who  sought  to  undervalue  you ;  your  feelings 
stimulated  by  pride,  rebelled  —  j'ou  became  harsh 
and  irritable  —  expecting  hourly  assault,  your  de- 
fiance was  ever  ready ;  so  that  I  am  not  quite  cer- 
tain but  that,  at  times,  you  might  have  been  the 
aggressor." 

"Not  only  might,  my  lady,"  said  the  frank- 
hearted  girl,  "  but  tens.  I  can  call  to  mind  many 
instances  when  I  was  the  aggressor ;  and  now, 
when  I  am  so  happy,  I  wonder  how  I  could  ever 
have  been  so  bitter.     But  was  it  pride  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  think,  and  you  will  see  it  was." 

"  But,  dear  madam,  is  the  pride  that  rises 
against  oppression  wrong  ?" 

"  No,  provided  it  does  not  degenerate  into  anger 
against  the  oppressor.  The  sea  is  deep,  my  child, 
but  pride  is  deeper,  nor  is  it  more  deep  than  de- 
ceitful ;  it  will  often  seem  to  betray  itself,  the 
more  successfully  to  betray  thee.  I  would  have 
you  watch  this  pride,  and  separate  it  from  that 
great  and  glorious  ambition  which  all  great  men, 
and  a  few  great  women,  have  understood." 

"Lady  Isabel,  why  did  you  say  a  few  great 
women?" 

693 


HA 


HA 


"  Because,  though  many  are  celebrated,  few 
are  great.  Women  are  at  so  early  a  period  bound 
to  the  littlenesses  of  life,  that  it  is  no  easy  matter 
for  them  to  break  the  thousand  small  intricate 
chains  which  keep  them  down  on  every  side,  and 
TV^hich,  after  all,  except  with  very  extraordinary 
talents,  and  under  peculiar  circumstances,  had, 
perhaps,  better  be  only  loosened.  There  are, 
however,  many  heroic  women,  clad  in  English 
russet,  whose  suiferings  and  whose  virtues  deserve 
the  martyr's  crown.  To  be  truly  great  we  must 
be  above  the  weaknesses  —  the  petty  ambitions 
of  life  —  soaring  as  the  eagle  in  the  heavens  with 
only  the  sun  in  view." 

"As  I  should  like  to  soar!"  exclaimed  the 
young  enthusiast,  "and  my  sun  should  be  inde- 
pendence." 

"And,"  said  Lady  Isabella,  "if  you  attained  it 
by  the  most  praiseworthy  exertions,  you  would 
then  desire  one  other  —  the  only  one  that  ever 
made  woman,  however  great,  happy." 

"  What  is  that,  madam  ?" 

Lady  Isabella  paused;  the  word  "Love"  was 
on  her  lip,  but  she  sent  it  back,  and  said,  "Affec- 
tion." 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  maiden,  "but  I 
think  I  should  like  to  be  great." 

"And  so  should  I  like  you  to  be  great  in  good- 
ness !  You  have  been  reading  this  morning  the 
biography  of  two  very  celebrated  women:  whom 
■would  you  rather  have  been.  Queen  Elizabeth  or 
Lady  Rachel  Russel  ?" 

Marian  paused  not,  but  replied  instantly,  "Oh, 
Lady  Rachel,  to  be  sure!" 

Lady  Isabella  drew  her  breath  freely.  "  Thank 
God!"  she  instantly  exclaimed;  "she  is  right- 
hearted  !" 

♦  BLUE-STOCKINGS. 

The  particular  class  of  blue-stockings  of  which 
Lady  Barbara,  in  her  day,  was  so  decided  a  speci- 
men, is  passing  away.  The  generality  of  females 
are  better  informed  than  they  were  thirty  years 
ago;  it  is  not  that  there  are  fewer  trout,  but  there 
are  fewer  minnows;  consequently,  "the  trout"  do 
not  look  so  very  big.  Lady  Barbara,  toward  the 
conclusion  of  her  career,  affected  that  hardness 
which,  unfortunately,  many  clever  women,  now-a- 
days,  mistake  for  strength.  The  affectation  of 
sentiment  and  romance  was  foolish ;  the  affecta- 
tion of  hard  philosophy,  in  a  woman,  is  worse 
than  that.  It  iS  dangerous.  Nature  !  that  uner- 
ring philosopher !  commanded  different  and  sepa- 
rate occupations  to  the  fair  portion  of  her  creation, 
from  what  she  allotted  to  the  stronger;  and  what- 
ever tends  to  destroy  these  obligations,  flies  in  the 
very  face  of  that  nature  which  it  has  become  the 
fashion  to  talk  about,  and  disobey.  Women  are 
capable  of  appreciating,  and  ought  to  be  ready  to 
exercise  and  understand  the  principles  of  all  that 
is  great  and  beautiful ;  they  ought  to  be  true 
patriots,  firm  friends,  and  honest  members  of 
society ;  these  are  general  virtues :  but  there  are 
others,  especially  their  own,  that  must  not  be  for- 
gotten. 


SENTIMENTAL  YOUNG  LADIES. 

I  hate  those  mere  gentle  girls  without  mind,  or 
spii'it,  or  feeling,  to  deepen  the  blush  upon  a  pallid 
cheek ;  a  fellow  might  as  well  think  of  living  upon 
sweet  cake,  and  sweet  cream,  and  sweet  straw- 
berries, and  all  the  sweets,  which,  after  all,  are 
sure  to  become  sours,  as  going  through  life  with  a 
sleepy-headed  beauty,  whose  roughest  word  would 
be,  "An  if  it  please  you,  sir!" 

WOMAN    FOR    WOMAN. 

"No,  I  can't,  nor  won't!"  exclaimed  Katty, 
with  a  heroic  spirit  that  females  would  do  well 
and  wisely  to  cultivate.  "  I  will  not  hould  my 
tongue,  where  my  own  poor  wake  sex  is  imposed 
upon.  Haven't  I  often  seen  the  young,  and  the 
innocent,  and  the  virtuous,  drawn  by  their  natural 
goodness  (which  desavers  like  you  twist  as  a  halter 
about  their  necks,  strangling  them  with  their  own 
good  intentions,  like  seething  the  kid  in  its  mo- 
ther's milk;)  haven't  I  often  seen  such  drawn  into 
sin,  and  left  to  moulder  away  in  it,  till  they  sunk 
into  a  nameless  grave  ?  And  why  ?  Because  there 
was  none  of  their  own  sex  found  with  enough  judg- 
ment to  watch  over  them ;  or  with  courage  enough 
to  draw  them  back  after  the  first  false  step ;  or 
to  give  the  broad,  the  loud,  the  determined,  the 
steadfast  lie  to  what  is  almost  as  dangerous  to  a 
young  woman :  the  first  false  word  that 's  even 
whispered  against  her  honest  faine .'" 

TUE    PUBLIC    SINGER. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Marian  once  thought 
her  fine  voice  might  promote  her  independent  de- 
sires, and  Lady  Isabella  promised  to  read  her  one 
of  those  practical  lessons  on  the  danger  of  female 
publicity  that  are  so  forcible  by  the  mere  strength 
of  example.  About  a  week  after  the  funeral  of 
Mrs.  Jones  she  fulfilled  her  promise  —  the  lesson 
was  in  itself  fearful.  A  young  and  clever  girl 
without  a  home,  and  most  painfully  situated,  mar- 
ried a  man  much  beneath  her ;  and,  finding  out, 
after  the  expiration  of  a  month,  that  he  was  not 
only  low  in  connexion,  but  of  debased  mind, 
sprang,  as  it  were,  upon  the  stage,  as  a  means 
of  support,  where  her  magnificent  musical  talent 
commanded  success.  She  had  done  #  with  a  mind 
full  of  honest  and  excellent  resolves — with  a  firm 
desire  to  do  right  —  with  a  prayer;  but,  no,  she 
did  not  pray — if  she  had  prayed,  she  ivould  not  have 
fallen!  Poor  thing !  she  trusted  to  her  integrity 
of  purpose,  and,  elated  with  success — flushed  with 
triumph  —  her  unguarded  and  unworldly  manners 
reaped,  as  their  reward,  a  reputation,  not  blight 
exactly,  but  breathed  upon  by  that  class  of  men 
whose  breath  is  poison.  Those,  few  as  tliey  were 
in  number,  of  her  own  sex  whom  she  respected, 
and  who  ought  boldly  to  have  rallied  round  a 
sister  whom  they  believed  in  danger,  shrank  from 
her.  She  was  worse  than  alone  in  the  world !  for 
she  had  the  clog  of  a  base  and  cruel  husband — • 
a  .?/oA-e-fellow,  but  no  help ;  and  this  at  the  time 
when  all  the  town  were  at  her  feet ;  this,  as  has 
been  said  before,  all  brilliant  as  it  is,  never  yet 
filled   the   aching  void   in  woman's  heart.     Her 

69i 


HA 


HA 


curse  seemed  to  be  always  to  love  un-wortliily ; 
she  fell;  knowing  then  that  she  was  degraded,  she 
became  reckless,  and  this  rpcklessuess  was  in- 
creased by  the  desertion  of  the  fashionable  rou^ 
■who  courted  her  as  a  step  to  farther  notoriety. 
She  went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  and,  in  the  midst 
of  a  career  of  professional  success,  multitudinous 
scandal,  and  bitter  self-reproach,  the  poor  actress' 
health  gave  way,  and  she  had  no  friends  —  envy, 
and  that  mock  religion  which  blasts  where  it 
ought  to  bless,  did  their  worst.  She  crept  down 
to  Twickenham  with  the  remnant  of  her  earnings, 
to  die  like  a  hunted  cat,  away  from  the  scenes  of 
her  feverish  home. 

PREJUDICE. 

Prejudice  is  the  more  dangerous,  because  it  has 
the  unfortunate  ability  of  accommodating  itself 
to  all  the  possible  varieties  of  the  human  mind. 
Like  the  spider,  it  makes  everywhere  a  home. 
Some  one  of  our  glorious  old  divines  —  South,  or 
Taylor,  or  Fuller,  or  Bishop  Hall  —  has  it  some- 
where, that  let  the  mind  be  as  naked  as  the  walls 
of  an  empty  and  forsaken  tenement,  gloomy  as  a 
dungeon,  or  ornamented  with  the  richest  abilities 
of  thinking ;  let  it  be  hot,  cold,  dark,  or  light, 
lonely  or  inhabited;  still  prejudice,  if  undisturbed, 
will  fill  it  with  cobwebs,  and  live,  like  the  spider, 
where  there  seemed  nothing  to  live  upon. 

EMULATION. 

It  is  the  greatest  possible  mistake  to  imagine 
that  being  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  having 
the  same  pursuits,  the  same  turn  of  mind,  as  it  is 
called,  makes  people  agree.  Derogatory  as  it  is 
to  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  experience  forces 
the  knowledge  that  people  having  the  same  pur- 
suits, the  same  foibles,  the  same  feelings,  agree 
least  of  all ;  one  thunder-clap  deadens  the  effect 
of  another.  A  theatre,  for  instance,  is  nothing 
more  than  a  hive,  where  every  bee  has  a  sting 
ready,  not  for  an  intruder,  but  for  its  fellow-bee. 
It  is  painful  to  know  how  actors  of  similar  style 
and  manner  mar  each  other's  points,  and  count 
the  calls  and  claps  which  each  receives  above  the 
other ;  but  it  would  be  invidious  to  quote  this  as 
an  instance  of  discord,  arising  where  many  are 
engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  the  same  object,  if  the 
confession  were  not  added,  that  the  same  fault  is 
observable  in  every  sphere  where  men's  tempers 
and  feelings  are  called  into  operation.  Higher 
and  nobler  minds  overcome  it  altogether,  simply 
because  they  are  high  and  noble,  and  above  the 
small  artifices  and  weak  emulations  which  gan- 
grene and  fester  the  heart. 

HALL,  LOUISA  JANE, 
Is  THE  daughter  of  Dr.  James  Park  of  New- 
buryport,  Massachusetts,  where  she  was  born  in 
1802.  Dr.  Park  removed  to  Boston,  and  in  1811, 
opened  a  school  for  young  ladies,  (one  of  the  first 
institutions  of  this  kind  under  the  care  of  a  man,  a 
mode  of  female  education  since  become  so  popular 
in  Boston,)  where  his  daughter  was  carefully  edu- 
cated. She  began  to  write  very  early,  but  did  not 
publish  until  1832. 


In  1840,  she  married  Rev.  Edward  B.  Hall,  a 
Unitarian  clergyman  of  Providence,  Rhode  Island, 
where  she  has  since  resided.  Her  principal  works 
are,  "Miriam,  a  Drama;"  "Joanna  of  Naples,  a 
Historical  Tale,"  and  "A  Biography  of  Elizabeth 
Carter;"  besides  several  poems  published  in  pe- 
riodicals. Of  her  most  remarkable  work,  the 
editor*  of  "The  Female  Poets  of  America," 
says  —  "  Mrs.  Hall  wrote  Miriam  only  for  amuse- 
ment, as  she  did  many  little  poems  and  tales  which 
she  destroyed.  The  first  half  of  this  drama,  writ- 
ten in  1825,  was  read  at  a  small  literai-y  party  in 
Boston.  The  author  not  being  known,  was  pre- 
sent, and  was  encouraged  by  the  remarks  it  occa- 
sioned to  finish  it  in  the  following  summer.  Her 
father  forbade  her  design  to  burn  it ;  it  was  read, 
as  completed,  in  the  winter  of  1826,  and  the  au- 
thorship disclosed ;  but  she  had  not  courage  to 
publish  it  for  several  years.  She  saw  its  defects 
more  distinctly  than  before,  when  it  appeared  in 
print,  and  resolved  never  again  to  attempt  any 
thing  so  long  in  the  form  of  poetry.  Her  eyesight 
failed  for  four  or  five  years,  during  which  time 
she  was  almost  entirely  deprived  of  the  use  of 
books,  the  pen,  and  what  she  says  she  most  re- 
gretted, the  7ieedle. 

"  'Miriam'  was  published  in  1837.  It  received 
the  best  approval  of  contemporary  criticism,  and  a 
second  edition,  with  such  revision  as  the  condition 
of  the  author's  eyes  had  previously  forbidden,  ap- 
peared in  the  following  year.  Mrs.  Hall  had  not 
proposed  to  herself  to  write  a  tragedy,  but  a  dra- 
matic poem,  and  the  result  was  an  instance  of  the 
successful  accomplishment  of  a  design,  in  which 
failure  would  have  been  but  a  repetition  of  the  ex- 
perience of  genius.  The  subject  is  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  annals  of  the  human  race,  but  one 
which  has  never  been  treated  with  a  more  just 
appreciation  of  its  nature  and  capacities.  It  is  the 
first  great  conflict  of  the  Master's  kingdom,  after 
its  full  establishment,  with  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world.  It  is  Christianity  struggling  with  the  first 
persecution  of  power,  philosophy,  and  the  inter- 
ests of  society.  Milman  had  attempted  its  illus- 
tration in  his  brilliant  and  stately  tragedy  of  The 
Martyr  of  Antioch ;  Bulwer  has  laid  upon  it  his 
familiar  hands  in  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii ;  and 
since,  our  countryman,  William  Ware,  has  exhib- 
ited  it  with  power  and  splendour  in  his  masterly 
romance  of  The  Fall  of  Rome  ;  but  no  one  has  yet 
approached  more  nearly  its  just  delineation  and 
analysis  than  Mrs.  Hall  in  this  beautiful  poem." 

The  prose  works  of  Mrs.  Hall  evince  a  culti- 
vated mind  and  refined  taste ;  the  style  is  care- 
fully finished,  and  the  delineations  of  character 
satisfy  the  judgment  of  the  reader,  if  they  fail  to 
awaken  any  deep  interest  in  the  fate  of  the  Queen 
or  the  pursuits  of  the  learned  lady.  There  is 
something  in  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Hall  which  seems 
statue-like ;  we  feel  that  this  repose  is  a  part  of 
the  beauty,  and  yet  one  would  wish  to  see  it  dis- 
turbed if  only  to  prove  the  power  which  the  in- 
spired artist  possesses. 


*  R.  W.  Griswold. 


695 


HA 


HA 


"  From  Miriam." 
[Miriam,  the  only  daughter  of  Thraseno,  a 
Christian  exile  from  Judea,  residing  with  his  two 
children  at  Rome,  is  seen  and  loved  by  Paulus,  a 
young  nobleman,  whose  father,  Piso,  had  in  his 
youth  served  in  the  armies  in  Palestine.  The 
passion  is  mutual,  but  secret ;  and  having  failed 
to  win  the  Roman  to  her  faith,  the  Christian 
maiden  resolves  to  part  from  him  for  ever.  ] 

THE    PARTING. 

Miriam.  Tlie  anguish  of  my  soul, 
My  spirit's  deep  and  reuuing  agony. 
Tell  me  that  though  this  heart  may  surely  break. 
There  is  no  change  within  it !  and  through  life. 
Fondly  and  wildly —  though  most  hopelessly  — 
With  all  its  strong  affections  will  it  cleave 
To  him  for  whom  it  nearly  yielded  all 
That  makes  life  precious  — peace  and  self  esteem. 
Friends  upon  earth,  and  hopes  in  heaven  above! 

Paul.  Mean'st  thou  —  I  know  not  what.    My  mind  grows 
dark 
Amid  a  thousand  wildering  mazes  lost. 
There  is  a  wild  and  dreadful  mystery 
Kven  in  thy  words  of  love  I  can  not  solve. 

Mir.  Hear  me  :  for  w  ith  the  holy  faith  that  erst 
Made  strong  the  shuddering  patriarchs  heart  and  hand. 
When  meek  below  the  glittering  knife  lay  stretched 
The  boy  whose  smiles  were  sunshine  to  his  age, 
This  night  I  offer  np  a  sacrifice 
Of  life's  best  hopes  to  the  One  Living  Goa  / 
Yes,  from  that  night,  my  Paulus,  never  more 
Mine  eyes  shall  look  upon  thy  form,  mine  ears 
Drink  in  the  tones  of  thy  beloved  voice. 

Paul.  Ye  gods !  ye  cruel  gods  I  let  me  awake 
And  tind  this  but  a  dream  ! 

Mir.  Is  it  then  said! 
O  God!  the  words  so  fraught  with  bittpvness 
So  soon  are  uttered  — and  thy  servant  lives! 
Ay,  Paulus  ;  ever  from  that  hour,  when  first 
My  spirit  knew  that  thine  was  wholly  lop' 
And  to  its  superstitions  wedded  fast. 
Shrouded  in  darkness,  blind  to  every  beam 
Streaming  from  Zion's  hill  athwart  the  night 
That  broods  in  horror  o'er  a  heathen  world, 
Kven  from  thai  hour  my  shuddering  soul  beheld 
A  dark  and  fathomless  abyss  yawn  wide 
Between  iis  two;  and  o'er  it  gleamed  alone 
One  pale,  dim  twinkling  star!  the  lingering  hope 
That  grace  descending  from  the  Throne  of  Light 
Might  fall  in  gentle  dews  upon  that  heart, 
And  melt  it  into  humble  piety. 
.\las!  that  hope  hath  faded;  and  I  see 
The  fatal  gulf  of  separation  still 
Between  us,  love,  and  stretching  on  for  aye 
Beyond  the  grave  in  which  I  feel  that  soon 
This  clay  with  all  its  sorrows  shall  lie  down. 
Union  for  us  is  none  in  yonder  sky  : 
Then  how  on  earth?  — so  in  my  inmost  soul. 
Nurtured  with  midnight  tears,  with  blighted  hopes. 
With  silent  watchings  and  incessant  prayers, 
.\  holy  resolution  hath  ta'en  root. 
And  in  its  might  at  last  springs  proudly  up. 
We  part,  my  Paulus  !  not  in  hate,  but  love, 
Yielding  unto  a  stern  necessity. 
And  I  along  my  sad,  short  pilgrimage. 
Will  bear  the  memory  of  our  sinless  love 
As  mothers  wear  the  imago  of  the  babe 
That  died  upon  their  bosom  ere  the  world 
Had  stamped  its  spotless  soul  with  good  or  ill, 
Pictured  in  infant  loveliness  and  smiles, 
t^lose  to  the  heart's  fond  core,  to  be  drawn  forth 
Ever  in  solitude,  and  bathed  in  tears  — 
But  how  !  with  such  unmanly  grief  struck  down, 
Withered,  thou  Roman  knight! 

Paul.  My  brain  is  pierced  I 
Mine  eyes  with  blindness  smitten  !  and  mine  ear 
Rings  faintly  with  the  echo  of  thy  words! 
Henceforth  what  man  shall  ever  build  his  faith 
On  womaa's  love,  on  woman's  constancy?— 


Miiiden,  look  up!  I  would  but  gaze  once  more 
Upon  that  open  brow  and  clear  dark  eye, 
To  read  what  aspect  Perjury  may  wear, 
What  garb  of  loveliness  may  Falsehood  use, 
To  lure  the  eye  of  guileless,  manly  lovel 
Cruel,  cold-blooded,  fickle  that  thou  art, 
Dost  thou  not  quail  beneath  thy  lover's  eye  1 
How  !  there  is  light  within  thy  lofty  glance, 
A  flush  upon  thy  cheek,  a  settled  calm 
Upon  thy  lip  and  brow  1 

Mir.  Ay,  even  su, 
A  light  —  a  flush  —  a  calm  —  not  of  this  earth  1 
For  in  this  hour  of  bitterness  and  woe. 
The  grace  of  God  is  falling  on  my  soul 
Like  dews  upon  the  withering  grass  which  lale 
Red  scorching  flames  have  seared.     Again 
The  consciousness  of  faith,  of  sins  forgiven. 
Of  wrath  appeased,  of  heavy  guilt  thrown  oft'. 
Sheds  on  my  breast  its  long- forgotten  peace, 
And  shining  steadfast  as  the  noonday  sun, 
Lights  me  along  the  path  that  duty  marks. 
Lover,  too  dearly  loved  !  a  long  farewell  I 
The  bannered  field,  the  glancing  spear,  the  shout 
That  bears  the  victor's  name  unto  the  skies — 
The  laurelled  brow  —  be  thine 

DYING    FANCIES. 

Angels  are  gathering  in  the  eastern  sky — 
The  wind  is  playing  'mid  their  glittering  plumee  — 
The  sunbeams  dance  upon  their  golden  harps  — 
Welcome  is  on  their  fair  and  glorious  brows! 
Hath  not  a  holy  spirit  passed  from  earth. 
Whom  ye  conie  forth  to  meet,  seraphic  forms  ? 
Oh,  fade  not,  fade  not  yet !  —  or  take  me  too, 
For  earth  grows  dark  beneath  my  dazzled  eye  I 

MIRIAM    TO    PAULUS,    WHO    DECLARES    HIMSELF    A 
CHRISTIAN. 

If  but  one  ray  of  light  from  Heav'n 
Hath  reach'd  thy  soul,  I  may  indeed  rejoice  ! 
Ev'n  thus,  in  coming  days,  from  martyrs'  blood 
Shall  earnest  saints  arise  to  do  God's  work. 
And  thus  with  slow,  sure,  silent  step  shall  Truth 
Tread  the  dark  earth,  and  scatter  Light  abroad, 
Till  Peace  and  Righteousness  awake,  and  lead 
Triumphant,  in  the  bright  and  joyous  blaze. 
Their  happy  myriads  up  to  yonder  skies  ! 

MIRIAM  TO  HER  BROTHER  AND  LOTEB. 

Euphas,  thy  hand  !  —  Ay,  clasp  thy  brother's  hand ! 

Ye  fair  and  young  apostles  !  go  ye  forth  — 

Go  side  by  side  beneath  the  sun  and  storm, 

A  dying  sister's  blessing  on  your  toils! 

When  ye  have  pour'd  the  oil  of  Christian  peace 

On  passions  rude  and  wild  —  when  ye  have  won 

Dark,  sullen  souls  from  wrath  and  sin  to  God  — 

Whene'er  ye  kneel  to  bear  upon  your  pray'rs 

Repentant  sinners  up  to  yonder  heav'n, 

Be  it  in  palace  —  dungeon  —  open  air  — 

'Mid  friends  — 'mid  raging  foes  —  in  joy— in  grief  — 

Deem  not  ye  pray  alone  ;  —  man  never  doth  ! 

A  sister  spirit,  ling'ring  near,  shall  fill 

The  silent  air  around  you  with  her  pray'rs. 

Waiting  till  ye  too  lay  your  fetters  down. 

And  come  to  your  reward!  —Go  fearless  forth; 

For  glorious  truth  wars  with  you,  and  shall  reign. 

HANKE,  HENRIETTE  AVILHELMINA, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Arndt,  a  merchant  in 
Jauer;  she  was  born  in  1783.  In  1802,  she  mar- 
ried the  pastor  Hanke,  of  Dejherrnfurth ;  and  in 
1819,  she  became  a  widow.  Since  which  event, 
she  has  lived  retired  with  her  mother,  her  time 
wholly  devoted  to  literary  pursuits,  and  the  care 
of  her  aged  parents.  She  has  written  —  "The 
Step-Daughter,"  published  in  1820;  "The  Twelve 
Months  of  the  Year,"   in  1821;   "The  Hunting 

69o 


HE 


HE 


Castle  of  Diana"  and  "The  Garden  of  Walrys," 
in  1822;  "Pictures  of  the  Heart"  and  "Claudie," 
in  the  year  1823.  "The  Christmas-Tree"  was 
issued  in  1824,  and  "The  Female  Friends"  in 
1825.  She  has  written  numerous  other  novels 
and  romances,  which  have  obtained  great  popu- 
larity in  Germany.  Her  works  were  published  in 
a  uniform  edition  in  1841,  in  twenty-one  volumes. 
None  of  these  have  been  translated  into  English. 


HENTZ,    CAROLINE   LEE, 

Was  born  in  Lancaster,  Worcester  county,  Mas- 
sachusetts. Her  father  was  General  John  Whiting, 
of  the  army.  Her  two  brothers  were  also  officers 
in  the  army,  and  one  of  them,  General  Henry 
Whiting,  was  aid-de  camp  to  General  Taylor,  in 
the  Mexican  war;  he  is  still  living.  Miss  Whiting 
began  to  write  when  very  young  ;  and  before  she 
had  completed  her  twelfth  year,  she  had  composed 
a  poem,  a  novel,  and  a  tragedy  in  five  acts,  full 
of  impassioned  scenes  and  romantic  situations. 

Upon  her  marriage,  she  removed  to  Chapel  Hill, 
North  Carolina ;  in  its  University,  her  husband, 
Mr.  N.  M.  Hentz,  was  Professor  of  Modern  Lan- 
guages. After  some  years  spent  in  this  place, 
they  took  charge  of  a  flourishing  female  academy 
near  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  In  1834,  they  went  to 
reside  near  Florence,  Alabama,  at  a  place  they 
called  Locust  Dell,  where  they  taught  for  several 
yeairs.  Stronger  inducements  led  them  to  Tusca- 
loosa, Alabama,  the  seat  of  the  University,  where 
they  spent  two  years.  In  1845,  Mr.  Hentz  re- 
moved to  Tuskegee  with  his  family,  and  at  present 
they  are  residing  in  Columbus,  Georgia,  a  beau- 
tiful city  on  the  banks  of  the  Chattahooche. 

The  first  work  which  Mrs.  Hentz  published,  was 
her  drama,  "  De  Lara,  or  the  Moorish  Bride," 
for  which  she  obtained  the  prize  of  five  hundred 
dollars  and  a  gold  medal,  offered  in  Philadelphia 
for  the  best  original  tragedy.  Several  of  our  most 
eminent  writers  were  competitors  for  the  prize, 
awarded  to  Mrs.  Hentz  by  a  committee  composed 
of  distinguished  literary  gentlemen.  She  has  also 
written  two  other  tragedies,  "  Lamorah,  or  the 
Western  Wild,"  which  was  acted  at  Cincinnati, 


and  "Constance  of  Werdenberg;"  both  of  these 
are  still  unpublished.  Many  of  her  minor  poems 
show  great  sweetness  and  facility,  as  well  as 
warmth  and  earnestness.  Indeed,  poetry  seems 
to  be  the  natural  language  of  her  heart,  when 
stirred  by  emotions  or  affections. 

Mrs.  Hentz  is  most  widely  known  by  her  popular 
prose  tales  and  novellettes,  which  have  appeared 
in  our  different  periodicals.  "Aunt  Patty's  Scrap 
Bag"  and  "The  Mob  Cap,"  which  obtained  a 
prize  of  two  hundred  dollars,  have  been  almost 
universally  read.  Some  of  her  other  stories  are, 
"Aunt  Mercy,"  "The  Blind  Girl,"  "The  Pedlar," 
"  The  Village  Anthem,"  and  a  novel,  in  one  volume, 
called  "Lovell's  Folly." 

As  an  instructress,  she  has  been  eminently  suc- 
cessful, especially'  in  that  most  important  qualifi- 
cation, the  power  of  gaining  the  affections  and 
confidence  of  those  under  her  care,  and  of  obtain- 
ing a  personal  influence  over  them,  which  remains 
and  acts  upon  them  for  good,  long  after  they  are 
withdrawn  from  her  presence.  Many  a  young 
man,  as  well  as  woman,  who  has  been  thrown  into 
her  society,  will  look  back  upon  his  intercourse 
with  her  as  a  time  when  his  mind  received  an 
impulse  towards  the  noble  and  elevated,  which 
affected  his  whole  future  life. 

lu  social  intercourse,  Mrs.  Hentz  is  easy  and  dig- 
nified. Her  appearance  is  exceedingly  prepossess- 
ing, and  her  conversational  powers  are  fine. 

The  prose  writings  of  Mrs.  Hentz  are  distin- 
guished for  poetic  imagery,  vivacity,  and  a  peculiar 
purity  of  style,  which  seems  the  habitual  tone  of 
the  writer's  mind,  and  harmonizes  well  with  the 
quiet  lessons  of  morality  and  patriotism  breathing 
from,  rather  than  inculcated  in,  all  her  fictitious 
compositions.  Born  and  trained  at  the  North,  but 
removed  to  the  South  while  her  youthful  hopes 
were  bright  as  the  sunny  climate  where  her  new 
home  was  found,  and  passing  some  years  as  so- 
journer in  the  great  AVest,  ]\Irs.  Hentz  has  learned 
the  wisdom  of  loving  her  whole  country,  above  any 
particular  State  or  section.  This  true  and  noble 
patriotism  she  inculcates  as  a  woman  should, — 
like  the  faith  of  childhood,  to  hold  its  place,  next  to 
that  of  "Our  Father,  who  art  in  Heaven,"  in  the 
heart  of  every  American.  Of  her  most  elaborate 
novel,  "Lovell's  Folly,"  a  writer  in  the  Southern 
Review  says:  —  "It  certainly  merits  praise,  both 
for  its  design  and  execution.  The  purpose,  or 
morale,  is  to  show  the  incorrectness  of  the  preju- 
dices commonly  entertained  towards  each  other 
by  the  Yankee  and  Southron.  The  characters  are 
well  chosen  for  this  purpose ;  the  incidents  fasci- 
nating, and  artistically  managed ;  and  the  reflec- 
tions, in  the  main  true,  abounding  in  delicate  per- 
ceptions of  the  beautiful,  the  right,  and  the  good. 
The  style  is  even  and  graceful,  and  throughout 
vivified  by  the  colourings  of  a  flowery  fancy. 
There  is  nothing  wild  or  spasmodic  in  these  pages. 
They  would  please  the  amiable  and  contemplative 
lover  of  AVordsworth,  rather  than  the  admirer  of 
Byron's  gloom  and  misanthropy.  Reading  such 
productions  is  like  wandering  through  the  green- 
ness and  rose-enamelled  beauty  of  one  of  our 
Western   prairies   in    spring-time,    and    not    like 

697 


HE 


HE 


gazing  upon  the  rough  barriers  and  splintered 
pinnacles  of  a  huge  mountain,  or  the  foam  and 
fury  of  the  sea  in  a  tempest. 

"  Of  her  dramatic  works,  '  De  Lara,  or  the  Mooi'- 
ish  Bride,'  must  rank  among  the  best  of  the  kind 
produced  in  America.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Spain, 
during  the  contests  between  the  rival  races,  and 
the  events  are  such  as  to  produce  manifestations 
of  many  of  the  iutenser  passions ;  and  while  the 
tragedy  is  fraught,  throughout,  with  moral  and 
poetic  beauty ;  while  it  presents,  in  vivid  colours, 
to  the  imagination,  the  soft  and  voluptuous  scenes 
about  'golden  Granada,'  —  her  olive-bowers  and 
enchanted  palaces;  while  there  is  pervading  femi- 
nine chasteness  and  delicacy,  —  it  is  yet  marked 
by  great  depth  and  vigour  of  thought  and  utter- 
ance. Indeed,  the  masculine  energy  of  style,  and 
the  remarkable  insight  into  the  fiercer  capacities 
and  phases  of  the  human  heart, — with  which  wo- 
men are  seldom  familiar,  —  have,  more  than  any- 
thing else,  fascinated  us  with  this  tragedy.  We 
know  no  female  writer,  not  excepting  Joanna 
Baillie,  who  displays  more  manliness  of  sentiment 
and  expression,  in  her  writings,  than  Mrs.  Hentz 
exhibits  in  this  draiua." 

Of  the  story  or  plot,  we  can  give  no  analysis 
here,  only  remarking,  as  explanatory  of  the  scene 
we  quote,  that  Osman  is  a  captive  Moor  in  the  cas- 
tle of  the  Spanish  hero,  Fernando  De  Lara,  whose 
father  Osman  has  secretly  murdered.  De  Lara 
has  discovered  his  prisoner's  guilt,  but  is  hindered 
in  his  revenge  by  plighted  love  for  Zorayda,  the 
daughter  of  the  Moor.  She  has  become  a  Chris- 
tian in  sincerity,  as  her  father  has  hypocritically, 
to  subserve  his  hatred. 

THE  APOSTATE  AND  THE  TRUE  BELIEVER. 

Zoraya.  The  blood  of  th'  Abeiicerrages  flows  pure 
As  melting  icicles  within  these  veins. 
No  look  of  lawless  passion  ever  sent 
The  conscious  crimson  to  thy  daughter's  cheek. 
Fernando  loves  nie,  but  the  captive  maid 
Receives  as  reverent  and  true  an  liomage, 
As  if  the  diadem  of  Spain  she  wore, 
And  pledged  my  faith  unsanctioned  by  thy  blessing. 
But,  glorying  in  my  innocence,  I  dare 
Present  my  bosom  to  thy  glittering  steel. 
And  tell  thee,  with  my  dying  breath,  that  here 
Ferirando's  worshipped  image  is  enshrined. 

Osman.  Would  that  the  tomb  of  her  who  made  me  fatlier. 
Had  closed  on  thee,  the  infant  of  a  day, — 
Sweet  in  thy  bud,  but  fatal  in  thy  bloom. 
Leagued  with  the  fell  oppressors  of  thy  land, 
The  curses  of  thy  country  shall  be  thine!  — 
Leagued  with  an  infidel !    May  Allah  send 

Zor.  Oh  !  curse  me  not :  thou  know'st  not  all  my  crime. 
Thou,  to  redeem  thyself  from  captive  chains, 
Assumed  the  Christian's  name,  yet  loathed  his  creed. 
I,  at  thy  bidding,  knelt  before  the  cross: 
But,  ere  the  mandate  came,  my  heart  had  bowed 
In  adoration  to  the  Christian's  God. 
This  sacred  cross  I've  sheltered  in  my  breast 

Os.  (Snatching  it. from  her,  and  throwi/ig  it  on  the  ground) 
Perish  the  symbol  of  a  faith  abhorred,  — 
Perish  the  seal  of  infamy  and  wo,  — 
Dovvn,  down,  to  dust  I 

Zor.  [Throwing  herself  at  his  feet,  and  grasping  the  cross.) 
No,  trample  on  thy  child. 
But  spare  from  sacrilege  this  holy  relic  ! 
Fernando's  mother,  on  the  bed  of  death, 
Gave  me  this  pledge  of  her  immortal  hope. 
This  precious  pledge  !     I  'II  guard  it,  as  of  old 
The  wandering  Hebrews  watched  the  ark  of  heaven. 


The  dying  features  of  the  lovely  saint, — 

Tlie  light,  the  glow,  the  ecstacy,  the  peace !  — 

Thou  would'st,  like  me,  have  wept  and  have  believed. 

Father,  tliere  is  a  truth,  I  feel  there  is, 

In  this  religion  scaled  by  blood  divine. 

It  gives  me  strength  to  wrestle  with  thy  wrath  : 

It  arms  me,  — iiie,  a  young  and  timid  maid,  — 

With  power  a  hero's  arm,  in  battle,  lacks. 

This  cross  is  mine.    Back  to  my  guardian  heart. 

Thou  sacred  sign,  —  remain  for  ever  there  ! 

Os.  Shame  of  thy  lineage,  alien  from  thy  kind,  — 
Traitress,  exulting  in  thy  daring  guilt ! 
I  have  no  daughter.     Never  be  it  said 
That  this  unnatural  thing  is  child  of  mine. 
I  will  have  none,  —  away  —  away,  thou  serpent, 
Whom  once  I  warmed  and  fostered  in  my  breast. 
'Tis  done  !  —  there  is  no  other  place  to  sting  ! 
Fool  that  I  was,  —amidst  the  wreck  of  fame. 
The  dearth  of  joy,  I  dreamed  that  fate  had  left 
A  daughter,  and,  still  more,  that  she  did  love  me. 

******* 
But  hear  me  while  I  swear  by  Allah's  throne, 
A  father's  curse 

Zor.  Thou  can'st  not  utter  it. 
Heaven  will  not  hear.    Thus,  prostrate  at  thy  feet, 
Behold  me  fall  submissive  to  thy  will. 
Leave  me  this  cross,  this  anchor  of  my  faith, 
Take  all  the  rest,  but  leave  —  oh,  leave  me  this  ! 

DE    LARA's    love. 

Oh!  there  is  something  in  the  secret  thought. 
That  we  are  shrined  in  some  pure  vestal  heart, 
Whose  trembling  fears  our  blood-stain'd  path  pursue, 
Whose  holy  prayers  for  us  are  winged  on  high. 
Whose  tears  and  blushes  welcome  our  return,  — 
Something  in  this,  Francisco,  that  embalms. 
Refines  and  sanctifies  the  warrior's  spirit. 

All  that  1  can  reveal  is  written  here, 
Here  on  this  brow,  from  which  despair  unthrones 
The  sovereignty  of  mind.     My  spirit  now 
Is  calm  and  clear,  —  and  ponders  o'er  the  wreck 
Its  own  unmastered  agony  has  made. 
The  wretch,  who's  drifted  o'er  the  surging  waves 
Of  oeean,  when  its  foam  is  lashed  by  storms, 
Sees  not  his  yawning  sepulchre  more  clear. 
Than  I,  the  chasm  o'er  which  iny  reason  totters. 

Oh  I  that  no  mortal  eye 
Had  e'er  beheld  these  humbling  agonies. 
Zoraya,  thou  hast  heard  me  utter  sounds 
That  leave  a  sleepless  echo,  murdering  peace. 
I  'II  tell  thee  all  — give  liack  thy  virgin  vows,  — 
Tear  thy  seducing  image  from  my  heart, — 
Drown,  in  black  vengeance,  love's  forbidden  fires, 
And  let  this  bridal  day  go  down  in  blood. 

zoraya's  love. 

Shall  I  desert  him  now. 
When  grief  has  laid  its  blighting  hand  upon  him? 
He,  who  in  all  the  splendour  of  his  rank, 
With  royal  favour  crowned,  and  martial  fame,  — 
By  beauty  wooed,  by  chivalry  adored. — 
In  this  full  blaze  of  glory,  bowed  his  pride, 
And  knelt  a  captive  at  the  captive's  feet  ? 
Is  love  alone  in  beds  of  roses  found. 
Beneath  a  heaven  of  fair,  unshadowed  blue  ? 
No  !  —  'tis  to  shame,  to  sorrow,  to  despair. 
That  faithful  love  its  holiest  triumph  owes ! 


From  "Poems." 

THE    SNOW-FLAKE. 

Ye 're  welcome,  ye  white  and  feathery  flakes. 
That  fall  like  the  blossoms  the  summer  wind  shakes 
From  the  bending  spray  —  Oh  !  say  do  ye  come. 
With  tidings  to  me,  from  my  far-distant  home  ? 

"  Our  home  is  above  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  — 
In  the  hollow  of  God's  own  hand  we  lie  — 
We  are  fair,  we  arc  pure,  our  birth  is  divine  — 
Say,  what  can  we  know  of  thee,  or  of  thine  ?" 


698 


HO 


HO 


I  know  that  ye  dwell  in  the  kinfidoms  of  air  — 

I  know  ye  are  heavenly,  pure  and  fair, 

But  oft  have  I  seen  ye,  far  travellers,  roam, 

By  the  cold  blast  driven,  round  my  northern  home. 

"  We  roam  over  mountains  and  valley  and  sea  ; 

We  hang  our  pale  wreaths  on  the  leaflpss  tree  : 

The  herald  of  wisdom  and  mercy  we  go, 

And  perchance  the  far  home  of  thy  childhood  we  know. 

"  We  roam,  and  our  fairy  track  we  leave. 
While  for  Nature  a  winding  sheet  we  weave  — 
A  cold,  white  shroud  that  shall  mantle  the  gloom. 
Till  her  Maker  recalls  her  to  glory  and  bloom." 

Oh !  foam  of  the  shoreless  ocean  above  ! 

1  know  thou  descendest  in  mercy  and  love : 

All  chill  as  thou  art,  yet  benign  is  thy  birth. 

As  the  dew  that  impearls  the  green  bosom  of  Earth. 

And  I've  thought,  as  I've  seen  thy  tremulous  spray, 

Soft  curling  like  mist,  on  the  branches  lay, 

In  bright  relief  on  the  dark  blue  sky, 

That  thou  meltedsl  in  grief  when  the  sun  came  nigli. 

•'  Say,  whose  is  the  harp  whose  echoing  song 
Breathes  wild  on  the  gale  that  wafts  us  along  ? 
The  moon,  the  flowers,  the  blossoming  tree. 
Wake  the  minstrel's  lyre,  they  are  brighter  than  we." 

The  flowers  shed  their  fragrance,  the  moonbeams  their  light. 
Over  scenes  never  veii'd  by  your  drap'ry  of  white  ; 
But  the  clime  where  I  first  saw  your  downy  flakes  fall, 
My  own  native  clime,  is  far  dearer  than  all. 

Oh!  fair,  when  ye  cloth'd  in  their  wintry  mail. 
The  elms  that  o'ershadow  my  home  in  the  vale. 
Like  warriors  they  looked,  as  they  bowed  in  the  storm. 
With  the  tossing  plume,  and  the  towering  form. 

Ye  fade,  ye  melt  —  I  feel  the  warm  breath 
Of  the  redolent  South  o'er  the  desolate  heath  — 
But  tell  me,  ye  vanishing  pearls,  where  ye  dwell 
When  the  dew-drops  of  summer  bespangle  the  dell. 

"  We  fade,  —  we  melt  into  crystalline  spheres  — 
We  weep,  for  we  pass  through  a  valley  of  tears; 
But  onward  to  glory  —  away  to  the  sky  — 
In  the  hollow  ot  Ood's  own  hand  we  lie." 

HOWITT,    MARY, 

Is  by  her  mother's  side  directly  descended  from 
Mr.  William  AVood,  the  Irish  patentee,  on  account 
of  whose  half-pence  issued  under  a  contract  from 
the  government  of  George  II.,  Dean  Swift  raised 
so  much  disturbance  with  his  Drapier's  Letters. 
His  son,  Charles  Wood,  the  grandfather  of  Mrs. 
Howitt,  and  who  became  assay-master  in  Ireland, 
was  the  fii-st  introducer  of  platinum  into  Europe. 
By  her  father's  side  she  is  of  an  old  race  of 
Quakers,  many  of  her  ancestors  having  suffered 
imprisonment  and  spoliation  of  property  in  the 
early  times  when  that  people  produced  martyrs. 
Her  childhood  and  youth  were  passed  in  the  old 
paternal  mansion  in  Staffordshire,  whence  she  was 
married  in  1821  to  William  Ilowitt,  a  man  of  con- 
genial tastes.  Of  herself  she  relates  —  "  My  child- 
hood was  happy  in  many  respects.  It  was  so,  in- 
deed, as  far  as  physical  health  and  the  enjoyment 
of  a  beautiful  country,  of  which  I  had  an  intense 
relish,  and  the  companionship  of  a  dearly  beloved 
sister  went  —  but  oh  !  there  was  such  a  cloud  over 
all  from  the  extreme  severity  of  so-called  religious 
education,  it  almost  made  cowards  and  hypocrites 
of  us,  and  made  us  feel  that  if  this  were  religion, 
it  was  a  thing  to  be  feared  and  hated.  My  child- 
hood had  completely  two  phases  —  one  as  dark  as 
night  —  one  as  bright  as  day  —  the  bright  one  I 
have  attempted  to  describe  in  '  My  Own  Story," 


which  is  the  true  picture  of  this  cheerful  side  of 
the  first  ten  years  of  my  life.  We  studied  poetry, 
botany  and  flower-painting,  and  as  children  wrote 
poetry.  These  pursuits  were  almost  out  of  the 
pale  of  permitted  Quaker  pleasures,  but  we  pur- 
sued them  with  a  perfect  passion  —  doing  in  secret 
that  which  we  dared  not  do  openly ;  such  as  reading 
Shakspeare,  translations  of  the  classics,  the  elder 
novelists  — and  in  fact,  laying  the  libraries  of  half 
the  little  town  where  we  lived  under  contribution. 


"  We  studied  French  and  chemistry  at  this  time, 
and  enabled  ourselves  to  read  Latin,  storing  our 
minds  with  a  whole  mass  of  heterogeneous  know- 
ledge. This  was  good  as  far  as  it  went  —  but 
there  wanted  a  directing  mind,  a  good  sound 
teacher,  and  I  now  deplore  over  the  secrecy,  the 
subterfuge,  the  fear  under  which  this  ill-digested, 
ill-arranged  knowledge  was  gained.  On  my  mar- 
riage, of  course,  a  new  life  began.  The  world  of 
literature  was  opened  to  me,  and  a  companion 
was  by  my  side  able  and  willing  to  direct  and 
assist." 

Soon  after  the  marriage  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howitt, 
they  published,  jointly,  two  volumes  of  poems, 
which  met  with  so  much  success,  that  they  were 
rapidly  followed  by  a  variety  of  other  works,  in 
prose  and  verse.  Partly  to  perfect  themselves  in 
the  German  language,  and  partly  for  the  purpose 
of  bestowing  upon  their  children  a  better  education 
than  they  could  obtain  in  England,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Howitt,  about  the  year  1835,  repaired  to  Ger- 
many, where  they  remained  three  years,  travelling 
extensively,  and  acquainting  themselves  with  the 
country,  its  literature,  and  its  people ;  and  pur- 
suing, at  the  same  time,  their  literary  labours. 
Here  Mrs.  Ilowitt  first  met  with  the  works  of 
Frederika  Bremer,  which  delighted  her  so  much, 
that  she  determined  to  introduce  them  to  the  Eng- 
lish public  by  translation.  For  this  purpose,  she 
acquired  the  Swedish  language,  to  enable  her  to 
give  them  from  the  original ;  iMiss  Bremer's  later 
works  having  all  been  translated  from  the  manu- 
scripts. Her  acquaintance  with  the  Swedish  lan- 
guage induced  her  to  acquire  its  kindred  tongue, 

699 


110 


no 


the  Danish,  from  which,  as  well  as  from  the  Ger- 
man, she  has  translated  numerous  works. 

Mrs.  Howitt's  marriage  has  been  one  of  singular 
happiness,  and  is  blessed  with  children  of  great 
promise.  In  her  literary  pursuits,  she  possesses 
the  sympathy  and  good  oflfices  of  her  husband, 
himself  an  extensive  and  popular  writer,  and 
in  many  of  her  translations  she  has  been  assisted 
by  him.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  talents,  worth 
and  industry,  like  Mrs.  Howitt's,  should,  through 
unmerited  misfortune,  have  been  stripped  of  all 
substantial  reward,  at  a  pei-iod  of  life  when  she 
might  naturally  have  looked  for  some  relaxation 
of  her  labours.  Mr.  Howitt  having  embarked, 
under  the  influence  of  an  artful  speculator,  as 
partner  in  the  "  People's  Journal,"  was,  in  a  short 
time,  held  responsible,  by  its  fiiilure,  for  debts  to 
a  large  amount ;  not  a  j^ennyworth  of  which  was 
originated  by  him.  His  financial  ruin  was  the 
consequence  ;  the  copy-rights  even  of  his  own  and 
his  wife's  works  —  the  hard-won  results  of  years 
of  laboui" — were  sacrificed,  and  they  were  obliged 
to  begin  the  world  anew.  That  their  renewed 
exertions  have  met  with  such  happy  success  as  to 
warrant  a  hope  of  the  retrieval  of  their  fortunes, 
we  have  every  reason  to  believe,  and  we  trust,  for 
the  honour  of  human  nature,  that  such  exertions, 
based  upon  the  honest  character  and  good  repu- 
tation of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  will  be  justly 
estimated,  and  meet  with  the  reward  they  merit. 

Mrs.  Howitt  has  written  much  in  prose :  her 
books  for  children  are  very  attractive,  from  the 
sympathy  with  youthful  feelings,  which  seems  to 
well  up  in  her  loving  heart  as  freely  as  a  moun- 
tain-spring sends  out  its  pure  freshness,  after 
a  summer-shower.  But  these  warm  sympathies 
make  her  more  truly  the  poet ;  and  the  acknow- 
ledgment of  this  bias,  made  by  William  and  Mary 
Howitt,  in  the  preface  of  their  first  joint  publica- 
tion, was  certainly  true  of  the  wife.  They  say  — 
"  Poetry  has  been  our  youthful  amusement,  and 
our  increasing  daily  enjoyment  in  happy,  and  our 
solace  in  sorrowful  hours.  Amidst  the  vast  and 
delicious  treasures  of  our  national  literature,  we 
have  revelled  with  growing  and  unsatiated  de- 
light ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  living  chiefly  in  the 
quietness  of  the  country,  we  have  watched  the 
changing  features  of  nature ;  we  have  felt  the 
secret  charm  of  those  sweet  but  unostentatious 
images  which  she  is  perpetually  presenting,  and 
given  full  scope  to  those  workings  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  of  the  heart,  which  natural  beauty  and 
solitude  prompt  and  promote." 

Mrs.  Howitt's  first  prose  work  was  "  Woodleigh- 
ton,"  in  three  volumes,  which  was  exceedingly 
popular.  She  next  wrote  for  children  the  follow- 
ing works, — "  Tales  in  Verse,"  "  Tales  in  Prose," 
"Sketches  of  Natural  History,"  "Birds  and  Flow- 
ers," "Hymns  and  Fireside  Verses;"  and  also  a 
series  of  books,  which  are  very  popular,  called 
"Tales  for  the  People  and  their  Children,"  —  of 
these  there  are,  "  Strive  and  Thrive,"  "  Hope  on, 
Hope  Ever,"  "Sowing  and  Reaping,"  "Alice 
Franklin,"  "Who  shall  be  Greatest?"  "  AVhich  is 
the  Wiser?"  "Little  Corn,  much  Care,"  "Work 
and  Ways,"  "  Love  and  Money,"  "  The  Two  Ap- 


prentices," and  "  My  Own  Story."  After  the  pub- 
lication of  these,  Mrs.  Howitt  wrote  '.'  The  History 
of  Mary  Leeson,"  "  The  Children's  Year,"  and 
"Our  Cousins  in  Ohio."  She  published,  about 
1835,  her  largest  poetical  work,  "  The  Seven 
Temptations."  She  also  edited  for  three  years, 
"The  Drawing-Room  Scrap-Book, "  furnishing  for 
that  work  a  large  mass  of  poetry.  About  1848, 
she  collected  her  fugitive  poems  in  a  volume,  en- 
titled "Ballads,  and  other  Poems." 

Mrs.  Howitt  has  also  written  Memoirs,  in  the 
very  kindest  spirit,  of  several  Americans ;  those 
of  Miss  Cushman  and  Mrs.  Mowatt  we  have  used 
in  this  work. 

"  The  Seven  Temptations,"  the  largest  and  most 
elaboi'ate  of  Mrs.  Howitt's  poetical  works,  repre- 
sents a  series  of  eff'orts,  by  the  impersonation  of 
the  Evil  Principle,  to  seduce  human  souls  to  his 
power.  Mrs.  Howitt,  in  the  preface,  remarks: — 
"  The  idea  of  the  poem  originated  in  a  strong  im- 
pression of  the  immense  value  of  the  human  soul, 
and  of  all  the  varied  modes  of  its  trials,  according 
to  its  own  infinitely  varied  modifications,  as  exist- 
ing in  different  individuals.  We  see  the  awful 
mass  of  sorrow  and  of  crime  in  the  world,  but  we 
know  only  in  part  —  in  a  very  small  degree  —  the 
fearful  weight  of  solicitations  and  impulses  of  pas- 
sion, and  the  vast  constraint  of  circumstances,  that 
are  brought  into  play  against  suflfering  humanity. 
In  the  luminous  words  of  my  motto, 

What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 

Thus,  without  sufficient  reflection,  we  are  fur- 
nished with  data  on  which  to  condemn  our  fellow- 
creatures,  but  without  sufficient  grounds  for  their 
palliation  and  commiseration.  It  is  necessary,  for 
the  acquisition  of  that  charity  which  is  the  soul 
of  Christianity,  for  us  to  descend  into  the  depths 
of  our  own  nature ;  to  put  ourselves  into  many 
imaginary  and  untried  situations,  that  we  may 
enable  ourselves  to  form  some  tolerable  notion 
how  we  might  be  affected  by  them ;  how  far  we 
might  be  tempted — how  far  deceived — how  far  we 
might  have  occasion  to  lament  the  evil  power  of 
circumstances,  to  weep  over  our  own  weakness, 
and  pray  for  the  pardon  of  our  crimes ;  that, 
having  raised  up  this  vivid  perception  of  what  we 
might  do,  suffer,  and  become,  we  may  apply  the 
rule  to  our  fellows,  and  cease  to  be  astonished,  in 
some  degree,  at  the  shapes  of  atrocity  into  which 
some  of  them  are  transformed ;  and  learn  to  bear 
with  others  as  brethren,  who  have  been  tried  ten- 
fold beyond  our  own  experience,  or  perhaps  our 
strength."  Thus  we  see  how  earnestly  the  writer 
sought  to  do  good ;  the  effort  was  noble,  if  not 
entirely  successful ;  many  touching  incidents  give 
interest  to  the  poem,  and  the  sentiments  are 
uniformly  pure,  generous  and  hopeful.  But  her 
Ballads  are  the  best  exponents  of  her  genius.  In 
these  she  is  unrivalled,  except,  perhaps,  by  Mr. 
Macaulay,  in  modern  times.  The  play  of  her 
warm,  rich  fancy,  is  like  sunlight  on  icicles,  giving 
the  glow  and  glory  of  its  own  hues  to  any  object, 
no  matter  how  cold  or  colourless,  it  touches. 
Who  ever  read  her  "  Midsummer  Legend,"  without 
believing  in  fairies  ?     This  union  of  the  tenderest 

700 


HO 


HO 


human  sympathies  with  the  highest  poetic  faculty 
—  that  of  creative  fancy  —  is  remarkal)le  in  some 
of  her  smaller  poems.  She  has  faith  in  human 
progress,  and  the  love  which  makes  her  an  earnest 
worker  in  the  field  of  reform.  All  her  productions 
manifest  "  that  love  of  Christ,  of  the  poor,  and  of 
little  children,  which  always  was,  and  will  be,  a 
ruling  sentiment  of  her  soul."  She  gains  the 
loving  admiration  and  esteem  of  her  readers,  and 
is  as  popular  in  America  as  in  her  own  England. 
Mrs.  Howitt  resides  in  London. 

From  "  Early  Poems." 
AW.VY    WITH    THE    PLEASUKK. 

Away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken  ! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta'en. 
[  love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 

On  lips  and  in  eyes  that  reflect  it  again. 
When  we  sit  by  the  fire  that  so  cheerily  blazes 

On  our  cozy  hearthstone,  with  its  innoceiU  glee, 
Oh  !  how  Miy  soul  warms,  while  uiy  eye  fondly  gazes, 

To  sue  my  delight  is  partaken  by  thee  ! 

And  when,  as  how  often,  I  eagerly  listen 

To  stories  thou  read'st  of  th;;  dear  olden  day. 
How  delightful  to  see  our  eyes  mutually  glisten, 

And  feel  that  affection  has  sweetened  the  lay. 
Ves,  love —  and  when  wandering  at  even  or  morning, 

Through  forest  or  wild,  or  by  waves  foaming  white, 
r  have  fancied  new  beauties  the  landscape  adorning. 

Because  I  have  seen  thou  wast  glad  in  ttie  sight. 

And  often  in  crowds,  where  a  whisper  ofTendetli, 

And  we  fain  would  express  what  tlicre  might  not  be  said, 
riow  dear  is  the  glance  that  none  else  comprehendeth, 

And  how  sweet  is  the  thought  that  is  secretly  read ! 
'I'hen  away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken  ! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta'en  : 
I  love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 

On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

From  "  The  Seven  Temptations." 

SONG    OF    EDAH. 

Little  waves  upon  the  deep 
Murmur  soft  when  thou  dost  sleep; 
Gentle  birds  upon  the  tree 
Sing  their  sweetest  songs  for  thee; 
Cooling  gales,  with  voices  low, 
III  the  tree-tops  gently  blow! 
Dearest,  who  dost  sleeping  lie. 
All  things  love  thee, — so  do  1! 

When  thou  wak'st,  the  sea  will  pour 
Treasures  for  thee  to  the  shore  : 
And  the  earth,  in  plant  and  tree. 
Bring  forth  fruit  and  flowers  for  lliee ! 
And  the  glorious  heaven  above. 
Smile  on  thee,  like  trusting  love. 
Deart  '.  who  dost  sleeping  lie. 
All  things  love  thee,  —  so  do  I! 

SONG    OF    MARGARET. 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  cannot  fade, 

!Vor  sorrow  dim  the  eye  ; 
Where  true  love  shall  not  droop  nor  be  dismayed. 

And  none  shall  ever  die. 

Where  is  that  land,  oh,  where  ? 

For  I  would  hasten  there  — 

Tell  me— 1  fain  would  go, 
For  I  am  wearied  with  a  heavy  woo ; 
The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone  ! 
The  true,  the  tender,  from  my  paths  are  gone! 

Oh  guide  me  with  thy  liand. 

If  thou  dost  know  that  land. 
For  I  am  burdened  with  oppressive  care. 
And  I  am  weak  and  fearful  with  despair  ! 

Where  is  it  ?  —  tell  me  where  — 
'J'liou  that  art  kind  and  gentle—  tell  me  wlierc 


Friend!  thou  must  trust  in  Him  who  trod  before 

The  desolate  paths  of  life; 
Must  bear  in  meekness,  as  He  meekly  bore. 

Sorrow  and  pain  and  strife! 

Think  how  the  Son  of  God 

Those  thorny  paths  hath  trod  ; 

Think  how  he  longed  to  go, 
Yet  tarried  out  for  thee  the  appointed  woe  ; 
Think  of  his  weariness  in  places  dim. 
Where  no  man  comforted,  nor  cared  for  Him  ! 

Think  of  the  blood-like  sweat 

With  which  his  brow  was  wet ; 
Yet  how  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone 
In  that  great  agony—  "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

Friend  !  do  not  thou  despair, 
Christ  from  his  heaven  of  heavens  will  hear  thy  prayer! 


From  "  Ballads  and  Poems." 

THE    F.\IRIES  OF  THE  CALDOX-LOW A    MIDSrMMEU 

LEGEND. 

'  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary. 

And  where  have  you  been  from  me!' 
'  I've  been  to  tlie  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 

The  Midsummer  night  to  see  I' 

'  And  what  did  you  see,  my  Maty, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Lovv? 
'I  saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down. 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow.' 

'And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Hill  ?' 
'  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  maile. 

And  the  green  corn  ears  to  fill.' 

'Oh,  tell  me  all,  my  Mary  — 

All,  all  that  you  ever  know; 
For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies. 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low.' 

'  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 

And  listen,  mother  mine: 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night. 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

'  And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings. 

And  their  dancing  feet  so  small  ; 
But,  oh,  the  sound  of  their  talking 

W^as  merrier  far  than  all !' 

'  .\nd  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 

That  you  did  hear  them  say  ?' 
'I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother  — 

But  let  mo  have  my  way  ! 

'  And  some  they  played  with  the  water, 

And  rolled  it  down  the  hill; 
'  And  this,'  they  said.  '  shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

For  there  has  been  no  watcs- 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May; 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

Oh,  the  miller,  how  ho  will  laugh. 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  ! 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh. 

Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes!' 

And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds, 

That  sounded  over  the  hill. 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill:  — 

'  And  there,'  said  Ihcy,  '  the  merry  winds  go, 

Away  from  every  horn  ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

Prom  the  blind  old  widow's  corn: 

Oh.  the  poor,  blind  old  widow  — 
Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 

She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  goti«. 
And  the  corn  .stands  stifl"  and  strong!' 

701 


HO 


HO 


And  some  they  brought  the  liiitseed, 
And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low  — 

'  And  this,'  said  they,  '  by  the  sunrise, 
In  the  weaver's  crofl  shall  grow  I 

Oh,  the  poor,  lame  weaver. 

How  will  he  lautth  outright. 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night  I 

And  then  upspoke  a  brownie. 
With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin  — 

'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 
And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth. 
And  I  want  to  spin  anotlier  — 

A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed. 
And  an  apron  for  her  mother!' 

And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  CaldonLow, 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

And  all,  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  mists  were  cold  and  grey. 

And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  nie  lay. 

But,  as  I  came  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard,  afar  below. 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was. 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go! 

And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field; 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 

All  standing  stiff  and  green. 

And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole. 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  high  ; 
But  I  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate 

With  the  good  news  in  his  eye! 

Now,  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother. 

And  all  that  I  did  see; 
So,  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  can   be!' 


THE    USE    OF    FLOWERS. 

God  might  have  made  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small. 
The  oak  tree  and  the  cedar  tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

He  might  have  made  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours  ; 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil. 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain, 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  the  life  in  man 

Might  yet  have  druuk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 

And  dyed  with  rainbow  light. 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night? 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low. 

And  on  the  mountains  high; 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness. 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, 
Then,  wlienfurc  had  they  birth? 

To  minister  delight  to  man; 
To  beautify  the  earth  : 

To  comfort  man  —  to  whisper  hope. 

Whene'er  his  faith  i.-i  dim; 
For  who  so  careth  for  the  flowers. 

Will  much  more  care  for  Him! 


FATHER    IS    COMING. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  sis, 

The  father's  work  is  done; 
Sweep  up  the  hearth,  and  mend  the  fire. 

And  put  the  kettle  on. 
The  wild  night-wind  is  blowing  cold, 
'Tis  dreary  crossing  o'er  the  wold. 

He  is  crossing  o'er  the  wold  apace. 
He  is  stronger  than  the  storm ; 

lie  does  not  feel  the  cold,  not  he. 
His  heart  it  is  so  warm. 

For  father's  heart  is  stout  and  true 

As  ever  human  bosom  knew. 

He  makes  all  toil  and  hardship  light: 
Would  all  men  were  the  same  ! 

So  ready  to  be  pleased,  so  kind. 
So  very  slow  to  blame  ! 

Folks  need  not  be  unkind,  austere. 

For  love  hath  readier  will  than  fear. 

Nay,  do  not  close  the  shutters,  child  ; 

For  far  along  the  lane 
The  little  window  looks,  and  he 

Can  see  it  shining  plain. 
I've  heard  him  say  he  loves  to  mark 
Tlie  cheerful   firelight  through  the  dark. 

And  we'll  do  all  that  father  likes; 

His  wishes  are  so  few. 
Would  they  were  more  !  that  every  hour 

Some  wish  of  his  I  knew  ! 
I  'm  sure  it  makes  a  happy  day, 
When  I  can  please  him  any  way. 

I  know  he's  coming  by  this  sign. 

That  baby's  almost  wild; 
See  how  he  laughs  and  crows  and  stares  -- 

Heaven  bless  the  merry  child  ! 
He  's  father's  self  in  face  and  limb. 
And  father's  heart  is  strong  in  him. 

Hark!  hark!  I  hear  his  footsteps  now; 

He's  through  the  garden  gate. 
Run,  little  Bess,  and  ope  the  door. 

And  do  not  let  him  wait. 
Shout,  baby,  shout!  and  clap  thy  hands. 
For  father  on  the  threshold  stands. 

THE    CHILDREN. 

Beautiful  the  children's  faces  ! 

Spite  of  all  that  mars  and  sears  ; 
To  my  inmost  heart  appealing; 
Calling  forth  love's  tenderest  feeling; 

Steeping  all  my  soul  with  tears. 

Eloquent  the  children's  faces  — 
Poverty's  lean  look,  which  saith. 

Save  us !  save  us  !  wo  surrounds  us  ; 

Little  knowledge  sore  confounds  us; 
Life  is  but  a  lingering  death  ! 

Give  us  light  amid  our  darkness  ; 

Let  us  know  the  good  from  ill ; 
Hate  us  not  for  all  our  blindness; 
Love  us,  lead  us,  show  us  kindness  — 

You  can  make  us  what  you  will. 

We  are  willing  ;  we  are  ready ; 

We  would  learn,  if  you  would  teach  ; 
We  have  hearts  that  yearn  towards  duty  ; 
We  have  mind-s  alive  to  beauty  ; 

Souls  that  any  heights  can  reach  ! 

Raise  us  by  your  Christian  knowledge  ; 

Consecrate  to  man  our  powers; 
Let  us  take  our  proper  station  ; 
We,  the  rising  generation. 

Let  us  stamp  the  age  as  ours! 

We  shall  be  what  you  will  make  us  :  — 
Make  us  wise,  and  make  us  good  ! 

Make  us  strong  for  time  of  trial ; 

Teach  us  temperance,  self-denial. 
Patience,  kindness,  fortitude  ! 

702 


IS 


IS 


ISABELLA  II.,  QUEEN  OF  SPAIN, 

Was  born  at  Madrid,  October  10th,  1830.  Her 
father,  Ferdinand  VII.,  died  when  she  was  three 
years  and  six  months  old,  and  Isabella  was  imme- 
diately proclaimed  Queen ;  and  her  mother,  Maria 
Christina,  Regent  of  Spain.  The  biography  of 
Maria  Christina  will  be  found  in  its  place ;  we 
need  only  say  here,  that  her  influence  had  made 
her  daughter  Queen,  by  persuading  Ferdinand  to 
issue  his  famous  decree,  styled  pragmatic,  revok- 
ing the  Salic  law  which  prohibited  the  rule  of  a 
female  sovereign.  This  law,  introduced  into  Cas- 
tile by  the  Bourbon  family  on  their  accession  to 
the  Spanish  throne,  could  not  have  had  much  root 
in  the  affections  of  a  loyal  people,  who  kept  the 
traditionary  memory  of  their  glorious  Queen,  Isa- 
bella I.,  still  in  their  hearts ;  and  this  child-queen 
was  another  Isabella.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
bulk  of  the  nation  inclined  warmly  to  sustain  her 
claims,  and  but  for  the  influence  of  the  priests 
and  fanatical  monks  in  favour  of  the  bigoted  Don 
Carlos,  younger  brother  of  the  deceased  Ferdi- 
nand, there  would  have  been  no  bloody  civil  war. 


That  Isabella  II.  was  the  choice  of  the  people  is 
proved  by  the  acts  of  the  legislative  Cortes,  which 
in  1834  almost  unanimously  decreed  that  the  pre- 
tender—  Don  Carlos,  and  his  descendants  —  should 
be  for  ever  exiled  from  the  Spanish  throne  ;  and 
this  decree  was  confirmed  by  the  constituent  Cortes 
in  1836,  without  a  single  dissentient  voice. 

Isabella  II.,  thus  made  queen  by  her  father's 
will,  was  acknowledged  by  the  national  authority, 
and  surrounded  from  her  cradle  with  the  pomp 
and  observance  of  royalty ;  yet  her  childhood  and 
youth  were,  probably,  less  happy  than  that  of  any 
little  girl  in  humble  life,  who  has  a  good  mother 
and  a  quiet  home,  where  she  may  grow  up  in 
the  love  of  God,  the  fear  of  evil,  and  in  steadfast 
devotion  to  her  duties.  Isabella  was  nurtured 
among  the  worst  influences  of  civil  strife  and 
bloodshed,  because  religious  fanaticism  as  well  as 
political  prejudices  were  involved  in  the  struggle. 


When  she  was  ten  ye«rs  old,  her  mother,  Maria 
Christina,  resigned  the  regency  and  retired  to 
France  ;  Espartero  became  regent.  Isabella  was 
for  three  years  under  the  influence  of  instructors 
of  his  choosing ;  and  he  endeavoured,  there  is  no 
doubt,  to  have  her  mind  rightly  directed.  By  a 
deci-ee  of  the  Cortes,  the  young  queen  was  de- 
clared to  have  attained  her  majority  on  the  15th 
of  October,  1813 ;  she  has  since  reigned  as  the 
sovereign  of  Spain,  and  has  been  acknowledged 
such  by  all  the  European  governments,  and  by 
the  governments  of  America. 

In  1845,  Maria  Christina  returned  to  Madrid 
and  soon  obtained  much  influence  over  Isabella. 
This,  it  was  apparent,  was  used  to  direct  the 
young  Queen  in  her  choice  of  a  husband.  Isabella 
had  one  sister,  Louisa,  the  Infanta,  who  was  next 
heir  to  the  crown,  if  the  eldest  died  without  off- 
spring. Those  keen  rivals  for  political  power, 
England  and  France,  watched  to  obtain  or  keep 
a  paramount  influence  in  Spanish  affairs.  The 
selfish  policy  of  Louis  Philippe,  aided  by  Guizot 
and  Maria  Christina,  finally  prevailed,  and  forced 
upon  the  Spanish  nation  a  prince  of  the  house  of 
Bom-bon  as  husband  of  Isabella.  There  were  two 
Bourbon  princes,  brothers,  Francisco  and  Enrique, 
sons  of  Don  Francisco,  brother  of  Maria  Chris- 
tina ;  of  these,  the  youngest  had  some  talent  and 
was  attractive ;  the  eldest  was  weak  in  intellect 
and  disagreeable  in  manners  ;  if  Isabella  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  marry  this  imbecile,  and  a  son 
of  Louis  Philippe  could  obtain  the  hand  of  the 
Infanta  Louisa,  the  predominance  of  French  in- 
fluence would  be  secured.  It  was  done  —  both 
plans  succeeded.  The  following  is  translated  from 
the  Madrid  Gazette  :  — 

"  The  marriage  of  Isabella  to  her  cousin,  Don 
Francisco  d'  Assis,  the  eldest  son  of  her  uncle, 
Don  Francisco  de  Paula,  and  that  of  her  sister, 
the  Infanta,  to  the  Duke  de  Montpensier,  the 
youngest  son  of  Louis  Philippe,  took  place  Octo- 
ber 10th,  184G,  on  which  day  Queen  Isabella  com- 
pleted her  sixteenth  year.  The  ceremony  began 
by  the  Prelate,  who  officiated,  asking  the  follow- 
ing questions :  — 

"  '  Lenora  Donna  Isabella  II.,  of  Bourbon,  Ca- 
tholic Queen  of  Spain,  I  demand  of  your  JIajesty, 
and  of  your  Highness,  serene  Sir,  Don  Francisco 
d'Assis  Maria  de  Bourbon,  Infante  of  Spain,  in  ' 
case  you  know  of  any  impediment  to  this  present 
marriage,  and  why  it  should  not  and  ought  not  to 
be  contracted  —  that  is  to  say,  if  there  exist  be- 
tween your  Majesty  and  Highness  impediments 
of  consanguinity,  affinity,  or  spiritual  relationship, 
independently  of  those  impediments  that  have  been 
dispensed  with  by  his  Holiness  —  if  j-ou  have  made 
vows  of  chastity  or  religion  —  and  finally,  if  there 
exist  impediments  of  any  other  kind,  that  you 
forthwith  declare  them.  The  same  I  demand  of 
all  here  present.  For  the  second  and  third  time 
I  make  the  same  demand,  that  you  freely  discover 
any  impediment  you  are  aware  of.' 

"  The  Prelate  then  addressed  the  Queen  thus  — 

"  '  Lenora  Donna  Isabella  II.,  of  Bourbon,  Ca- 
tholic Queen  of  Spain,  do  you  wish  for  your 
spouse  and  husband,  as  the  Holy  Catholic,  Apos- 

703 


IS 


JA 


(olic,  and  Roman  Church  directs,  Don  Francisco 
d'Assis  Maria  de  Bourbon,  Infante  of  Spain?' 

"  The  Queen  kissed  her  mother's  hand ;  and 
being  again  asked  the  same  question  by  the  Bishop, 
replied  '  Yes,  I  wish.' 

"  The  Prelate  then  said — • 

"  '  Does  your  Majesty  give  yourself  as  spouse 
and  wife  to  his  serene  Highness  Don  Francisco 
d'Assis  Maria  de  Bourbon  ?' 

"  '  The  Queen  answered,  'I  do.'  " 

She  soon  afterwards  conferred  on  her  husband 
the  title  of  king. 

It  hardly  seems  credible  that  a  crowned  Queen 
would  thus  give,  apparently,  her  free  assent  to  her 
own  marriage,  if  the  bridegroom  had  been  utterly 
hateful  to  her.  But  two  circumstances  are  cer- 
tain—  she  was  not  old  enough  to  make  a  judi- 
cious choice ;  and  she  was  urged  into  the  measure 
while  she  did  not  wish  to  marry  at  all.  She 
seemed  to  resign  herself  to  the  guidance  of 
others,  and  doubtless  hoped  she  might  find  hap- 
piness. She  thus  alludes  to  the  event  in  her 
speech  at  the  opening  of  the  Cortes,  on  the  last 
day  of  1846.  Her  speeches  from  the  throne  are 
models  of  their  kind,  whoever  prepares  them ; 
and  she  is  said  to  have  a  fine  voice  and  gracious 
manner,  appearing,  indeed,  the  Queen  while  de- 
livering them. 

"  I  have  contracted  a  marriage  with  my  august 
cousin,  Don  Francisco  d'Assis  Maria  de  Bourbon, 
agreeably  to  my  intention  announced  to  the  pre- 
ceding Cortes.  I  ti-ust  that  Heaven  will  bless  this 
union,  and  that  you,  also,  gentlemen,  will  unite 
your  prayers  with  mine  to  Almighty  God.  The 
marriage  of  my  beloved  sister  has  also  taken 
place  in  the  way  which  has  been  already  explained 
to  the  Cortes." 

But  this  contentment  with  her  lot  did  not  long 
continue.  Early  in  the  following  year,  1847, 
there  arose  a  dislike  on  the  part  of  the  Queen 
towards  her  husband,  and  soon  the  royal  pair  be- 
came completely  estranged  from  each  other,  and 
neither  appeared  together  in  public,  nor  had  the 
slightest  communication  in  private.  The  people 
seemed  to  sympathize  warmly  with  the  Queen, 
and  she  was  loudly  cheered  whenever  she  drove 
out,  or  attended  any  of  the  theatres  or  bull-fights 
at  Madrid. 

On  the  accession  of  Narvaez  to  ofiice  as  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council,  he  used  his  utmost  endeavours 
to  effect  a  reconciliation,  and  at  length  succeeded. 
The  meeting  between  the  royal  pair  occurred  Oc- 
tober 13th,  1847,  and  is  thus  described: 

•'When  the  King  reached  the  Plaza  of  the  Arse- 
nal, and  alighted  at  the  principal  entrance  of  the 
palace,  the  President  of  the  Council  and  the  Holy 
Father's  Legate,  warned  the  Queen  of  it,  who  ad- 
vanced with  visible  emotion  unto  the  royal  cham- 
ber, and  received  in  her  arms  the  royal  consort." 

Since  then  there  have  been  estrangements  and 
reconciliations ;  it  seems  almost  hopeless  to  anti- 
cipate conjugal  happiness,  or  even  quiet,  for  Isa- 
bella. The  only  event  which  appears  likely  to 
give  a  new  and  healthy  tone  to  her  mind,  is  mo- 
therhood. She  gave  birth  to  a  son  in  the  autumn 
of  1850,  but,  unfortunately,  the  child  lived  only  a 


few  hours.  If  he  had  survived,  and  her  affection? 
had  thus  been  warmly  awakened,  there  would  b«- 
little  doubt  of  her  becoming  a  changed  being. 
That  she  has  talents  of  a  much  higher  order  than 
was  given  her  credit  for  in  childhood  is  now  evi- 
dent.* She  certainly  possesses  great  physical 
courage,  and  a  strong  will.  She  manages  the 
wildest  and  most  fiery  steed  with  the  coolness  and 
skill  of  a  knight  of  chivalry.  She  delights  in 
driving  and  riding,  and  exhibits  much,  even  dar- 
ing energy.  She  is  prompt  in  her  attention  to  the 
duties  of  her  government ;  and,  what  is  best  of  all, 
she  evinces  that  sympathy  for  her  people,  and 
confidence  in  their  loyalty,  which  are  never  felt 
by  a  crafty,  cruel,  or  selfish  ruler.  In  all  her 
speeches  from  the  throne  there  is  a  generous,  even 
liberal  spirit  apparent ;  and  were  it  not  for  the 
obstacles  which  priestcraft  interposes,  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  the  Queen  would  move  on- 
ward with  her  government  to  effect  the  reforms  so 
much  needed.  In  "features  and  complexion," 
Isabella  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  her  fa- 
ther, Ferdinand  VI.,  and  his  line  of  the  Bourbons; 
but  her  forehead  has  a  better  development,  and 
she  is,  undoubtedly,  of  a  nobler  disposition. 

There  is,  indeed,  great  reason  to  hope  she  will 
yet  prove  worthy  of  the  name  she  bears.  She  is 
only  twenty ;  not  so  old  by  three  years  as  Isa- 
bella I.  was  when  she  ascended  the  throne.  Spain 
has  never  had  a  good  great  sovereign  since  her 
reign. 


JAGIELLO,    APPOLONIA. 

Distinguished  for  her  heroic  patriolism,  was 
born  about  the  year  1825,  in  Lithuania,  a  part  of 
the  land  where  Thaddeus  Kosciusko  spent  his  first 

*  The  following  is  from  the  pen  of  a  late  residest  at  Ma- 
drid :  — 

"The  letters  written  by  the  young  Queen  Isabella  are  the 
most  charming  things  in  the  world  ;  so  say  not  only  her 
courtiers,  but  her  enemies,  and  those  who  have  read  them 
declare  if  her  Catholic  Majesty  was  not  Queen  of  Spain, 
she  would  very  certainly  be  a  blue-stocking.  Besides,  al- 
though a  sovereign,  or  rather  because  she  is  a  sovereign, 
Isabella  II.  is  a  veritable  lioness ;  not  a  lioness  as  understood 
in  the  fashionable  world,  but  in  the  true  acceptation  of  the 
word,  a  lioness,  like  the  noble  partner  of  the  king  of  the 
forest.  If  the  young  Queen  ever  loses  her  crown,  she  will 
not  do  it  without  having  defended  it  sword  in  hand.  She 
fences  like  Grisier,  and  it  is  her  favorite  amusement. 

"This  is  the  way  she  employs  her  time.  At  three  o'clock, 
not  in  the  morning,  but  in  the  day,  she  rises.  As  soon  as 
dressed,  and  her  toilette  is  the  least  of  her  occupations,  she 
orders  a  very  elegant,  light  equipage,  a  present  from  her 
royal  sister  of  England,  and  goes  out  alone  ;  but  sometimes 
she  is  accompanied  by  her  husband,  to  his  great  despair  ami 
terror,  for  he  believes  in  a  miracle  every  time  that  he  re- 
enters the  palace  safe  and  sound ;  for  the  young  Queen  is 
her  own  driver,  and  generally  urges  on  her  horses  to  their 
full  speed. 

"She  dines  at  five  o'clock,  eats  very  little  and  very  fast: 
and  as  soon  as  her  repast  is  finished,  she  exercises  some 
time  with  the  sword,  then  she  mounts  her  horse  and  takes  a 
ride.  These  exercises  ended,  she  becomes  a  young  and 
pretty  woman;  she  dances,  sings,  and  in  fact  takes  all  the 
possible  pleasure  of  her  sex  and  age.  But  when  one  o'clock 
strikes,  the  Queen  re-appears,  and  Isabella  assembles  her 
council  over  which  she  always  presides. 

704 


JA 


JA 


Jays.  She  was  educated  at  Cracow,  the  ancient 
capital  of  Poland —  a  city  filled  with  monuments 
and  memorials  sadly  recalling  to  the  mind  of  every 
Pole  the  past  glory  of  his  native  land.  There, 
and  in  Warsaw  and  Vienna,  she  passed  the  days 
of  her  early  girlhood. 


She  was  about  nineteen  when  the  attempt  at  revo- 
lution of  1846  broke  outnt  Cracow.  "  That  strug- 
gle," says  jSIajor  Tochman,  "  so  little  understood  in 
this  country,  although  of  brief  duration,  must  and 
will  occupy  an  important  place  in  Polish  history. 
It  declared  the  emancipation  of  the  peasantry  and 
the  abolition  of  hereditary  rank,  all  over  Poland ; 
proclaimed  equality,  personal  security,  and  the 
enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  labour,  as  inherent 
rights  of  all  men  living  on  Polish  soil.  It  was 
suppressed  by  a  most  diabolical  plot  of  the  Aus- 
trian government.  Its  mercenary  soldiery,  dis- 
guised in  the  national  costume  of  the  peasants, 
excited  against  the  nobility  the  ignorant  portion 
of  the  peasantry  in  Gallicia,  which  province,  with 
other  parts  of  ancient  Poland,  had  to  unite  in  in- 
surrection with  the  republic  of  Cracow.  They 
were  made  to  believe,  by  those  vile  emissaries, 
that  the  object  of  the  nobility  was  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  approaching  revolution,  to  exact  from 
them  higher  duties.  In  the  mean  time  the  civil 
and  military  officers  of  the  Austrian  government 
circulated  proclamations,  at  first  secretly,  then 
publicly,  oifering  to  the  peasants  rewards  for  every 
head  of  a  nobleman,  and  for  every  nobleman  de- 
livered into  the  hands  of  the  authorities  alive. 
Fourteen  hundred  men,  women,  and  children,  of 
noble  families,  were  murdered  by  the  thus  excited 
and  misled  peasantry,  before  they  detected  the 
fraud  of  the  government.  This  paralysed  the  re- 
volution already  commenced  in  Cracow. 

"  The  Austrian  government,  however,  did  not 
reap  the  full  fruit  of  its  villany ;  for  when  the  pea- 
sants perceived  it,  they  arrayed  themselves  with 
the  friends  of  the  murdered  victims,  and  showed 
so  energetic  a  determination  to  insist  on  the  rights 
which  the  revolution  at  Cracow  promised  to  se- 
cure to  them,  that  the  Austrian  government  found 
Iflolf  compelled  to  grant  them  many  immunities." 
2U 


This  was  the  first  struggle  for  freedom  in  which 
Mile.  Jagiello,  who  was  then  at  Cracow,  took  an  ac- 
tive part.  She  was  seen  on  horseback,  in  the  pic- 
turesque costume  of  the  Polish  soldier,  in  the  midst 
of  the  patriots  who  first  planted  the  white  eagle 
and  the  flag  of  freedom  on  the  castles  of  the  an- 
cient capital  of  her  country,  and  was  one  of  the 
handful  of  heroes  who  fought  the  battle  near  Pod- 
gorze,  against  a  tenfold  stronger  enemy.  Mr. 
Tyssowski,  now  of  Washington,  was  then  invested 
with  all  civil  and  military  power  in  the  republic. 
He  was  elevated  to  the  dictatorship  for  the  time 
of  its  danger,  and  by  him  was  issued  the  cele- 
brated manifesto  declaring  for  the  people  of  Po- 
land the  great  principles  of  liberty  to  which  we 
have  already  alluded.  He  is  now  a  draughtsman 
in  the  employ  of  our  government. 

After  the  Polish  uprising  which  commenced 
in  Cracow  was  suppressed.  Mile.  Jagiello  reas- 
sumed  female  dress,  and  remained  undetected  for 
a  few  weeks  in  that  city.  From  thence  she  re- 
moved to  Warsaw,  and  remained  there  and  in  the 
neighbouring  country,  in  quiet  retirement  among 
her  friends.  But  the  struggle  of  1848  found  her 
again  at  Cracow,  in  the  midst  of  the  combatants. 
Alas !  that  effort  was  but  a  dream  —  it  accom- 
plished nothing  —  it  perished  like  all  other  Euro- 
pean attempts  at  revolutions  of  that  year,  so  great 
in  grand  promises,  so  mean  in  fulfilment.  But  their 
fire  is  yet  smouldering  under  the  ashes  covering 
the  Old  World —  ashes  white  and  heavy  as  death  to 
the  eye  of  the  tyrant,  but  scarcely  hiding  the  red 
life  of  a  terrible  retribution  from  the  prophetic 
eye  of  the  lover  of  freedom. 

Mile.  Jagiello  then  left  Cracow  for  Vienna, 
where  she  arrived  in  time  to  take  an  heroic  part 
in  the  engagement  at  the  faubourg  Widen.  Her 
chief  object  in  going  to  Vienna  was  to  inform 
herself  of  the  character  of  that  struggle,  and  to 
carry  news  to  the  Hungarians,  who  were  then  in 
the  midst  of  a  war,  which  she  and  her  country- 
men regarded  as  involving  the  liberation  of  her 
beloved  Poland,  and  presaging  the  final  regenera- 
tion of  Europe.  With  the  aid  of  devoted  friends, 
she  reached  Presburg  safely,  and  from  that  place, 
in  the  disguise  of  a  peasant,  was  conveyed  by  the 
Hungarian  peasantry  carrying  provisions  for  the 
Austrian  army,  to  the  village  of  St.  Paul. 

After  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  crossing 
the  country  occupied  by  the  Austrians,  after  swim- 
ming on  horseback  two  rivers,  she  at  last,  on  the 
15th  of  August,  1848,  reached  the  Hungarian 
camp,  near  the  village  of  Eneszey,  just  before  the 
battle  there  fought,  in  which  the  Austrians  were 
defeated,  and  lost  General  Wist.  This  was  the 
first  Hungarian  battle  in  which  our  heroine  took 
part  as  volunteer.  She  was  soon  promoted  to  the 
rank  of  lieutenant,  and,  at  the  request  of  her 
Hungarian  friends,  took  charge  of  a  hospital  in 
Comorn.  Whilst  there,  she  joined,  as  volunteer, 
the  expedition  of  12,000  troops,  under  the  com- 
mand of  the  gallant  General  Klapka,  which  made 
a  sally,  and  took  Raab.  She  returned  in  safety 
to  Comorn,  where  she  remained,  superintending 
the  hospital,  until  tlie  capitulation  of  the  for- 
tress. 

705 


JA 


JA 


She  came  to  the  United  States  in  December, 
1849,  with  Governor  Ladislas  Ujhazy  and  his  fa- 
mily, where  slie  and  lier  heroic  friends  received  a 
most  enthusiastic  welcome. 

"  Those  who  have  never  seen  this  Hungarian  or 
Polish  heroine,"  says  a  *  writer  in  the  National 
Era,  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  this  sketch, 
"  may  be  interested  in  hearing  something  of  her 
personnel.  She  is  of  medium  height,  and  quite 
slender.  Her  arm  and  hand  are  especially  deli- 
cate and  beautiful,  and  her  figure  round  and  grace- 
ful. She  is  a  brunette,  with  large  dark  eyes,  and 
black,  abundant  hair.  Her  lips  have  an  expres- 
sion of  great  determination,  but  her  smile  is  alto- 
gether charming.  In  that  the  woman  comes  out ; 
it  is  arch,  soft,  and  winning  —  a  rare,  an  inde- 
scribable smile.  Her  manner  is  simple  and  en- 
gaging, her  voice  is  now  gentle  or  mirthful,  now 
earnest  and  impassioned  —  sometimes  sounds  like 
the  utterance  of  some  quiet,  home-love,  and  some- 
times startles  you  with  a  decided  ring  of  the  steel. 
Her  enthusiasm  and  intensity  of  feeling  reveal 
themselves  in  almost  every  thing  she  says  and 
does.  An  amusing  instance  was  told  me  when  in 
Washington.  An  album  was  one  d.ay  handed  her, 
for  her  autograph.  She  took  it  with  a  smile  ;  but 
■on  opening  it  at  the  name  of  M.  Bodisco,  the  Rus- 
sian ambassador,  pushed  it  from  her  with  flashing 
-«yes,  refusing  to  appear  in  the  same  book  with 
•*  the  tool  of  a  t;yTant !' 

"Yet,  after  all,  she  is  one  to  whom  children  go, 
ifeeling  the  charm  of  her  womanhood,  without  be- 
ting awed  by  her  greatness.  She  bears  herself 
with  no  military  air  ;  there  is  nothing  in  her  man- 
ner to  remind  you  of  the  camp,  though  much  to 
tell  you  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  no  ordi- 
inary  woman." 

JAMESON,    ANNA, 

Is  ONE  of  the  most  gifted  and  accomplished  of 
■.the  living  female  writers  of  Great  Britain.     Her 

father,  Mr.  Murphy,  was  an  Irish  gentleman  of 
:high  repute  as  an  artist,  and  held  the  office  of 

Painter  in  Ordinary  to  her  Royal  Highness  Prin- 
■  cess  Charlotte.  By  her  order  he  undertook  to 
:paint  the  "  Windsor  Beauties,"  so  called;  but  be- 
•fore  these  were  completed,  the  sudden  death  of 
•the  princess  put  a  stop  to  the  plan.      Mr.  Murphy 

lost  his  place ;  and  his  pictures,  from  which  he  had 
:anticipated  both  fame  and  fortune,  were  left  on 

his  hands,  without  any  remuneration.  It  was  to 
.aid  the  sale  of  these  portraits,  when  engraved  and 

published,  that  his  daughter,  then  Mrs.  Jameson, 

wrote  tlie  illustrative  memoirs  which  form  her 
^work,  entitled   "  The   Beauties   of  the  Court  of 

King  Charles  II.,"  published  in  London,  in  1833. 

Prior  to  this,  however,  Mrs.  Jameson  had  be- 
•come  known  as  a  graceful  writer  and  accomplished 
•critic  on  the  Beautiful  in  Art,  as  well  as  a  spirited 
'delineator  of  Life.     Her  first  work  was  the  "  Diary 

•  of  an  Ennuy<!e,"  published  in  London,  in  1825, 
labout  two  years  after  her  marriage  with  Captain 

•  Jameson,  an  officer  in  the  British  army.  Of  this 
imarriage  —  union  it  has  never  been  —  we  will  only 
tsay  here,  that  it  seems  to  have  exercised  an  unfor- 

*  Sara  J  Clarke. 


tunate  influence  over  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Jameson, 
which  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  because  it  mars, 
in  a  degree,  all  her  works ;  —  but  especially  her 
latter  ones,  by  fettering  the  noblest  aspirations 
of  her  genius,  instinctively  feminine,  and  there- 
fore only  capable  of  feeling  the  full  compass  of  its 
powers  when  devoted  to  the  True  and  the  Good. 
We  shall  advert  to  this  again.  The  "  Diai'y  of  an 
Ennuy^e"  was  published  anonymously;  it  de- 
picted an  enthusiastic,  poetic,  broken-hearted 
young  lady,  on  her  travels  abroad ;  much  space 
being  given  to  descriptions  of  works  of  art  at 
Rome,  and  other  Italian  cities.  This,  on  the 
whole,  is  Mrs.  Jameson's  most  popular  and  cap- 
tivating work  ;  it  appeals  warmly  to  the  sensibili- 
ties of  the  young  of  her  own  sex :  its  sketches 
of  adventures,  characters  and  pictures,  are  racy 
and  fresh ;  and  the  sympathy  with  the  secret 
sorrows  of  the  writer  is  ingeniously  kept  alive 
to  the  end.  Her  second  work  was  "  ]\Iemoirs  of 
Celebrated  Female  Sovereigns,"  in  two  volumes, 
published  in  London,  in  1831.  To  this  she 
gave  her  name.  AVith  much  to  commend,  these 
"  Memoirs"  are  unsatisfactory,  because  the  wri- 
ter bases  her  plan  on  a  wrong  principle,  namely, 
the  inferiority  of  the  female  sex  to  the  male.  Mrs. 
Jameson  adopts  the  philosophy  of  men,  which 
places  reason  as  the  highest  human  attribute ;  the 
Word  of  God  gives  us  another  standard ;  there  we 
are  taught  that  moral  goodness  is  the  highest  per- 
fection of  human  nature. 

In  other  portions  of  our  work,*  we  have  ex- 
plained our  views  on  these  questions,  and  only 
remark  here,  that  Mrs.  Jameson  seems,  while 
writing  these  "  Memoirs  of  Queens,"  to  have  at- 
tempted, by  her  deep  humility  as  a  woman  to 
propitiate  her  male  critics  on  behalf  of  the  author. 

In  1832,  appeared  "  Characteristics  of  Women, 
Moral,  Poetical,  and  Historical;"  in  many  re- 
spects this  is  the  best  and  most  finished  produc- 
tion of  Mrs.  Jameson's  genius.  "Visits  and 
Sketches  at  Home  and  abroad ;  with  Tales  and 
Miscellanies,"  was  published  in  1834;  and  soon 
afterwards,  "  Memoirs  of  the  Loves  of  the  Poets," 
&c.,  appeared.  In  the  autumn  of  1839,  Mrs.  Ja- 
meson visited  America ;  going  directly  from  New 
York  to  Toronto,  Upper  Canada,  where  she  passed 
the  winter.  Her  husband  had  been  stationed  for 
many  years  in  Canada ;  she  had  not  seen  him 
since  her  marriage ;  it  has  been  said  that  they 
parted  at  the  altar ;  but  the  painful  circumstance 
that  they  only  met  as  acquaintances,  not  even  as 
friends,  was  too  well  known  to  require  an  apology 
for  stating  it  here.  Yet  we  would  not  allude  to 
this  but  for  the  sake  of  correcting  the  false  im- 
pressions which  some  of  her  late  works  leave  on 
the  mind  to  mislead  the  judgment  of  young  read- 
ers. "  Winter  Studies  and  Summer  Rambles,"  is 
the  title  of  the  work  published  in  1842,  in  which 
Mrs.  Jameson  records  her  observations  on  Canada 
and  the  United  States,  as  far  as  she  travelled. 
The  shadow  over  these  original  and  spirited  pic- 
tures is —  unhappiness  in  wedded  life!  Every- 
where she  finds  marriage  a  slavery,  a  sin,  or  a 

♦See  "General  Preface, *•'  also  "  Rpniarks  on  the  Fourth 
Era,"  and  "  Sketch  ol  (iueen  Victoria." 

70«i 


J  A 


JA 


sorrow  The  shaft  in  her  own  bosom  she  plants 
in  that  of  evei'y  other  married  pair  ;  like  a  person 
afflicted  with  a  painful  disease,  she  hears  only  of 
the  afflicted,  and  fancies  the  world  to  be  a  hospi- 
tal of  incurables.  As  we  observed  in  the  begin- 
ning, the  cloud  over  her  early  life  has  darkened 
her  spirit.  She  has,  naturally,  a  love  for  the  in- 
nocent and  the  pure,  —  is  a  true  woman  in  her 
warm  sympathies  with  her  sex,  and  had  she  been 
fortunate  (like  Mrs.  Howitt)  in  the  connexion 
which  possessed  for  her,  as  it  does  for  the  noblest 
and  purest  of  both  sexes,  the  holiest  elements  of 
happiness  and  the  best  opportunities  of  self-im- 
provement, she  would  have  been  a  shining  light  in 
the  onwai-d  movement  of  Christian  civilization ; 
she  would  have  devoted  her  heart  and  her  genius 
to  the  True  and  the  Good,  instead  of  bowing  her 
woman's  soul  to  man's  philosophy,  and  deifying 
the  worship  of  the  Beautiful  in  Art.  In  this 
work — "Winter  Studies,"  &c.,  Mrs.  Jameson, 
commenting  on  the  gratitude  due  those  great  and 
pure  men,  who  work  out  the  intellectual  and  spi- 
ritual good  of  mankind,  closes  thus:  —  "Such 
was  the  example  left  by  Jesus  Christ  —  such  a 
man  was  Shakspeare  —  such  a  man  was  Goethe!" 
To  understand  the  depth  of  this  moral  bewilder- 
ment, which  could  class  Goethe  with  the  Saviour, 
we  will  insert  from  the  volume  which  contains  the 
shocking  comparison,  her  own  account  of  the  last 
mental  effort  of  her  German  idol. 

"  The  second  part  of  the  Faust  occupied  Goethe 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life  ;  he  finished  it  at 
the  age  of  eighty-two.  On  completing  it,  he  says, 
'Now  I  may  consider  the  remainder  of  my  exist- 
ence as  a  free  gift,  and  it  is  indifferent  whether  I 
do  any  thing  or  not ;'  as  if  he  had  considered  his 
whole  foi'mer  life  as  held  conditionally,  binding 
him  to  execute  certain  objects  to  which  he  be- 
lieved himself  called.  He  survived  the  completion 
of  the  Faust  onlj^  one  year. 

"  The  purport  of  the  second  part  of  Faust  has 
puzzled  many  German  and  English  scholars,  and 
in  Germany  there  are  already  treatises  and  com- 
mentaries on  it,  as  on  the  Divina  Commedia.  I 
never  read  it,  and  if  I  had,  would  not  certainly 
venture  an  opinion  '  where  doctors  disagree ;'  but 
I  recollect  tliat  Von  Hammer  once  gave  me,  in 
his  clear,  animated  manner,  a  comprehensive  ana- 
lysis of  this  wonderful  production  —  that  is,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  interpretation  of  it.  '  I  regard 
it,'  said  he,  '  as  being  from  beginning  lo  end  a  grand 
poetical  piece  of  irony  on  the  whole  universe,  which  is 
turned,  as  it  were,  lorong  side  out.  In  this  point  of 
view  I  understand  it ;  in  any  other  point  of  view 
it  appears  to  me  incomprehensible.'  " 

The  next  work  of  Mrs.  Jameson  was  "  Sacred 
and  Legendary  Art,"  two  volumes,  published  in 
London  in  1818,  in  which  the  peculiar  tastes  and 
talents  of  the  authoress  had  a  fine  scope,  and  de- 
serve what  has  been  freely  awarded  her,  high 
praise.  The  sequel,  "  Legends  of  the  Monastic 
Orders,"  one  volume,  published  in  1850,  is  tinc- 
tured with  the  same  false  views  noticed  in  some 
of  her  previous  works.  She  seems  quite  inclined 
to  forgive,  if  not  to  justify,  all  the  profligacy,  igno- 
rance, and  errors  which  monkery  engendered  and 


entailed  on  the  Christian  world — because  these 
institutions  preserved  and  ennobled  works  of  art  I 
As  an  author  there  is  a  false  air  of  eloquenct- 
thrown  over  some  of  her  wi'itings,  even  whert 
simplicity  would  be  more  suitable.  Generally,  ii. 
her  descriptive  passages,  there  is  something  pan- 
tomimic, theatric,  unreal ;  everything  figures  in  n 
scenic  manner.  She  is,  no  doubt,  a  sincere  lovei 
of  pictures,  probably  understands  them  better  thai', 
most  connoisseurs,  but  readers  tire  of  "  Raphael^ 
and  Correggios,"  when  too  often  thrown  in  their 
faces,  and  call  them  "  stuff." 

Now  that  we  have  honestly  stated  what  we  do 
not  like  in  Mrs.  Jameson's  books,  we  are  happy  in 
dwell  on  their  merits,  and  the  many  commenda- 
ble qualities  of  the  authoress,  which  these  sug- 
gest. She  has  an  earnest  and  loving  admiration 
for  genius,  a  discriminating  sense  of  the  benefit^ 
it  confers  upon  the  world,  and  an  unselfish  eager- 
ness to  point  out  its  merits  and  services.  All  thib 
is  seen  in  her  very  pleasing  descriptions  of  tin- 
many  celebrated  men  and  women  she  had  encoun- 
tered. She  has  a  deep  sense  of  the  dignity  of  hei- 
own  sex ;  she  seeks  to  elevate  woman,  and  many 
of  her  reflections  on  this  subject  are  wise  and  salu 
tary.  We  differ  from  her  views  in  some  material 
points,  but  we  believe  her  sincerely  devoted  to 
what  she  considers  the  way  of  improvement.  Of 
her  extraordinary  talents  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

From  "  Visits  and  Sketclies,"  &.c. 
ARTISTS. 

I  have  heard  young  artists  say,  that  they  have 
been  forced  on  a  dissipated  life  merely  as  a  mean-^ 
of  "getting  on  in  the  world"  as  the  phrase  is. 
It  is  so  base  a  plea,  that  I  generally  regard  it  as 
the  excuse  for  dispositions  already  perverted.  The 
men  who  talk  thus  are  doomed;  they  will  eithei- 
creep  through  life  in  mediocrity  and  dependence 
to  the  grave ;  or,  at  the  best,  if  they  have  parts 
as  well  as  cunning  and  assurance,  they  may  make 
themselves  the  fashion,  and  make  their  fortune : 
they  may  be  clever  portrait  painters  and  bust- 
makers,  but  when  they  attempt  to  soar  into  the 
ideal  department  of  their  art,  they  move  the  laugh- 
ter of  Gods  and  men ;  to  them  higher,  holier  foun- 
tains of  inspiration  are  thenceforth  sealed. 

*  *  *  *  That  man  of  genius  who  thinks  he 
can  tamper  with  his  glorious  gifts,  and  for  a  sea- 
son indulge  in  social  excess,  stoop  from  his  high 
calling  to  the  dregs  of  earth,  abandon  himself  to 
his  native  powers  to  bring  himself  up  again ; 
0  believe  it,  he  plays  a  desperate  game !  One 
that  in  nearly  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  one  hun- 
dred is  fatal. 

WOMEN    ARTISTS SINGERS ACTRESSES,    &0. 

To  think  of  the  situation  of  these  women  !  And 
then  to  look  upon  those  women  who,  fenced  in 
from  infancy  by  all  the  restraints,  the  refinements, 
the  comforts,  the  precepts  of  good  society  —  the 
one  arranging  a  new  cap  —  the  other  embroider- 
ing a  purse — the  third  reading  a  novel  — far,  far 
removed  from  want,  and  grief,  and  care  —  now 
sitting  in  judgment,  and  passing  sentence  of  ex- 
communication on  others  of  their  sex,  who  have 

707 


JA 


J  A 


heen  steeped  in  excitement  from  childhood,  their 
nerves  for  ever  in  a  state  of  terror  between  severe 
application  and  maddening  flattery ;  cast  on  the 
world  without  chart  or  compass — with  energies 
misdirected,  passions  uncontrolled,  and  all  the  in- 
flammable and  imaginative  part  of  their  being 
cultivated  to  excess  as  part  of  their  profession  — 
of  their  material !  Oh,  when  will  there  be  charity 
in  the  world  ?  When  will  human  beings,  women 
especially,  show  mercy  and  justice  to  each  other, 
and  not  judge  of  results  without  a  reference  to 
causes  ?" 

FEMALE    GAMBLER. 

Unless  I  could  know  what  were  the  previous 
habits  and  education  of  the  victim  —  through  what 
influences,  blessed  or  unblessed,  her  mind  had 
been  trained — her  moral  existence  built  up  — 
ought  I  to  condemn  ?  AVho  had  taught  this  wo- 
man self-knowledge  ?  Who  had  instructed  her  in 
the  elements  of  her  own  being,  and  guarded  her 
.'igainst  her  own  excitable  temperament?  AVhat 
friendly  voice  had  warned  her  ignorance  ?  What 
weariness  of  spirit  —  what  thankless  husband  or 
faithless  lover —  had  driven  her  to  the  edge  of  the 
precipice? 

M.  You  would  then  plead  for  a  female  gambler  ? 

A.  Why  do  you  lay  such  an  emphasis  on  female 
jjambler  ?  In  what  respect  is  a  female  gambler 
worse  than  a  male?  The  case  is  more  pitiable  — 
more  rare  —  therefore,  perhaps,  more  shocking; 
but  why  more  hateful  ? 

ENGLISH    PRIBE. 

It  is  this  cold  impervious  pride  which  is  the 
perdition  of  us  English,  and  of  England.  I  re- 
member, that  in  one  of  my  several  excursions  on 
the  Rhine,  we  had  on  board  the  steamboat  an 
English  family  of  high  rank.  Tliere  was  the 
lordly  papa,  plnin  and  shy,  who  never  spoke  to 
any  one  except  his  own  family,  and  then  only  in 
the  lowest  whisper.  There  was  the  lady  mamma, 
so  truly  lady-like,  witli  fine-cut  patrician  features, 
and  in  her  countenance  a  kind  of  passive  hauteur, 
softened  hj  an  appearance  of  sufi'ering,  and  ill 
health.  There  were  two  daughters,  proud,  pale, 
fine-looking  girls,  dressed  d  ravir,  with  that  inde- 
scribable air  of  high  pretension,  so  elegantly  im- 
passive—  so  self-possessed  —  which  some  people 
call  V  air  distingue,  but  which,  as  extremes  meet, 
I  would  rather  call  the  refinement  of  vulgarity  — 
the  polish  we  see  bestowed  on  debased  material  — 
the  plating  over  the  steel  —  the  stucco  over  the 
brick-work ! 

THE    DUTY    OF    TRAVELLERS. 

Every  feeling,  well  educated,  generous,  and 
truly  refined  woman,  who  travels,  is  as  a  dove 
sent  out  on  a  mission  of  peace ;  and  should  bring 
back  at  least  an  olive-leaf  in  her  hand,  if  slie  bring 
nothing  else.  It  is  her  part  to  soften  the  inter- 
course between  rougher  and  stronger  natures;  to 
aid  in  the  interfusion  of  the  gentler  sympathies ; 
to  speed  the  interchange  of  art  and  literature  from 
pole  to  pole :  not  to  pervert  wit,  and  talent,  and 
•doquence,  and  abuse  the  privileges  of  her  sex,  to 


sow  the  seeds  of  hatred  where  she  might  plant  those 
of  love  —  to  embitter  national  discord  and  aversion, 
and  disseminate  individual  prejudice  and  error. 

CONVERSATION. 

Conversation  may  be  compared  to  a  lyre  with 
seven  chords  —  philosophy,  art,  poetry,  politics, 
love,  scandal,  and  the  weather.  There  are  some 
professors,  who,  like  Paganini,  "  can  discourse 
most  eloquent  music  "  upon  one  string  only ;  and 
some  who  can  grasp  the  whole  instrument,  and 
with  a  master's  hand  sound  it  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom  of  its  compass.  Now,  Schlegel  is  one  of 
the  latter :  he  can  thunder  in  the  bass  or  caper  in 
the  treble ;  he  can  be  a  whole  concert  in  himself. 

From  "The  Loves  of  the  Poets  " 
The  theory,  then,  which  I  wish  to  illustrate,  as 
far  as  my  limited  powers  permit,  is  this:  That 
where  a  woman  has  been  exalted  above  the  rest  of 
hor  sex  by  the  talents  of  a  lover,  and  consigned 
to  enduring  fame  and  perpetuit}-  of  praise,  the 
passion  was  real,  and  was  merited  ;  that  no  deep 
or  lasting  interest  was  ever  founded  in  fancy  or  in 
fiction  ;  that  truth,  in  short,  is  the  basis  of  all  ex- 
cellence in  amatory  poetry,  as  in  every  thing  else  ; 
for  where  truth  is,  there  is  good  of  some  sort,  and 
where  there  is  truth  and  good,  there  must  be 
beauty,  there  must  be  durability  of  fame.  Truth 
is  the  golden  chain  wliich  links  the  terrestrial 
with  the  celestial,  which  sets  the  seal  of  heaven 
on  the  things  of  this  earth,  and  stamps  them  with 
immortality. 

From  "  Winter  Studies  and  Summer  Rambles." 
EDUCATION. 

The  true  purpose  of  education  is  to  cherish  and 
unfold  the  seed  of  immortality  already  sown  with- 
in us ;  to  develop,  to  their  fullest  extent,  the  ca- 
pacities of  every  kind  with  which  the  God  who 
made  us  has  endowed  us.  Then  we  shall  be  fitted 
for  all  city;umstances,  or  know  how  to  fit  circum- 
stances to  ourselves.  Fit  us  for  circumstances  I 
Base  and  mechanical !  Why  not  set  up  at  once  a 
"  fabrique  d'  education,"  and  educate  us  by  steam  ? 
The  human  soul,  be  it  man's  or  woman's,  is  not,  1 
suppose,  an  empty  bottle,  into  which  you  shall 
pour  and  cram  just  what  you  like,  and  as  you  like ; 
nor  a  plot  of  waste  soil,  in  which  j'ou  shall  sow 
what  you  like  ;  but  a  divine,  a  living  germ  planted 
by  an  Almighty  hand,  which  you  may,  indeed, 
render  more  or  less  productive,  or  train  to  this  or 
that  form — no  more.  And  when  you  have  taken 
the  oak  sapling,  and  dwarfed  it,  and  pruned  it. 
and  twisted  it,  into  an  ornament  for  the  jardiniere 
in  your  drawing-room,  much  have  you  gained 
truly ;  and  a  pretty  figure  your  specimen  is  like 
to  make  in  the  broad  plain  and  under  the  free  air 
of  heaven. 

***** 

The  cultivation  of  the  moral  strength  and  the 
active  energies  of  a  woman's  mind,  together  with 
the  intellectual  faculties  and  tastes,  will  not  make 
a  woman  a  less  good,  less  happy  wife  and  mother, 
and  will  enable  her  to  find  content  and  independ- 
ence when  denied  love  and  happiness. 


JO 


JO 


AUTHORESS. 

It  is  too  true  that  mere  vanity  and  fashion  have 
hitely  made  some  women  authoresses ;  more  write 
for  money,  and  by  this  employment  of  their  talents 
earn  their  own  independence,  add  to  the  comforts 
of  a  parent,  or  supply  the  exti'avagance  of  a  hus- 
band. Some,  who  are  unhappy  in  their  domestic 
relations,  yet  endowed  with  all  that  feminine  crav- 
ing after  sympathy,  which  was  intended  to  be  the 
charm  of  our  sex,  the  blessing  of  yours,  and  some- 
how or  other  has  been  turned  to  the  bane  of  both, 
look  abroad  for  what  they  find  not  at  home ;  fling 
into  the  wide  world  the  irrepressible  activity  of 
an  overflowing  mind  and  heart,  which  can  find  no 
other  unforbidden  issue,  —  and  to  such  "fame  is 
love  disguised."  Some  write  from  the  mere  en- 
ergy of  intellect  and  will ;  some  few  from  the  pure 
"wish  to  do  good,  and  to  add  to  the  stock  of  happi- 
ness, and  the  progress  of  thought ;  and  many  from 
all  these  motives  combined  in  difl"erent  degrees. 
*  «  *  *  * 

In  Germany  I  met  with  some  men,  who,  per- 
haps out  of  compliment,  descanted  with  enthu- 
siasm on  female  talent,  and  in  behalf  of  female 
authorship ;  but  the  women  almost  uniformly 
spoke  of  the  latter  with  dread,  as  something  for- 
midable, or  with  contempt,  as  something  beneath 
them  :  what  is  an  unworthy  prejudice  in  your  sex, 
becomes,  when  transplanted  into  ours,  a  feeling ; 
a  mistaken,  but  a  genuine,  and  even  a  generous 
feeling.  Many  women  who  have  suflicient  sense 
and  simplicity  of  mind  to  rise  above  the  mere  pre- 
judice, would  not  contend  with  the  feeling :  they 
would  not  scruple  to  encounter  the  public  judg- 
ment in  a  cause  approved  by  their  own  hearts,  but 
they  have  not  courage  to  brave  or  to  oppose  the 
opinions  of  fi-iends  or  kindred. 

DE.  JOHNSON    AND    WOMEN. 

Johnson  talks  of  "  men  being  held  down  in  con- 
versation by  the  presence  of  women"  —  held  itp, 
rather,  where  moral  feeling  is  concerned ;  and  if 
held  down  where  intellect  and  social  interests  are 
concerned,  then  so  much  the  worse  for  such  a 
state  of  society. 

Johnson  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  women ; 
witness  that  one  assertion,  among  others  more 
insulting,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  a 
woman  whether  her  husband  be  faithful  or  not. 
He  says,  in  another  place:  "  If  we  men  require 
more  perfection  from  women  than  from  ourselves, 
it  is  doing  them  honour." 

Indeed  !  if,  in  exacting  from  us  more  perfection, 
you  do  not  allow  us  the  higher  and  nobler  nature, 
you  do  us  not  honour  but  gross  injustice ;  and  if 
you  do  allow  us  the  higher  nature,  and  yet  regard 
us  as  subject  and  inferior,  then  the  injustice  is  the 
greater. — There,  Doctor  is  a  dilemma  for  you. 

JOHNSTONE,  MRS., 
Is  a  native  of  Scotland,  and  well  deserves  a 
distinguished  place  among  contemporary  wi-iters 
of  fiction.  Her  first  work,  "  Clan  Albin,"  was 
among  the  earliest  of  that  multitude  of  novels 
which  followed  "  Waverley"  into  the  Highlands; 


but  Mrs.  Johnstone  neither  emulates  nor  imi- 
tates in  the  slightest  degree  the  light  that  pre- 
ceded her.  Jlany  Avriters,  who  were  quite  lost 
in  the  eclipse  of  the  "  Great  Unknown,"  have  since 
asserted  that  he  did  not  suggest  the  idea  of  Scot- 
land, as  a  scene  for  fiction ;  that  their  works  were 
begun  or  meditated  before  "  Waverley  "  appeared  ; 
among  whom,  Mrs.  Brunton,  author  of  "  Disci- 
pline," whose  testimony  is  unquestionable,  maj 
be  placed.  Perhaps,  there  was  at  that  time  ii 
national  impulse  towards  "  Scotch  Novels,"  just 
as  the  taste  for  nautical  discoveries  produced 
Columbus,  and  the  attempt  at  steam-boats  pre- 
ceded Fulton. 

"  Clan  Albin  "  is  decidedly  of  the  genre  ennuy- 
eux,  the  only  kind  that  Voltaire  absolutely  con- 
demns. It  is  full  of  good  sentiment,  but  insipid 
and  tiresome,  and  gives  no  indication  of  the  talent 
afterwards  abounding  in  Mrs.  Johnstone's  works. 
Her  next  book  was  "  Elizabeth  De  Bruce,"  very 
superior  to  her  first,  containing  portions  that  were 
highly  praised  by  able  critics.  A  very  charming, 
well-written  work,  in  that  difficult  class — "Chil- 
dren's Books,"  succeeded.  "  The  Diversions  of 
Hollycot"  may  take  place  near  Miss  Edgewortli's 
"Frank  and  Rosamond."  Like  her  stories  fur 
juvenile  readers,  it  is  sprightly  and  natural  —  in- 
culcates good  principles,  and  much  useful  know- 
ledge ;  and,  what  is  rarer,  it  is  totally  free  from 
any  thing  sentimental  or  extravagant.  Mis.  John- 
stone has  continued  to  improve  in  style,  and  to  de- 
velop many  amiable  qualities  as  a  writer;  her  hu- 
mour is  std  generis,  equal  in  its  way  to  that  of 
Charles  Lamb.  Some  of  the  sketches  in  her  "Ed- 
inburg  Tales"  —  those  of  "Richard  Taylor,"  and 
"Governor  Fox,"  are  not  surpassed  by  any  thing 
in  Elia.  These  and  many  othei-s  were  published 
in  a  monthly  periodical,  established  at  Edinburgh 
about  the  year  1830,  bearing  the  title  of  "John- 
stone's Magazine,"  of  which  she  was  editor  and, 
we  believe,  proprietor.  It  was  continued  ten  or 
fifteen  years.  In  this  was  published  the  "  Storj' 
of  Frankland  the  Barrister,"  which  is  one  of  the 
most  perfect  gems  of  this  kind  of  literature  —  wit, 
pathos,  nice  delineation  of  character,  are  all  to  be 
found  in  it,  while  the  moral  lesson  is  enforced  very 
powerfully.  "The  Nights  of  the  Round  Table" 
was  published  in  1835,  and  contains  some  admi- 
rable tales.  "  Blanche  Delamere  "  is  still  a  later 
work ;  in  it  she  has  attempted  to  show  what  might 
be  done,  and  ought  to  be  done  by  the  nobility,  to 
lessen  the  load  of  misery  pressing  on  the  working 
classes.  We  may  add,  that  in  all  her  later  works, 
Mrs.  Johnstone,  like  most  thinking  writers  in  the 
British  empire,  directs  her  pen  to  subjects  con- 
nected with  the  distresses  of  the  people.  Her 
tales  illustrative  of  these  speculations  have  neither 
the  wit  nor  the  fancy  of  their  predecessors ;  the 
mournful  reality  seems  "  to  cast  a  cloud  between, 
and  sadden  all  she  sings." 

JUDSON,   EMILY   C, 
FiEST  known  to  the  public  by  her  nomme  de 
plume  of  "Fanny  Forester,"  was  born  in  the  in- 
terior of  the  State  of  New  York;  her  birth-place 
she  has  made  celebrated  by  the  name  of  "  Alder- 

709 


JU 


JU 


brook."  Her  maiden-name  was  Chubbuck ;  her 
family  are  of  "  the  excellent,"  to  whom  belong  the 
hopes  of  a  better  world,  if  not  the  wealth  of  this. 
After  the  usual  school  advantages  enjoyed  by 
young  girls  in  the  country,  Miss  Chubbuck  had 
the  good  sense  to  seek  the  higher  advantage  of 


training  others,  in  order  to  perfect  her  own  edu- 
cation. She  was  for  some  years  a  teacher  in  the 
Female  Seminary  at  Utica,  New  York.  Here  she 
commenced  her  literary  life,  by  contributing  seve- 
ral poems  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine;  she 
also  wrote  for  the  American  Bajitist  Publica- 
tion Society,  and  her  little  works  illustrative  of 
practical  religion  were  well  approved.  She  then 
began  to  write  for  several  periodicals,  and,  among 
others,  for  the  New  Mirror,  published  in  New  York 
city,  and  then  edited  by  Morris  and  Willis.  Miss 
Chubbuck,  in  her  first  communication  to  the  New 
Mirror,  had  assumed  the  name  of  "Fanny  For- 
ester;" the  article  pleased  the  editors;  Mr.  Willis 
was  liberal  in  praises,  and  this  encouragement 
decided  the  writer  to  devote  herself  to  literai-y 
pursuits.  But  her  constitution  was  delicate,  and 
after  two  or  three  years  of  close  and  successful 
application  to  her  pen,  "Fanny  Forester,"  as  she 
was  usually  called,  found  her  health  failing,  and 
came  to  Philadelphia  to  pass  the  winter  of  1845-6, 
in  the  family  of  the  Rev.  A.  D.  Gillette,  a  Baptist 
clergyman  of  high  standing  in  the  city.  The  Rev. 
Dr.  Judson,  American  Missionary  to  the  heathen 
world  of  the  East,  returned  about  this,  time,  for 
a  short  visit  to  his  native  land.  He  was  for  the 
second  time  a  widower,*  and  much  older  than  Miss 
Chubbuck;  but  his  noble  deeds,  and  the  true  glory 
of  his  character,  rendered  him  attractive  to  one 
who  sympathised  with  the  warm  Christian  bene- 
volence that  had  made  him  indeed  a  hero  of  the 
Cross.  They  met  in  Philadelphia.  He  felt  she 
would  be  to  him  the  dear  companion  he  needed 
iii  the  cares  and  labours  still  before  him  ;  she  has 
given,  in  a  poem  we  shall  select,  her  own  reasons 
for  consenting  to  the  union. 

The  beauty  and  pathos  of  her  sentiments  are  so 


iv>  •'  Anna  H.  Judson,"  page  3(57 
pagi!  3ti!» 


also,  '•  Sarah  B.  Jud- 


exquisite,  that  the  reader  will  feel  they  were  her 
heart's  true  promptings. 

Dr.  Judson  and  Miss  Chubbuck  were  married, 
July,  1846,  and  they  immediately  sailed  for  India. 
They  safely  reached  their  home  at  Maulmain,  in 
the  Burman  empire,  where  they  continued  to  re- 
side, the  reverend  Missionary  devoting  himself  to 
his  studies,  earnestly  striving  to  complete  his  great 
work  on  the  Burman  language,  while  his  wife  was 
the  guiding  angel  of  his  young  children.  Towards 
the  close  of  the  year  1847,  Mrs.  Judson  gave  birth 
to  a  daughter,  and  her  newly-awakened  maternal 
tenderness  is  beautifully  expressed  in  her  poem, 
"  My  Bird."  Her  domestic  happiness  was  not  to 
endure.  Dr.  Judson's  health  failed;  he  embarked 
on  a  voyage  to  Mauritius,  hoping  benefit  from  the 
change ;  but  his  hour  of  release  had  arrived.  He 
died  at  sea,  April  12th,  1850,  when  about  nine 
days  from  Maulmain.  His  widow  and  children 
returned  to  the  United  States. 

Mrs.  Emily  C.  Judson's  published  works  are, — 
"Alderbrook:  a  Collection  of  Fanny  Forester's 
Village  Sketches  and  Poems,"  in  two  volumes, 
issued  in  Boston,  1846.  These  sketches  are  lively 
and  interesting,  without  any  thrilling  incident  or 
deep  passion  ;  but  the  moral  sentiment  is  always 
elevated,  and  this  is  ever  the  index  of  improve- 
ment. Accordingly,  we  find  an  onward  and  up- 
ward progress  in  all  that  Mrs.  Judson  has  written 
since  her  marriage.  The  poems  she  has  sent  to 
her  friends  in  America  are  beautiful  in  their  sim- 
plicity of  style,  breathing,  as  they  do,  the  holiest 
and  sweetest  feelings  of  humanity.  She  has  also 
made  a  rich  contribution  to  the  Missionary  cause 
in  her  "  Biographical  Sketch  of  Mrs.  Sarah  B. 
Judson,"  second  wife  of  Rev.  Dr.  Judson.  This 
work  was  sent  from  India,  and  published  in  New 
York  in  1849.  It  is  the  tribute  of  love  from  the 
true  heart  of  a  Christian  woman  on  earth  to  the 
true  merits  of  a  sister  Christian  who  has  passed 
to  her  reward  in  heaven. 

We  think  Mrs.  Judson  has  yet  her  greatest  work 
to  do.  She  is  left  in  charge,  not  only  of  the  little 
orphan  children  of  her  beloved  and  revered  hus- 
band, but  she  is  also  the  guardian,  so  to  speak, 
of  his  latest  writings  —  of  his  life's  history.  We 
trust  she  will  live  to  write  the  Memoirs  of  Dr. 
Judson. 

From  '■  Alderbrook." 
THE    FAREWELL. 

Dear,  beautiful  Alderbrook !  I  have  loved  thee 
as  I  shall  never  love  any  other  thing  that  I  may 
not  meet  after  the  sun  of  Time  is  set.  Every- 
thing, from  the  strong  old  tree  that  wrestles  with 
the  tempest,  down  to  the  amber  moss-cup  cradling 
the  tiny  insect  at  its  roots,  and  the  pebble  sleeping 
at  the  bottom  of  the  brook,  —  everything  about 
thee  has  been  laden  with  its  own  peculiar  lesson. 
Thou  art  a  rare  book,  my  Alderbrook,  written  all 
over  by  the  Creator's  finger.  Dearly  do  I  love 
the  holy  truths  upon  thy  pages;  but,  "I  may  not 
dwell  'mid  flowers  and  music  ever ;"  and  I  go 
hence,  bearing  another,  choicer  book  in  my  hand, 
and  echoing  the  words  of  the  angels,  "  Look  I 
look!  live!" 

710 


JU 


JU 


T  stand  on  the  verge  of  the  brook,  which  seems 
to  me  more  beautiful  than  any  other  brook  on 
earth,  and  take  my  last  survey  of  the  home  of  my 
infancy.  The  cloud,  which  has  been  hovering 
above  the  trees  on  the  verge  of  heaven,  opens ; 
the  golden  light  gushes  forth,  bathing  the  hill-top, 
and  streaming  down  its  green  declivity  even  to 
my  feet;  and  I  accept  the  encouraging  omen. 
The  angel  of  Alderbrook,  "the  ministering  spirit" 
sent  hither  by  the  Almighty,  blesses  me.  Father 
in  heaven,  thy  blessing,  ere  I  go ! 

Hopes  full  of  glory,  and  oh,  most  sweetly  sacred ! 
look  out  upon  me  from  the  future ;  but,  for  a  mo- 
ment, their  beauty  is  clouded.  My  heart  is  heavy 
with  sorrow.  The  cup  at  my  lip  is  very  bitter. 
Heaven  help  me !  White  hairs  are  bending  in 
submissive  grief,  and  age-dimmed  eyes  are  made 
dimmer  by  the  gathering  of  tears.  Young  spii-its 
have  lost  their  joyousness,  young  lips  forget  to 
smile,  and  bounding  hearts  and  bounding  feet  are 
stilled.  Oh,  the  rending  of  ties,  knitted  at  the 
first  opening  of  the  infant  eye  and  strengthened 
by  numberless  acts  of  love,  is  a  sorrowful  thing ! 
To  make  the  grave  the  only  door  to  a  meeting 
with  those  in  whose  bosoms  we  nestled,  in  whose 
hearts  we  trusted  long  before  we  knew  how  pre- 
cious was  such  love  and  trust,  brings  with  it  an 
overpowering  weight  of  solemnity.  But  a  grave 
is  yawning  for  each  one  of  us ;  and  is  it  much  to 
choose  whether  we  sever  the  tie  that  binds  us 
here,  to-day,  or  lie  down  on  the  morrow  ?  Ah, 
the  "weaver's  shuttle"  is  flying;  the  "flower  of 
the  grass  "  is  withering ;  the  span  is  almost  mea- 
sured ;  the  tale  nearly  told ;  the  dark  valley  is 
close  before  us  —  tread  we  with  care  ! 

My  mother,  we  may  neither  of  us  close  the  other's 
darkened  eye,  and  fold  the  cold  hands  upon  the 
bosom ;  we  may  neither  of  us  watch  the  sod  green- 
ing and  withering  above  the  other's  ashes ;  but 
there  are  duties  for  us  even  more  sacred  than 
these.  But  a  few  steps,  mother  —  difiicult  the 
path  may  be,  but  very  bright  —  and  then  we  put 
on  the  robe  of  immortality,  and  meet  to  part 
nevermore.  And  we  shall  not  be  apart  even  on 
earth.  There  is  an  electric  chain  passing  from 
heart  to  heart  through  the  throne  of  the  Eternal ; 
and  we  may  keep  its  links  all  brightly  burnisiied 
by  the  breath  of  prayer.  Still  pray  for  me,  mo- 
ther, as  in  days  gone  by.  Thou  bidst  me  go.  The 
smile  comes  again  to  thy  lip  and  the  light  to  thine 
eye,  for  thou  hast  pleasure  in  the  sacrifice.  Thy 
blessing !  Farewell,  my  mother,  and  ye  loved 
ones  of  the  same  hearth-stone  1 

Bright,  beautiful,  dear  Alderbrook,  farewell  I 

June  1.  1846. 


MY    BIRD. 

Ere  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  soiisht  my  Indian  nest. 

And  folded,  nh  !  so  lovingly. 
Its  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge. 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies; 

Two  rose-leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 


There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird; 

Bro.id  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest, 
O  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest ! 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing. 
Tills  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  inimoital  vvijig. 
To  me  —  to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
Tlie  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine. 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room  — 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 
Time  and  eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise  ; 

Hear,  oh  my  God  !  one  earnest  prayer 
Room  for  my  bird  in  paradise. 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there! 

Maulmain,  {India,)  January,  1848. 


THE    TWO    MAMMAS. 
(foe   henry    and    EDWARD.) 

'Tis  strange  to  talk  of  two  mammas '. 

Well,  come  and  sit  by  me. 
And  I  will  try  to  tell  you  how 

So  strange  a  thing  can  be. 

Vears  since  you  had  a  dear  mamma. 

So  gentle,  good,  and  mild. 
Her  Father,  God,  looked  down  from  heaven 

And  loved  his  humble  child. 

"Come  hither,  child,"  he  said,  "and  loan 

Thy  head  upon  my  breast." 
She  had  toiled  long  and  wearily, 

He  knew  she  needed  rest. 

And  so  her  cheek  grew  wan  and  pale. 

And  fainter  came  her  breath, 
And  in  the  arch  beneath  her  brow, 

A  shadow  lay  like  death. 

Then  dear  papa  grew  sad  at  heart, 

Oh,  very  sad  was  he ! 
But  still  he  thought  'twould  make  her  well. 

To  sail  upon  the  sea. 

He  did  not  know  that  God  had  called. 
But  thought  she  still  might  stay. 

To  bless  his  lonely  Burniaii  home, 
For  many  a  happy  day. 

And  so  she  kissed  her  little  boys. 

With  while  and  quivering  lip. 
And  while  the  tears  were  falling  fast. 

They  bore  her  to  the  ship. 

And  Abby,  Pwen,  and  Enna*  went  — 

Oh  !  it  was  sad  to  be 
Thus  parted  —  three  upon  the  laiul, 

And  three  upon  the  sea! 

But  poor  mamma  still  paler  grew. 

As  far  the  vessel  sped. 
Till  wearily  she  closed  her  eyes, 

And  slept  among  the  dead. 

Then  on  a  distant  rocky  isle, 

Where  none  hut  strangers  rest. 
They  broke  the  cold  earth  for  her  grav;. 

And  heaped  it  on  her  breast. 

And  there  they  left  her  all  alone,  — 
Her  whom  they  loved  so  well !  — 

Ah  me  I  the  mourning  in  that  ship, 
I  dare  not  try  to  tell ! 

*  Pwen  and  Enna.  names  of  endearment  among  Ih''  IJun- 
iiians,  very  commonly  applied  to  children. — Ed. 

711 


E£ 


KE 


And  how  they  wept,  and  how  they  prayed. 

And  sleeping  or  awake. 
How  one  great  grief  came  crushingly, 

As  if  their  hearts  would  break. 

At  length  they  reached  a  distant  shore, 

A   beautiful,  bright  land, 
And  crowds  of  pitying  strangers  came. 

And  took  them  by  the  hand. 

And  Abby  found  a  pleasant  home, 

And  Pwen,  and  Enna  too; 
But  poor  papa's  sad  thoughts  turned  back. 

To  Burmah  and  to  you. 

He  talked  of  wretched  heathen  men. 
With  none  to  do  them  good; 

Of  children  who  are  taught  to  bow 
To  gods  of  stone  and  wood. 

He  told  me  of  his  darling  boys. 

Poor  orphans  far  away. 
With  no  mamma  to  kiss  their  lips, 

Or  teach  them  how  to  pray. 

And  would  I  be  tlieir  new  mamma, 

And  join  the  little  band 
Of  those,  who  for  the  Saviour's  sake, 

Dwell  in  a  heathen  land? 

And  when  1  knew  how  good  he  was, 

I  said  that  I  would  come  ; 
I  thought  it  would  be  sweet  to  live 

In  such  a  precious  home ; 

And  look  to  dear  papa  for  smiles, 
And  hear  him  talk  and  pray  ; 

But  then  I  knew  not  it  would  grow 
Still  sweeter  every  day. 

Oh,  if  your  first  mamma  could  see, 
From  her  bright  home  above. 

How  much  of  happiness  is  here. 
How  much  there  is  of  love, 

'Twould  glad  her  angel  heart.  I  know, 

And  often  would  she  come. 
Gliding  with  noiseless  spirit-slep, 

.About  her  olden  home. 

3Iuch  do  I  love  my  darling  boys, 
And  much  do  you  love  me;  — 

Our  Heavenly  Father  sent  me  here. 
Your  new  mamma  to  be. 

And  if  I  closely  follow  him, 

And  hold  your  little  hands. 
I  hope  to  lead  you  up  to  heaven, 

To  join  the  angel  bands. 

Then  with  papa,  and  both  mammas. 

And  her  who  went  before. 
And  Christ  who  loves  you  more  than  :ill, 

Ye  '11  dwell  for  ever  more. 
!main.  1849. 


K. 

KEAN,    ELLEN, 

Obtainkd  her  celebrity  as  an  actress  under  her 
maiden  name,  Miss  Tree.  She  was  born  in  1805, 
in  London,  and  first  appeared  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  1823,  when  about  eighteen  years  of  age. 
She  did  not  take  the  town  by  storm,  as  some 
actresses  have  burst  into  fame  ;  but  her  graceful 
and  lady-like  manner  won  the  good-will  of  her 
audience,  and  she  rose  in  her  profession  by  real 
merit,  both  of  character  and  mind. 

In  1837,  she  visited  America,  and  was  very  suc- 
cessful in  her  theatrical  engagements.  After  her 
return  to  England,  she  married  Charles  Kean,   an 


actor  well  known  for  his  constant  efforts  to  imi- 
tate the  manner  of  his  father,  the  distinguished 
Edmund  Kean.  Shortly  after  their  marriage, 
Charles  Kean  and  his  wife  came  to  America,  and 
made  a  professional  tour  through  the  principal 
cities :  the  wife  was  greeted  as  an  old  favourite ; 
but  she  was  not  the  Ellen  Tree  whom  the  people 
had  loved.  Mrs.  Kean  now  resides  with  her  hus- 
band in  England,  having,  we  believe,  retired  from 
the  stage. 

KEMBLE,    FRANCES   ANNE, 

Is  THE  daughter  of  Mr.  Charles  Kemble,  an 
actor  of  high  reputation,  and  for  many  years  a 
favourite  with  the  public.  Dramatic  talent  ap- 
pears a  natural  inheritance  in  the  Kemble  family  : 
Mrs.  Siddons,  her  brother  .John  Kemble,  and  her 
niece,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  have  occupied  by 
acclamation,  the  very  highest  places  in  their  pro- 
fession. Many  of  the  other  members  have  arisen 
above  mediocrity  as  artists,  among  whom  an  ho- 
nourable rank  must  be  assigned  to  Mrs.  Sartoris, 
who,  before  her  marriage,  was  very  favourably 
received  as  a  singer  under  the  name  of  Adelaide 
Kemble. 


Fanny  Kemble  was  born  in  London,  about  the 
year  1813,  and  made  her  first  appearance  on  the 
London  boards  in  1829,  in  the  character  of  .Juliet. 
The  highest  enthusiasm  was  excited  in  her  favour. 
Her  extreme  youth,  which  admirably  suited  the 
impersonation,  rendered  her  conception  of  the 
passion  and  poetry  remarkable.  The  British  pub- 
lic at  once  stamped  her  by  their  approval,  as  an 
actress  of  genius,  and  she  became  distinguished 
as  a  new  star  in  the  histrionic  art. 

In  1832,  Miss  Kemble  came  with  her  father  to 
the  United  States,  wliere  her  theatrical  career  was 
marked  by  unbounded  success,  and  her  talents 
were  warmly  admired.  In  1834,  she  was  married 
to  Pierce  Butler,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,  a  gentle- 
man of  large  fortune.  The  unhappy  termination 
of  this  marriage  is  well  known.  After  many  do- 
mestic difficulties,  a  mutual  divorce  was  granted 
the  husband  and  wife  in  1849,  and  Mrs.  Butler 

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immediately  resumed  her  name  of  Kemble.  We 
must,  in  justice,  observe  here,  that  Mrs.  Kemble's 
bitterest  enemies  have  never  charged  her  witli  the 
slightest  deviation  from  the  laws  of  conjugal  fide- 
lity; that  her  fame  is  spotless,  and  her  position  in 
society  exactly  what  it  ever  was.  Mrs.  Kemble  is 
a  woman  of  varied  powers  ;  she  has  been  success- 
ful in  literature,  particularly  in  poetry ;  display- 
ing an  ardent  impassioned  fancy,  which  mule 
critics  consider  the  true  fire  of  genius.  Some  of 
her  shorter  poems  are  wonderfully  impressive ;  but 
she  often  mars  what  would  otherwise  be  very 
charming,  by  epithets  a  little  too  Shaksperian,  a 
little  too  much  savoui'ing  of  the  art  for  which  she 
was  educated,  and  which  are,  to  her,  familiar  ex- 
pressions. Such  words  give  a  flavour,  a  taste  of 
the  antique,  when  read  in  their  oi'igiual  places ; 
we  consider  them  inadmissible  in  the  writings  of 
a  poet,  a  lady  poet  of  our  day ;  they  aj^pear  like 
aifectation  or  want  of  resource ;  and  sometimes 
like  want  of  delicacy. 

The  drama  first  claimed  the  genius  of  Fanny 
Kemble.  At  a  very  early  age  she  wrote  a  tra- 
gedy—  "Francis  the  First,"  which  has  passed 
through  ten  editions.  Her  next  work  was  "  The 
Star  of  Seville;"  both  have  been  acted  with  suc- 
cess ;  and  evince  a  maturity  of  mind,  and  a  range 
of  reading  very  uncommon  for  a  young  lady.  In 
1834,  appeared  her  first  work  in  prose,  a  "  Jour- 
nal," descriptive,  chiefly,  of  the  United  States. 
The  youthful  petulance  and  foolish  prejudices  ex- 
hibited in  this  work  have  been,  we  believe,  mvich 
regretted  by  the  author ;  at  any  rate,  her  stric- 
tures have  long  ago  ceased  to  trouble  the  jjeople 
of  America,  and  we  leave  the  book  to  its  quiet 
slumber  in  the  past.  In  1844,  her  "Poems"  were 
published,  and  in  1847  appeared  her  second  prose 
work,  "  A  Year  of  Consolation  ;"  being  a  descrip- 
tion of  her  tour  through  France  to  Rome,  and  her 
residence  in  that  city.  In  this,  as  in  her  former 
prose  work,  the  strong  feelings  which  Mrs.  Kemble 
possesses,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  which  pos- 
sess her,  find  large  scope. 

She  looks  at  the  world  through  the  medium  of 
her  own  emotions,  and  whatever  may  be  under 
discussion — the  Pope,  the  people,  or  the  pine 
swamps  of  Georgia,  the  chief  point  to  be  consid- 
ered is  —  what  Mrs.  Kemble  suffered  or  enjoyed. 
Unfortunately,  too,  she  is  among  those  travellers 
who  are  nervously  sensible  to  every  dcsagremmt; 
this  is  a  constitutional  defect,  and  as  really  de- 
serving pity  as  poverty,  or  sickness,  for  like  them, 
it  prevents  the  enjoyment  of  life's  varied  current. 
A  French  wit  has  said  of  such  —  "  lis  meurent  a 
cent  ans,  ayant  toujours  1' avenir  devant  eux  — 
regrettants  le  pass6  et  se  plaignent  du  present  dont 
ils  n' ont  pas  su  jouer."  When  uninfluenced  by 
these  "  noires  vapeurs,"  Mrs.  Kemble  shows  that 
she  possesses  a  fund  of  good  sense,  and  a  heart 
filled  with  kind  .iiid  benevolent  affections.  Her 
style  is  open  to  criticism ;  passages  of  exquisite 
beauty,  chiefly  descriptive,  might  be  selected  — 
but  she  indulges  in  slang  expressions  and  coarse 
epithets,  that  are  entirely  unwarrantable,  coming 
from  a  woman  of  taste,  and  a  poetess. 

In  1849,  Mrs.  Kemble  commenced  a  series  of 


Shakspeare  "Readings,"  in  which  her  remarkable 
versatility  of  powers  is  exhibited  in  a  manner 
as  striking,  and  more  wonderful,  than  on  the 
stage.  Among  her  admirers,  there  are  those,  who, 
judging  from  her  "  readings,"  pronounce  her  the 
best  Macbeth,  and  the  truest  Lear  which  have 
ever  been  applauded ;  while  others  deem  she  is 
inimitable  in  Falstafl".  In  1850,  she  left  America 
for  England,  and  during  the  winter  of  18-51  was 
giving  her  Shaksperian  "  Readings  "  in  London. 

We  cannot  but  feel,  while  reviewing  the  events 
of  Mrs.  Kemble's  career,  that  her  purposes  have 
been  broken  ofi",  her  plans  of  life  disappointed, 
and  her  pursuits  changed,  before  she  had  time  or 
opportunity  of  doing  the  best  she  could  in  any  one 
department  of  literature  or  art.  We  do  not  hold 
the  opinion  that  genius  is  doomed  to  suffering  ; 
we  trust  brighter  days  are  in  store  for  Mrs.  Kem- 
ble, and  look  forward  to  her  mature  years  produc- 
ing works  that  will  hold  a  higher  place  in  Female 
Literature  than  any  she  has  yet  published.  As  a 
woman  of  commanding  genius,  she  might  do  much 
for  her  own  sex  —  not  by  ahjuring  feminine  deli- 
cacy of  character,  dress,  or  language,  but  by  illus- 
trating, as  she  could  do  —  "the  holiness  that  cir- 
cles round  a  fair  and  virtuous  woman,"  and  the 
influence  such  may  wield. 

From  "  A  Year  of  Consolation." 
A    NIGHT    OF    TERROR. 

My  dismay  and  indignation  were  intense ;  the 
rain  was  pouring,  the  wind  roaring,  and  it  was 
twelve  o'clock  at  night.  The  inn  into  which  we 
were  shown,  was  the  most  horrible  cut-throat 
looking  hole  I  ever  beheld ;  all  the  members  of 
the  household  were  gone  to  bed,  except  a  dirty, 
sleepy,  stupid  serving-girl,  who  ushered  us  into  a 
kitchen  as  black  as  darkness  itself  and  a  single 
tallow-candle  could  make  it,  and  then  informed  us 
that  here  we  must  pass  the  night,  for  that  the 
coaches  which  generally  came  up  to  meet  our  con- 
veyance, had  not  been  able  to  come  over  the  moun- 
tains on  account  of  the  heavy  snow  for  several 
days.  I  was  excessively  frightened  ;  the  look  of 
the  place  was  horrible,  that  of  the  people  not  at 
all  encouraging;  when  the  conducicur  demanded 
the  price  of  the  coach,  which  I  then  recollected, 
the  Chef  de  Bureau  had  most  cautiously  refused 
to  receive,  because  then  I  should  have  found  out 
that  I  was  not  going  to  Chalons  in  his  coach,  but 
to  be  shot  out  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Morvan, 
midway  between  Chalons  and  Nevers.  I  refused 
to  pay  until,  according  to  agreement,  I  was  taken 
to  CImlons ;  he  then  refused  to  deliver  up  my  bag- 
gage, and  I  saw  that  all  resistance  was  vain,  where- 
upon I  paid  the  money,  and  retreated  again  to  the 

black  filthy  kitchen,  where  I  had  left  poor , 

bidding  her  not  stir  from  the  side  of  my  dressing- 
case  and  writing-box  I  had  left  in  her  charge, 
with  my  precious  letters  of  credit  and  money-bag. 

The  fire  of  the  kitchen  was  now  invaded  by  a 
tall  brawny-looking  man  in  a  sort  of  rough  sport- 
ing costume ;  his  gun  and  game-bags  lay  on  the 
dresser ;  two  abominable  dogs  he  had  with  him 
went  running  in  and  out  between  our  feet,  pursu- 
ing each  other,  and  all  but  knocking  us  dnv  n.     I 

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•wxs  so  terrified,  disgusted,  and  annoyed,  that  I 
literally  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  could  have 
found  it  in  my  heart  to  have  cried  for  very  covr- 
ardice.  I  asked  this  person  what  was  to  be  done; 
he  answered  me  that  he  was  in  the  same  jsredica- 
ment  with  myself,  and  that  I  could  do,  if  I  liked, 
as  he  should,  —  walk  over  the  mountain  to  Autun 
the  next  day. 

"What  was  the  distance?" 

"  Ten  leagues."     (Thirty  miles.) 

I  smiled  a  sort  of  verjuice  smile,  and  replied  — 
"  Even  if  we  two  women  could  walk  thirty  miles 
through  the  snow,  what  was  to  become  of  my  bag- 
gage ?" 

"Oh,  he  did  not  know;  perhaps,  if  the  snow 
was  not  higher  than  the  horse's  bellies,  or  if  the 
labourers  of  the  district  had  been  clearing  out  the 
roads  at  all,  the  master  of  the  house  might  con- 
trive some  means  of  sending  us  on." 

In  the  midst  of  the  agony  of  perplexity  and 
anxiety,  which  all  these  2}erhajjses  occasioned  me, 
I  heard  that  the  devilish  conductor  and  convey- 
ance which  had  brought  me  to  this  horrid  hole, 
would  return  to  Nevers  the  next  day  at  five  o'clock, 
and  making  up  my  mind,  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  to  return  by  it  thither,  and  having  blown 
the  perfidious  Chef  de  Bureau  of  the  country  dili- 
gence higher  than  he  had  sent  me  in  his  coach, 
take  the  Paris  diligence  on  its  way  through  Nevers 
for  Lyons  straight, — this,  of  course,  at  the  cost  of 
so  much  time  and  money  wasted. 

AVith  this  alternative,  I  had  my  luggage  carried 
up  to  my  room,  and  followed  it  with  my  faithful 
and  most  invaluable ,  who  was  neither  dis- 
couraged, nor  frightened,  nor  foolish,  —  nor  any- 
thing that  I  was, — but  comported  herself  to  ad- 
miration. The  room  we  were  shown  into  was  fear- 
ful looking ;  the  wind  blew  down  the  huge  black 
gaping  chimney,  and  sent  the  poor  fire,  we  were 
endeavouring  in  vain  to  kindle,  in  eye-smarting 
clouds  into  our  faces.  The  fender  and  fire-irons 
were  rusty  and  broken,  the  ceiling  cracked  all 
over,  the  floor  sunken,  and  an  inch  thick  with  filth 
and  dirt.  I  threw  open  the  shutters  of  the  window, 
and  saw  opposite  against  the  black  sky,  the  yet 
thicker  outline  of  the  wretched  hovels  opposite, 
and  satisfied,  that  at  any  rate  we  were  in  the  vici- 
nity of  human  beings  of  some  description,  we  piled 
our  trunks  up  against  a  door  that  opened  into 
some  other  room,  locked  the  one  that  gave  en- 
trance from  the  passage,  and  with  one  lighted  tal- 
low candle,  and  one  relay,  and  a  box  of  matches 
by  my  bed-side,  I  threw  myself  all  dressed  upon 

the  bed.     did  the  same  upon  a  sofa,  and 

thus  we  resigned  ourselves  to  pass  the  night. 

ARRIVAL    AT    VALEXCE AMERICAN  WOMAN. 

I  thought,  too,  of  America,  of  the  honour  and 
security  in  which  a  woman  might  traverse  alone 
from  Georgia  to  Maine,  that  vast  country,  certain 
of  assistance,  attention,  the  most  respectful  civi- 
lity, the  most  humane  protection,  from  every  man 
she  meets,  without  the  fear  of  injury  or  insult, 
screened  by  the  most  sacred  and  universal  care 
from  even  the  appearance  of  neglect  or  imperti- 
nence—  travelling  alone  with  as  much  safety  and 


comfort  as  though  she  were  the  sister  or  the  daugh- 
ter of  every  man  she  meets. 

MY    OWN    SPIRIT. 

"  Up,  and  be  doing,"  is  the  impulse  for  ever 
with  me ;  and  when  I  ask  myself,  both  sadly  and 
scornfully,  what  ?  both  my  nature  and  my  convic- 
tions repeat  the  call,  "up,  and  be  doing;"  for 
surely  there  is  something  to  be  done  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  and  to  find  out  what,  is  the  ap- 
pointed work  of  the  onward-tending  soul. 

ROME. 

Here  (as  every  where)  we  were  pursued  by  the 
shameless,  wretched  pauperism  that  disgusts  and 
pains  one  the  whole  time,  and  makes  the  ruined 
aspect  of  the  great  outwiiid  things  about  one 
cheerful,  compared  with  tho  abject  degradation  of 
that  which  God  has  made  in  his  own  image.  Oh ! 
I  would  not  live  among  these  people  for  any  thing 
in  the  world ;  and  when  I  think  of  England  and 
America,  I  thank  God  that  I  was  born  in  the  one, 
and  shall  live  in  the  other. 

From  ■'  Francis  the  First." 

A    FAIR  ^XD    VIRTUOUS    WOMAN. 

And  I  marvel,  sir, 
At  those  who  do  not  feel  the  majesty,  — 
By  heaven  !  I  'd  almost  said  the  holiness, — 
That  circles  round  a  fair  and  virtuous  woman  I 
There  is  a  gentle  purity  that  breathes 
In  such  a  one,  mingled  with  chaste  respect. 
And  modest  pride  of  her  own  excellence,— 
A  shrinking  nature,  that  is  so  adverse 
To  aught  unseemly,  that  I  could  as  soon 
Forget  the  sacred  love  I  owe  to  heaven. 
As  dare,  with  impure  thoughts,  to  taint  the  air 
Inhaled  by  such  a  being;  than  whom,  my  liege, 
Heaven  cannot  look  on  anything  more  holy, 
Or  earth  be  proud  of  anything  more  fair. 

woman's  heart. 

.\  young  maiden's  heart 
Is  a  rich  soil,  wherein  lie  many  germs. 
Hid  by  the  cunning  hand  of  nature  there 
To  put  forth  blossoms  in  their  fittest  season  , 
And  tho'  the  love  of  home  first  breaks  the  soil 
With  its  embracing  tendrils  clasping  it, 
Other  afl'ections,  strong  and  warm,  will  grow, 
While  that  one  fades,  as  summer's  flush  of  bloom 
Succeeds  the  gentle  budding  of  the  spring. 
Maids  must  be  wives,  and  mothers,  to  fulfil 
Th'  entire  and  holiest  end  of  woman's  being. 

From  "  The  Star  of  Seville." 

AN    OLD    HOME. 

r  love  that  dear  old  home  !     My  mother  lived  there 

Her  first  sweet  marriage  years,  and  last  sad  widowed  ones ; 

Something  of  old  ancestral  pride  it  keeps. 

Though  fallen  from  its  earlier  power  and  vastness: 

Marry  !  we  're  not  so  wealthy  as  we  were. 

Nor  yet  so  warlike;  still  it  holds  enough 

Of  ancient  strength  and  state  to  prompt  the  memory 

To  many  a  "  wherefore,"  and  for  every  answer 

You  shall  have  stories  long  and  wonderful. 

Enough  to  make  a  balladmonger's  fortune. 

Old  trees  do  grow  around  its  old  grey  walls. 

The  fellows  of  my  mouldering  grandfathers: 

Faith !  they  do  mock  us  with  their  young  old  age. 

These  giant  wearers  of  a  thousand  summers! 

Strange,  that  Ihe  seed  we  sow  should  bloom  and  flourish 

When  we  are  faded,  flower,  fruit,  and  all ; 

Or,  for  all  things  to  tend  to  reproduction, 

Serving  th'  eternal  purposes  of  life. 

Drawing  a  vigorous  sap  into  their  veins 

From  the  soil  our  very  bodies  fertilize. 

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From  "  Poems." 
SONG. 

Yet  once  again,  but  nnce,  before  we  sever. 
Fill  me  one  briniming  cup,  —  it  is  tlie  last ! 

And  let  those  lips,  now  parting,  and  for  ever. 
Breathe  o'er  this  pledge,—"  the  memory  of  the  past ! 

Joy's  fleeting  sun  is  set;  and  no  to-morrow 
Smiles  on  the  gloomy  path  we  tread  so  fast, 

Vet,  in  the  bitter  cnp,  o'erfilled  with  sorrow, 
Lives  one  sweet  drop,  —  the  memory  of  the  past. 

But  one  more  look  from  those  dear  eyes,  now  shining 
Thro'  their  warm  tears,  their  loveliest  and  tlieir  last ; 

But  one  more  strain  of  hands,  in  friendship  twining. 
Now  farewell  all,  save  memory  of  the  past. 


SONNET. 

Say  thou  not  sadly,  "  never,"  and  "  no  more," 

But  from  thy  lips  banish  those  falsest  words ; 
While  life  remains,  that  which  was  thine  before 
Again  may  be  thine;  in  Time's  store-house  lie 

Days,  hours,  and  moments,  ihat  have  unknown  hoards 
Of  joy,  as  well  as  sorrow:  passing  by. 
Smiles  comes  with  tears;  therefore  with  hopeful  eye 
Look  thou  on  dear  things,  though  they  turn  away, 
For  thou  and  they,  perchance,  some  future  day 
Shall  meet  again,  and  the  gone  bliss  return  ; 
For  its  departure  then  make  thou  no  mourn. 
But  with  stout  heart  bid  what  thou  lov'st  farewell; 
That  which  the  past  hath  given,  the  future  gives  as  well. 


A    MOTHER  S    MEMORIES. 

The  blossoms  hang  again  upon  the  tree 

As  when  with  tlieir  sweet  breath  they  greeted  me. 

Against  my  casement,  on  that  sunny  morn. 

When  thou,  first  blossom  of  my  spring,  wast  born  ; 

And  as  I  lay,  panting  from  the  fierce  strife 

With  death  and  agony  that  won  thy  life. 

Their  sunny  clusters  hung  on  their  brown  bough, 

E'ew  as  upon  my  breast,  my  iMay-bud,  thou  ; 

They  seem  to  be  thy  sisters,  oh,  my  child ! 

And  now  the  air,  full  of  their  fragrance  mild. 

Recalls  that  hour;  a  ten-fold  agony 

Pulls  at  my  heart-strings  as  I  think  of  thee 

W'as  it  in  vain  ?    Oh,  was  it  all  in  vain  ! 

That  night  of  hope,  of  terror,  and  of  pain. 

When  from  the  shadowy  boundaries  of  death, 

I  brought  thee  safely,  breathing  living  breath 

Upon  my  heart  — it  was  a  holy  shrine. 

Full  of  God's  praise  —  they  laid  thee,  treasure  mine! 

And  from  its  tender  depths  the  blue  heaven  smiled, 

And  the  white  blossoms  bowed  to  thee,  my  child. 

And  solemn  joy  of  a  new  life  was  spread. 

Like  a  mysterious  halo  round  that  bed. 

And  now  how  is  it,  since  eleven  years 

Have  steeped  that  memory  in  bitterest  tears? 

Alone,  heart-broken,  on  a  distant  shore. 

Thy  childless  mother  sits  lamenting  o'er 

Flowers,  which  the  spring  calls  from  this  foreign  earth. 

The  twins,  that  crowned  the  morning  of  thy  birth. 

How  is  it  with  thee  —  lost  —  lost  —  precious  one  ? 

In  thy  fresh  spring-time  growing  up  alone  ? 

What  warmth  unfnlds  thee  ?    What  sweet  dews  are  shed. 

Like  Love  and  Patience,  over  thy  young  head? 

What  holy  springs  feed  thy  deep,  inner  life? 

What  shelters  thee  from  Passion's  deadly  strife  ? 

What  guards  thy  growth,  straight,  strong,  and  full,  ami 

free. 
Lovely  and  glorious,  oh,  my  fair  young  tree  ? 
God  —  Father  — thou  who,  by  this  awful  fate. 
Hast  lopp'd,  and  siripp'd,  ami  left  me  desolate! 
In  the  dark  bitter  floods  that  o'er  my  soul 
'J'heir  billows  of  de.-pair  triumphant  roll. 
Let  me  not  be  oerwhelmed  I     Oh,  they  are  thine. 
These  jewels  of  my  life  —  not  mine  —  not  mini- ! 
bo  keep  tliem,  that  the  blossoms  of  their  youth 
!?liall  in  a  gracious  growth  of  love  and  truth, 
With  :in  abundant  harvest  honour  '111  e. 


ABSENCE. 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  1  see  thy  face? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense. 

Weary  with  longing  shall  I  flee  away. 
Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 

Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time  ? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  lock'd  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime? 

Oh!  how,  or  by  what  means,  shall  I  contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near? 

How  shall  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here? 

I'll  tell  thee;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee. 

In  Worthy  deeds  each  moment  that  is  told, 
While  thou,  beloved  one  !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  homeward  flights,  all  hiszh  and  holy  strains. 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  tliese  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes  pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time,  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 
More  good  than  I  have  won,  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 
A  thousand  graces  which  shall  thus  be  thine; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be. 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


LINES    FROM    THE    ITALIAN. 

I  planted  in  my  heart  one  seed  of  love, 

Water'd  with  tears,  and  walch'd  with  sleepless  care; 
It  grew,  and  when  I  look'd  that  it  should  prove 

A  gracious  tree,  and  blessed  harvests  bear. 
Blossom  nor  fruit  was  there  to  crown  my  pain. 
Tears,  cares  and  labour,  all  had  been  in  vain; 
And  yet  I  dare  not  pluck  it  from  my  licart. 
Lest,  with  the  deep-struck  root,  my  life  depart. 

KENT,  DUCHESS  OF, 
Is  the  sixth  chihl  and  youngest  d.iughter  of 
Francis  Duke  of  Saxe  Saalfield  Cobourg,  and  was 
born  Atigust  17th,  1786.  She  ivas  married  to 
Enrich  Charles,  hereditary  Prince  of  Leiningen. 
Her  husband  died  in  1814,  leaving  her  with  two 
children,  the  Prince  of  Leiningen,  and  the  Princess 
Anna  Feodoronna.  She  was  then  called  to  the 
regency,  and  her  administration  was  popular  and 
respected.  In  1818,  she  married  the  Duke  of 
Kent,  son  of  George  III,,  of  England,  and  on  the 
24th  of  May,  1819,  her  only  child  by  this  mar- 
riage, Victoria,  Queen  of  England,  was  born  in 
Kensington  Palace. 

To  understand  how  deeply  Great  Britain  is  in- 
debted to  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  for  the  exceeding 
care  she  bestowed  in  training  her  illustrious  daugh- 
ter, so  tliat  she  might  be  worthy  to  sway  the  scep- 
tre of  that  great  empire,  some  knowledge  of  tlie 
history  of  Victoria's  father  is  indispensable.  Ed- 
ward, Duke  of  Kent,  fourth  son  of  George  III., 
was,   according  to  a  reliable  work,*  the  noblest 

♦"The  Life  of  Field  Marshal  his  Royal  Highness  Ed- 
ward, Duke  of  Kent,"  &c.  By  Erskine  Neal,  M.  A.,  Rector 
i,f  Kirlon,  &c.     London:  1849.      ' 

716 


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and  best  of  all  the  sons  of  that  royal  house.  Yet 
these  virtues,  particularly  his  unflinching  truth- 
fulness, made  him  dreaded,  disliked  and  perse- 
cuted, from  his  youth  till  his  death,  by  the  influ- 
ential members  of  the  royal  family.  It  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  procured  the  means 
of  leaving  Amorbach,  (a  small  town  in  Germany, 
where  he  had  been  residing  with  his  wife)  for  Eng- 
land, in  time  for  her  confinement.  The  Duke 
wished  his  child  to  be  born  in  the  country  where 
it  might  be  destined  to  rule. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  one  of  his  let- 
ters, dated  March  19th,  1819,  to  Dr.  Rudge:  — 

"  The  interesting  situation  of  the  duchess  causes 
me  houi-ly  anxiety  ;  and  you,  who  so  well  know 
my  views  and  feelings,  can  well  appreciate  how 
eagerly  desirous  I  am  to  hasten  our  departure  for 
Old  England,  lite  event  is  thought  likely  to  occur 
about  the  end  of  next  month.  My  wish  is,  that  it 
may  take  place  on  the  4th  of  June,  as  this  is  the 
^irth-day  of  my  revered  father ;  and  that  the  child, 
too,  like  him,  may  be  a  Briton-born." 

The  Duchess  earnestly  participated  in  the  desire 
to  reach  England;  but  that  "  I'oyal  profligate," 
the  prince  regent,  threw  every  possible  perplexity 
in  the  way.  These  were  at  last  overcome;  firm, 
devoted,  but  untitled,  and,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, humble  friends,  in  England  made  the  requi- 
site remittances,  and  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Kent  reached  Kensington  Palace  in  time  to  have 
their  daughter  a  Briton-born.  But  her  royal  fa- 
ther lived  only  eight  months  after  her  birth,  and 
the  bereaved  widow  was  left  to  endure  a  thousand 
anxieties  as  well  as  sorrows.  Her  babe  was  deli- 
cate in  constitution,  and  the  means  for  educating 
her  as  the  heir  expectant  of  the  most  powerful 
monarchy  in  the  world,  were  inadequately  and 
grudgingly  supplied.  None  but  a  soul  of  the 
highest  order  could  have  successfully  struggled 
with  the  difficulties  which  beset  the  course  of  the 
Duchess  of  Kent.  She  was  equal  to  her  task,  for- 
tunately for  humanity ;  the  whole  world  is  made 
better  from  having  on  the  throne  of  Great  Britain 
a  sovereign  who  is  firm  in  duty.  The  sketch  of 
Queen  Victoria  will  be  found  in  its  place  — we  will 
only  add  here,  that,  for  the  right  formation  of  her 
character,  which  makes  duty  a  sacred  principle 
in  her  conduct,  she  must  have  been  indebted,  in  a 
great  measure,  to  her  early  ti'aining.  Let  any 
mother,  who  has  endeavoured  to  train  her  own 
daughter  to  perform  the  duties  which,  in  private 
life,  and  in  a  small  circle,  devolve  on  woman,  con- 
sider what  conscientious  care  it  has  required ; 
what  sacrifices  of  self,  what  daily  examples  as 
well  as  precepts  in  the  right  way  ;  — and  then  she 
may,  partly,  estimate  the  merits  of  the  mother  of 
such  a  woman  as  Victoria  I.  of  England.  How 
excellent  must  have  been  the  character  that  could 
acquire  the  authority  and  influence  necessary  to 
direct  well  and  wisely  the  education  of  a  young 
Princess  !  This  was  done,  too,  amidst  serious  ob- 
stacles and  many  discouragements.  Miss  Landon 
in  her  charming  way,  addresses  a  poem  to  the 
Duchess  of  Kent,  containing  this  touching  allu- 
eion : — 


"Oil!  many  a  dark  and  sorrowing  liour 
Thy  widow'd  heart  had  known, 
Before  the  bud  became  a  flower,  — 
The  orphan  on  a  tlirone." 

The  Duchess  of  Kent  should  hold  a  noble  rank 
among  women  worthily  distinguished;  she  has 
performed  great  and  important  duties  with  such 
rare  firmness,  faithfulness  and  success  as  makes 
her  a  model  for  mothers  in  every  rank  of  life. 

KIRKLAND,   CAROLINE   M., 

Whose  maiden  name  was  Stansbury,  was  born 
in  New  York.  At  an  early  age  she  was  married 
to  Mr.  William  Kirkland,  a  scholar  of  great  ac- 
quirements, and  also  highly  esteemed  as  a  man  of 
much  moral  excellence  of  character.  At  the  time 
of  their  marriage  he  resigned  a  professorship  in 
Hamilton  College,  and  established  a  seminary  in 
the  town  of  Goshen,  on  Lake  Seneca.  A  few  years 
afterwards  he  removed  with  his  family  to  the  then 
new  State  of  Michigan,  and  made  that  experiment 
of  "  Forest  Life,"  which  gave  opportunity  for  the 
development  of  Mrs.  Kirkland's  lively  and  obser- 
vant genius,  and  also  furnished  matei'ial  for  her 
racy  and  entertaining  works  on  Western  manners 
and  habits. 

In  1839,  her  first  book, — "A  New  Home  — 
Who  '11  Follow  ?  or.  Glimpses  of  Western  Life.  — 
By  Mrs.  Mary  Clavers,  an  Actual  Settler,"  was 
published  in  Boston.  The  freshness  of  feeling  and 
piquancy  of  style  displayed  in  the  woi'k,  won  the 
public  voice  at  once  ;  and  its  author  gained  a  ce- 
lebrity vei'y  flattering  to  a  literary  debutant.  This 
may  be  considered,  on  the  whole,  Mrs.  Kirkland's 
best  production,  without  disi^aragiug  its  succes- 
sors. "The  New  Home"  has  originality,  wit, 
propriety  of  thought,  and  kindliness  of  feeling 
abounding  in  its  pages,  and  it  would  scarcely  have 
been  possible  for  its  author  to  excel  again  in  the 
same  line.  "Forest  Life,"  in  two  volumes,  was 
the  next  work  of  Mrs.  Kirkland  —  it  has  chapters 
of  equal  merit  to  the  "New  Home,"  but  as  a 
whole,  is  inferior.  The  most  striking  peculiari- 
ties of  character  and  landscape  had  been  already 
sketched  with  a  firm  and  clear  outline,  that  needed 
no  additional  touches;  new  views  of  what  had  been 
presented  with  so  much  life  and  spirit,  seemed  but 
the  fatal  "too  much,"  which  the  seduction  of  ap- 
plause often  draws  from  genius. 

In  1842,  Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  Kirkland  returned  to  New 
York  city,  where  Mr.  Kirkland  became  proprietor 
of  a  journal  of  a  religious  and  literary  character, 
the  editing  of  which  was  in  accordance  with  his 
views  and  tastes.  Mrs.  Kirkland  now  engaged  in 
that  profession  which  we  think  more  deserving  of 
honour  than  mere  literary  pursuits ;  she  became 
teacher  and  guide  of  a  select  school  for  young 
ladies,  whom  she  received  into  her  own  family. 
She  did  not,  however,  abandon  her  pen ;  and  in 
1845,  appeared  "  Western  Clearings,"  a  series  of 
stories  founded  on  her  reminiscences  of  life  in  the 
AVest.  These  had  before  appeared  in  "  Annuals," 
written  for  the  occasion  and  without  connexion, 
and  can  only  be  judged  separate!}',  as  clever  of 
their  kind;  some  are  very  charming,  and  some  very 

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humorous ;  we  wouLl  instance  "  The  Schoolmas- 
ter's Progress"  as  among  the  latter,  and  "Half- 
Lengths  from  Life"  as  an  excellent  specimen  of 
iSIrs.  Kirkland's  sensible  and  just  mode  of  think- 
ing, and  her  happy  manner  of  describing  character. 

The  sudden  death  of  her  husband  devolving  on 
Mrs.  Kirkland  the  whole  care  of  her  children, 
called  forth  her  energies  as  an  author  in  a  new 
manner.  She  became  editor  of  a  monthly  periodi- 
cal, published  in  New  York,  called  The  Union 
IMagazine.  In  1848,  this  was  transferred  to  Phi- 
ladelphia, and  is  now  known  as  "Sartain's;"  she 
still  continues  one  of  its  editors. 

In  1848,  Mrs.  Kirkland  visited  the  Old  "World ; 
she  has  recorded  her  impressions  in  a  work,  en- 
titled, "Holidays  Abroad,"  a  pleasant  volume. 
Besides  her  natural  gifts,  Mrs.  Kirkland  is  a  woman 
of  highly  cultivated  mind ;  and  from  her  extensive 
opportunities  for  reading  and  observation,  we  may 
reasonably  hope  for  some  work  from  her  pen  supe- 
rior to  any  she  has  yet  given  the  public. 

From  "  A  New  Home,"  &c. 
NEW    SETTLEKS    AT    THE    WEST. 

Of  the  mingled  mass  of  our  country  population, 
a  goodly  and  handsome  proportion  —  goodly  as  to 
numbers,  and  handsome  as  to  cheeks  and  lips, 
and  thews  and  sinews — consists  of  young  married 
people  just  beginning  the  world;  simple  in  their 
habits,  moderate  in  their  aspirations,  and  hoard- 
ing a  little  of  old-fashioned  romance,  unconsciously 
enough,  in  the  secret  nooks  of  their  rustic  hearts. 
These  find  no  fault  with  their  bare  loggeries. 
With  a  shelter  and  a  handful  of  furniture,  they 
have  enough.  If  there  is'  the  wherewithal  to 
spread  a  warm  supper  for  "  th'  old  man,"  when 
lie  comes  in  from  work,  the  young  wife  forgets  the 
long,  solitary,  u-ordlcss  day,  and  asks  no  greater 
happiness  than  preparing  it  by  the  help  of  such 
materials  and  such  utensils  as  would  be  looked  at 
with  utter  contempt  in  a  comfortable  kitchen;  and 
then  the  youthful  pair  sit  down  and  enjoy  it  toge- 
ther, with  a  zest  that  the  "orffirs  pa?-faites"  of  the 
epicure  can  never  awaken.  What  lack  they  that 
this  world  can  bestow  ?  They  have  youth,  and 
health,  and  love  and  hope,  occupation  and  amuse- 
ment, and  when  you  have  added  "meat,  clothes, 
and  fire,"  what  more  has  England's  fair  young 
queen  ?     These  people  are  contented,  of  course. 

Another  large  class  of  emigrants  is  composed  of 
people  of  broken  fortunes,  or  who  have  been  un- 
successful in  past  undertakings.  These  like  or 
dislike  the  country  on  various  grounds,  as  their 
peculiar  condition  may  vary.  Those  who  are  for- 
tunate or  industrious,  look  at  their  new  home 
with  a  kindly  eye.  Those  who  learn  by  expe- 
rience that  idlers  are  no  better  off  in  Michigan 
than  elsewhere,  can  find  no  term  too  virulent  in 
which  to  express  their  angry  disappointment. 
The  profligate  and  unprincipled  lead  stormy  and 
uncomfortable  lives  anywhere;  and  Michigan,  now 
at  least,  begins  to  regard  such  characters  among 
lier  adopted  children  with  a  stern  and  unfriendly 
rye,  so  that  the  few  who  may  have  come  among 


us,  hoping  for  the  unwatched  and  unbridled  license 
Avhich  we  read  of  in  regions  nearer  to  the  setting 
sun,  find  themselves  marked  and  shunned,  as  in 
the  older  world. 

IMPROVEMENTS    AND    ENJOYMENTS. 

As  women  feel  sensibly  the  deficiencies  of  the 
"salvage"  state,  so  they  are  the  first  to  attempt 
the  refining  process,  the  introduction  of  those 
important  nothings  on  which  so  much  depends. 
Small  additions  to  the  more  delicate  or  showy 
part  of  the  household  gear  are  accomplished  by 
the  aid  of  some  little  extra  personal  exertion. 
"Spinning-money"  buys  a  looking-glass,  perhaps, 
or  "butter-money"  a  nice  cherry-table.  Eglan- 
tines and  wooil-vine,  or  wild-cucumber,  are  sought 
and  transplanted  to  shade  the  windows.  Narrow 
beds  round  the  house  are  bright  with  balsams  and 
sweet-williams,  four  o'clocks,  poppies,  and  mari- 
golds;  and  if  "th'  old  man"  is  good-natured,  a 
little  gate  takes  the  place  of  the  great  awkward 
bars  before  the  door.  By  and  by,  a  few  apple- 
trees  are  set  out ;  sweet-briers  grace  the  door- 
yard,  and  lilacs  and  currant-bushes;  all  by  female 
effort  —  at  least  I  have  never  yet  happened  to  see 
it  otherwise,  where  these  improvements  have  been 
made  at  all.  They  are  not  all  accomplished  by 
her  own  hand,  indeed ;  but  hers  is  the  moving 
spirit,  and  if  she  do  her  "spiriting  gently,"  and 
has  anything  but  a  Caliban  for  a  minister,  she  can 
scarcely  fail  to  throw  over  the  real  homeliness  of 
her  lot  something  of  the  magic  of  that  Ideal  which 
has  been  truly  sung  — 

Nymph  of  our  soul,  and  brightener  of  our  being  ; 
She  makes  the  common  waters  musical  — 
Binds  the  rude  night-winds  in  a  silver  thrall. 
Bids  Hybla's  thyme  and  Tempe's  violet  dwell 
Round  the  green  marge  of  lier  inoon-haunted  cell. 
******* 

This  shadowy  power,  or  power  of  shadows,  is  the 
"arch-vanqiiisher  of  time  and  care"  everywhere; 
but  most  of  all  needed  in  the  waveless  calm  of  a 
strictly  woodland  life,  and  there  most  enjoyed. 
The  lovers  of  "unwritten  poetry"  may  find  it  in 
the  daily  talk  of  our  rustic  neighbours  —  in  their 
superstitions — in  the  remedies  which  they  propose 
for  every  ill  of  humanity,  the  ideal  makes  the 
charm  of  their  life  as  it  does  that  of  all  the  world's, 
peer  and  poet,  woodcutter  and  serving-maid. 

After  allowing  due  weight  to  the  many  disad- 
vantages and  trials  of  a  new  country-life,  it  would 
scarce  be  fair  to  pass  without  notice  the  compen- 
sating power  of  a  feeling,  inherent,  as  I  believe, 
in  our  universal  nature,  which  rejoices  in  that 
freedom  from  the  restraints  of  pride  and  ceremony 
which  is  found  only  in  a  new  country.  To  borrow 
from  a  brilliant  writer  of  our  own,  "I  think  we 
have  an  instinct,  dulled  by  civilization,  which  is 
like  the  caged  eaglet's,  or  the  antelope's  that  is 
reared  in  the  Arab's  tent ;  an  instinct  of  nature 
that  scorns  boundary  and  chain ;  that  yearns  to 
the  free  desert ;  that  would  have  the  earth  like 
the  sky,  unappropriated  and  open ;  that  rejoices 
in  immeasurable  liberty  of  foot  and  dwelling- 
place,  and  springs  passionately  back  to  its  free- 


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dom,  even  after  years  of  subduing  method  and 
spirit-breaking  confinement! " 

This  "instinct,"  so  beautifully  noticed  by  Willis, 
is  what  I  would  point  to  as  the  compensating 
power  of  the  wilderness.  Those  who  are  "to  the 
manor  born,"  feel  this  most  sensibly,  and  pity, 
with  all  their  simple  hearts,  the  walled-up  deni- 
zens of  the  city.  And  the  transplanted  ones  — 
those  who  have  been  used  to  no  forests  but 
"forests  of  chimneys"  —  though  "the  parted 
bosom  clings  to  wonted  home,"  soon  learn  to 
think  nature  no  step-mother,  and  to  discover 
many  redeeming  points  even  in  the  half-wild  state 
at  first  so  uncongenial. 

That  this  love  of  unbounded  and  unceremonious 
liberty  is  a  natural  and  universal  feeling,  needs 
no  argument  to  show ;  I  am  only  applying  it  on  a 
small  scale  to  the  novel  condition  in  which  I  find 
myself  in  the  woods  of  Michigan.  I  ascribe  much 
of  the  placid  contentment,  which  seems  the  heri- 
tage of  rural  life,  to  the  constant  familiarity  with 
woods  and  waters  — 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  innrning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even  ; 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  yields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  lieaven  — 

to  the  harmony  which  the  Creator  has  instituted 
between  the  animate  and  inanimate  works  of  His 
hands. 

A    DEBATING    SOCIETY    AT    THE    WEST. 

One  evening — I  hope  that  beginning  prepares 
the  reader  for  something  highly  interesting —  one 
evening  the  question  to  be  debated  was  the  equally 
novel  and  striking  one  which  regards  the  compa- 
rative mental  capacity  of  the  sexes  ;  and  as  it  was 
expected  that  some  of  the  best  speakers  on  both 
sides  would  be  drawn  out  by  the  interesting  na- 
ture of  the  subject,  every  body  was  anxious  to 
attend. 

The  debate  was  interesting  to  absolute  breath- 
lessness,  both  of  speakers  and  hearers,  and  was 
gallantly  decided  in  favour  of  the  fair  by  a  j'outh- 
ful  member  who  occvipied  the  barrel  as  president 
for  the  evening.  He  gave  it  as  his  decided  opi- 
nion, that  if  the  natural  and  social  disadvantages 
under  which  woman  laboured  and  must  ever  con- 
tinue to  labour,  could  be  removed ;  if  their  edu- 
cation could  be  entirely  diiferent,  and  their  posi- 
tion in  society  the  reverse  of  what  it  is  at  present, 
they  would  be  very  nearly,  if  not  quite  equal  to 
the  nobler  sex,  in  all  but  strength  of  mind,  in 
which  very  useful  quality  it  was  liis  opinion  that 
man  would  still  have  the  advantage,  especially  in 
those  communities  whose  energies  were  developed 
by  the  aid  of  debating  societies. 

From  "Sartain's  Magazine." 
THE    INFLUENCE    OF    DRESS. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  reflex  influence  in  dress. 
One  of  the  best  ways  of  inspiring  the  degraded 
with  self-respect  is  to  supply  them  with  decent 
and  suitable  clothing.  We  are  wholly  unable,  at 
any  stagt  of  cultivation,  to  withstand  this  influ- 
ence. No  lady  is  the  same  in  a  careless  and  un- 
tasteful  morning  envelop,  and  an  elegant  evening 


dress;  the  former  lowers  her  tone  —  depreciates 
her  to  herself,  even  though  the  latter  may  be  quite 
incapable  of  inspiring  her  with  pride.  No  man 
feels  quite  at  ease  in  a  shining  new  coat;  he  is 
conscious  of  an  inequality  between  his  present 
self  and  the  old  friend  whom  he  could  have  met 
so  warmly  yesterday.  The  friend  may  not  notice 
the  coat  or  its  influence,  but  the  wearer  never  for- 
gets it.  The  Spectator,  or  some  one  of  those  cun- 
ning old  observers,  tells  of  a  young  lady  who  car- 
ried herself  with  unusual  hauteur,  and  seemed  to 
feel  a  new  consciousness  of  power,  upon  no  greater 
occasion  than  the  wearing  of  a  new  pair  of  ele- 
gant garters.  This  afi^ords  an  argument  both  for 
and  against  dress.  We  ought  not  to  wear  what 
makes  us  proud  and  creates  a  secret  contempt  of 
others ;  but  neither  should  we  neglect  any  thing 
that  aids  our  self-respect  and  keeps  our  spirits  at 
the  proper  pitch.  Some  parents,  from  the  best 
motives  in  the  world,  do  their  children  serious  in- 
jury by  wilfully  denying  them  such  dress  as  may 
put  them  on  an  outward  equality  with  their  young 
companions,  or  make  them  feel  equal.  It  is  in 
vain  to  he  philosophical  for  other  people ;  we  must 
convince  their  judgments  and  bring  them  over  to 
our  way  of  thinking,  before  we  can  obtain  true 
and  healthy  conformity.  We  submit  with  toler- 
able grace  to  restraints  rendered  necessary  by  cir- 
cumstances, but  those  which  appear  to  us  capri- 
cious or  arbitrary  do  not  often  make  us  better, 
especially  where  they  touch  our  pride  —  that  tis- 
sue of  irritable  nerves  in  which  our  moral  being 
is  enwrapt. 

*  *  *  «  * 

When  we  are  used  to  the  feeling  which  accom- 
panies rich  and  recherche  costume,  a  lower  style 
seems  to  us  mean  and  unworthy,  especially  on 
ourselves  —  it  is  well  if  the  influence  go  no  fur- 
ther. What  pitiable  instances  we  see  of  a  depres- 
sion that  has  no  better  source  than  the  lack  of 
means  to  dress  expensively,  after  the  habit  hud 
been  formed ;  what  a  craven  spirit  is  that  which 
has  nothing  better  to  sustain  it  than  the  conscious- 
ness of  elegant  clothing  !     Poor  human  nature ! 

DRESS    OF    SERVANTS. 

Every  one  must  have  noticed  the  eflfect  of  dress 
upon  the  character  and  condition  of  servants. 
Those  who  have  grown  up  in  houses  where  slat- 
ternly personal  habits  are  allowed,  never  become 
really  respectable,  even  although  they  may  have 
many  good  qualities.  They  do  not  respect  them- 
selves, and  their  sympathy  with  their  employers 
is  blunted  by  the  great  difference  in  outward  ap- 
pearance. It  is  true  that  domestics  sometimes 
act  so  earnestly  upon  this  principle,  that  they  end 
in  erring  on  the  side  of  too  much  attention  to  cos- 
tume. We  remember  once,  and  once  only,  finding 
at  a  foreign  hotel  a  chambermaid  dressed  in  silk, 
with  artificial  roses  in  her  hair ;  the  feeling  that 
she  would  not  be  of  much  use  to  us  flashing  across 
the  mind  at  once.  English  servants  hit  the  happy 
medium  oftener  than  any  other;  their  tidiness 
suggests  alacrity,  and  we  have  a  comfortable  as- 
surance of  being  well  served,  as  soon  as  we  look 
upon  them.     It  is  odd  what  a  difference  one  feels 

718 


LE 


LE 


in  offering  a  gratuity  to  a  well  or  ill-dressed  at- 
tendant in  travelling.  Shabbiness  favours  our  pe- 
nuriousness,  most  remarkably !  The  eye  scans 
the  expectant  instinctively,  and  instead  of  the 
generous  impulse  to  give  most  liberally  to  those 
who  need,  ■we  graduate  our  donation  by  the  pro- 
bable expectation  of  one  who  lias  evidently  not 
found  the  world  very  generous.  If  the  servant  be 
well  enough  dressed  to  bespeak  independence,  and 
especially  if  he  be  gifted  with  the  modest  assurance 
which  is  often  both  cause  and  consequence  of  good 
fortune,  pride  whispers  us  at  once  not  to  disgust 
so  genteel  a  person  by  a  shabby  gift,  and  we  be- 
stow on  success  what  we  should  grudge  to  ne- 
cessity 

DRESS    OF    LADIES. 

Women  generally  liave  an  intense  dislike  to  the 
picturesque  style  in  female  dress,  and  they  are  not 
at  all  apt  to  think  favourably  of  the  stray  sheep 
who  adopt  it.  Some  "ill-advis'd"  persons  fancy 
that  ladies  dress  for  the  eyes  of  gentlemen,  but 
this  opinion  shows  little  knowledge  of  the  sex. 
Gentlemen  dress  for  ladies,  but  ladies  for  each 
other.  The  anxiety  that  is  felt  about  the  peculi- 
arities of  fashion,  the  chase  after  novelty,  the 
thirst  for  expense,  all  refer  to  women's  judgment 
and  admiration,  for  of  these  particulars  men  know 
nothing.  Here  we  touch  upon  the  point  in  ques- 
tion. Women  wlio  depart  from  fashion  in  search 
of  the  picturesque  are  suspected  of  a  special  de- 
sire to  be  charming  to  the  other  sex,  a  fault  natu- 
rally unpardonable,  for  ought  we  not  all  to  start 
fair?  Has  any  individual  a  right  to  be  weaving 
private  nets,  and  using  unauthorized  charms?  A 
lady  who  values  her  chax-acter,  had  better  not  pre- 
tend to  be  independent  of  the  fashion.  The  extra 
admiration  of  a  few  of  her  more  poetical  beaux 
will  not  compensate  for  the  angry  sarcasms  she 
must  expect  from  her  own  sex.  This  is  a  matter 
in  which  we  find  it  hard  to  be  merciful,  or  even 
candid. 

Shall  the  becoming,  then,  be  sacrificed  to  the 
caprices  of  fashion,  which  consults  neither  com- 
plexion, shape,  nor  air,  but  considers  the  female 
sex  only  as  a  sort  of  dough,  which  is  to  be  moulded 
at  pleasure,  and  squeezed  into  all  possible  forms, 
at  the  waving  of  a  wand  ?  We  do  not  go  so  far. 
There  are  rules  of  taste,  —  standards  of  grace  and 
beauty,  — boundaries  of  modesty  and  propriety,  — 
restraints  of  Christian  benevolence.  Saving  and 
excepting  the  claims  of  these,  we  say  follow  the 
fashion  enough  to  avoid  singularity,  and  do  not 
set  up  to  be  an  inventor  in  costume. 


LEE,    HANNAH   F., 

Is  now  a  resident  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  of 
which  state  she  is  a  native.  Her  birth-place  was 
Newburyport,  where  her  father  was  an  eminent 
physician.  Mrs.  Lee  has  for  many  years  been  a 
widow,  and  so  situated  as  not  to  be  influenced  by 
pecuniary  motives  in  devoting  a  part  of  her  time 


to  literature.  She  wrote  from  a  full  heart,  sym- 
pathizing with  those  who  suffered  from  lack  of 
knowledge  respecting  the  causes  of  their  troubles. 
Her  "Three  Experiments  of  Living,"  published 
about  18S8,  was  written  during  a  season  of  com- 
mercial distress,  when  every  one  was  complaining 
of  "hard  times."  She  embodied  in  this  tale  the 
thoughts  suggested  by  scenes  around  her,  without 
any  idea  of  publication.  The  friends  who  read 
her  manuscript  insisted  on  its  being  printed,  and 
one  of  them,  the  late  John  Pickering,  Esq.,  well 
known  in  the  literary  and  scientific  world,  gave 
the  manuscript  to  the  printer,  and  saw  to  its  exe- 
cution. The  unparalleled  success  of  this  work 
justified  his  opinion.  Edition  after  edition  was 
called  for,  (about  thirty  have  been  issued  in  Ame- 
rica,) and  we  may  say,  that  in  no  country  has  a 
work,  teaching  the  morals  of  domestic  life,  met 
with  such  success.  It  circulated  widely  from  the 
English  press,  and  was  advertised  in  large  letters 
in  the  bookstores  at  Dresden.  The  name  of  the 
author  was  for  a  long  time  unknown,  as  Mrs.  Lee 
had  never  prefixed  it  to  any  publication. 

Her  next  work  was  the  "  Old  Painters,"  written 
with  the  earnest  desire  of  benefiting  youth  by 
mingling  instruction  with  amusement.  Her  suc- 
ceeding works,  "Luther  and  his  Times,"  "Cran- 
mer  and  his  Times,"  and  the  "  Huguenots  in 
France  and  America,"  were  written  from  the  same 
motive.  Mrs.  Lee's  first  publication  was  entitled 
"Grace  Seymour,"  a  novel.  Nearly  the  whole 
edition  of  this  work  was  burnt  in  the  great  fire  at 
New  York,  before  many  of  the  volumes  had  been 
bound  and  issued.  She  has  never  reprinted  it, 
though  some  of  her  friends  think  it  one  of  her 
best  writings.  Another  little  book,  "Rosanna,  or 
Scenes  in  Boston,"  was  written  by  particular  de- 
sire, to  increase  the  funds  of  a  charity  school. 
As  her  name  has  not  been  prefixed  to  any  of  her 
books,  it  is  impossible  to  enumerate  all  which 
have  proceeded  from  her  pen ;  we  may,  however, 
mention  a  volume  of  tales,  and  also  several  small 
tracts.  One  of  tliese,  "  Rich  Enough,"  was  written 
to  illustrate  the  insane  desire  of  accumulating 
wealth  which  at  that  time  prevailed.  The  "Con- 
trast, or  Different  Modes  of  Education,"  "  The 
World  before  You,  or  the  Log-Cabin,"  are  titles 
of  two  of  her  other  little  books.  In  1849,  she 
published  a  small  volume  of  "Stories  from  Life 
for  the  Young."  Her  first  knoicn  publication  was 
the  appendix  to  Miss  Hannah  Adams'  memoir  of 
herself,  edited  by  Dr.  Joseph  Tuckerman.  Nearly 
all  Mrs.  Lee's  works  have  been  republished  in 
England. 

In  contrasting  the  genius  of  the  sexes,  we  should 
always  estimate  the  moral  effect  of  mental  power; 
the  genius  which  causes  or  creates  the  greatest 
amount  of  good  to  humanity  should  take  the 
highest  rank.  The  Hon.  John  Pickering,  to  whom 
allusion  is  made  as  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Lee,  was  a 
profound  scholar,  an  eminent  lawyer,  a  philolo- 
gist of  high  attainments  ;  and  yet,  probably,  the 
greatest  benefit  his  talents  conferred  on  his  coun- 
try, was  his  aid  and  encouragement  in  developing 
the  talents  of  Mrs.  Lee.  Her  moral  influence  has 
had  a  power  for  good  OTer  domestic  life,  and  oa 

719 


LE 


LE 


the  formation  of  character,  which  incalculably 
outweighs  all  speculative  i^hilosophies.  Great 
reverence  is  due  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Pickering 
for  his  high  estimation  of  woman's  moral  power. 

From  "  Three  Experiments  of  Living." 
BEGINNING    LIFE. 

Most  young  physicians  begin  life  with  some  de- 
gree of  patronage,  but  Frank  Fulton  had  none ; 
he  came  to  the  city  a  stranger,  from  the  wilds  of 
Vermont,  fell  in  love  with  Jane  Churchwood,  — 
uncle  Joshua's  niece, — a  man  whom  nobody  knew, 
and  whose  independence  consisted  in  limiting  his 
wants  to  his  means.  What  little  he  could  do  for 
Jane,  he  cheerfully  did.  But  after  all  necessary 
expenses  were  paid,  the  young  people  had  but 
just  enough  between  them  to  secure  their  first 
quarter's  board,  and  place  a  sign  on  the  coi-ner 
of  the  house,  by  special  permission,  with  Doctor 
Fulton  handsomely  inscribed  upon  it.  The  sign 
seemed  to  excite  but  little  attention, — as  nobody 
called  to  see  the  owner  of  it,  — though  he  was  at 
home  every  hour  in  the  day. 

After  a  week  of  patient  expectation,  which  could 
not  be  said  to  pass  heavily,  —  for  they  worked, 
read  and  talked  together, — Frank  thought  it  best 
to  add  to  the  sign.  Practises  for  the  poor  gratis.  At 
the  end  of  a  few  days  another  clause  was  added, 
Furnishes  medicines  to  those  who  cannot  afford  to  pay 
for  them.  In  a  very  short  time,  the  passers  by 
stopped  to  spell  out  the  words,  and  Frank  soon 
began  to  reap  the  benefit  of  this  addition.  Various 
applications  were  made,  and  though  they  did  not 
as  yet  promise  any  increase  of  revenue,  he  was 
willing  to  pay  for  the  first  stepping-stone.  What 
had  begun,  however,  from  true  New  England  cal- 
culation, was  continued  from  benevolence.  He  was 
introduced  to  scenes  of  misery,  that  made  him  for- 
get all  but  the  desire  of  relieving  the  wretchedness 
he  witnessed ;  and  when  he  related  to  his  young 
and  tender-hearted  wife,  the  situation  in  which 
he  found  a  mother  confined  to  her  bed,  with  two 
or  three  helpless  children  crying  around  her  for 
bread,  Jane  would  put  on  her  straw  bonnet,  and 
follow  him  with  a  light  step  to  the  dreary  abode. 
The  first  quarter's  board  came  round ;  it  was  paid, 
and  left  them  nearly  penniless.  There  is  some- 
thing in  benevolent  purpose,  as  well  as  in  indus- 
try, 'that  cheers  and  supports  the  mind.  Never 
was  Jane's  step  lighter,  nor  her  smile  gayer,  than 
at  present.  But  this  could  not  last;  the  next 
quarter's  board  must  be  provided,  —  and  how? 
Still  the  work  of  mercy  went  on,  and  did  not 
grow  slack. 

THE    REWARD. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  dwell  longer  on  this 
period  of  Dr.  Fulton's  life.  It  was  one  of  honest 
independence.  Their  pleasures  were  home  plea- 
sures,—  the  purest  and  the  most  satisfactory  that 
this  world  affords.  We  cannot  but  admit  that 
they  might  have  been  elevated  and  increased  by 
deeper  and  more  fervent  principle.  Nature  had 
been  bountiful  in  giving  them  kind  and  gentle  dis- 
positions, and  generous  emotions  ;  but  the  bark, 
with   its   swelling   sails   and    gay  strearaerp,   that 


moves  so  gallantly  over  the  rippling  waters,  strug- 
gles feebly  against  the  rushing  wind  and  foaming 
wave.  Prosperous  as  Frank  might  be  considered, 
he  had  attained  no  success  beyond  what  every 
industrious,  capable  young  man  may  obtain,  who, 
from  his  first  setting  out  in  life,  scrupulously 
limits  his  expenses  within  his  means.  This  is,  in 
fact,  to  be  his  text-book  and  his  a>gis.  Not  what 
others  do, — not  what  seems  necessary  and  fitting 
to  his  station  in  life, — but  what  he,  who  knows 
his  own  afl^airs,  can  decide  is  in  ^reality  fitting. 
Shall  we,  who  so  much  prize  our  independence, 
give  up  what,  in  a  political  view  alone,  is  dross, 
compared  to  independence  of  character  and  habits? 
Shall  we,  who  can  call  master  spirits  from  every 
portion  of  our  land,  to  attest  to  the  hard-earned 
victory  of  freedom  and  independence,  give  up  the 
glorious  prize,  and  sutfer  our  minds  to  be  subju- 
gated by  foreign  luxuries  and  habits  ?  Yet  it  is 
even  so ;  they  are  fast  invading  our  land ;  they 
have  already  taken  possession  of  our  sea-ports, 
and  are  hastening  towards  the  interior.  Well  may 
British  travellers  scofl",  when  they  come  amongst 
us,  and  see  our  own  native  Americans  adopting 
the  most  frivolous  parts  of  civilized  life, — its 
feathers  and  gewgaws,  —  our  habits  and  customs 
made  up  of  awkward  imitations  of  English  and 
French ;  our  weak  attempts  at  aristocracy ;  our 
late  hours  of  visiting,  for  which  no  possible  reason 
can  be  assigned,  but  that  they  do  so  in  Europe ! 
Let  us  rather,  with  true  independence,  adopt  the 
good  of  every  nation, — their  arts  and  improve- 
ments,— their  noble  and  liberal  institutions, — their 
literature,  —  and  the  grace  and  real  refinement  of 
their  manners;  but  let  us  strive  to  retain  our  sim- 
plicity, our  sense  of  what  is  consistent  with  our 
own  glorious  calling,  and  above  all,  the  honesty 
and  wisdom  of  living  within  our  income,  whatever 
it  may  be.  This  is  our  true  standard.  Let  those 
who  can  aiford  it,  consult  their  own  taste  in  living. 
If  they  prefer  elegance  of  furniture,  who  has  a 
right  to  gainsay  it  ?  But  let  us  not  all  aim  at  the 
same  luxury.  Perhaps  it  is  this  consciousness 
of  unsuccessful  imitation  that  has  given  a  colour 
to  the  charge  made  against  us,  by  the  English,  of 
undue  irritability.  Truly,  there  is  nothing  more 
likely  to  produce  it.  Let  us  pursue  our  path  with 
a  firm  and  steadfast  purpose,  as  did  our  fathers 
of  the  Ptevolution,  and  we  shall  little  regard  those 
who,  after  receiving  our  hospitality,  retire  to  a 
distance,  and  pelt  us  with  rubbish. 

LIVING    BEYOND    THE    MEANS. 

Jane  was  not  behind  Mrs.  Bradish,  in  costume 
or  figure.  Every  morning,  at  the  hour  for  calls, 
she  was  elegantly  attired  for  visitors.  Many  came 
from  curiosity.  Mrs.  Hart  congratulated  her  dear 
friend,  on  seeing  her  moving  in  a  sphere  for  which 
it  was  evident  nature  intended  her.  Mrs.  Reed 
cautioned  her  against  any  mauvaise  hontc,  that 
might  remind  one  of  former  times.  Others  ad- 
mired her  furniture  and  arrangements,  without 
any  sly  allusions.  On  one  of  these  gala  mornings, 
uncle  Joshua  was  ushered  into  the  room.  Jane 
was  fortunately  alone,  and  she  went  forward  and 
offered  two  finr;erg  with  a  cordial  air.  but  whis- 

720 


LE 


LE 


pered  to  the  servant,  "if  any  one  else  called  while 
lie  was  there,  to  say  she  was  engaged."  She  had 
scrupulously  observed  her  promise,  of  never  send- 
i  ig  word  she  was  not  at  home.  There  was  a 
ui(>ck  kind  of  deference  in  his  air  and  manner, 
that  embarrassed  Jane. 

"  So,"  said  he,  looking  round  him,  "  we  have  a 
palace  here !" 

"  The  house  we  were  in  was  quite  too  small, 
now  that  our  children  are  growing  so  large,"  re- 
plied .Jane. 

"  They  must  be  greatly  beyond  the  common 
size,"  said  uncle  Joshua,  "if  that  house  could  not 
hold  them." 

"  It  was  a  very  inconvenient  one ;  and  we 
thought,  as  it  was  a  monstrous  rent,  it  would  do 
better  to  take  another.  Then,  after  we  had  bought 
tliis,  it  certainly  was  best  to  furnish  it  comfortably, 
as  it  was  for  life." 

"  Is  it  paid  for?"  asked  uncle  Joshua,  drily. 

Jane  hesitated. 

"Paid  for?     0  certainly;  that  is, — yes,  sir." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ;  otherwise,  I  much  doubt 
if  it  is  taken  for  life." 

Jane  was  silent. 

"  Very  comfortable,"  said  uncle  Joshua;  "that 
is  a  comfortable  glass  for  your  husband  to  shave 
by ;  and  those  are  comfortable  curtains,  to  keep 
out  the  sun  and  cold."  Both  of  these  articles 
were  strikingly  elegant.  "  That  is  a  comfortable 
lamp  that  hangs  in  the  middle  of  the  room  ;  it 
almost  puts  out  my  eyes  with  its  glass  danglers. 
Times  are  strangely  altered,  Jane,  since  you  and 
I  thought  such  comforts  necessary." 

"  Frank  has  been  very  successful  in  his  specu- 
lations, uncle ;  he  does  not  now  depend  on  his  pro- 
fession for  a  living ;  indeed,  he  thinks  it  his  duty 
to  live  as  other  people  do,  and  place  his  wife  and 
children  upon  an  equality  with  others." 

"And  what  do  you  call  an  equality, — living  as 
luxuriously,  and  wasting  as  much  time,  as  they 
do  ?  Dwelling  in  as  costly  apartments,  and  for- 
getting thei-e  is  any  other  world  than  this  ?  When 
you  were  left  to  my  care,  and  your  dear  mother 
was  gone  from  us,  how  often  I  lamented  that  I 
could  not  supply  her  place, — that  I  could  not 
better  talk  to  you  of  another  world,  to  which  she 
had  gone ;  but  then,  Jane,  I  comforted  myself  that 
I  knew  something  of  the  duties  that  belonged  to 
this,  and  that,  if  I  faithfully  instructed  you  in 
these,  I  should  be  preparing  you  for  another. 
When  I  saw  you  growing  up,  dutiful  and  humble, 
charitable  and  self-denying,  sincere,  and  a  con- 
scientious disciple  of  truth,  then  I  felt  satisfied 
that  all  was  well.  But  I  begin  now  to  fear  that  it 
was  a  short-sighted  kind  of  instruction, — that  it 
had  not  power  enough  to  enable  us  to  hold  fast  to 
what  is  right.  I  begin  now  to  see  that  we  must 
have  motives  that  do  not  depond  on  the  praise  or 
censure  of  this  world, — motives  that  must  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Frank  told  me  the  other  day,"  said  Jane, 
"that  he  thought  you  were  growing  quite  reli- 
gious." 

"If  I  am,"  said  uncle  Joshua,  "it  is  from  the 
conviction  that  I  want  higher  motives  than  this 
2  V 


world  can  give.  When  I  lost  you,  Jane,  I  was  a 
poor  solitary  being.  The  world,  you  know,  is  not 
much  to  me,  and  I  was  still  less  to  that.  For  a 
time,  you  were  still  my  own  Jane ;  but  when  your 
family  increased,  and  —  as  was  very  natural — you 
were  occupied  by  it,  then  I  was  thrown  quite  on 
myself.  And  a  dreary  prospect  it  was.  Then  I 
asked  myself,  if  all  was  to  end  here  ?  Not  but 
what  I  believed  in  another  world,  but  it  was  just 
as  I  believed  in  England  or  France :  but  now, 
Jane,  I  have  thought  it  over,  till  I  feel  that  heaven 
is  a  land  I  am  going  to,  and  the  Bible  my  chart 
to  steer  by ;  and  I  am  no  longer  solitary  or  alone. 
Now,  my  dear  Jane,  I  want  you  to  believe  it." 

"I  do,  uncle,"  said  Jane,  affectionately;  "you 
always  taught  me  that  my  mother  had  gone  to 
heaven,  and  that  if  I  was  good,  I  should  go,  too." 

"Ah,  but,  my  dear  child,  I  want  you  to  feel  it, 
—  to  feel  the  comfort  and  blessing  of  God's  pre- 
sence. It  seems  to  me  that  when  we  once  realize 
the  glory  of  heaven,  we  shall  not  think  much  of 
these  earthly  palaces.  Do  not  wait  till  j'ou  go  to 
heaven,  to  realize  God's  presence,  but  feel  that  he 
is  with  you  always, — teach  it  to  your  children, — 
win  your  husband  to  the  truth." 


LESLIE,    ELIZA, 

Is  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  where  she  has  re- 
sided the  greater  portion  of  her  life.  Her  paternal 
ancestors  were  from  Scotland ;  her  gi-eat-grand- 
father,  Robert  Leslie,  eiiiigrated  to  the  then  colony 
of  INIaryland  about  the  year  1745.  The  father  of 
Miss  Leslie  removed  ti.  Philadelphia  before  she 
was  born ;  but  he  had  pr.n-iously  married,  in  Mary- 
land, the  grandaughter  of  a  worthy  Swede ;  and 
thus  Miss  Leslie,  who  jias  been  criticised  as  an 
English  authoress,  "  ha^  not,"  to  quote  her  own 
words,  "a  drop  of  English  blood  in  her  veins." 
The  mistake  probably  ar^se  from  the  circumstance 
that,  when  she  was  a  child,  her  father  took  his 
family  with  him  to  London  for  a  few  years,  and 
afterwards  to  Portugal ;  and  her  brother,  Charles 
Leslie,  the  distinguished  artist,  settled  in  London. 
This  American  family  of  Leslies  are  very  talented, 
and,  moreover,  have  won  success,  which  genius 

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does  not  always  achieve.  Miss  Anne  Leslie,  a 
younger  sister  of  Miss  Eliza,  has  succeeded,  as  an 
artist,  beyond  what  females  usually  do ;  she  has 
copied  her  brother's  pictures  with  such  truth  and 
spirit,  that  her  work  is  often  mistaken  for  the 
original. 

After  the  return  of  Mr.  Leslie,  Senior,  to  Phila- 
delphia, he  engaged  in  business ;  yet,  being  fond 
of  books,  he  devoted  much  of  his  time,  while 
abroad  and  when  in  his  own  land,  to  mathematics 
and  natural  philosophy.  These  pursuits  brought 
him,  before  he  went  abroad,  into  intimacy  with 
Franklin,  Jefferson,  Rittenhouse,  and  other  philo- 
sophers of  the  day ;  and  his  reminiscences  of 
these  distinguished  men  had,  doubtless,  an  abiding 
influence  on  the  mind  of  his  young  and  gifted 
daughter,  the  bent  of  whose  genius  has  always 
been  towards  the  useful  and  practical. 

Miss  Leslie's  first  book,  "  Seventy-Five  Re- 
ceipts," a  little  manual  to  assist  ladies  in  their 
housekeeping,  owed  its  appearance  to  this  desire 
of  being  useful.  She  had  had  the  benefit  of  an 
institution,  peculiar  to  Philadelphia,  which  may 
be  termed  "A  Cooking  School  for  Young  Ladies," 
where  practical  instruction  was  given  in  the  mys- 
teries of  making  cakes,  pastry,  preserves,  &c.  At 
this  school,  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Goodfellow, 
(no  relation  of  Robin,)  who  acquired  a  great  repu- 
tation in  her  way.  Miss  Leslie  not  only  graduated 
among  the  highest,  but  she  had  the  good  sense  to 
secure  her  acquirements  by  taking  notes.  She 
soon  found  herself  the  authority  to  whom  appeal 
was  made,  on  any  special  occasion,  for  this  scien- 
tific skill  in  cookery.  She  grew  tired  of  writing 
out  receipts  for  her  "five  hundred  friends,"  and, 
yielding  to  the  counsels  of  her  brother,  prepared 
the  book  for  publication,  about  the  year  1829. 
Its  success  was  so  signal,  that  the  publisher  pro- 
posed to  Jliss  Leslie  the  writing  of  a  work  for 
children.  With  much  persuasion,  she  was  pre- 
vailed on  to  undertake  this,  and  produced  several 
books  for,  juvenile  readers,  which  were  very  popu- 
lar and  useful.  "  The  Mirror"  was  the  first  of  the 
series;  then  followed  "The  Young  American," 
"Atlantic  Tales,"  "Stories  for  Emma,"  and  "The 
American  Girl's  Book,"  published  in  1832.  Prior 
to  this.  Miss  Leslie  commenced  writing  for  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,  and  her  contributions  were  con- 
tinued, with  but  slight  intermissions,  till  1850. 
She  also  contributed  to  other  periodicals,  and  has 
been  editor  of  monthlies  and  annuals.  Her  various 
papers  have  been,  in  part,  collected  and  published, 
with  the  title  of  "Pencil  Sketches,  or  Outlines  of 
Character  and  Manners."  The  first  volume  was 
published  in  1833,  and  contained  "]\Irs.  Washing- 
ton Potts,"  a  prize  tale,  which  has  been  very  much 
praised.  The  second  volume  was  published  in 
1835,  and  the  third  in  1837.  During  these  years, 
she  prepared  a  large  work  on  "  Cookery,"  which 
has  met  with  great  favour;  also,  "The  House 
Book,"  a  useful  manual  for  young  housekeepers  ; 
and  the  "Ladies'  New  Receipt  Book." 

In  1841,  "Althea  Vernon"  appeared;  and  in 
1848,  was  published  her  longest  and  most  finished 
fictitious  narrative,  "Amelia;  or  a  Young  Lady's 
Vicissitudes,"  in  one  volume.     Miss  Leslie  has 


quick  observation,  a  retentive  memory,  a  sprightly 
fancy,  and  a  persevering  mind ;  she  has  also  the 
great  merit  of  being  free  from  affectation ;  her 
purpose  is  always  to  be  useful,  to  correct  faults, 
expose  follies,  and  wage  war  with  what  is  per- 
verse and  contemptible.  If,  in  doing  this,  she 
sometimes  seems  severe  on  what  are  called  trifles, 
it  should  be  borne  in  mind,  that  from  these  little 
faults  grave  misfortunes  not  unfrequently  have 
their  origin ;  and  Miss  Leslie  is  such  a  true- 
hearted  American,  that  she  earnestly  desires  to 
aid  her  countrywomen  in  becoming  perfect.  Few 
of  our  female  writers  have  wielded  so  powerful 
an  influence,  or  been  more  widely  read.  Her 
"  Sketches  and  Stories,"  scattered  through  periodi- 
cals, are  soon  to  be  issued  in  a  convenient  form  for 
popular  circulation.  Miss  Leslie  is  now  engaged  in 
preparing  "The  Behaviour  Book;"  and  the  "Life 
of  John  Fitch,"  the  first  experimenter  in  steam  na- 
vigation. For  this,  she  has  abundant  materials,  as 
that  unfortunate  man  of  science  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  her  father's,  who  took  a  deep  interest  in 
his  projects,  afterwards  realized  by  Fulton. 

From  "  Kitty's  Relations." 
LOVE    AT    FIRST    SIGHT. 

Albert  Colesbury,  of  Philadelphia,  fell  in  love 
with  Catherine  Branchley,  of  New  York,  at  a  quar- 
ter past  ten  o'clock,  while  dancing  opposite  to  her 
on  the  evening  of  his  arrival  at  Ballston  Springs ; 
there  being  a  ball  at  the  Sans  Souci  Hotel.  Per- 
haps the  precise  moment  selected  by  Cupid  for 
directing  his  shaft  towards  the  heart  of  our  hero, 
was  that  in  which  the  young  lady  acknowledged, 
with  a  graceful  bow,  and  a  smile  of  unaff'ected 
sweetness,  his  civility  in  presenting  to  her  a  sprig 
of  jessamine  that  had  fallen  from  her  hair.  Shortly 
after,  another  sprig  of  jessamine  happened  to  fall; 
and  this  time,  Colesbury  was  so  dishonest  as  not 
to  return  it,  but  took  an  opportunity  of  slipping 
it  within  his  vest. 

When  the  set  was  over,  he  hastened  to  procure 
an  introduction  to  Miss  Branchley,  by  means  of  a 
young  New  Yorker,  whom  he  knew,  and  who  had 
just  been  dancing  with  her.  Our  hero  would  have 
gladly  engaged  her  for  the  next  set,  but  her  hand 
was  already  promised  to  another  gentleman  ;  how- 
ever, she  smilingly  consented  to  give  it  to  Coles- 
bury for  the  set  following.  Having  no  inclination 
to  dance  with  any  one  else,  he  took  his  seat  beside 
Mrs.  Seabright,  a  young  widow,  whom  he  had  fre- 
quently met  with  at  places  of  public  resort,  where 
she  generally  did  him  the  favour  to  matronize  him. 
Colesbury,  unable  to  think  of  anything  else,  broke 
forth  into  warm  encomiums  on  the  beauty  of  Miss 
Branchley,  and  even  manifested  his  intention  of 
endeavouring  to  engage  her  for  every  succeeding 
set.     To  do  him  justice,  she  really  was  pretty. 

Mrs.  Seabright  judiciously  cautioned  the  im- 
petuous inamorato  against  all  violent  measures, 
as  they  would  certainly  have  a  tendency  to  excite 
false  hopes  in  the  heart  of  a  poor  simple  girl,  who 
had  evidently  just  come  out,  and  was  of  course 
inexperienced  in  both  balls  and  beaux. 

"False  hopes!"  exclaimed  Colesbury.  "Why 
should  her  hopes  be  false  ?" 

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"Oh  !"  replied  Mrs.  Seabright,  who  considered 
herself  a  wit,  "the  heart  of  the  young  lady  may 
be  tender,  while  that  of  the  gentleman  is  only 
tinder." 

"  She  is  the  most  exquisite  creature  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life,"  returned  our  hero — "and  the  hope 
should  be  on  my  side  rather  than  on  hers.  I  am 
not  a  man  to  be  taken  by  mere  external  beauty — 
but  look  at  the  faultless  symmetry  of  her  figure ! 

"  'Tis  not  a  set  of  features,  or  complexion, 
The  tincture  of  a  skin  that  I  admire;" 

But  was  there  ever  a  purer  red  and  white,  or  a 
nose,  mouth,  and  chin,  all  more  perfectly  lovely  ? 
Yet  these  are  not  the  charms  to  make  an  impres- 
sion on  my  heart.  Only  look  at  the  heavenly  blue 
of  her  eyes,  and  the  wavy  go  of  her  hair !  Cer- 
tainly I  am  well  aware  that 

"All  that's  bright  must  fade, 
The  brightest  still  the  fleetest." 

What  pearly  teeth  she  has ;  so  even,  and  so  per- 
fect !  And  then  the  turn  of  her  head !  Still  I 
have  no  wish  to  possess  a  beautiful  casket,  unless 
it  holds  a  gem  within.  But  if,  upon  further  ac- 
quaintance with  Miss  Branchley,  I  find  her  mind 
equal  to  her  person,  I  shall  esteem  myself  the 
happiest  of  men,  if  she  will  allow  me  to  hope  for 
her  favour,  and  I  will  then  lose  no  time  in  endea- 
vouring to  secure  her  as  the  partner  of  my  life." 

"  Love  at  first  sight  is  certainly  a  most  amusing 
thing,"  remarked  Mrs.  Seabright,  "at  least  to  the 
by-standers." 

"  I  am  not  in  love,"  replied  Colesbury,  in  a 
calmer  tone  —  "not  in  the  least  in  love.  I  must 
first  be  convinced  of  the  mental  qualities  of  the 
lady." 

To  be  brief — the  next  was  a  country  dance,  and 
before  it  was  over,  Colesbury  had  ascertained  that 
Miss  Branchley's  mind  was  equal  to  her  person, 
and  his  resolution  was  taken  to  declare  himself  as 
soon  as  propriety  would  allow.  This  term  of  pro- 
bation did  not  prove  very  tedious,  for  the  import- 
ant avowal  was  made  the  very  next  morning  on 
their  way  back  from  the  spring  to  the  house ;  the 
fair  Kitty  having  looked  divinely  while  taking  the 
glass  from  the  hand  of  her  admirer,  and  holding 
it  to  her  beautiful  lips.  The  suddenness  of  the 
proposal  somewhat  startled  the  young  lady,  but 
she  neither  withdrew  her  arm,  nor  ran  away;  she 
only  held  down  her  head  and  smiled — she  had  not 
known  him  long  enough  to  blush.  And  when  he 
eagerly  inquired  if  he  might  be  permitted  to  hope, 
she  said,  "he  might  ask  her  pa." 

From  "  The  Bloxhams  and  Mayfields." 

THE    ENGLISH    RADICAL    AND    THE    AMERICAN 
CITIZEN. 

The  dinner  was  profuse  and  excellent — the  first 
the  Bloxhams  had  eaten  at  a  private  house  since 
their  arrival.  Mrs.  Bloxham,  however,  carefully 
abstained  from  tasting  of  any  article  peculiarly 
American,  and  she  also  endeavoured  to  prevent 
her  children  from  doing  so  —  telling  them  these 
strange  things  might  disagree  with  them. 

"  Why,  ma,"  said  Home  Tooke,  "you  let  us  eat 
all  sorts  of  strange  things  at  the  Spread  Eagle." 


"  That  was  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  satis- 
fying your  curiosity.  But  they  did  you  a  great 
deal  of  harm." 

"  AVhen  and  how?"  persisted  the  boy.  "How 
were  we  the  worse  for  them,  and  what  harm  did 
they  do  us?  Tell  me  that.  You  can't  say  we 
were  one  moment  sick  —  any  of  us." 

His  mother  endeavoured  to  silence  him ;  but  his 
father  tried  to  laugh,  and  said — 

"Mrs.  B.,  you'd  better  let  young  hopeful  alone. 
You'll  find  him  too  hard  for  you." 

"  He's  worse  than  ever  since  he  came  to  Ame- 
rica," murmured  Mrs.  Bloxham. 

"A  clever  lad,  sir,"  continued  Bloxham,  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Mayfield  —  "a  clever  lad,  as  you  may 
easily  perceive.  He  '11  make  a  figure  in  the  woi'ld 
yet.  You  '11  have  him  legislating  for  you  in  your 
House  of  Congress  before  fifteen  years,  and  help- 
ing to  guide,  with  tongue  of  fire,  the  restless  rud- 
der of  your  government." 

"  Tell  me  why,"  persisted  Home  Tooke,  still 
addressing  his  mother — "tell  me  why  we  were 
allowed  to  eat  squashes,  and  sweet  potatoes,  and 
pot-pie,  and  pumpkin-pudding,  and  everything  on 
the  table,  when  we  were  at  the  Spread  Eagle." 

"  Home  Tooke,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Bloxham, 
"you  are  certainly  sharp  enough  to  understand 
that  when  we  are  at  an  inn,  and  a  public  table, 
where  we  pay  all  the  same  eat  or  no  eat,  it  is  ad- 
visable to  indulge  ourselves  with  everything  that 
is  to  be  had ;  so  as  to  be  quite  sure  of  getting  the 
worth  of  our  money.  You  know  we  did  the  same 
on  board  of  ship.  Now  some  of  the  passengers 
were  always  complaining  of  the  length  of  the  voy- 
age ;  but  I  always  laughed,  and  said  —  I  did  not 
care  if  it  lasted  two  months,  as  long  as  we  were 
on  the  captain's  keep.  Ha,  ha,  ha  —  that's  me 
exactly — there 's  nothing  like  having  the  full  worth 
of  one's  money." 

"But  here  in  this  house  we  pay  no  money  at 
all,"  said  Home  Tooke,  "and  that  is  better  still. 
Ma,  I  know  very  well  what  you  are  at.  You 
want  us  to  hate  everything  in  America ;  and  so 
you  're  afraid  to  let  us  eat  any  more  of  their  nice 
victuals." 

"  The  child  does  not  know  what  he 's  talking 
about,"  said  Mrs.  Bloxham. 

"Yes  I  do,"  said  Home  Tooke;  "pa  says  I 
always  have  my  wits  about  me.  I  know  I  am  the 
brightest  of  the  family — the  only  bright  one,  too." 

"Mr.  B.,"  said  his  wife,  "I  told  you  it  would 
be  so.  There's  something  in  the  air  of  this  coun- 
try that  is  not  fit  for  English  children.  It  makes 
them  rude,  and  saucy,  and  unbiddable,  from  the 
moment  they  set  their  feet  on  the  land  of  liberty, 
as  you  call  it." 

"  Why,  I  was  just  as  bad  at  home,"  said  Home 
Tooke,  "and  I  dare  say  a  great  deal  worse;  for  I 
had  not  half  such  good  times." 

Dinner  was  at  length  over ;  and  as  they  ad- 
journed to  the  front  parlour,  Bloxham  whispered 
to  his  wife,  "This  squire  is  a  capital  fellow  —  I 
never  sat  down  to  a  better  feed." 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Mrs.  Bloxham,  "some  of  the 
family  may  hear  you." 

In   the   cool   of   the   afternoon,    Mr.    Mayfield 

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showed  his  guests  round  the  farm ;  and  the  Blox- 
ham  children  were  made  free  of  the  two  peach 
orchards ;  having  previously  made  themselves  so 
in  the  forenoon.  Bloxham  seemed  to  look  about, 
but  in  reality  saw  nothing;  for  his  whole  attention 
was  engrossed  by  hearing  himself  relate  paltry 
and  scandalous  anecdotes  of  the  king  and  queen, 
with  laudatory  digressions  on  Fox,  Sheridan,  and 
the  Duke  of  Bedford ;  talking  of  all  these  distin- 
guished men  as  familiarly  as  "maids  of  thirteen 
do  of  puppy-dogs."  He  even  hinted,  that  through 
his  intimacy  with  Sheridan  he  was  no  stranger  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  whom  he  praised  without 
measure,  as  a  noble,  generous  fellow,  that  was 
always  in  debt,  and  whose  feelings  went  entirely 
with  the  people ;  the  said  people  being  all  burst- 
ing with  impatience  for  the  time  to  arrive  when 
he  should  begin  to  reign  over  them. 

"You  know,  of  course,"  continued  Bloxham, 
"  that  the  prince  is  in  the  opposition.  The  heir 
apparent  always  is.  I  can  assure  you,  sir,  (and 
I  have  had  private  opportunities  of  knowing,)  his 
royal  highness  (heaven  bless  him)  is  a  republican 
at  heart;  a  thorough  democrat." 

"That  is  strange,"  observed  Mr.  Mayfield;  "it 
is  certainly  not  his  business  to  be  so." 

"  Then  the  greater  the  patriotism,"  pursued 
Bloxham — "To  see  how  his  royal  highness  goes 
to  the  balls  of  untitled  persons;  and  how  agree- 
able he  makes  himself  to  ladies  that  are  plain 
Miss  and  Mrs. ;  even  asking  them  to  dance.  Yes, 
yes ;  he  carries  in  his  heart's  core  the  hammer 
that  is  to  strike  off  the  grinding  chains  of  king- 
ridden  England." 

In  the  mean  time,  Mrs.  Bloxham  was  walking 
with  Mrs.  Mayfield,  and  entertaining  her  with 
accounts  of  the  vast  superiority  of  everything  in 
England  to  everything  in  America.  As  an  episode, 
she  introduced  a  minute  description  of  the  Lord 
Mayor's  show,  a  spectacle  which  her  son.  Home 
Tooke,  (who  followed  close  behind,)  averred  was 
nothing  in  comparison  to  Bartlemy  fair,  and  not 
half  so  productive  of  fun  as  Guy  Faux  day. 

The  tea-table  went  on  much  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  the  dinner-table ;  except  that  the  children 
followed  the  example  of  Home  Tooke,  and  helped 
themselves  voraciously  to  cakes,  honey,  and  sweet- 
meats ;  their  mother  no  longer  essaying  to  check 
them. 

From  "Lcoiiilla  I.ynmore." 
THE    FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Ruth  Rambo  was  a  large,  tall  woman,  habited  in 
a  dingy  brown  worsted  petticoat,  and  a  blue  calico 
long  short-gown,  in  form  something  like  the  dresses 
that,  when  worn  by  genteel  people,  are  called 
tunics.  Her  grey  hair  was  partially  covered  by  a 
cross-barred  muslin  cap,  liordered  with  coarse 
Dutch  lace,  similar  to  thnt  which  ladies,  who 
know  no  better,  now  dignify  with  the  name  of 
Brussels  and  Valenciennes.  She  had  very  cun- 
ning dark  eyes,  and,  though  grossly  ignoi-ant, 
possessed  considerable  shrewdness,  combined  with 
the  most  unblushing  assurance. 

After  taking  her  seat  behind  a  little  old  table, 
and  surveying  the  young  ladies  from  head  to  foot. 


she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  their  faces  in  such  a  man- 
ner, that  each  imagined  the  gaze  to  be  directed 
exclusively  to  herself,  and  quailed  beneath  what 
they  considered  its  almost  supei-natural  influence. 
There  was  a  silence,  which  was  at  last  broken  bj' 
the  weird-woman  pronouncing,  in  a  tone  of  awful 
solemnity,  the  monosyllable  —  "Well." 

Merial's  courage  failed ;  and  she  made  a  sign 
to  the  timid  Leonilla,  who  found  it  necessary  to 
be  spokeswoman.  "We  have  come" — said  she — 
"  to  consult  you  on  the  subject  of  your  art —  the 
art  which  you  profess.  We  have  come  to  hear 
what  are  likely  to  be  the  chief  events  of  our  future 
lives  —  in  short,  to  have  our  fortunes  told." 

"Ay  —  now  you've  got  it  right" — said  the  old 
woman  —  "I  knew,  by  my  art,  what  your  errand 
was,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you.  So  now  let  us  proceed 
to  business,  for  I  have  no  time  to  lose,  and  there 
be  them  that  are  waiting  for  me ;  but  the  last 
shall  be  first,  and  the  first  shall  be  last.  Take 
off  your  bonnets,  and  give  to  the  world  all  the 
features  of  your  visards  and  visages." 

They  did  so ;  and  the  sibyl,  contracting  her 
brows  mysteriously,  and  looking  from  the  one  to 
the  other,  slowly  uttei-ed  —  "Fate  bids  me  begin 
with  the  least  of  you"  —  pointing  her  finger  at 
Leonilla. 

Ruth  Rambo  then  drew  from  her  pocket  a  mar- 
vellous dirty  pack  of  cards,  and  said,  sternly,  to 
our  heroine  —  "How  old  are  you?  Woe  betide 
you,  if  you  do  not  tell  me  the  naked  truth." 

"  I  am  just  sixteen  and  three  months" — replied 
Leonilla. — "I  can  have  no  reason  for  misrepre- 
senting my  age." 

"Not  yet,  may  be" — replied  the  fortune-teller 
—  "but  perhaps  you  mai/  have,  when  years  have 
gone  by,  and  the  stars  begin  to  run  round  upon 
their  poles.  Women  that's  got  beyant  twenty, 
often  try  to  cheat  me ;  but  I  am  an  old  fox,  and 
can  always  find  them  out  by  my  art.  Now  I  see 
plain  enough  you're  a  foreigner." 

"Oh!  no,  indeed,  I  am  not" — exclaimed  Leo- 
nilla, earnestly. 

"  There  is  no  cheating  me" — said  the  old  woman, 
with  increased  solemnity. — "  I  have  set  before  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  I  know  a  foreigner 
when  I  see  one." 

This  (after  reflecting  a  moment)  the  young  ladies 
understood  to  mean,  that  Ruth  Rambo  had  told 
fortunes  to  strangers  from  every  part  of  the  world. 

"  I  was  born  in  Philadelphia" — said  Leonilla — 
"  and  have  never,  in  my  life,  been  out  of  America." 

"Well  —  and  what's  Philadelphia  but  foreign 
parts  ;   foreign  to  Boston,  is  not  it  ?  " 

She  then,  after  shuffling  the  cards,  produced  the 
four  queens  from  the  pack,  and  desired  Leonilla 
to  choose  one.     She  chose  the  queen  of  diamonds. 

"That  stands  for  yourself" — said  the  fortune- 
teller. She  then  went  through  the  tedious  process 
of  shuffling  the  cards  nine  times  over,  alwaj's 
desiring  Leonilla  to  cut  them ;  the  old  woman 
each  time  looking  at  the  bottom  card.  When  all 
the  shuffling  and  cutting  was  accomplished,  the 
sibyl  raised  her  eyes  to  the  black  circle  on  the 
ceiling,  as  if  invoking  its  aid,  paused  a  moment, 
and   then,  with   practised  dexterity,  ran  rapidly 

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over  the  -whole  pack  of  cards  as  she  held  them, 
with  her  hands  resting  on  the  table. 

"  That 's  you" — said  she  to  Leonilla,  displaying 
the  queen  of  diamonds. — "Every  card  in  the  pack 
has  its  meaning,  in  all  the  four  corners  of  the 
globe,  and  persons  of  art  can  read  them  as  easy 
as  they  can  read  a  buk." 

"  Is  it  by  the  vicinity  of  certain  other  cards  to 
the  queen  of  diamonds,  that  you  propose  to  dis- 
cover what  is  to  happen  to  me  ?" — asked  Leonilla. 

"That's  tellings'" — replied  the  old  woman. — 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  let  people  into 
the  secret  of  my  arts  and  sciences  ?  Some  goes 
by  coffee-grounds,  which  is  low  and  vulgar ;  and 
some  goes  by  the  lines  on  the  parms  of  your 
hands,  which  is  nothing  but  plexity  and  puzzle- 
dem ;  and  some  goes  by  the  stars  and  planipos, 
which  is  too  far  off  to  be  certain.  But  cards  is 
the  only  true  things,  as  all  the  best  judges  can 
scratify.  Besides,  who  can  tell  but  I  have  awful 
powers,  holden  from  them  that  is  seldom  seen,  but 
always  about,  and  may  be  looking  at  us  now." 

LEWALD,  FANNY, 
Is  a  woman  of  letters  belonging  to  Berlin.  By 
no  means  a  speculative  recluse,  she  maintains  a 
very  marked  position  in  society,  cultivating  the 
acquaintance  and  intimacy  of  all  the  celebrities 
of  the  day,  to  whom  she  is  rendered  interesting, 
not  only  by  her  reputation  as  an  authoress,  but 
by  her  conversational  powers.  She  has  travelled 
through  various  parts  of  the  continent  of  Eyrope, 
with  an  eye  open  to  every  striking  object,  and  a 
mind  filled  with  enthusiasm  for  every  personage 
of  note; — let  it  be  added,  with  a  pen  ready  to 
stamp  her  impressions. 

Fraulien  Lewald,  as  she  is  called  in  Germany, 
began  her  literary  career  as  a  novel-writer ;  her 
first  two  works  were  "  Clementine,"  and  "Jenny ;" 
neither  of  which  made  much  impression  on  the 
public.  She  then  brought  out  "  Diogena,"  her 
third  novel,  anonymously ;  it  was  clever  and 
satirical,  and  created  a  sensation  altogether  un- 
precedented in  Germany  in  that  department  of 
literature.  Describing  this  success,  which  seems 
to  have  been  as  complete  as  was  that  of  "Jane 
Eyre"  in  England  and  America,  the  Editor  of  the 
Foreign  Quarterly  observes:  —  "This  was  the 
more  remarkable,  as  the  book  made  its  appear- 
ance during  a  time  when  political  events  were  of 
absorbing  interest,  and  especially  when  the  debates 
of  the  first  Prussian  Parliament  left  the  reading 
public  of  Berlin  little  time  or  attention  to  bestow 
on  romances.  Notwithstanding  these  disadvan- 
tages, the  success  of  "Diogena"  was  complete, 
and  much  ingenuity  was  exercised  in  endeavour- 
ing to  penetrate  into  the  mystery  of  the  author- 
ship. Almost  evei-y  distinguished  name  which 
could  possibly  be  brought  into  connexion  with  a 
subject  of  this  kind,  was  successively  mentioned 
as  undoubtedly  the  true  one,  by  some  critic  or 
other,  though  it  happened,  unluckily,  that  no  two 
were  agreed.  On  one  point,  however,  our  German 
brethren  of  the  craft  were  nearly  unanimous. 
Whoever  it  might  be,  it  could  not  be  a  woman, — 
that  point  was  soon  settled.     Such  firm  and  vigo- 


rous drawing,  such  keen  satire,  such  strict  logical 
sequence  in  carrying  out  the  principles  of  the 
'  noble  romance,'  could  by  no  possibility  charac- 
tei-ize  the  productions  of  a  writer  of  the  less 
worthy  gender.  These  gentlemen  are,  as  all  who 
are  familiar  with  German  periodical  literature  will 
know,  especially  clever  at  pointing  out,  on  all 
occasions,  precisely  what  is,  and  what  is  not  attain- 
able to  genius,  which  happens  to  wear  in  the  flesh 
the  mortal  garb  of  a  woman,  in  declaring  its  pre- 
cise limits,  and  pronouncing  their  authoritative 
'  thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther.'  " 

However,  the  secret  was  at  last  disclosed,  and 
Fanny  Lewald  became  celebrated  as  the  author  of 
"Diogena."  Her  next  work  was  " Italie7nsches 
Bilderbuch,"  (Italian  Picture-Book,)  published  at 
Berlin  in  1847,  and  soon  afterw.ards  reprinted  in 
London.  In  this  work  she  very  judiciously  eschews 
pictures  and  cliurches,  the  usual  staple  of  a  tra- 
veller's note-book,  but  tells  as  much  as  possible 
of  the  country  and  the  people — "  of  their  joys  and 
sorrows,  their  eating  and  drinking,  their  play  and 
their  work ;"  which  she  has  done  as  far  as  was 
possible  for  a  woman  and  a  stranger  to  become 
acquainted  with  them.  She  was  in  Rome  toward 
the  close  of  the  pontificate  of  Gi-egory  XVI. :  we 
shall  give  iier  opinions  of  Italy  at  that  period. 

She  next  visited  France,  and  passed  there  the 
exciting  winter  of  the  Revolution.  The  result  of 
her  observations  she  gave  to  the  world  in  a  volume, 
published  in  1850,  where  we  see  appearing,  to  use 
the  artist's  own  idea,  as  in  a  "camera  obscura," 
a  most  wonderful  variety  of  men  and  women. 
They  pass  through  her  pages  with  the  same  un- 
connectedness  as  objects  do  in  the  aforesaid  optical 
toy ;  yet  the  praise  cannot  be  withheld,  that  they 
have  the  natural  air,  the  masterly  outline,  and  the 
true  properties,  so  pleasing  in  the  pictures  of  the 
camera ;  to  demand  from  Miss  Lewald  delineations 
of  equal  faithfulness  and  impartiality,  would  be 
asking  too  much;  "mechanical  powers"  only  could 
reach  such  result.  She  certainly  merits  the  ap- 
probation of  the  sober-minded,  that  being  in  Paris 
during  the  topsy-turvy  of  18-18,  she  was  not  in- 
fected with  the  mania  of  socialism,  or  any  of  the 
extravagances  of  reform,  though  appreciating  true 
progress  in  civil  and  religious  freedom.  Besides 
the  works  enumerated,  she  published,  in  1849,  a 
novel  called  "  Prince  Louis  Ferdinand,"  which 
has  been  much  commended  in  the  first  journals 
of  Europe. 

From  "  Italienisches  Bilderbuch." 
SOCIAL    INTERCOURSE    IN    ITALY    IN    1846. 

The  best  kind  of  social  intercourse,  that  by 
which  the  spiritual  life  is  excited  to  a  higher  ac- 
tivity, is  only  possible  in  free  countries.  Every- 
where, in  Russia  as  well  as  in  Germany  or  Italy, 
people  can  dine,  and  dance,  and  drink,  and  smoke, 
and  play  at  cards,  and  flatter  the  women. 

But  these  pleasures  are  not  very  lasting;  they 
form  no  bond  of  union  between  individuals,  and 
there  is  no  real  interest  in  them  for  any  one  who 
requires  something  more  of  his  time  than  that  it 
shall  go  as  fast  as  possible.  The  better  spirits 
among  us  have  passed  beyond  the  childish  state  of 

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mind  that  could  be  content  with  these  things,  and 
desire,  even  in  their  recreations,  a  certain  earnest- 
ness, to  which,  however,  no  playful  grace  or  gaiety 
need  be  wanting. 

The  Italians  have  inherited  from  past  ages  the 
most  pleasing  and  graceful  forms  of  behaviour ; 
they  are  children  of  noble  birth,  well-bred,  and 
accustomed  to  elegant  manners.  Had  they  more 
of  intellectual  culture,  they  would  be  in  a  position 
to  develop  the  highest  attractions  of  social  inter- 
course. But  in  Italy,  the  mind,  and  with  it  the 
life  of  society,  has  been  laid  in  fetters  ;  and  there 
is,  consequently,  a  something  in  the  manners  of 
the  Italian  circles  that  reminds  one  of  their  stately 
but  unoccupied  palaces,  whose  dust-covered  pic- 
tures and  furniture,  rich  as  they  are,  have  a 
moui'nful  and  decayed  aspect. 

In  France,  the  various  parties,  political,  reli- 
gious, and  literary,  are  brought  together  by  the 
desire  to  discuss  freely  the  questions  that  arise ; 
for  a  single  word  spoken  will  often  put  an  end  to 
a  misunderstanding  better  than  whole  pamphlets 
full  of  controversy ;  and  the  variety  of  opinion 
that  always  manifests  itself  in  conversation,  opens 
fresh  springs  of  interest  and  progress.  In  Italy, 
however,  such  an  intellectual  movement  has  been 
hitherto  impossible.  It  does  not  want  for  men, 
who,  with  watchful  eye  and  hopeful  soul,  follow 
the  movements  that  take  place  in  other  countries, 
and  fervently  desire  them  for  their  own ;  but  they 
are  denied  the  freedom  not  only  of  action,  but  of 
word.  All  society  is  watched,  and  this  vigilance 
extends  even  to  foreigners.  I  have  heard  it  posi- 
tively asserted  that  the  entertainments  of  an  Ita- 
lian lady  of  good  family,  who  receives  a  great 
number  of  strangers,  are  paid  for  by  the  papal 
court,  and  that  the  lady  herself  is  in  its  sei'vice  as 
a  spy.  A  very  clever  Abate  of  my  acquaintance 
pointed  out  to  me  a  certain  chevalier,  decorated 
with  the  highest  papal  order,  who  filled  the  same 
oflBice ;  and  afterwards,  a  German  friend,  long 
settled  in  Rome,  warned  me,  for  a  similar  reason, 
against  the  Abate  himself.  Whether  any  one  of 
the  parties  really  deserved  the  accusation,  is  what 
I  had  no  means  of  ascertaining ;  but  the  mere 
possibility  of  being  watched  by  spies,  is  enough 
to  drive  people  out  of  society ;  and  there  can  be 
no  difficulty  in  finding  spies  in  a  country  where 
every  free  thought  on  religion  is  a  heresy,  and 
the  betrayal  of  a  heresy  is  regarded  as  a  service 
to  God. 

CONVERSATION    IN    ROME. 

In  Italian  circles,  I  have  found  the  conversation 
very  superficial,  consisting  much  of  playful  and 
not  ungraceful  trifling  on  subjects  of  traditional 
gallantry,  (from  which,  by-the-bye,  the  clergy  is 
by  no  means  excluded,)  and  of  the  topics  of  the 
day,  treated  much  in  the  style  of  a  court  journal. 
The  comings  and  goings  of  illustrious  personages, 
the  changes  in  the  genealogical  calendar,  accidents 
by  flood  and  fire ;  theatres,  singers,  and,  though 
last  not  least,  the  ballet;  these  are  the  points 
round  which  conversation  perpetually  revolves. 
Now  and  then  one  sees  a  group  whispering  toge- 


ther on  matters  of  greater  importance,  and  from 
such  a  one,  there  can  occasionally  be  gleaned  in- 
telligence not  to  be  found  in  books  or  papers,  that 
have  to  pass  under  the  eye  of  the  censor.  I  was 
told,  however,  that  all  prohibited  books  were 
always  to  be  found  with  the  cardinals,  and  that 
they  are  read  a  great  deal  underhand. 

It  is  in  some  measure  the  deficiency  of  material 
for  interesting  conversation  that,  in  Rome,  com- 
pels people  to  have  recourse  to  poetry  and  music 
to  fill  up  tedious  intervals,  which  occur  more 
frequently  from  its  being  the  custom  in  many 
Italian  houses  to  bring  no  kind  of  refreshments, 
no  ice,  no  supper,  not  so  much  as  water,  to  the 
guests. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  middle  classes  of  the  Italians,  the  oflBcial 
persons,  and  the  lower  order  of  the  nobility,  live 
in  their  own  circles,  and  see  little  of  strangers 
of  a  similar  class.  The  intercourse  amongst  the 
aristocracy  of  the  various  nations  is  more  lively, 
but  still  seldom  passes  beyond  an  invitation  to  a 
ball,  a  box  at  the  opera,  or  a  drive  on  the  Corso. 
The  interior  of  the  domestic  circle  still  remains 
closed  to  strangers,  and,  consequently,  a  real  in- 
timacy of  mind  with  mind  scarcely  ever  takes 
place ;  while  in  general  society,  all  the  profounder 
interests,  —  social,  political,  or  religious, — are  of 
course  intentionally  avoided,  as  likely  to  lead  to 
forbidden  ground. 

LOTTERY    TABLES. 

At  night  the  tables  are  illuminated,  and  these 
lottery-offices  remain  open  till  a  late  hour  of  the 
night,  when  all  others  have  long  been  closed. 
Since  as  little  as  a  penny  may  be  put  in,  the  very 
poorest  have  it  in  their  power  to  venture  the  hard 
earnings  of  the  day,  in  the  delusive  hope  of  a  vast 
return.  The  plan  is  to  draw  five  numbers  out  of 
ninety :  the  player  takes  three,  and  should  these 
three  be  found  amongst  the  five  drawn,  he  wins 
the  great  prize ;  should  there  be  two,  he  wins 
twelve  hundred  scudi ;  but  one  is  of  no  use.  The 
lottery  tables  are  kept  open  to  tempt  the  people 
on  Sundays  and  Saints'  Days. 

"  SMORFIA,"    A    DREAM-BOOK    ABOUT    LOTTERIES. 

I  could  not  contain  my  indignation  against  the 
Italian  government  as  I  read  this  book !  It  is  not 
enough  that,  from  their  accursed  avarice,  they 
plunder  the  subjects  whom  they  call  their  chil- 
dren, and  plunge  them  into  the  ruin  from  which  it 
should  be  their  care  to  preserve  them;  not  enough 
that,  by  their  rigid  censorships,  they  shut  out  as 
far  as  possible  every  ray  of  mental  illumination ; 
they  must  bestow  privileges,  forsooth,  upon  books 
whose  only  purpose  is  to  promote  the  more  sys- 
tematic carrying  out  of  this  system  of  plunder, 
and  thicken  the  darkness  of  superstition  in  which 
the  people  are  enveloped. 

Almost  every  article  of  merchandize  passing  be- 
tween the  Italian  States  is  subjected  to  duty,  as 
if  they  were  foi-eign  countries.  The  governments 
remain  separate,  when  the  question  is  of  the  wel- 
fare of  the  people ;   but  to  do  them  injury,  the 

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Italian  princes  extend  to  each  other  the  hand  of 
fraternal  aifection.  One  cannot  in  Rome  buy  a 
piece  of  Florentine  or  Neapolitan  silk,  without 
paying  a  heavy  tax ;  but  one  may  read  at  every 
corner,  "To-day  the  Lottery  is  drawn  for  Tus- 
cany;" "This  day,  until  midnight,  tickets  may 
be  purchased  for  the  Lottery  of  Lucca  !"  "  Last 
night  of  the  Lottery  of  Naples  !"  &c.  How  the 
princes  of  Italy  can  reconcile  these  things  to 
their  consciences,  passes,  I  must  own,  my  com- 
prehension. 


LEWIS,  ESTELLE  ANNA, 
AVas  born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Robinson ;  her  father  being  a  native  of 
Cuba,  descended  from  an  English  and  Spanish 
parentage.  She  was  married,  when  quite  young, 
to  Mr.  S.  D.  Lewis,  a  lawyer  of  Brooklyn,  Long 
Island,  where  she  now  resides.  She  began  to 
write  at  an  early  age ;  but  her  first  poetical  effort 
that  attracted  much  attention,  was  "  The  Ruins  of 
Palenque,"  which  appeared  in  "  The  New  World." 
In  1844,  she  published  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled 
"  Records  of  the  Heart,"  which  was  very  favour- 
ably received.  In  1846,  there  appeared  in  "  The 
Democratic  Review,"  a  poem  in  three  cantos,  by 
Mrs.  Lewis,  entitled  "The  Broken  Heart;"  this, 
like  her  former  poems,  was  much  admired.  In 
1848,  she  published  "  The  Child  of  the  Sea,  and 
other  Poems,"  which,  by  some  critics,  has  been 
considered  her  best  work.  It  is  her  longest  poem, 
and  has  passages  of  exceeding  beauty  and  deep 
pathos  ;  her  power  in  delineating  passion  and  de- 
scribing character  is  very  great,  and  her  versifica- 
tion always  harmonious  and  suited  to  the  subject. 
All  her  poems  show  uncommon  versatility  of  imagi- 
nation, a  warm  enthusiasm,  and  remai-kable  facility 
of  expression.  She  has  written  a  number  of  fugi- 
tive pieces  for  ditferent  periodicals ;  one  of  these, 
"  The  Forsaken,"  has  often  been  quoted  for  its 
mournful  and  tender  beauty.  Another  poem, 
"The  Cruise  of  Aureana,  an  Allegory,"  which  we 
give,  is  an  original  and  beautiful  production. 
Mrs.  Lewis  is  at  present  engaged  in  an  epic  poem 
in  the  Spenserian  measure. 


From  "Child  of  the  Sea." 

BEAUTY. 

Now  smiling,  gentle,  timid  as  the  dove  ; 

Fair,  fresh  as  flower  just  culled  from  vernal  grove; 

Her  long,  loose,  sable  tresses  (lowing  back 

Over  her  marble  neck  and  bodice  black  ; 

Crossed  on  her  sofUy  throbbing  breast  her  hands. 

Before  the  youth  GonzxLo's  daughter  stands. 

Oh  beauty  I  who  can  paint  thy  magic  charm 

Upon  the  heart  that  glows  all  fresh  and  warm  ? 

Man  may  resign  the  pen,  and  well  eschew 

What  Angels  never  would  attempt  to  do. 

Tliy  smile  is  light  from  Heaven's  bright  Censer  pent. 

To  clothe  the  forms  for  those  blest  regions  meant — 

Thy  sway,  in  either  world,  omnipotent  I 

SOKKOW. 

Oh  sorrow!  where  on  earth  hast  thou  not  sped 
Thy  fatal  arrows!  on  what  lovely  head 
Hast  thou  not  poured,  alas  I  thy  bitter  pliial. 
And  cast  some  shadow  on  the  Spirit's  dial ! 
Why,  why,  hast  thou  selected  Wonian's  heart. 
To  be  the  mark  for  thy  unerring  dart  ? 
It  is  too  sweet,  too  lovely,  pure  a  thing, 
To  feel  the  smart  of  thy  envenomed  sting- 
But  Eve  first  drained  thy  cup  in  Paradise— 
And  well  her  daughters  pay  th'  irrevocable  price! 

From  "The  Broken  Heart." 
woman's  love. 

Kind  Father!  frown  not  on  this  tale 

Of  woman's  love  and  woman's  wo. 
For  love  is  woman's  bane  and  bale. 

And  woman's  Paradise  below;  — 
Yes!  Love  is  manna  sent  from  Heaven 

To  feed  the  weary,  ftimished  Heart, 
That  through  the  desert  waste  is  driven 

Of  this  Life's  cold  and  selfish  mart  ;  — 
It  is  the  magnet  of  the  Mind, 

Where  turns  the  compass  of  the  Soul, 
Which  way  soever  blows  the  wind. 

However  high  the  billows  roll  — 
A  bright  ray  of  the  Deity, 

That  over  sunless  chaos  burst, 
Lighting  all  space  eternally, 

Still  blissful,  bounteous  as  at  first  — 
The  Loadstar  of  both  Heaven  and  earth  — 
Created  ere  Creation's  birth. 

From  "  Poems." 

MY    STUDY. 

This  is  my  World  — my  Angel-guarded  Shrine, 
Which  I  have  made  to  suit  my  heart's  great  need, 
When  Sorrow  dooms  it  overmuch  to  bleed; 
Or,  when  aweary  and  athirst  I  pine 
For  genial  showers,  and  sustenance  divine; 
When  soft  illusive  Hopes  my  heart  deceive. 
And  I  would  sit  me  down  alone  to  grieve  — 
My  mind  to  sad.  or  studious  mood  resign. 
Here  oft  upon  the  stream  of  Thought  I  lie. 
Floating  whichever  way  the  waves  are  flowing  — 
Sometimes  along  the  Banks  of  Childhood  going, 
Where  all  is  bud.  and  bloom,  and  melody 
Or,  wafled  by  some  stronger  current,  glide 
Where  darker  frowns  the  steeps,  and  deeper  flows  the  Tide* 
I 

THE    LOVERS. 

They  met,  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes; 

In  hers,  as  in  a  mirror  clear,  he  saw 

A  paradise,  and  she  in  his  beheld 

A  bright  and  sunny  world,  where  her  pure  soul 

Could  only  light,  and  life,  and  joyance  find; 

But  th'  serpent  came  between  them  ;  then. 

Like  thunder-riven  rocks,  apart  they  dwelt, 

Silent,  and  cold,  and  withering,  until 

Their  hearts  were  dead,  and  they  went  to  the  grave. 

Their  misery  to  each  other  unrevealed. 

7ii7 


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THE    CRUISE    OF    AUEEANA. 
AN   ALLEGORY. 

When  not  a  breath  bespoke  a  gale, 
Anil  fair  ami  blithely  blew  the  brei'Ze, 

(  weighed  my  anchor,  triniiiied  my  sail. 
And  spread  it  fur  Elysian  seas. 

Onward  I  sailed  by  many  a  realm. 

And  many  a  spicy-breathing  isle. 
With  Cnpid  only  at  the  helm  — 

My  star  and  compass,  Psyche's  smile.  > 

The  sea-maids  by  my  shallop  tripped, 

Drinking  of  my  inebriate  bliss; 
Old  Neptune,  rising  briny-lipped. 

Upon  my  brow  impressed  a  kiss. 

The  warblers  piped  from  hills  and  dells, 
To  greet  me  as  I  neared  the  strands; 

The  lilies  rung  their  snowy  bells. 
The  wood-nymphs  clapped  their  pearly  han(!s. 

Around  me  hung  th'  enamoured  hours  — 
From  airy  rifts  that  oped  above  nie. 

White  fingers  dropped  celestial  flowers  — 
The  very  stars  did  seem  to  love  me. 

And  my  ecstatic  pulse  did  play 

To  silvery  feet  of  roseate  blisses. 
That  danced  around  my  soul,  which  lay 

Feeding  upon  aerial  kisses. 

Anon  a  sound  came  out  from  under 
The  wave,  and  smote  my  slumbering  ear: 

A  voice  croaked  out,  like  muttering  thunder  — 
"Bezcare!  thou  helpless  mariner  I" 

Oh  !  swift  the  tempest  strode  the  sky. 

And  stretched  its  w  ings  from  pole  to  pole : 

Then  bending  low,  with  flashing  eye. 
Hung  o'er  me  like  an  angry  soul. 

Down  bore  it  on  me  fierce  and  fast, 

But  still  I  trusted  to  my  Pilot 
To  guide  me  safe  before  the  blast. 

And  land  me  on  some  happy  islet. 

I  heard  the  breakers  roar  ahead  — 

I  felt  my  little  vessel  shudder  — 
1  called  my  Pilot  —  He  had  sped  — 

A  Fiend  was  standing  at  the  rudder. 

"Fear  not.  thou  trembling  mariner!  " 
With  adder  glance,  the  Demon  said  ; 

"  'T  is  but  the  howling  blast  ye  hear. 
The  breakers  —they  are  far  ahead. 

"  Fear  not,  thou  trembling  mariner! 

Be  not  thy  lip  and  chetk  so  pale; 
Thy  shallop  safely  £  will  steer. 

And  we  shall  soon  outride  the  gale 

"  Fear  not ;  these  moorings  well  I  've  tried. 
And  many  a  frail,  dismasted  barque 

Have  guided  safely  o'er  this  tide, 
'Mid  mist  and  murk  —  by  day  and  dark." 

Then,  loud  as  trump  of  Time,  I  heard 
The  Storm-Fiend  ring  his  awful  larnm; 

And  then  a  whirlpool's  jaws  we  neared  — 
It  was  the  Marc  Tencbrarum- 

Dark  rocks  on  rocks  lay  piled  to  Heaven, 
Midway  their  front  an  archway  yawned, 

Through  which  the  struggling  waves  were  driven 
Into  the  boiling  Hell  beyond. 

Black  as  Plutonian  midnighi,  there 
Stood  Fate,  the  dread  portcullis  lifting;  — 

And  downward  many  a  ruin  rare  — 
Heart-freighted  argosy  —  went  drifting. 

Virtue,  with  snowy  pinions  brailed  — 
Envy,  with  rankling  venom  bloated  — 

Beauty,  with  all  her  charms  unveiled, 
Like  drift-wood  down  the  rapid  floated. 


Now  round  and  round  my  shallop  whirled, 
Then  struggling  lay  as  in  a  spasm  ; 

I  shrieked  —  the  gloating  Demon  curled 
His  lip,  and  pointed  to  the  chasm. 

I  grasped  \}k  helm  —  and  though  too  late. 
Spurned  back  the  Fiend's  exulting  glaiice: 

[  called  on  Heaven  —  I  called  on  Fate  — 
They  silent  left  me  to  niy  chance. 

And  now  my  barque,  like  frightened  steed. 
Back  from  the  hissing  portal  wheeled  — 

Now  forward  leaped,  with  lightning's  speed - 
Now  downward  like  a  drunkard  reeled. 

Gaspinir  it  lay:  with  ruthless  arm, 
'I'he  whirlpool  clove  its  sides  asunder. 

An  Angel  clasped  my  sinking  form  — 
The  Demon  and  the  boat  went  under' 


LIND,   JENNY, 

The  sweet  singer,  •who  has  won  the  world  by 
her  goodness  no  less  than  by  her  genius,  was  born 
in  the  city  of  Stockholm,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Clara, 
in  which  church  she  was  baptized,  -about  the  year 
1822.  "  Her  parents,*  though  not  in  affluent  cir- 
cumstances, are  (for  they  still  live  to  rejoice  in  the 
wonderful  success  of  their  beloved  daughter)  much 
respected  by  all  who  know  them.  Her  father  is  a 
member  of  the  legal  profession.  Her  mother  for 
many  years  kept  a  boarding-school  for  girls.  By 
a  former  marriage,  she  had  a  daughter,  who  died 
before  reaching  adult  age.  Jenny  Lind  is  her 
only  child  by  second  marriage.  Both  parents 
are  Protestants,  and  are  members  of  one  of  the 
churches  in  Stockholm.  In  the  same  church,  the 
subject  of  this  notice  made  her  first  communion, 
according  to  the  practice  of  the  Lutheran  church, 
the  National  Church  of  Sweden,  and  of  all  other 
Scandinavian  countries.  Of  the  same  church  she 
has  continued  a  member  since  her  fifteenth  or  six- 
teenth year. 

"From  childhood  she  displayed  a  remarkable 
talent  for  music,  and  was  encouraged  by  her 
friends  to  cultivate  her  extraordinary  powers.  In 
her  ninth  or  tenth  year,  she  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  an  old  teacher  of  music,  named  Croelius, 

*  We  quote  from  the  Sketch  of  the  Life  and  Character  of 
Jenny  Lind.  written  by  the  Rev,  Dr.  Baird. 


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who  proved  to  be  a  true  tVienil.  He  secured  for 
her  the  friendship  of  Count  Pucke,  the  adminis- 
trator of  the  Royal  theatre  in  Stockholm,  who  ad- 
mitted her  to  the  musical  school  attached  to  that 
theatre,  where  she  made  rapid  progress.  At  the 
early  age  of  fifteen,  she  commenced  singing  in 
public,  and  became  a  great  favourite  with  the 
music-loving  people  of  that  city.  But  it  was  not 
long  before  her  voice  failed,  and  she  had  to  give 
up  the  stage.  Years  of  disappointment  passed 
away,  during  which  she  aided  lier  mother  in  her 
school.  At  length  her  voice  began  to  retui-n,  and 
her  hopes  revived. 

"  The  good  old  Croelius  now  advocated  her  going 
to  Paris,  where  she  spent  portions  of  1841-42,  en- 
joying the  tuition  of  Garcia,  the  greatest  musical 
teacher  in  that  city.  Her  efforts  were  unceasing 
to  master  thoroughly  the  principles  of  the  science, 
and  to  improve  and  perfect  her  voice. 

"  Those  who  suppose  she  owes  all  to  nature, 
know  but  little  of  the  immense  labour  which  she 
bestowed  for  many  long  years  upon  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  principles  of  music,  and  the  perfecting 
of  her  voice — which  recovered  in  time  all  its  early 
sweetness  and  beauty,  and  acquired  its  present 
astonishing  flexibility  and  strength. 

"  In  the  winter  of  1843-44,  she  commenced  in 
Berlin  her  wonderful  career  as  a  public  singer, 
and  soon  acquired  great  celebrity  in  Germany. 
In  the  summer  of  1844,  she  returned  to  Stock- 
holm, where  she  was  received  with  unbounded 
demonstrations  of  affection  and  of  honour.  And 
without  going  into  a  minute  account  of  her  musical 
tours  on  the  Continent,  it  is  sufiicient  to  say,  that 
after  having  repeatedly  visited  Vienna,  Berlin, 
Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  and  other  cities  in  the 
Teutonic  portions  of  the  Continent,  she  appeared 
in  England  in  the  spring  of  1847.  During  that 
summer  and  two  succeeding  ones,  she  sang  in 
London,  and  most  of  the  chief  places  in  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland.  Everywhere  her  triumph 
was  complete.  Each  succeeding  year  her  popu- 
larity became,  if  possible,  greater. 

"At  first,  and  for  several  years.  Miss  Lind  sang 
in  the  theatres,  —  in  the  great  operas  of  Meyer- 
beer, Donizetti,  Verdi,  Mozart,  Mendelssohn,  Ros- 
sini, etc., — and  was  scarcely  more  distinguished 
for.  her  singing  than  her  acting.  Since  the  year 
1849,  she  has  preferred  to  sing  in  concerts,  in 
which  she  can  get  away  from  many  things  in 
theatrical  performances  —  for  which  she  has  long 
had  an  increasing  repugnance  — and  lay  out  her 
strength  upon  the  choice  morceaux  of  the  best 
operas,  such  as  the  Sonnambula,  Norma,  Der 
Freyschutz,  Camp  of  Silesia,  La  Figlia  del  Regi- 
mento,  Ernani,  Don  Giovanni,  etc.  This  course 
enables  her  to  introduce  the  beautiful  national 
songs  of  Sweden,  in  which  her  inimitable  powers 
appear  to  as  great  advantage  as  in  the  most  scien- 
tific pieces.  By  pursuing  this  course,  she  is  ena- 
bled to  control  with  more  ease  her  own  movements, 
and  command  with  more  certainty  the  company 
which  she  would  prefer.  It  is  probable  that  this 
course  she  will  exclusively  pursue,  as  long  as  she 
continues  to  sing  in  public.  These  concerts,  regu- 
lated as  she  will  have  them  regulated,  together 


with  some  of  the  best  Oratorios,  evidently  furnish 
what  her  purity  of  heart  and  of  life  pefers  and 
demands;  nor  can  she  desire  greater  success  thnn 
she  has  found  in  this  course." 

Many  reports  have  been  circulated  respecting 
the  intended  marriage  of  Miss  Lind,  while  in  Eng- 
land ;  M.  Rosenberg,  in  his  biographical  sketch, 
gives  the  following,  we  doubt  not,  correct  account 
of  the  origin  of  these  rumours.  "When  Jenny 
Lind  first  came  to  London,  she  was  introduced  to 
Mrs.  Grote,  the  wife  of  the  Member  of  Parliament, 
and  soon  became  excessively  intimate  with  her. 
Shortly  after,  the  brother  of  this  lady  returned 
from  Sweden,  where,  as  we  believe,  he  had  been 
for  several  years  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits. 
The  name  of  this  gentleman  was  Harris  or  Harries. 
He,  necessarily,  also  became  intimate  with  Jenny 
Lind,  and  this  the  more  readily  from  his  long 
residence  in  her  country,  and  his  probably  being 
one  of  the  few  English  who  spoke  her  own  native 
tongue.  From  this  circumstance  arose  the  report 
that  she  was  actually  engaged  to  him.  Such  cur- 
rency, indeed,  did  it  have,  that  at  one  time,  when 
she  left  England  for  France,  it  was  said  that  she 
had  broken  off  the  marriage  with  him,  and  had 
agreed  to  pay  him  £10,000  to  release  her  from  her 
promise.  AVe  need  not  say  that  this  report  was 
destitute  of  the  slightest  foundation ;  this  being 
the  more  evident  from  her  continued  friendship 
for  Mrs.  Grote,  who  could  scarcely  have  retained 
her  intimacy  with  Jenny  had  such  an  occurrence 
taken  place  on  her  part  towards  her  own  brother." 

Early  in  the  year  1850,  Miss  Lind  made  an  en- 
gagement with  Mr.  Barnum,  an  American  citizen, 
to  visit  the  New  AVorld,  and  allow  the  people  of 
the  great  republic  the  enjoyment  of  listening  to 
her  voice.  Miss  Lind  was  to  sing  one  hundred 
and  fifty  nights,  under  Mr.  Barnum's  direction,  for 
which  she  was  to  receive  $150,000,  and  half  the 
actual  profits  of  every  concert,  in  addition  to  this 
stated  salary  of  $1000  per  night.  Moreover,  Miss 
Lind  was  accompanied  by  a  female  friend,  a  secre- 
tary, and  two  servants ;  a  composer  and  pianist, 
M.  Benedict,  at  a  salary  of  $25,000,  was  provided 
to  assist  her,  and  the  barytone,  Giovanni  Belleti, 
was  also  engaged,  at  a  salary  of  $12,500  :  all  ex- 
penses of  the  voyage  from  Europe,  travelling  and 
personal  in  America,  of  this  whole  party,  were  to 
be  defrayed  hy  INIr.  Barnum.  It  was  obvious  that 
something  like  half  a  million  of  dollars  would  be 
the  amount  of  expenses  incurred  for  the  engage- 
ment ;  and  that  Mr.  Barnum  would  sufi'er  a  large 
loss,  was,  in  Europe,  confidently  predicted. 

Miss  Lind  reached  New  York,  September  2, 
1850.  The  welcome  given  her,  expressive  of  the 
enthusiasm  which  the  fame  of  her  genius  and 
her  beautiful  character  as  a  woman  had  ex- 
cited in  America,  was  such  as  all  the  royalty  of 
the  Old  World  could  not  have  elicited.  Her  first 
appearance  before  an  American  audience  was  at 
Castle  Garden,  September  11 ;  about  five  thousand 
persons  were  present ;  the  receipts  anioinited  to 
nearly  $;!0,000,  of  which  about  $10,000  belonged 
to  Miss  Lind,  as  her  portion  of  the  nett  profits. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Barnutn  obtained  an  equal  amount. 
Not   only  was   the   certainty  of  her  triumphs   in 

729 


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America  made  sure,  but  also  the  profitable  suc- 
cess of  his  undertaking  was  established. 

It  is  not  possible  to  give  here  the  sketch  of  her 
artistic  progress  through  the  United  States ;  Bos- 
ton, Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,  Rich- 
mond, Charleston,  she  visited ;  thence  went  to 
Havana;  and  returned  in  February,  1851,  to  New 
Orleans,  where  her  triumphs  of  Song  exceeded, 
if  possible,  any  she  had  before  attained.  One 
predominant  trait  in  Miss  Lind's  character  is  her 
benevolence,  and  this,  as  some  insinuate,  has  con- 
tributed greatly  to  her  popularity.  It  is  strange 
other  great  artists  do  not  "  aifect  this  virtue  if  they 
have  it  not,"  if  it  would  so  surely  lead  to  fortune. 
The  truth  is,  the  sweet  singer  has  shown,  from  the 
opening  of  her  career,  the  same  thoughtfulness 
for  the  poor  and  unfortunate.  Miss  Bremer,  in 
her  brief  notice  of  Miss  Lind,  says  that  on  the 
return  of  this  gifted  and  noble  girl  from  her  first 
successful  tour  in  Germany,  she  sent  through  the 
papers  of  Stockholm  an  address  to  the  public, 
stating  that  "  as  she  once  more  had  the  happiness 
to  be  in  her  native  land,  she  would  be  glad  to  sing 
again  to  her  countrymen,  and  that  the  income  of 
the  opera,  in  which  she  was  for  the  season  to 
appear,  would  be  devoted  to  raise  a  fund  for  a 
school  where  elhves  for  the  theatre  would  be  edu- 
cated to  virtue  and  knowledge."  Christian  Ander- 
sen, one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  Sweden, 
in  his  reminiscences  tells  a  similar  tale  of  Jenny 
Lind.  He  says :  "  she  is  happy,  belonging  no 
longer  to  the  world.  Yet  she  loves  art  with  her 
whole  soul.  She  feels  her  vocation.  Her  noble 
and  pious  disposition  cannot  be  spoiled  by  homage. 
On  one  occasion  only,  in  my  hearing,  did  she 
express  joy  and  self-consciousness  in  her  talent. 
It  was  during  her  last  stay  at  Copenhagen.  Every 
evening  she  appeared  either  at  the  concerts  or  in 
opera.  She  heard  of  a  society,  the  object  of  which 
was  to  take  unfortunate  children  out  of  the  hands 
of  their  parents,  by  whom  they  were  compelled  to 
beg  or  steal,  and  place  them  in  better  circum- 
stances. Benevolent  people  subscribed  annually 
for  their  support,  yet  the  means  for  this  excellent 
purpose  were  but  small.  '  I  have  an  evening  dis- 
engaged,' said  she:  'I  will  give  a  performance 
for  these  poor  children,  but  we  must  have  double 
pi'ices.'  Such  a  performance  was  given,  and 
returned  large  proceeds.  When  she  heard  the 
amount,  her  countenance  lit  up,  and  tears  filled 
her  eyes.  'It  is  beautiful,''  said  she,  '  that  I  can 
sing  so.'  " 

It  is  stated  that,  while  performing  in  Germany, 
she  gave  away  no  less  a  sum  than  30,000  florins ; 
and  Rev.  Dr.  Baird,  whom  we  have  before  quoted, 
says,  "  it  is  said,  on  what  we  believe  to  be  good 
authority,  that  during  Miss  Lind's  visits  to  Eng- 
land, nearly  sixty  thousand  pounds  sterling,  or 
not  much  short  of  three  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
were  secured  for  objects  of  charity  in  that  country 
by  her  efi"orts." 

Since  she  came  to  America,  she  has  distributed 
to  charitable  societies,  in  the  various  cities  she 
has  visited,  probably  not  less  than  fifty  thousand 
dollars  ;  the  whole  profits  of  her  first  concert,  viz. 
$10,000,  she  gave  to  be  thus  distributed  in  the 


city  of  New  York.  Yet  she  has  a  nobler,  because 
more  necessary  work  of  charity  planned.  Having 
already  made  a  liberal,  though  not  extravagant 
provision  for  her  own  future  support,  as  well  as 
for  the  support  of  her  honoured  parents  who 
reside  in  Sweden,  she  is  now  desirous  of  appro- 
priating the  avails  of  her  visit  to  America  to  pro- 
mote education  among  the  poor  of  her  native  land. 
The  sketch  of  Miss  Bremer  *  contains  some  sta- 
tistics which  will  make  more  apparent  the  extreme 
need  of  schools  for  the  children,  and  Bibles  for 
the  adult  population  of  Sweden.  Ignorance  and 
vice,  in  Protestant  countries,  are  darker  and  more 
brutalizing  than  in  Papal  lands.  God  bless  this 
efi"ort  of  a  daughter  of  Sweden  to  give  light  to 
her  benighted  country !  We  agree  with  Dr.  Baird, 
that  it  is  to  be  regretted  she  has  given  away  any 
of  her  profits  here.  America  is  rich  enough  ;  we 
have  no  poor  as  poverty  is  understood  in  Europe, 
and  the  people  who  relieved  starving  Ireland,  and 
receive  and  give  support  to  thousands  on  thou- 
sands of  the  pauper  emigrants  from  the  Old 
World,  ought  not  to  permit  this  generous  woman 
to  leave  any  gift  of  money  among  them!  No  — 
let  us  rather  form  societies  here  to  aid  her  in  her 
glorious  plan  of  establishing  a  system  of  free 
education  for  the  children  of  Sweden. 

We  have  dwelt  on  the  goodness  of  Jenny  Lind, 
because  it  is  the  trait  which  hallows  her  genius. 
The  greatest  endowment  of  the  mind  is  not  so 
heavenly  as  the  least  manifestation  of  true  charity 
in  the  heart ;  and  that  the  soul  of  this  swet-t 
singer  is  warm  with  pious  feelings,  is  the  charm 
of  her  voice.  No  description  could  explain  its 
power.  That  it  has  held  thousands  on  thousands 
spell-bound  —  that  it  has,  wherever  heard,  moved 
the  multitude  to  admiration,  and  been  so  richly 
rewarded  as  to  enable  her  to  give  away  the  vast 
sums  we  have  recorded — these  things  are  its  most 
expressive  praise. 

LYNCH,    ANNE   CHARLOTTE, 

Was  born  at  Bennington,  Vermont.  Her  father, 
who  died  when  she  was  a  child,  was  one  of  the 
United  Irishmen,  and  implicated  in  the  same  un- 
fortunate rebellion  with  Robert  Emmett.  He  was 
banished  from  Ireland,  and,  with  several  of  his 
fellow-sufferers,  came  to  America,  where  he  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  an  officer  in  the  Revolutionary 
army.  After  her  father's  death.  Miss  Lynch 
removed  with  her  widowed  mother  to  New  York, 
where  she  has  since  resided.  Her  poetical  talents 
were  developed  early,  and  her  first  eS'orts  attracted 
favourable  attention  ;  all  her  subsequent  writings 
show  the  continual  progress,  both  in  grace  of  ex- 
pression, and  power  and  depth  of  thought,  that 
mark  an  original  mind.  Her  effusions,  both  in 
prose  and  poetry,  have  generally  appeared  in  the 
popular  periodicals  and  annuals  of  the  day.  In 
1849,  she  collected  some  of  her  poems  in  a  volume, 
which  was  illustrated  by  several  of  our  finest  art- 
ists, making  it  altogether  one  of  the  most  favour- 
able specimens  of  the  genius  and  taste  of  our  female 
literature.      Her  writings  are  as  remarkable  for 


*  See  page  588. 


rso 


LY 


LT 


their  purity  and  high-toned  morality,  as  for  their 
feminine  grace  and  feeling.  Her  kindly  and 
social  sympathies,  and  the  love  of  communion 
with  superior  minds,  felt  by  all  intellectual  people, 
have  induced  her  to  make  her  mother's  house  the 
gathering-place  for  the  literati  or  distinguished 
persons  in  New  York,  thus  filling,  with  graceful 
hospitality,  a  position  still  left  unoccupied  in  our 
other  large  cities,  and  adding  one  more  to  the 
numerous  attractions  of  the  metropolis  of  the 
Empire  State. 


Go  forth  in  life,  oh,  friend!  not  seeking  love, 

A  mendicant  that  with  imploring  eye 

And  outstretched  hand  asks  of  the  passeis-hy 
The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may  move. 
For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied. 

Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop  and  wait, 
A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 

Like  a  spurned  beggar's  at  a  palace-gate: 
But  thy  heart's  affluence  l;ivish  uncontrolled  — 

The  largess  of  thy  love  give  full  and  free, 
As  monarclis  in  their  progress  scatter  gold  ; 

And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exhaustless  sea. 
That  must  its  wealth  of  cloud  and  dew  bestow, 
Though  tributary  streams  or  elib  or  flow. 

JEALOUSY. 

Ah  no!  my  love  knows  no  vain  jealousy: 
The  rose  that  blooms  and  lives  but  in  the  sun, 
Asks  not  what  other  flowers  he  shines  upon. 

If  he  but  shine  on  her.     Enough  for  me 
Thus  in  thy  light  to  dwell,  and  thus  to  share 
The  sunshine  of  thy  sjnile  with  all  things  fair. 

I  know  thou  'rt  vowed  to  Beauty,  not  to  Love: 
I  would  not  stay  thy  footsteps  from  one  shrine, 
Nor  would  I  bind  thee  by  a  sigh  to  mine. 

For  me  —  I  have  no  lingering  wish  to  rove; 
For  though  I  worship  all  things  fair,  like  thee, 
Of  outward  grace,  of  soul-iiohility, 

Hajipier  than  thou,  I  find  them  all  in  one. 

And  I  would  worship  at  thy  shrine  alone  I 

FAITH. 

Securely  cabined  in  the  ship  below. 
Through  darkness  and  through  storm  I  cross  the  sea, 
A  pathless  wilderness  of  waves  to  me: 

But  yet  I  do  not  fear,  because  I  know 
That  he  who  guides  the  good  cliip  o'er  that  waste 
Sees  in  the  stars  her  shining  pathway  traced. 


Blindfold  I  walk  this  life's  bewildering  maze, 
Up  flinty  steep,  through  frozen  mountain  pass. 
Through  thorn-set  barren  and  through  deep  morass. 

But  strong  in  faith  I  tread  the  uneven  ways. 
And  bare  my  head  unshrinking  to  the  blast, 
Because  my  Father's  arm  is  round  me  cast; 

And  if  the  way  seems  rough,  I  only  clasp 

The  hand  that  leads  nie  with  a  firmer  grasp. 


ASPIRATION. 

The  planted  seed,  consigned  to  common  earth, 

Disdains  to  moulder  with  the  baser  clay. 

But  rises  up  to  meet  the  light  of  day. 
Spreads  all  its  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  tendrils  forth; 

And,  bathed  and  ripened  in  the  genial  ray, 
Pours  out  its  perfutiie  on  the  wandering  gales, 
Till  in  that  fragrant  breath  its  life  exhales. 
So  this  immortal  germ  within  my  breast 

Would  strive  to  pierce  the  dull,  dark  clod  of  sense; 

With  aspirations,  winged  and  intense. 
Would  so  stretch  upward,  in  its  tireless  quest, 
To  meet  the  Central  Soul,  its  source,  its  rest: 
So  in  the  fragrance  of  the  immortal  flower, 
High  thoughts  and  noble  deeds,  its  life  it  would  outpour 


THE    HONEY-BEE. 

The  honeybee  that  wanders  all  day  long 
The  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  garden  o'er. 
To  gather  in  her  fragrant  winter  store, 
Humming  in  calm  content  her  quiet  song. 
Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing  breast, 
The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips  — 
But  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds  she  sips 
The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely  prest 
Within  the  poison  chalice.    Thus  if  we 
Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden  sweet 
In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we  meet, 
In  the  wide  garden  of  humanity, 
And,  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil  we  bear, 
Hived  in  our  hearts  it  turns  to  nectar  there 


BONES    IN    THE    DESERT. 

Where  pilgrims  seek  the  Prophet's  tomb 

Across  the  .Arabian  waste. 
Upon  the  ever-shifting  sands 

A  fearful  path  is  traced. 

Far  up  to  the  horizon's  verge. 
The  traveller  sees  it  rise  — 

A  line  of  ghastly  bones  that  bleach 
Beneath  those  burning  skies. 

Across  it,  tempest  and  simoom 
The  desert-sands  have  strewed. 

But  still  that  line  of  spectral  white 
For  ever  is  renewed. 

For  while  along  that  burning  track 

The  caravans  move  on. 
Still  do  the  way-worn  pilgrims  fall 

Ere  yet  the  shrine  be  won. 

There  the  tired  camel  lays  him  down 

And  shuts  his  gentle  eyes ; 
And  there  the  fiery  rider  droops. 

Toward  Mecca  looks,  and  dies. 

They  fall  unheeded  from  the  ranks: 
On  sweeps  the  endless  train  ; 

But  there,  to  mark  the  desert  path. 
Their  whitening  bones  remain. 

As  thus  I  read  the  mournful  tale 

Upon  the  traveller's  page, 
I  thought  how  like  the  inarch  of  life 

Is  this  sad  pilgrimage. 

For  every  heart  hath  some  fair  drciim, 

Some  object  uii;ittaincd. 
And  far  off  in  the  distance  lies 

Some  Mecca  to  be  gained. 

731 


LT 


:m  A 


But  beauty,  manhood,  love,  and  power. 

Go  in  their  morning  down, 
And  lonffiiiK  eyes  and  outstretched  arms 

Tell  of  ihe  goal  uiiwon. 

The  mighty  caravan  of  life 

Above  their  dust  may  sweep, 
Nnr  shout  nor  trampling  feet  shall  break 

The  rest  of  those  who  sleep. 
Oh,  fountains  that  I  liav'e  not  reached, 

Thai  gush  far  off  e'en  now. 
When  shall  I  quench  my  spirit's  thirst 

Where  your  sweet  waters  flow  ! 

Oh,  Mecca  of  my  lifelong  dreams, 

Cloud  palaces  that  rise 
In  that  far  distance  pierced  by  hope, 

When  will  ye  greet  mine  eyes! 
The  shadows  lengthen  toward  the  east 

From  the  declining  sun. 
Anil  the  pilgrim,  as  ye  still  recede, 

Sighs  tor  the  journey  done ! 

A    THOUGHT    BY    THE    SEA-SHORE. 

Bury  me  by  the  sea. 
When  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  Death  is  prest. 
If  the  soul  lingereth  ere  she  join  the  blest. 

And  haunts  awhile  her  clay. 
Then  mid  the  forest  shades  I  would  not  lie. 
For  the  green  leaves  like  me  would  droop  and  die 

Nor  mid  the  homes  of  men. 
The  haunts  of  busy  life,  would  I  be  laid  : 
There  ever  was  I  lone,  and  my  vexed  shade 

Would  sleep  unquiet  then  ; 
The  surging  tide  of  life  might  overwhelm 
The  shadowy  boundaries  of  the  silent  realm. 

No  sculptured  marble  pile 
To  bear  my  name  be  reared  upon  my  breast  — 
Beneath  its  weight  my  free  soul  would  not  rest. 

But  let  the  blue  sky  smile, 
The  changeless  stars  look  lovingly  on  me. 
And  let  me  sleep  beside  this  sounding  sea  : 

This  ever-beating  heart 
Of  the  great  Universe  !  here  would  the  soul 
Plume  her  soiled  pinions  for  the  final  goal, 

Ere  she  should  thence  depart  — 
Here  would  she  fit  her  for  the  high  abode  — 
Here  by  the  sea,  she  would  be  nearer  God. 

I  feel  his  presence  now: 
Thou  mightiest  of  his  vassals,  as  I  stand 
And  watch  beside  thee  on  Ihe  sparkling  sand, 

Tliy  crested  billows  bow; 
And  as  thy  solemn  chant  swells  through  the  air. 
My  spirit,  awed,  joins  in  thy  ceaseless  prayer. 

Life's  fitful  fever  o'er. 
Here  then  would  I  repose,  majestic  sea ; 
E'en  now  faint  glimpses  of  eternity 

Come  o'er  me  on  thy  shore  : 
My  thoughts  from  thee  to  highest  themes  are  given. 
As  thy  deep  distant  blue  is  lost  in  Heaven. 

LYSER,    CAROLINE   LEONHARDT, 

Was  born  in  1814,  in  Zittau,  and  removed  in 
1832  to  Dresden,  where  she  was  married  to  the 
:autlior  and  painter,  John  Peter  Lyser.  In  1839, 
:she  made  her  debut  at  Nuremberg  as  an  Improvi- 
rsatrice,  where  she  was  received  with  enthusiastic 
applause ;  site  afterwards  appeared  with  the  same 
■success  in  many  other  large  cities  of  Germany. 
She  wrote  "The  Chaplet  of  Songs"  in  1834, 
"Characteristics  for  German  Women  and  Girls" 
in  1838,  "INIaster  Durer,"  a  drama,  in  1840,  and 
many  novelettes.  In  1850,  she  published  an  an- 
nual, called  "The  Gift  of  Autumn."  None  of  her 
works  have  been  translated  into  English ;  but  in 
•Germany  her  songs  are  very  popular. 


M. 

MARCET,   JANE, 

An  Englishwoman,  deservedly  distinguished  for 
her  great  scientific  acquirements,  and  for  the  use- 
fulness to  which  she  has  devoted  her  extraordinary 
talents  and  learning.  "  AVith  that  apologetic  air 
which  modest  science  is  wont  to  assume  in  her 
communications  with  ignorance,"  Mrs.  Marcet 
offered  her  first  work,  "Conversations  on  Chemis- 
try," to  the  English  public,  about  the  year  1810. 
No  work  on  science  in  the  English  language,  we 
might  almost  say  in  the  world,  has  been  more 
useful  in  imparting  its  knowledge.  Its  clear  elu- 
cidation, and  its  admirably  simple  method,  have 
undoubtedly  contributed,  in  a  great  degree,  to 
render  chemistry  popular  in  America  as  well  as 
in  England,  by  presenting  the  leading  facts  of 
this  science  so  plainly  illustrated  as  to  be  within 
the  reach  of  ordinary  minds. 

"  Men  must  be  taught  as  though  we  taught 
them  not."  We  women  have  to  bear  that  in  mind, 
when  we  find  many  of  the  learned  spurning  the 
idea  of  a  female  philosopher,  while  the  foundation 
of  their  own  science  has  been  made  by  the  "  Con- 
versations on  Chemistry,"  which  book  has  for 
more  than  thirty  years  been  the  general  text-book 
for  young  men  in  Great  Britain  and  in  the  United 
States. 

Mrs.  Marcet  soon  issued  another  of  her  excel- 
lent works,  "Conversations  on  Natural  Philoso- 
phy;" which  was  followed  by  "Conversations  on 
Political  Economy,"  in  1827;  and  soon  afterwards 
appeared  her  "  Conversations  on  Botany."  All 
her  works  possess  great  merit,  and  have  become 
text-books  in  the  schools  of  the  United  States,  as 
well  as  in  her  own  country.  It  is  curious  to  no- 
tice the  way  in  which  American  men  have  availed 
themselves  of  these  treasures  of  intellect  without 
remuneration,  or  even  acknowledgments  to  the 
author.  Taking  these  books,  and  merely  giving 
on  the  title-page,  "  By  the  author  of  Conversa- 
tions," &c.,  they  have  added,  "  Adapted  to  the  use 
of  Schools,"  and  paraded  their  own  names  in  full, 
without  an  intimation  there,  or  in  the  preface,  that 
these  scientific  text-books  were  the  productions  of 
a  lady  I  "  Give  her  of  the  fruit  of  her  hands ;  and 
let  her  own  works  praise  her  in  the  gates,"  is  the 
command  of  God  respecting  woman.  In  regard 
to  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  this  just  tribute  has 
been  wholly  withheld ;  yet  few  scientific  writers 
have  so  well  merited  the  praise  and  gratitude  of 
all  who  read  the  English  language. 

We  are  informed  by  one  of  the  American  editors 
of  these  works,  that  his  reason  for  not  placing  the 
name  of  Jane  Marcet  on  the  title-page,  was  be- 
cause scientific  men  believed  it  fictitious.  He  also 
acknowledges  that  of  one  work  —  "Conversations 
on  Chemistry,"  we  believe — 160  editions  of  1000 
copies  each  have  been  published  in  the  United 
States;  —  that  is,  one  hundred  and  sixty  ihovsand 
copies,  from  his  own  prepared  edition  of  Mrs. 
Marcet's  book !  Other  editors  have  also  been  in 
the  field,  and  multiplied  editions  of  all  her  works 
have  been  scattered  through  our  land.  When  the 
"Conversations  on  Political  Economy"  appeared, 

732 


MA 


MA 


it  gave  its  author  more  decided  claims  to  a  mind 
liighly  cultivated  and  philosophical  than  either 
of  the  others;  but  the  doctrines  discussed  have 
yielded  to  so  many  mutations  and  modifications, 
tliat  her  theory  in  her  own  country,  and  especially 
in  America,  now  receives  nothing  more  than  a 
partial  recognition.  Still,  the  praise  is  due  Mrs. 
Marcet  of  being  the  first  writer  who  made  "poli- 
tical economy"  popular.  Before  her  work  ap- 
peared, the  s'lience  was  hidden  from  the  public 
mind  in  the  huge  tomes  of  dull  and  dignified 
authors;  now  it  is  a  study  in  our  common  schools. 
Mrs.  Marcet's  style  is  an  admirable  vehicle  for 
her  ideas,  —  clear,  vigorous,  excellent  English ; 
in  short,  "proper  words  in  their  proper  places." 
Her  last  work  is  "Conversations  on  Land  and 
Water." 


MARIA   II.    DA   GLORIA   DONA, 

Princess  de  Beira  and  queen  of  Portugal,  was 
born  in  Rio  de  Janeiro,  South  America,  May  3, 
1819.  Her  father,  Dom  Pedro,  was  the  emperor 
of  Brazil,  and  on  the  death  of  his  father,  John  II., 
became  nominally  king  of  Portugal  also,  though 
that  country  was  governed  by  the  Infanta  Isabella 
as  regent.  In  May,  1826,  Dom  Pedro  abdicated 
the  Portuguese  throne  in  favour  of  his  daughter, 
jMaria,  (he  remaining  king  during  her  minority,) 
on  condition  of  her  marrying  her  uncle,  Dom 
Miguel ;  but  he  being  a  fanatic  in  religion,  and  a 
violent  enemy  to  the  constitution  Dom  Pedro  had 
granted,  in  short,  a  bigot  and  a  tyrant,  endea- 
voured, with  the  aid  of  Spain,  to  seize  the  throne 
and  reign  absolute  king  of  Portugal.  Dom  Pedro 
invoked  the  assistance  of  England  in  favour  of  his 
daughter,  the  young  Maria,  and  after  alternate 
victories  and  defeats,  the  Portuguese  nation  finally 
received  Dona  Maria  as  their  queen  in  1833. 

Her  father,  who  was  regent,  died  in  1834;  but 
previous  to  his  decease,  caused  his  daughter  to  be 
declared  of  age,  though  she  was  then  only  fifteen 
years  old.  He  had  selected  the  dukes  of  Palmella 
.Mid  Terceira  to  be  the  leading  members  of  her 
cabinet.  But  the  young  queen  soon  disagreed 
with  these  faithful  supporters  of  her  cause  in  the 


contest  which  had  only  so  shortly  before  been 
brought  to  a  close,  and  the  Marshal  Saldanha. 
who  had  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  more 
"liberal"  or  democratical  party,  became  prime 
minister.  It  was  hoped  that  this  step  would  tend 
to  render  the  new  government  popular  with  the 
mass  of  the  people,  and  to  allay  the  party  dispute.^ 
which  had  begun  to  agitate  the  kingdom.  The 
event  was  different  from  what  was  anticipated. 
No  sooner  did  Saldanha  undertake  to  control  the 
violence  of  his  friends,  than  he  lost  his  own  popu- 
larity, and  the  agitation  in  the  community  became 
more  violent  than  before.  A  short  time  after  her 
accession  to  the  throne.  Dona  Maria  had  married 
the  Duke  Augustus,  of  Leuchtenberg,  who  died 
in  March,  1835.  In  April,  1836,  she  was  married 
again  to  the  Duke  Ferdinand,  of  Saxe-Coburg- 
Cohary.  The  latter  did  not  make  a  favourable 
impression  on  the  Portuguese;  and  the  rejection 
of  the  queen's  nomination  of  him  to  the  Cortes, 
as  commander-in-chief  of  the  army,  was  the  occa- 
sion of  two  successive  dissolutions  of  that  body, 
which,  in  their  turn,  contributed  to  aggravate  the 
prevailing  discontent.  An  insurrection  at  length 
broke  out  on  the  9th  of  September,  1836,  and  the 
greater  portion  of  the  troops  passing  over  to  the 
side  of  the  insurgents,  the  queen  was  constrained 
to  dismiss  her  ministers,  and  to  abrogate  the  exist- 
ing constitution  of  government  in  favour  of  that 
of  the  year  1822.  From  November  4th,  of  this 
year,  the  government  was  entirely  controlled  by 
the  National  Guard  of  Lisbon,  and  the  clubs. 
The  "chartists,"  or  adherents  of  the  constitutional 
charter  of  Dom  Pedro,  under  Saldanha  and  the 
duke  of  Terceira,  organized  their  forces  in  the 
north  of  the  kingdom,  and  threatened  the  capital. 
They  were  obliged  to  capitulate  on  the  20th  of 
September,  1837.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  extra- 
ordinary Cortes  were  assembled  to  form  a  new 
constitution ;  and  they  performed  their  task  in  a 
moderate  and  compromising  spirit.  Retaining  the 
modes  of  election,  and  other  democratic  elements 
of  the  constitution  of  1822,  they  conceded  to  the 
queen  an  unqualified  veto  in  all  matters  of  legis- 
lation. A  difficulty  next  arose  with  England ;  a 
new  Cortes  was  chosen,  favourable  to  the  views  of 
the  more  moderate  party,  and  the  threatened  storm 
passed  over.  A  difference  with  Spain,  which  oc- 
curred soon  after,  was  accommodated  through  the 
mediation  of  the  British  government.  The  recon- 
ciliation of  the  pope  with  the  court  of  Lisbon,  as 
well  as  the  acknowledgment  of  Dona  Maria  as- 
queen  of  Portugal  by  Russia,  Prussia  and  Austria, 
in  1841,  were  events  that  contributed  to  give  sta- 
bility to  her  throne. 

In  the  commencemeiit  of  1842,  the  modcrados,  ov 
moderate  party,  made  an  attempt  to  re-establish, 
the  constitution  of  Dom  Pedi  o,  abi'ogated  in  1836, 
and  succeeded,  through  the  co-cperation  of  the- 
troops  stationed  at  Lisbon,  on  the  10th  of  Febru- 
ary, 1842.  A  new  administration  was  immediately 
formed,  having  at  its  head  the  duke  of  Terceira- 
and  Costa  Cabral.  It  aimed  to  strengthen  the- 
alliance  of  Portugal  with  England,  and  to  repair- 
the  disordered  condition  of  the  public  finances. 
The  economy  that  has  been  observed  in  the  public- 

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expenditure,  and  the  imposition  of  additional  tax-  ] 
ation,  caused  several  attempts  to  effect  the  over- 
throw of  the  administration,  but  they  were  unsuc- 
cessful. An  insurrection  broke  out  in  February, 
1844,  in  a  regiment  stationed  at  Torres  Novas, 
and  was  not  finally  suppressed  till  the  end  of 
April,  in  the  same  year.  Yet,  notwithstanding 
these  tumults,  Portugal  is,  on  the  whole,  progres- 
sive, and  the  people  are  improving.  These  bene- 
ficial changes  may  be  owing  more  to  the  good- 
nature of  the  queen  than  to  her  great  abilities ; 
but  she  evidently  desires  to  promote  the  happiness 
of  her  people;  she  is  not  a  bigot;  and  the  contrast 
between  her  character  and  that  of  Dora  Miguel, 
should  lead  the  Portuguese  to  thank  Providence 
that  Dona  Maria  is  tlieir  sovereign.  She  is  ami- 
able and  exemplary  in  her  domestic  relations,  an 
affectionate  wife,  and  tender  mother  to  a  large 
family  of  children,  as  the  following  list,  which 
does  not  include  the  youngest,  will  show.  The 
names  of  her  children  are :  Dom  Pedro  de  Alcan- 
tara, heir  of  the  throne,  born  September  16,  1837 ; 
Dora  Luis  Felipe,  duke  of  Oporto,  born  1838 ; 
Dom  Joao,  duke  of  Beja,  born  1842;  Dom  Fer- 
nando, born  1846;  Dora  Augusto,  born  1847; 
Dona  Maria,  born  1843 ;  Dona  Antonia,  born  1845. 

ARIA   CHRISTINA., 

Queen  dowager  and  ex-regent  of  Spain,  daughter 
-of  Francisco  Genari,  king  of  Naples,  was  born  in 
1806.  She  was  of  the  Bourbon  line  of  princes; 
consequently,  a  distant  relation  of  Ferdinand  VII., 
king  of  Spain,  to  whom  she  was  married,  Decem- 
ber, 1829.  Ferdinand  was  then  forty-five  years 
of  age,  coarse,  vulgar,  and  sensual ;  he  had  been 
married  three  times,  and  had  treated  each  of  his 
successive  wives  with  the  grossest  abuse,  —  one 
was  even  supposed  to  have  died  by  poison,  ad- 
ministered by  his  hand  ;  his  constitution  was  ex- 
hausted by  a  dissolute  life,  and  liis  mind,  always 
inferior,  had  become  nearly  fatuous.  Christina 
was  in  the  beautiful  bloom  of  youth  and  health, 
with  a  vigorous,  though  ill-regulated  mind,  and 
very  captivating  raanners.  It  was  not  possible 
she  could  either  love  or  esteem  Ferdinand ;  but 
who  had  ever  taught  her  these  feelings  were 
required  towards  her  husband?  Arabition  and 
policy  are  the  governing  motives  of  royal  (and, 
usually,  of  aristocratic)  marriages.  Shall  we  con- 
demn Christina  because  she  followed  the  rule  of 
her  order?  Let  us  be  just;  though  she  doubtless 
married  Ferdinand  from  selfish  motives,  she  was 
a  much  better  wife  than  he  deserved,  and  her  in- 
fluence in  annulling  the  absurd  Salic  law  has  been 
of  advantage  to  the  Spanish  nation  ;  because  had 
Don  Carlos,  a  fanatic  monk,  succeeded  his  bro- 
ther Ferdinand,  the  awful  horrors  of  religious 
despotism  and  persecutions,  worse,  far  worse, 
even  tlian  their  civil  wars,  would  have  deluged 
the  country  in  blood,  and  stifled  the  last  sigh  of 
:  freedom. 

The  reputation  of  Christina  had  spread  through 
Tthe  kingdom  long  before  her  arrival ;  and  on  her 
: appearance  in  Madrid,  her  youth,  beauty,  and 
:,iflFability,  realized  the  most  sanguine  expectations, 


and  filled  all  Spain  with  enthusiasm.  She  studied 
from  the  first  to  make  herself  popular,  and  suc- 
ceeded; she  flattered  the  prejudices  of  the  people, 
conformed  to  their  usages,  and  adopted  their 
dress.  All  this,  aided  by  a  countenance  beaming 
with  benevolence,  and  a  charming  smile  which 
always  played  about  her  lips,  soon  caught  the 
hearts  of  her  subjects. 

During  her  marriage  with  Ferdinand,  she  be- 
came the  mother  of  two  daughters ;  the  present 
queen  of  Spain,  Isabella  II.,  born  October  10, 
1830,  and  Louisa,  now  wife  of  the  Duke  de  Mont- 
pensier,  bom  January  30,  1832.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  queen,  Ferdinand  was  induced,  in 
March,  1830,  to  revoke  the  Salic  law.  The  eff'ect 
of  this  measure  being  to  deprive  the  king's  bro- 
ther, Don  Carlos,  of  the  succession  in  favour  of 
Isabella,  gave  rise  to  many  intrigues  during  the 
latter  part  of  Ferdinand's  life,  and  after  his  death 
cavised  a  dreadful  civil  war.  During  the  illness 
of  the  king,  in  the  last  three  years  of  his  life, 
he  appointed  the  queen  regent  of  the  kingdom, 
and  on  his  death,  in  September,  1833,  he  left 
the  regency,  during  the  minority  of  Isabella,  to 
Christina. 

The  death  of  the  king  was  the  signal  for  a  war, 
which  burst  out  at  once  in  all  parts  of  Spain. 
The  country  was  almost  equally  divided  between 
the  adherents  of  Don  Carlos,  called  Carlists,  and 
the  supporters  of  Isabella  II.,  called  Christines, 
from  the  regent.  After  changing  her  ministers 
several  times,  Christina  attempted  to  govern  the 
kingdom  without  sharing  her  authority  with  any 
representative  assembly.  Finding  herself  unsuc- 
cessful in  this,  she  appointed  two  ministers  suc- 
cessively, who  were  to  give  a  more  popular  form 
to  the  government.  But  the  dissatisfaction  still 
continuing,  Maria  Christina  was  forced,  by  a  mili- 
tary insurrection  at  La  Granja,  where  she  was 
residing,  on  the  13th  of  April,  1836,  to  issue  a 
decree,  pledging  herself  to  adopt  the  constitution 
of  1812,  with  such  modifications  as  the  Cortes 
might  agree  to.  But  afterwards,  when  the  Cortes 
enacted  the  law  of  the  "  ayuntamientos,"  limiting 
the  powers  of  the  municipalities  of  the  kingdom, 
it  met  with  so  much  opposition,  that  it  was  found 
impossible  to  execute  it.  Maria  Christina,  in  her 
perplexity,  confided  to  Espartero,  who  was  ex- 
ceedingly popular,  the  formation  of  a  new  ministry. 
Espartero  required  her  consent  to  the  repeal  of 
the  obnoxious  law,  the  dissolution  of  the  existing 
Cortes,  and  the  removal  from  her  person  of  cer- 
tain individuals.  Unwilling  to  comply  with  these 
conditions,  and  unable  otherwise  to  cari-y  on  the 
government  longer,  she  resigned  the  regency,  and 
retired  into  France,  in  October,  1840.  Her  hus- 
band, Munoz,  for  she  had  married  her  favourite, 
and  the  children  she  had  by  him,  accompanied 
her.  Munoz  had  been  originally  a  private  in  the 
king's  guard,  and  even  during  the  king's  life, 
Christina  had  received  him  to  her  confidence,  and 
bestowed  on  him  wealth  and  rank.  There  are 
also  rumours  and  reports  current,  accusing  her  of 
illicit  intercourse  with  this  man  while  Ferdinand 
was  living. 

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la  a  popular  work,*  written  by  an  American, 
these  charges  are  reiterated,  and  also  that  both 
Isabella  and  Louisa  belonged  to  Munoz.  But  a 
few  pages  further  on,  the  author,  apparently  for- 
getting these  assertions,  remarks  of  the  young 
queen,  that  "her  father  (Ferdinand)  was  one  of 
the  most  worthless  wretches  who  ever  disgraced 
a  throne;"  and  afterwards  says,  that  Isabella 
"bears  a  marked  resemblance  to  the  portraits  of 
Ferdinand  VI." — which  is  somewhat  remarkable, 
if  she  is  the  child  of  Munoz.  In  the  same  work, 
detailing  the  scandalous  quarrels  of  Christina  with 
the  adherents  of  Don  Carlos,  even  during  the 
dying  scene  of  Ferdinand  VI.,  it  is  asserted  that 
"  the  robust  child,  Louisa,  came  rushing  from  the 
nursery,  and,  with  puny  fist  and  more  formidable 
tooth  and  nail,  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  the 
peril  of  the  fray." 

Louisa  was  born  January  30,  1832.  Ferdinand 
died  September  29,  1833,  when  this  child  was  just 
twenty  months  old.  If  she  could  then  aid  her 
friends  so  eflFectually,  it  is  no  wonder  the  astute 
Louis  Philippe  desired  to  secure  such  a  prodigy 
of  female  heroism  for  the  advancement  of  his  am- 
bitious plans.  Seriously,  this  story  is  so  palpably 
false,  that  it  need  only  be  fairly  stated  to  refute 
itself.  We  allude  to  it  here,  to  show  how  little 
dependence  is  to  be  placed  on  the  thousand  slan- 
derous reports  put  in  circulation  by  the  Bi'itish 
press,  (pity  an  American  should  ever  adopt  them,) 
concerning  Chi-istina.  Her  great  crime  is,  that 
she  preferred  the  French  to  the  English  alliance, 
and  has  been  endeavouring,  during  her  regency, 
and  through  her  influence  over  Isabella,  to  free 
Sjiain  from  its  dependence  on  the  latter  power. 

Is  Christina  wrong  in  this  ?  Does  not  every 
State  and  people,  who  experience  British  rule  or 
British  alliance,  feel  too  heavy  for  endurance  the 
weight  of  its  sovereignty,  and  the  waste  of  its  sel- 
fishness ?  Let  miserable  Ireland,  plundered  India, 
bankrupt  Jamaica,  and  opium-poisoned  China, 
reply.  In  Napier's  "  History  of  the  Peninsular 
War,"  the  author,  though  a  Briton,  acknowledges 
the  selfish  policy  of  the  English  government  in 
regard  to  Spain.  He  owns  that  the  British  army 
destroyed  the  manufactories  of  cotton  and  woollen 
goods  which  fell  in  their  way ;  and  which  the 
French  had  spared.  The  Spanish  manufactories 
have  never  recovered  from  this  destructive  policy 
of  manufacturing  England,  then  the  dear  ally  of 
Spain. 

Maria  Christina  is  a  woman  of  vigorous  mind  and 
far-seeing  policy.  She  made  Isabella  queen  ;  she 
sustained  her  on  the  throne ;  is  it  likely  that  she 
has  been  plotting  to  make  this  daughter's  married 
life  miserable  ?  Had  Christina  been  as  wicked  as 
the  English  press  represents  her,  and  desired  to 
place  Louisa  on  the  throne,  she  would  have  found 
the  means  to  do  it, — following  the  example  of  a 
Spanish  king.  That  Christina,  who  returned  to 
Madrid  in  1845,  used  her  influence  to  prevent  the 
marriage  of  Isabella  with  a  Coburg,  and  to  prevail 
on  her  to  wed  a  Bourbon,  is  no  doubt  true ;  but 
this  was  done  to  thwart  England  and  benefit  Spain, 

♦  Abbott's  Kings  and  Clueens 


■where  her  children  were  to  rule,  and  not  to  tyran- 
nize over  her  daughter. 

Nor  have  the  courts  of  Europe  any  right  to 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  Christina,  because  she 
places  her  children  by  Munoz  among  the  nobility 
of  Spain ;  some  of  the  highest  among  England's 
titled  families  are  descended  from  the  illegitimate 
children  of  their  kings. 

We  are  not  vindicating  the  character  of  Chris- 
tina because  of  examples  of  royal  profligacy ;  if 
she  has  sinned,  she  should  sufi'er ;  but  vile  accu- 
sations, or  opprobrious  epithets,  unsupported  by 
any  evidence  of  guilt,  are  to  be  classed  as  slan- 
ders, which  we  do  not  choose  to  embody  in  our 
Record. 


MARSH,    ANNE, 

Was  born  in  Stafi"ordshire,  England.  Her  father, 
James  Caldwell,  Esq.,  was  Recorder  of  the  borough 
of  Newcastle-under-Line,  and  also  Deputy  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  county  of  Stafford.  He  was  not  a 
magistrate,  because,  being  in  principle  a  dissenter, 
he  refused  to  qualify  by  an  oath  of  adherence  to 
the  Established  Church  of  England ;  yet  he  was 
highly  esteemed,  and  was  a  man  of  remarkable 
abilities.  His  fourth  daughter  was  Anne  Cald- 
well, now  Mrs.  Marsh,  who,  in  talents  and  cha- 
racter, strikingly  resembles  her  father,  and  does  ho- 
nour to  the  careful  education  he  bestowed  upon  her. 

The  paternal  care  and  tenderness  Mrs.  Marsh 
had  experienced,  may  have  had  some  influence  on 
the  manner  of  her  first  appearance  in  authorship. 
She  took,  as  is  well  known,  the  pseudonyme  of 
"An  Old  Man;"  but  she  is  by  no  means  to  be 
confounded  with  those  authoresses  who,  of  late, 
have  abdicated  the  feminine  appellation,  together 
with  the  delicacy  and  decorum  which  are  its  ap- 
propriate boast.  Her  first  production,  "  The  Old 
Man's  Tales,"  was  published  in  1837,  and  was  soon 
followed  by  "Woods  and  Fields;"  both  works 
were  simple  in  construction  and  aflecting  in  their 
catastrophes,  and  both  deeply  moved  the  public 
heart  to  sympathize  with  these  sad  creations  of 
genius.  The  power  of  the  writer  was  universal'.j 
acknowledged  ;  though  the  influence  of  such  worki 


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on  morals  was  regretted  by  the  class  -who  believe 
these  representations  of  volcanic  passion  are  never 
salutary.  Iler  next  work  was  "  The  Triumphs  of 
Time;"  followed,  at  short  intervals,  by  "Mount 
Sorel,"  "Emily  Wyndham,"  "Norman's  Bridge," 
and  "Angela," — her  best  work,  on  the  whole,  and 
one  of  which  any  female  writer  might  be  proud. 
"  Mordaunt  Hall,"  which  has  been  highly  es- 
teemed, succeeded;  then  "The  AVilmingtons,"  and 
"  Lettice  Arnold,"  a  sweet,  simple  story;  also 
"  The  Second  Part  of  the  Previsions  of  Lady  Eve- 
lyn." And,  moreover,  Mrs.  Marsh  has  written 
"The  History  of  the  Protestant  Reformation  in 
Fraiiee,"  and  "  Tales  of  the  First  Revolution," 
translated  and  altered  from  the  French. 

The  author  of  the  first  of  this  series  of  imagina- 
tive works  was,  of  course,  supposed  to  belong  to 
the  masculine  gender;  but  the  truth  was  not  long 
concealed.  Mrs.  Marsh's  writings  are  most  essen- 
tially feminine ;  none  but  a  woman  could  have 
penned  them.  That  gushing  spring  of  tenderness 
was  never  placed  in  a  man's  bosom  ;  or,  if  it  were, 
it  would  have  been  dried  up  by  passion,  or  frozen 
by  mingling  with  the  selfish  current  of  out-of-door 
life,  long  before  the  age  of  book-making  had  ar- 
rived. Mrs.  Marsh  has  a  peculiar  gift  of  tlie  pa- 
thetic ;  for  the  most  part,  it  is  diificult  to  read  her 
stories  without  tears.  You  may  criticise  these 
stories  ;  you  may  point  out  incongruities,  errors 
of  style  and  of  language  ;  yet  they  have  a  mastery 
over  your  feelings  ;  they  cause  emotions  which  you 
cannot  control  —  and  this  is  the  power  of  genius, 
ay,  genius  itself.  Her  tender  epithets  and  pro- 
digal use  of  "  pet  names"  may  be  censured  ;  few 
writers  could  so  constantly  indulge  themselves  in 
this  way  without  taking  the  fatal  "step"  into  the 
"ridiculous,"  which  is  never  to  be  redeemed.  But 
no  candid  reader  can  ever  accuse  Mrs.  Marsh  of 
affectation  ;  she  writes  spontaneously,  and  it  is 
evident  she  throws  herself  into  the  situations  she 
describes,  and  pours  out  the  overflowings  of  a 
mind  of  deep  sensibility  and  tenderness. 

Without  cramming  the  reader  with  "morality 
in  doses,"  Mrs.  Marsh  never  lets  an  occasion  pass 
for  enforcing  truth  and  virtue;  her  works  are  per- 
vaded by  a  spirit  of  gentle  piety,  and  benevolence 
is  evidently  a  strong  principle  in  her  nature.  Her 
later  productions,  though  not  so  painfully  interest- 
ing as  the  two  first,  show  more  knowledge,  judg- 
ment, and  right  discipline  of  mind  ;  j-et  one  fault, 
which  belongs  to  many  iemale  novelists,  may  be 
noted  —  too  many  characters  and  too  many  inci- 
dents are  crowded  in  each  work.  Still,  "Angela" 
is  one  of  the  most  charming  pictures  of  disinte- 
rested, struggling  virtue,  English  literature  can 
boast;  and  tliis  work  and  "  Mordaunt  Hall"  have 
obtained  the  notice  and  eulogiums  of  the  most 
eminent  French  eiitics. 

Mrs.  Marsh  is  very  hujipy  in  delineations  of 
rural  scenery;  she  revels  in  describing  parks  and 
gardens ;  these  pictures  are,  probably,  idealized. 
Such  hues  of  beauty  so  justly  blended;  such 
streams  and  shades ;  such  summer  terraces  and 
poetic  groves,  might,  perhaps,  be  souglxt  in  vain 
through  "  .Merry  England."  But  it  is  the  province 
of  the  fine  arts  to  embellish  ;   we  go  to  them  for 


relaxation  from  the  carking  cares  of  life  ;  and  this 
poetic  prose  may,  very  legitimately,  offer  us  "a 
brighter  landscape  than  the  world  e'er  knew." 

From  "Angela." 
woman's  influence. 

How  much  influence  woman  exercises  in  society ! 
They  need  not  busy  and  bestir  themselves  to  in- 
crease it ;  the  responsibility  under  which  they  lie 
is  heavy  enough  as  it  is. 

It  is  a  trite  remark,  this  ;  but  I  wish  that  all 
women  could  be  brought  conscientiously  to  reflect, 
as  some  few  of  them  certainly  do,  vipon  the  ac- 
count they  shall  be  able  to  render  for  the  power 
they  do,  or  might  have  exercised. 

To  say  nothing  of  that  brief  but  despotic  sway 
which  every  woman  possesses  over  the  man  in  love 
with  her — a  power  immense,  luiaccountable,  inva- 
luable ;  but  in  general  so  evanescent  as  but  to 
make  a  brilliant  episode  in  the  tale  of  life — how 
almost  immeasurable  is  the  influence  exercised  by 
wives,  sisters,  friends,  and,  most  of  all,  by  mothers  ! 

Upon  the  mother,  most  of  all,  the  destiny  of  the 
man,  so  far  as  human  means  are  to  be  regarded, 
depends.  Fearful  responsibility  I  and  hy  too 
many  mothers  how  carelessly,  how  thoughtlessly, 
how  frivolously,  how  almost  wickedly,  is  the  obli- 
gation discharged.  How  carelessly,  at  the  very 
outset,  is  the  young  child  left  in  the  nursery, 
abandoned  to  the  management  and  training  of,  at 
best,  an  ignorant,  inefficient  nurse ;  or  too  often, 
far,  far  worse,  to  an  unprincipled  or  interested 
one  !  From  these  imperfect  influences,  to  say  the 
very  best  of  them,  at  times  assisted  by  those  of 
the  footman,  groom,  and  other  inhabitants  of  the 
stable-yard,  to  be  at  once  handed  over  to  the 
chance  direction  of  a  school — chance  direction,  I 
say,  for  in  the  very  best  of  schools  so  much  must 
necessarily  depend  upon  chance — upon  chances  of 
observation  upon  the  part  of  the  master — chance 
companions — chance  temptations — chance  impres- 
sions—  that  without  a  most  serious  and  correct 
attention  to  the  guiding  influences  from  home,  the 
boy  is  left  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  false  directions, 
some  of  Avhich  it  is  almost  certain  he  will  follow. 
Thus  he  grows  up  to  be  a  man,  imperfect  and 
contradictory;  his  moral  character  unformed  — 
his  aspirations  ill-directed  —  his  temper  undisci- 
plined— his  principles  unsettled.  He  enters  life 
an  ill-trained  steed ;  and  the  best  that  can  be 
hoped  for  him  is,  that  the  severe  lash  of  disap- 
pointment, contradiction,  and  suffering,  will,  dur- 
ing the  course  of  his  career,  supply  the  omissions 
of  his  youth,  and  train  him  at  last,  through  much 
enduring,  to  that  point  from  which  a  good  educa- 
tion would  have  started  him. 

EMPLOYMENT. 

Let  a  lady  provide  herself  with  active  and  use- 
ful employment  to  fill  up  a  large  portion  of  every 
day,  and  feed  and  enlarge  her  mind  by  readi;  j; 
books  worth  reading  during  the  other;  and  let  her 
read  with  selection,  and  select  with  care.  At  all 
events,  if  she  choose  to  employ  her  time  in  read- 
ing without  selection,  let  her  not  think  she  is  em- 
ploying herself  well. 

7SP. 


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From  "The  Wilmingtons." 
A    SAB    SPECTACLE. 

The  poor  sufferer  died  in  doubt,  irresolution, 
and  ill-defined  teiTors,  as  she  had  lived. 

She  was  a  believer  -without  a  strengthening 
faith ;  amiable  and  affectionate,  without  self- 
devotion  and  courage ;  sensible  of  her  defects, 
repentant,  and  contrite,  without  power  to  correct, 
or  effort  to  amend. 

Her  life  had  been  like  a  confused  skein  of  deli- 
cate and  valuable  thread,  tangled  for  want  of 
careful  development.  She  came  to  the  end  of  it, 
and  all  was  still  confusion,  and  all  useless  in  spite 
of  its  adaptation  to  so  many  fine  purposes ;  and 
may  those  in  danger  of  the  same  waste  of  exist- 
ence, for  want  of  courage  to  meet  its  demands  and 
defy  its  pains, — and  they  are  many, — pause  upon 
the  slight  sketch  of  this  ineffectual  character. 
Forbear  to  sigh,  for  sighs  are  weakness,  but  brace 
up  the  feeble  knees,  and  endeavour  to  amend. 

A    NARROW    MIND. 

Mrs.  Vernon  was  a  very  excellent  woman,  in 
that  form  of  excellence  which  was  the  result  of 
the  strict  but  somewhat  narrow  education  of  many 
years  ago.  She  thought  justly,  but  she  judged 
rigidly.  She  was  ready  to  make  every  personal 
sacrifice  to  duty  herself,  but  she  was  too  fond  to 
impose  her  own  notions  of  duty  upon  others.  She 
was  sympathetic  and  kind  wliere  she  understood 
the  sentiment  before  her,  but  she  was  cold,  and 
almost  pitiless,  to  sorrow  of  which  she  could  not 
appreciate  the  cause;  and  whatnslie  could  not  un- 
derstand was  sm-e  to  appear  to  her  unreasonable. 
She  was  enthusiastic  in  her  love  of  the  excellence 
which  she  comprehended,  but  some  of  the  finer 
forms  of  excellence  she  did  not  comprehend.  Then, 
she  had  not  a  shadow  of  indulgence  for  the  frailties 
of  our  nature.  Every  thing  took  a  positive  form 
with  her,  for  good  or  bad.  She  had  not  breadth 
of  understanding  sufiicient  to  take  in  the  whole  of 
a  matter,  and  sti'ike  the  balance  of  equity  between 
contending  qualities. 

From  "  Mordauiit  Hall." 
AN    ENGLISH    GARDEN. 

A  beautiful  garden  it  was,  the  sun  brightly 
shining,  and  every  thing  around  breathing  fresh- 
ness and  sweetness.  She  passed  through  the 
arched  walk  amid  the  thick  shrubberies,  whicli 
led  to  the  fine  gardens  of  ^lordaunt  Ilall. 

The  walls  were  lofty,  and  covered  with  fruit- 
trees  ;  and  the  beds,  laid  out  in  fine  symmetrical 
order,  were  filled  with  rows  of  vegetables  in  pro- 
digious abundance,  growing  with  a  luxuriance  and 
in  a  profusion  that  showed  neither  pains  nor  ex- 
pense was  spared  upon  their  cultivation.  The 
area  of  two  acres  thus  occupied  was  traversed 
each  way  by  a  broad  gravel-walk,  on  either  side 
of  which  were  beds  filled  with  gay,  but  common, 
flowers ;  with  knots  of  roses  from  distance  to  dis- 
tance, alternating  with  honeysuckles,  all  cut  in 
low,  round  bushes.  The  bloom  of  these  was  gone, 
but  there  was  no  deficiency,  as  yet,  of  gay  color- 
ing ;  for  rich  tufts  of  China  asters,  purple  and 
•2  W 


pink  convolvuluses,  African  marigolds,  sun-flowers, 
purple  phlox,  and,  in  short,  an  abundance  of  those 
common  though  autumn  flowers,  of  which  I,  old 
man  as  I  am,  find  myself,  from  association,  so  fond, 
were  growing  there.  Opposite  to  the  door  at  which 
she  entered,  the  long  line  of  forcing-houses  was 
glittering  in  the  morning  sun.  There  were  vines, 
loaded  with  purple  and  amber  bunches  of  fruit 
growing  in  inexhaustible  profusion ;  while  the 
crimson  peaches  and  green  and  purple  figs,  in 
their  full  ripeness,  were  peeping  temptingly 
among  their  leaves.  The  abundance  of  every 
thing  around  was  so  great,  that  it  was  evidently 
impossible  that  the  family  could  consume  one  half 
of  what  was  thus  produced ;  and,  in  spite  of  the 
calls  upon  Penny's  stores,  resulting  from  the 
recent  wedding-day,  over-ripe  fruit  strewed  the 
ground  unheeded,  while  peas  and  bean-stalks, 
still  loaded,  were  blackening  and  yellowing  in  the 
sun  ;  and  vegetables  running  on  all  sides  to  waste. 

This  prodigality  of  wealth  was,  however,  the 
only  thing  that  at  all  militated,  to  the  judicious 
eye,  against  the  pleasure  afforded  by  the  spectacle 
of  these  fine,  well-ordered  gardens. 

The  dew  hung  sparkling  upon  the  leaves  and 
flowers,  the  sun  shone  reflected  from  a  plashing 
fountain,  that  played  in  the  middle  of  a  small  pontl 
in  the  centre  of  the  garden,  where  the  walks 
crossed.  The  sweet  smell  of  the  plants,  the  fresh, 
pure  air  of  the  morning  playing  upon  her  cheek, 
and  the  early  birds  hopping  about,  and  along  the 
walks,  saluting  her  with  their  cheerful  carols  and 
chirpings,  filled  her  with  a  sensation  of  unusual 
delight,  as  Alice  opened  for  her  the  garden  door. 

THE    CHRISTIAN. 

He  who  walks  with  God,  who  lives  in  liis  pre- 
sence, whose  mind  is  filled  with  the  image  of  wis- 
dom far  above  human  wisdom,  goodness  far  above 
human  goodness,  justice  to  which  a  last  appeal 
may  be  made,  and  with  whom  justice  will  ever  be 
found  —  he  who  sees  his  beauty  in  this  garb  of 
external  nature,  so  exquisite  an  exposition  of  the 
Divine  mind ;  for,  shattered  and  disordered  as  it 
is  by  some  evidently  external  force,  enough  re- 
mains to  prove  the  beauty,  grace,  and  order  of  the 
unblemished  original — he  who  does  this  lives  in  a 
new  element.  His  thoughts,  his  imagination,  bis 
views,  are  pui-ified  and  elevated. 

SIN    AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES. 

Oil,  vice  is  a  hideous  thing ! 

A  hideous,  dark  mystery — the  mystery  of  ini- 
quity !  Its  secret  springs  are  hidden  from  our 
view,  but  its  more  obvious  causes  and  consequences 
are  palpable  and  demonstrable  ;  and  it  is  with  its 
consequences,  in  our  nai-row  circle  of  knowledge, 
that  we  alone  should  attempt  to  deal. 

Many  subtle  and  questioning  intellects  perplex 
themselves  with  the  inquiry,  Whence  the  remote, 
original  cause  of  the  sin  and  evil  around  us,  and 
why?  —  a  question  it  is  not  given  to  any  man, 
under  the  condition  of  our  present  existence,  to 
answer ;  but  scarcely  any  one  sufiiciently  fixes  his 
attention  upon  that  which  it  is  our  main  busincsr 
to  know,  and  which  we  oau  know :  the  efficient. 

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causes,  and  more  especially  the  consequences,  of 
sin. 

Oh,  if  we  steadily  kept  our  minds  alive  to  this 
most  important  subject  of  thought ;  if  men,  before 
they  did  evil,  would  only  remember  its  inevitable 
results ;  if  all  the  wide-extended  sufferings,  the 
sorrows,  the  pains,  the  tears,  inevitably  following 
upon  wrong,  were  but  present  to  the  wrong-doer 
at  the  moment  of  his  crime,  it  is  scarcely  possible 
that  heart  of  flesh  could  resist  the  piteous  picture; 
that  heart  of  man  but  must  turn  appalled  from 
the  criminal  course  upon  which  he  was  about  to 
enter. 

But  we  are  selfish,  careless,  unreflecting,  blinded 
by  inclination  and  passion,  or  by  that  darkness 
worse  than  death  which  attends  upon  the  slothful 
iuditt'erence  to  questions  of  right  and  wrong.  Men 
pass  from  day  to  day,  yielding  to  the  temptations 
of  covetousness  or  pleasure,  thoughtless  of  conse- 
quences to  themselves  in  many  cases,  almost  ut- 
terly insensible  as  regards  the  results  to  others. 

The  true  moral  painter's  part  it  is  to  hold  up  a 
faithful  picture  to  the  heart  of  the  long  succession 
of  evils  which  from  one  crime  spring. 

SEDUCTION. 

The  crime  of  which  Ridley  had  been  guilty,  he, 
like  many  of  his  sex,  regarded  very  lightly :  it  was 
but  a  silly  girl  betrayed.  He  did  not  estimate  — 
how  could  such  a  heart  as  his  estimate?  —  the 
vast  sum  of  misery  included  in  that  small  sentence. 

The  long  agonies  of  a  woman's  heart,  whose 
aifections  have  been  disappointed  by  the  careless- 
ness with  which  men  in  ordinary  society  give  rise, 
by  their  attentions,  to  feelings  which  are  the  legi- 
timate and  natural  return  of  such  attentions,  is  a 
very  serious  breach  of  the  law  of  doing  as  we 
would  desire  to  be  done  by ;  a  breach  upon  which 
tiiey,  most  of  them,  never  reflect  at  all :  but  light 
is  this  indeed  to  the  crime  here  perpetrated. 

A  man  should  be  forced  to  look  steadily  into  the 
gulf  of  despair — or  far,  far,  far  worse  —  of  degra- 
dation and  moral  ruin  into  which,  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  idlest  vanity  or  licentious  passion, 
he  plunges  a  young,  innocent,  trusting  creature, 
whose  only  error,  it  may  be,  was  to  love  him  too 
well.  Men,  if  they  would  reflect,  must  and  would 
shudder  and  turn  aghast  from  the  horrid,  horrid 
spectacle ! 

But  they  will  not  reflect,  they  will  not  learn  to 
shudder ;  the  subject  is  painful,  and  they  pass  it 
from  their  mind,  with  a  few  wicked  common- 
places, at  which  they  are  too  ready.  Ridley's 
treachery  was  double-dyed  in  wickedness ;  but 
had  he  not  carried  his  deceit  so  far — had  his  vic- 
tim been  a  more  easy  prey,  would  her  fate  have 
been  less  ci-uel  ?  As  for  the  fathers,  mothers, 
sisters,  brothers,  of  those  thus  led  to  folly,  no  one, 
of  course,  thinks  of  them.  No  man,  the  slave  of 
his  own  vices,  can  be  expected  to  cast  a  thought 
upon  them;  the  sum  of  their  misery  is  never  even 
calculated  —  the  figures  are  not  even  set  down. 

.Vnd  the  children ! 

Reflect  upon  that ;  varnish  it  over  as  you  may, 
provide  for  them  handsomely  if  you  will,  one  re- 
flection, at  least,   make:    "What  are   to  be  the 


moral  impressions  of  a  child  whose  being  sprang 
from  a  parent's  sin  ?"  I  ask  you  only  to  think 
of  the  dark  confusion  of  afl'ections  and  principles, 
on  the  hardness  and  indifference,  or  both,  which 
must  be  the  result.  Did  Ridley,  intelligent,  re- 
flecting, a  weigher  of  things,  a  deep  searcher  into 
metaphysical  and  moral  truths,  a  man  with  at 
least  all  the  intellectual  elements  which  ought  to 
form  a  great  man  —  did  Ridley  ever  trouble  him- 
self once  to  consider  these  things,  things  so  nearly 
connected  with  his  own  and  with  another's  soul  ? 

No,  certainly. 

His  was  an  imagination  —  ah,  were  mine  as 
bright! — that  might  have  painted  to  him,  in 
living  images,  all  the  consequences  of  his  criminal 
self-indulgence  and  most  wicked  treachery.  His 
mind  had  power,  had  it  possessed  the  will,  to  draw 
with  the  pencil  of  Dante,  the  appalling  picture  of 
that  inner  hell  to  which  he  had  condemned  the 
being  he  pretended  to  love — once  had  loved.  And 
the  poor  father ! — the  agonies  of  the  gentle,  unof- 
fending man,  who  had  welcomed  him  so  hospitably 
under  his  lowly  roof ;  whose  heart  was  so  full  of 
kind  affections,  so  free  from  guile,  or  jealousy,  or 
pride!  Yes,  Ridley  possessed  power  to  have  pic- 
tured in  a  way  my  feeble  hand  vainly  attempts  to 
do,  the  long  death  of  the  soul,  the  awful  dark 
despair,  of  a  father  wounded  in  a  daughter's 
honour. 

A  parent  disgraced  in  his  own  loving,  innocent 
child.  He  shall  render  a  heavier  account  for  all 
this,  because  he  is  great,  and  gifted,  and  wise,  and 
powerful,  and  fitted  to  guide  a  state  and  rule  the 
interests  of  a  nation — he  shall  be  the  less  forgiven, 
because  in  the  plenitude  of  his  powers  he  has 
chosen  to  step  aside  to  crush  a  poor  little  insect 
in  its  humble  path  —  he  shall  be  the  less  forgiven, 
because  the  wider  the  knowledge,  and  the  higher 
the  intellect,  and  the  larger  the  observation,  so 
much  the  greater  is  the  power  of  estimating  the 
claims  and  appreciating  the  sufferings  of  whatever 
breathes  ;  and  that  the  thoughtless  cruelty  which 
we  lament  and  pardon  in  the  untutored  child,  is 
odious,  is  execrable  in  the  man ! 

ILLEGITIMACY. 

Nothing  can  compensate  to  any  child  the  simple 
fact  meeting  us  at  the  outset,  that  of  belonging  to 
parents  not  legally  and  inseparably  united. 

This  is  no  evil  created,  as  some  have  perhaps 
been  led  to  think,  by  the  artificial  arrangements 
and  conventions  of  man  in  society ;  its  source  is 
in  nature  —  in  that  nature,  the  Author  of  which 
made  marriage  coeval  with  the  creation  of  man ; 
healthfully  to  rear  the  precious  plant  wherein  lies 
the  hidden  germ  of  eternity,  requires  the  element 
of  home — and  marriage  is  the  foundation  of  home. 
Wherever  or  howsoever  the  sacredness  of  marriage 
is  not  reverenced,  depend  upon  it,  there  the  man 
will  ever  be  found  imperfectly  developed. 

The  legitimate  orphan  child,  be  he  who  he  may, 
or  where  he  may,  has  one  great  advantage  with 
which  he  starts  in  life  :  his  place  is  marked  ;  he  is 
to  set  out  from  the  place  occupied  by  his  parents. 
Every  well-meaning  friend  has  at  once  a  sort  of 
measure  given  him  as  to  how  he  ought  to  be  treated 

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and  how  educated.  Every  indifferent  person  un- 
derstands this,  acquiesces  in  and  supports  it.  But 
how  different  is  the  case  of  the  unhappy  natural 
child! — his  place  is  undefined;  he  has  literally 
none  in  society  ;  he  is  the  sport  of  the  caprice,  the 
prejudices,  the  carelessly  adopted  notions,  of  every 
one  with  whom  he  has  to  do.  By  some  he  will  be 
pitied,  as  most  unfortunate ;  by  others  almost 
loathed,  as  tainted  and  degraded  by  the  vices  to 
which  he  owed  his  being.  One  is  for  elevating 
him  to  the  rank  and  treating  him  as  belonging  to 
that  of  the  best-endowed  of  his  parents  ;  another 
for  sinking  him  almost  below  the  level  of  the  low- 
est. What  one  does  for  him  another  undoes  ;  tlie 
kind  consideration  of  one  but  renders  him  more 
susceptible  to  the  unkindness  and  contempt  of 
others.  He  has  not  even  the  memory  of  a  parent 
to  cheer  his  poor  solitary  heart  —  that  sacred  me- 
mory so  cherished,  so  sacred,  which  consoles  while 
it  hallows  and  elevates  the  soul  of  the  orphan. 
He  cannot  even  aspire  to  purity  himself,  without 
inflicting  a  wound  upon  that  deep  piety  of  the 
heart,  that  foundation-stone  of  the  great  infinite 
of  piety,  the  reverence  of  tlie  cliild  for  its  parent. 
Mystery  of  iniquity  !  Trailing  serpent,  endless 
involutions  of  the  consequences  of  sin ! 


MARTINEAU,    HARRIET, 

Born  in  1802,  was  one  of  the  youngest  of  a 
family  of  eight  children.  Her  father  was  pro- 
prietor of  one  of  the  manufactories  of  Norwich,  in 
which  place  his  family,  originally  of  French  origin, 
had  resided  since  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of 
Nantes.  Miss  Martineau  has  herself  ascribed  her 
taste  for  literary  pursuits  to  the  delicacy  of  her 
health  in  childhood,  and  to  her  deafness,  which, 
without  being  complete,  has  obliged  her  to  seek 
occupations  and  pleasures  within  herself;  and  also 
to  the  affection  which  subsisted  between  her  and 
her  brother,  the  Rev.  James  Martineau.  "When 
her  family  became  unfortunate  in  worldly  afl["airs, 
she  was  able,  by  her  writings,  to  relieve  them  en- 
tirely from  the  burden  of  her  support,  and  she 
has  since  realized  "an  elegant  sufficiency"  from 
her  writings. 


Her  first  work,  "  Devotional  Exercises,  for  the 
use  of  Young  Persons,"  was  published  in  1823. 
The  following  year,  appeared  "Christmas  Day;" 
and  in  1825,  "  The  Friends,"  being  a  sequel  of 
the  last  named.  In  1826,  she  wrote  "Principle 
and  Practice,"  a  tale,  "  The  Rioters,"  and  "  Ori- 
ginal Hymns."  In  1827,  "Mary  Campbell"  and 
"The  Turnout"  were  published;  and  in  1829, 
"Sequel  to  Principle  and  Practice,"  "  Tracts  for 
Houlston,"  and  "My  Servant  Rachel."  In  1830, 
appeared  her  best  work,  because  evincing  more 
tenderness  of  feeling  and  faith  in  religion  than 
any  other  she  has  written, — this  was  "  Traditions 
of  Palestine;"  also  a  prize  essay,  "  The  Essential 
Faith  of  the  Universal  Church,"  and  "Five  Years 
of  Youth."  In  the  following  year,  1831,  she  ob- 
tained prizes  for  two  essays,  "  The  Faith,  as  un- 
folded by  jNIany  Prophets,"  and  "  Providence,  as 
manifested  through  Israel." 

Miss  Martineau  seems  here  to  have  reached 
her  culminating  point  in  religious  sentiment ;  her 
faith  never  rose  above  sentiment,  except  in  the 
"Traditions  of  Palestine,"  which  has  passages  of. 
seemingly,  true  and  holy  fervour  of  spirit.  In 
1832,  she  commenced  her  series  of  tales,  as 
"  Illustrations  of  Political  Economy,"  "  Illustra- 
tions of  Taxation,"  of  "  Poor  Laws,"  &c.  Miss 
Martineau  was  induced  to  prepare  these  books, 
from  reading  Mrs.  Marcet's  "  Conversations  on 
Political  Economy,"  and  thinking  that  illustra- 
tions through  stories,  theory  put  in  action,  would 
be  most  effective  in  producing  reforms.  The 
books  were  very  popular  when  they  appeared  ; 
but  we  doubt  if  their  influence  on  the  public  mind 
was  productive  of  any  beneficial  improvement. 
The  tales  were  read  for  amusement ;  the  political 
notions  were  forgotten,  probably,  before  the  inci- 
dents of  the  story  had  been  etfaced  by  some  newer 
work  of  fiction. 

In  1835,  she  visited  the  United  States,  where  she 
had  many  friends,  warm  admirers  of  her  talents, 
and  of  the  philanthropy  with  which  her  writings 
was  imbued.  She  was  welcomed  as  a  sister;  and 
throughout  her  "  Tour  in  America,"  the  kindest 
hospitality  of  the  American  people  was  lavished 
on  her.  She  published  the  result  of  her  observa- 
tions and  reflections  in  1837.  She  found  what  she 
came  to  find,  and  no  more.  Her  philosophical 
and  political  opinions  were  fully  formed  before 
she  set  her  foot  on  American  ground,  and  her  two 
works,  "Society  in  America"  and  "Retrospect  of 
Western  Travel,"  are  essentially  a  bundle  of  facts 
and  deductions,  to  prove  that  Harriet  Martineau's 
opinions  were  right.  But  she  brought  to  these 
investigations  some  excellent  qualities  and  much 
benevolent  feeling.  She  was  earnest,  enthusiastic 
and  hopeful ;  her  books,  though  marred  by  many 
mistakes,  some  misrepresentations,  and,  of  course, 
with  absurd  and  erroneous  deductions  drawn  from 
wrong  premises,  were  yet  far  more  candid  in  tone 
and  true  in  spirit,  than  any  preceding  works  of 
British  travellei's  in  America  had  ever  been.  The 
style  is  spirited,  graphic,  and  frequently  eloquent. 
Miss  iNIartineau  is  remarkable  for  her  power  of  por- 
traying what  she  sees  ;  she  revels  in  the  beauties 
of  landscape,   and  has  a  wonderful  command  of 

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language.  Her  writings  are  usually  entertaining, 
even  to  those  who  do  not  agree  with  her  in  theory 
and  sentiment. 

Of  her  subsequent  writings,  we  will  quote  the 
opinion  of  an  eminent  British  critic*  "  Her 
first  regular  novel  appeared  in  1839,  and  was  en- 
titled '  Deerbrook.'  Though  improbable  in  many 
of  its  incidents,  this  work  abounds  in  eloquent  and 
striking  passages.  The  democratic  opinions  of 
the  authoress  (for  in  all  but  her  anti-Malthusian 
doctrines,  Miss  Martineau  is  a  sort  of  female  God- 
win) are  strikingly  brought  forward,  and  the  cha- 
racters are  well  drawn.  '  Deerbrook '  is  a  story 
of  English  domestic  life.  The  next  eifort  of  Miss 
Martineau  was  in  the  historical  romance.  '  The 
Hour  and  the  Man,'  1840,  is  a  novel  or  romance, 
founded  on  the  history  of  the  brave  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture,  and  with  this  man  as  hero,  Miss 
Martineau  exhibits  as  the  hour  of  action  the  period 
when  the  slaves  of  St.  Domingo  threw  off  the  yoke 
of  slavery.  There  is  much  passionate  as  well  as 
graceful  writing  in  this  tale ;  its  greatest  defect 
is,  that  there  is  too  much  disquisition,  and  too 
little  connected  or  regular  fable.  Among  the 
other  works  of  Miss  Martineau  are  several  for 
children,  as  '  The  Peasant  and  the  Prince,'  '  The 
Settlers  at  Home,'  '  How  to  Observe,'  &c.  Her 
latest  work,  '  Life  in  the  Sick-Room,  or  Essays 
by  an  Invalid,'  1844,  contains  many  interesting 
and  pleasing  sketches,  full  of  acute  and  delicate 
thought  and  elegant  description." 

In  1846,  Miss  Martineau,  in  company  with  in- 
telligent friends,  made  a  journey  through  Egypt, 
to  Palestine,  Greece,  Syria,  and  Arabia.  She  has 
given  her  impressions  of  those  counti-ies  in  her 
work,  "Eastern  Life;  Present  and  Past,"  pub- 
lished in  1848.  That  she  is  an  intelligent  traveller, 
and  knows  "how  to  observe,"  better  than  almost 
any  tourist  who  had  preceded  her,  there  is  no 
doubt.  Her  work  is  exceedingly  interesting ;  but 
it  is  marred  by  the  mocking  infidelity  which  she 
allows  for  the  first  time  to  darken  her  pages,  and 
testify  to  the  world  her  disbelief  in  divine  reve- 
lation ! 

A  new  work  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Martineau, 
"Letters  on  Man's  Nature  and  Developments,"  has 
lately  appeared  in  London ;  it  is  decidedly  atheistic 
in  its  tone;  the  only  foundation  of  morality,  the 
belief  in  God,  is  disavowed,  and  His  holy  word 
derided  as  a  book  of  fables,  unworthy  the  study 
of  rational  beings.  There  is  something  in  this 
avowal  by  a  woman  of  utter  unbelief  in  Chris- 
tianity which  so  shocks  the  mind,  that  we  are 
troubled  to  discuss  it ;  we  draw  back,  as  from  a  pit 
of  destruction,  into  which  to  gaze,  even,  is  to  sin. 

In  commenting  on  this  infidel  work,  an  Ameri- 
can critic,  after  paying  a  high  compliment  to  the 
great  talents  of  Miss  Martineau,  even  allowing  she 
has  "masculine  power  and  activity  of  mind," 
adds,  evidently  intending  to  depreciate  the  sex, 
"  hiU  the  constitutional  feebleness,  waywardness,  and 
wilfulness  of  woman  is  nevertheless  not  iinfrcquenthj 
evinced  by  her;  and  as  she  grows  older  the  infirm- 
ities of  her  nature  are  more  and  more  conspicu- 

*  Chambers"  CyrlnpcBdia  of  English  Literature 


ous."  If  to  become  an  atheist  and  avow  infidelity 
be  the  sign  of  "feebleness,  waywardness,"  &c-, 
how  happens  it  that  the  great  mass  of  infidels 
are  men  ?  Miss  Martineau  must  now  be  ranked 
with  Hume,  Gibbon,  Shelley,  Byron,  and  a  host 
of  eminent  masculine  writers  in  Great  Britain, 
besides  the  greater  portion  of  French  savans  and 
German  philosophers.  Even  Milton  denied,  in  his 
old  age,  the  divinitj'  of  the  Saviour ;  a  fitting  se- 
quence to  his  elevation  of  the  reason  of  man  above 
the  intuitive  goodness  of  woman.  Why  is  it  more 
shocking  for  a  woman  to  deny  the  Saviour,  and 
disbelieve  the  Bible,  than  for  a  man  ?  Is  it  not 
because  she  is  the  conservator  of  morals,  endowed 
with  a  quicker  capacity  of  recognizing  or  feeling 
divine  truth,  and  with  a  nature  more  in  consonance 
with  the  requirements  of  the  Gospel?  Do  men 
show  strength,  wisdom,  and  decision  of  character, 
when  elevating  human  reason  above  divine  revela- 
tion ?  The  apostle  declares  that  to  those  who 
"believe,"  the  Gospel  is  "the  power  of  God,  and 
the  wisdom  of  God."  Four-fifths  of  these  belief  ws 
are  now  women.  Is  not  the  power  and  trisdom, 
which  the  Christian  faith  gives,  with  the  female 
sex? 

Miss  Martineau  has  indeed  become  weak,  be- 
cause she  has  deserted  this  tower  of  strength  — 
"faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ;"  and  bowed 
down  her  noble  nature  to  worship  reason  unen- 
lightened by  revelation,  an  idol  set  up  by  the 
"feebleness,  waywardness,  and  wilfulness"  of 
men.  May  God  give  her  grace  to  see  and  escape 
the  snare  of  the  tempter.  The  triumph  of  wo- 
man's genius  is  to  follow  the  Saviour  in  doing 
good,  to  hold  fast  her  faith  in  God,  her  hope  in  a 
blessed  immortality.  AVhat  higher  aim  than  this 
can  the  ingenuity  of  man  devise,  or  bis  reason 
prove  beneficial  to  the  human  race  ? 

From  "  How  lo  Observe." 
CHRISTIANITY. 

It  is  not  by  dogmas  that  Christianity  has  per- 
manently influenced  the  mind  of  Christendom. 
No  creeds  are  answerable  for  the  moral  revolution 
by  which  physical  has  been  made  to  succumb  to 
moral  force  ;  by  which  unfortunates  are  cherished 
by  virtue  of  their  misfortunes  ;  by  which  the  pur- 
suit of  speculative  truth  has  become  an  object 
worthy  of  self-sacrifice.  It  is  the  character  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  which  has  wrought  to  these 
purposes.  Notwithstanding  all  the  obscuration 
and  defilement  which  that  character  has  sustained 
from  superstition  and  other  corruption,  it  has 
availed  to  these  purposes,  and  must  prevail  more 
and  more  now  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  mis- 
represent his  sayings  and  conceal  his  deeds,  as 
was  done  in  the  dark  ages.  In  all  advancing  time, 
as  corruption  is  surmounted,  there  are  more  and 
more  who  vividly  feel  that  life  does  not  consist  in 
the  abundance  that  a  man  possesses,  but  in  energy 
of  spirit,  and  in  a  power  and  habit  of  self-sacrifice ; 
there  are  perpetually  more  and  more  who  discern 
and  live  by  the  persuasion  that  the  pursuit  of 
worldly  power  and  ease  is  a  matter  totally  apart 
from  the  function  of  Christianity  ;  and  this  per- 
suasion has    not  been  wrought   into  activity  by 

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declarations  of  doctrine  in  any  form,  but  by  the 
spectacle,  vivid  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  of  the 
Holy  One  who  declined  the  sword  and  the  crown, 
lived  without  property,  and  devoted  himself  to  die 
by  violence,  in  an  unparalleled  simplicity  of  duty. 
The  being  himself  is  the  mover  here ;  and  every 
great  man  is,  in  a  similar  manner,  however  infe- 
rior may  be  the  degree,  a  spring  by  which  spirits 
are  moved.  By  the  study  of  them  may  much  of 
the  consequent  movement  be  understood. 


OF    CELIBACY. 

Celibacy  of  the  clergy  or  of  any  other  class  of 
men  involves  polygamy,  virtual  if  not  avowed,  in 
some  other  class.  To  this  the  relaxation  of  do- 
mestic morals  in  the  higher  orders  of  all  Catholic 
societies  bears  testimony  as  strongly  as  the  exist- 
ence of  allowed  polygamy  in  India.  It  is  every- 
where professed  that  Christianity  puts  an  end  to 
polygamy ;  and  so  it  does,  as  Christianity  is  un- 
derstood in  Protestant  countries ;  but  a  glance  at 
the  state  of  morals  in  countries  where  celibacy  is 
the  religion  of  the  clergy — among  the  higher  ranks 
in  Italy,  in  France,  in  Spain  —  shows  that,  while 
the  name  of  polygamy  is  disclaimed,  the  thing  is 
held  in  no  great  abhorrence.  This  is  mentioned 
here  simply  as  matter  of  fact,  necessary  to  our 
inquiry  as  to  how  to  observe  morals  and  manners. 
It  is  notoi'ious  that,  wherever  celibacy  is  exten- 
sively professed,  there  is  not  only,  as  a  conse- 
quence, a  frequent  breach  of  profession,  but  a 
much  larger  indulgence  extended  to  other  classes, 
in  consequence  of  the  restrictions  on  one. 

MARRIAGE. 

Marriage  exists  everywhere,  to  be  studied  by 
the  moral  observer.  He  must  watch  the  character 
of  courtships  wherever  he  goes ;  whether  the 
young  lady  is  negotiated  for  and  promised  by  her 
guardians,  without  having  seen  her  intended,  like 
the  poor  girl  who,  when  she  asked  her  mother  to 
point  out  her  future  husband  from  among  a  number 
of  gentlemen,  was  silenced  with  the  rebuke  — 
"  What  is  that  to  you?"  or  whether  they  are  left 
free  to  exchange  their  faith  "by  flowing  stream, 
through  wood,  or  craggy  wild,"  as  in  the  United 
States ;  or  whether  there  is  a  medium  between 
these  two  extremes,  as  in  England.  He  must  ob- 
serve how  fate  is  defied  by  lovers  in  various 
countries.  Scotch  lovers  agree  to  come  together 
after  so  many  years  spent  in  providing  the  "  plen- 
ishing." Irish  lovers  conclude  the  business,  in 
case  of  difficulty,  by  appearing  before  the  priest 
the  next  morning.  There  is  recourse  to  a  balcony 
and  rope-ladder  in  one  country ;  a  steamboat  and 
back-settlement  in  another ;  trust  and  patience  in 
a  third ;  and  intermediate  flirtations,  to  pass  the 
time,  in  a  fourth.  He  must  note  the  degree  of 
worldly  ambition  which  attends  marriages,  and 
which  may  therefore  be  supposed  to  stimulate 
them  ;  how  much  space  the  house  with  two  rooms 
in  humble  life,  and  the  country-seat  and  carriages 
in  higher  life,  occupy  in  the  mind  of  bride  or 
bridegroom.     He  must  observe  whether  conjugal 


infidelity  excites  horror  and  rage,  or  whether  it  is 
so  much  a  matter  of  course  as  that  no  jealousy 
interferes  to  mar  the  arrangements  of  mutual  con- 
venience. He  must  mark  whether  women  are 
made  absolutely  the  property  of  their  husbands 
in  mind  and  in  estate,  or  whether  the  wife  is 
treated  more  or  less  professedly  as  an  equal  party 
in  the  agreement.  He  must  observe  whether  there 
is  an  excluded  class,  victims  to  their  own  super- 
stition or  to  a  false  social  obligation,  wandering 
about  to  disturb  by  their  jealousy  or  licentiousness 
those  whose  lot  is  happier.  He  must  observe 
whether  there  are  domestic  arrangements  for 
home  enjoyments,  or  whether  all  is  planned  on 
the  supposition  of  pleasure  lying  abroad  ;  whether 
the  reliance  is  on  books,  gardens,  and  play  with 
children,  or  on  the  opera,  parties,  the  ale-house, 
or  dances  on  the  green.  He  must  mark  whether 
the  ladies  are  occupied  with  their  household  cares 
in  the  morning,  and  the  society  of  their  husbands 
in  the  evening,  or  with  embroidery  and  looking 
out  of  balconies ;  with  receiving  company  all 
day,  or  gadding  abroad ;  with  the  library  or  the 
nursery;  with  lovers  or  with  children.  In  each 
country,  called  civilized,  he  will  meet  with  almost 
all  these  varieties ;  but  in  each  there  is  such  a 
prevailing  character  in  the  aspect  of  domestic  life, 
that  intelligent  observation  will  enable  him  to 
decide,  without  much  danger  of  mistake,  as  to 
whether  marriage  is  merely  an  arrangement  of 
convenience,  in  accordance  with  low  morals,  or  a 
sacred  institution,  commanding  the  reverence  and 
affection  of  a  virtuous  people. 

CUILDREN. 

Children  in  all  countries  are,  as  Mrs.  Grant  of 
Laggan  says,  first  vegetables,  and  then  they  are 
animals,  and  then  they  come  to  be  people ;  but 
their  way  of  growing  out  of  one  stage  into  another 
is  as  difl"erent  in  difi'erent  societies  as  their  states 
of  mind  when  they  are  grown  up.  They  all  have 
limbs,  senses,  and  intellects  ;  but  their  growth  of 
heart  and  mind  depends  incalculably  upon  the 
spirit  of  the  society  amid  which  they  are  reared. 
The  traveller  must  study  them  wherever  he  meets 
them.  In  the  country,  multitudes  of  them  lie 
about  in  the  streets,  basking  in  the  sun,  and  kill- 
ing vermin  ;  while  the  children  of  the  very  poorest 
persons  of  another  country  are  decently  clothed, 
and  either  busily  occupied  with  such  domestic 
employments  as  they  are  capable  of,  or  at  school, 
or  playing  among  the  rocks,  or  climbing  trees,  or 
crawling  about  the  wooden  bridges,  without  fear 
of  danger.  From  this  one  symptom  the  observer 
might  learn  the  poverty  and  idleness  of  the  lower 
classes  of  Spain,  and  the  comfort  and  industry  of 
those  of  the  United  States.  As  to  the  children  of 
the  richer  classes,  there  is  the  widest  difference 
in  the  world  between  those  who  are  the  idols  of 
their  mothers  (as  in  societies  where  the  heart's 
love  is  lavished  on  the  children  which  has  not  been 
engaged  by  the  husband),  and  those  who  are  early 
steeped  in  corruption  (as  in  slave  countries),  and 
those  who  are  reared  philosophers  and  saints,  and 
those  to  whom  home  is  a  sunny  paradise  hedged 

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round  with  love  and  care,  and  those  who  are  little 
men  and  women  of  the  world  from  the  time  they 
can  walk  alone.  All  these  kinds  of  children  exist, 
sure  breathings  of  the  moral  atmosphere  of  their 
homes. 

From  "  Deerbrook." 
LOVE    AND    HAPPINESS. 

There  needs  no  other  proof  that  happiness  is 
the  most  wholesome  moral  atmosphere,  and  that 
in  which  the  immortality  of  man  is  destined  ulti- 
mately to  thrive,  than  the  elevation  of  soul,  the 
religious  aspiration,  which  attends  the  first  assu- 
rance, the  first  sober  certainty  of  true  love.  Tliere 
is  much  of  this  religious  aspiration  amidst  all 
warmth  of  virtuous  affections.  There  is  a  vivid 
love  of  God  in  the  child  that  lays  its  cheek  against 
the  cheek  of  its  mother,  and  clasps  its  arms  about 
her  neck.  God  is  thanked  (perhaps  unconsciously) 
for  the  brightness  of  his  earth,  on  summer  even- 
ings, when  a  brother  and  sister,  who  have  long 
been  parted,  pour  out  their  heart-stores  to  each 
other,  and  feel  their  course  of  thought  brightening 
as  it  runs.  When  the  aged  parent  hears  of  the 
honours  his  children  have  won,  or  looks  round 
upon  their  innocent  faces  as  the  glory  of  his  de- 
cline, his  mind  reverts  to  Him  who  in  them  pre- 
scribed the  purpose  of  his  life,  and  bestowed  its 
grace.  But  religious  as  is  the  mood  of  every  good 
affection,  none  is  so  devotional  as  that  of  love, 
especially  so  called.  The  soul  is  then  the  very 
temple  of  adoration,  of  faith,  of  holy  purity,  of 
heroism,  of  chai'ity.  At  such  a  moment,  the 
human  creature  shoots  up  into  an  angel ;  there 
is  nothing  on  earth  too  defiled  for  its  charity  — 
nothing  in  hell  too  appalling  for  its  heroism  — 
nothing  in  heaven  too  glorious  for  its  sympathy. 
Strengthened,  sustained,  vivified  by  that  most 
mysterious  power,  union  with  another  spirit,  it 
feels  itself  set  well  forth  on  the  way  of  victory 
over  evil,  sent  out  conquering  and  to  conquer. 

From  "Eastern  Life,"  &;c. 
A    SCENE    ON    THE    NILE. 

It  was  a  curious  scene, — the  appearing  of  the 
dusky  natives  on  all  the  rocks  around ;  the  eager 
zeal  of  those  who  made  themselves  our  guards, 
holding  us  by  the  arms,  as  if  we  were  going  to 
jail,  and  scarcely  permitting  us  to  set  our  feet  to 
the  ground,  lest  we  should  fall ;  and  the  daring 
plunges  and  divings  of  man  or  boy,  to  obtain  our 
admiration  or  our  baksheesh.  A  boy  would  come 
riding  down  a  slope  of  roaring  water,  as  confi- 
dently as  I  would  ride  down  a  sand-hill  on  my 
ass.  Their  ai-ms,  in  their  fighting  method  of 
swimming,  go  round  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel. 
Grinning  boys  poppled  in  the  currents  ;  and  little 
seven-year-old  savages  must  haul  at  the  ropes,  or 
ply  their  little  poles  when  the  kandjia  approached 
a  spike  of  rock,  or  dive  to  thrust  their  shoulders 
between  its  keel  and  any  sunken  obstacle ;  and 
after  every  such  feat  they  would  pop  up  their 
dripping  heads,  and  cry,  "Baksheesh."  I  felt 
the  great  peculiarity  of  this  day  to  be  my  seeing, 
for  the  first,  and  probably  for  the  only  time  of  my 


life,  the  perfection  of  savage  faculty ;  and  truly  it 
is  an  imposing  sight.  The  quickness  of  movement 
and  apprehension,  the  strength  and  suppleness  of 
frame,  and  the  power  of  experience  in  all  con- 
cerned this  day,  contrasted  strangely  with  images 
of  the  book-worm  and  the  professional  man  at 
home,  who  can  scarcely  use  their  own  limbs  and 
senses,  or  conceive  of  any  control  over  external 
realities.  I  always  thought,  in  America,  and  I 
always  shall  think,  that  the  finest  specimens  of 
human  development  I  have  ever  seen,  are  in  the 
United  States,  where  every  man,  however  learned 
and  meditative,  can  ride,  drive,  keep  his  own 
horse,  and  roof  his  own  dwelling ;  and  every  wo- 
man, however  intellectual,  can  do,  if  necessary, 
all  the  work  of  her  own  house.  At  home  I  had 
seen  one  extreme  of  power,  in  the  helpless  beings 
whose  prerogative  lies  wholly  in  the  world  of 
ideas ;  here  I  saw  the  other,  where  the  dominion 
was  wholly  over  the  power  of  outward  nature : 
and  I  must  say,  I  as  heartily  wished  for  the  intro- 
duction of  some  good  bodily  education  at  home, 
as  for  intellectual  enlightenment  here. 

Mc  IN  TOSH,    MARIA   JANE, 

Is  a  native  of  Georgia.  She  was  born  at  Sun- 
bury,  a  village  about  forty  miles  south  of  Savannali, 
and  received  all  the  education  which  she  derived 
from  schools  at  an  academy  in  her  native  place. 
In  1835,  Miss  Mcintosh  removed  to  the  city  of 
New  York,  where  she  has  since  resided.  Her  first 
printed  work,  "  Blind  Alice,"  was  published  by 
Mr.  Newman,  in  December,  1840.  It  was  fol- 
lowed, at  various  intervals,  by  the  other  tales, 
known  as  Aunt  Kitty's,  which  appeared  in  the 
following  order:  —  "Jessie  Grahame,"  "Florence 
Arnott,"  "Grace  and  Clara,"  and  "Ellen  Leslie;" 
the  last  being  published  in  1842.  "Conquest  and 
Self-Conquest,"  "Woman  an  Enigma,"  "Praise 
and  Principle,"  and  a  little  tale  called  "  The 
Cousins,"  were  published  by  the  Messrs.  Harper ; 
the  first  in  1843,  the  last  in  1846.  In  1847,  the 
Messrs.  Appleton  published  for  Miss  Mcintosh, 
"  Two  Lives,  or  to  seem  and  to  be ;"  and  since  that 
time  they  have  brought  out  "  Aunt  Kitty's  Tales," 
collected  into  one  volume  and  carefully  revised, 
"Charms  and  Counter-Charms,"  and  "  AVoman 
in  America  —  her  Work  and  her  Reward."  In 
1850,  appeared  her  work,  entitled  "The  Christ- 
mas Guest,"  intended  as  a  book  for  the  holi- 
days. 

In  all  Miss  iMcIntosh's  writings,  there  are  evi- 
dences of  originality  and  freshness  of  mind,  as 
well  as  of  good  judgment  and  sound  religious 
principle.  In  her  two  longer  tales,  she  has  dis- 
played unusual  power  in  depicting  the  passions 
and  interesting  the  feelings.  In  her  work  on  wo- 
man, she  has  shown  herself  to  be  one  who  thinks 
and  judges  for  herself,  uninfluenced  and  undis- 
turbed by  the  clamour  of  conflicting  opinions  ;  and 
there  have  been  few  books  on  that  much-canvassed 
topic  which  show  so  much  sound  common  sense, 
as  well  as  thought  and  earnestness.  Her  style  is 
easy  and  graceful,  and  her  first  object  is  evidently 
the  maintenance  of  pure  morality  and  religion, 

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From  "  Woman  in  America."  &,c. 

woman's  wokk. 

But  while  all  the  outward  machinery  of  govern- 
ment, the  body,  the  thews  and  sinews  of  society, 
are  man's,  woman,  if  true  to  her  own  not  less  im- 
portant or  less  sacred  mission,  controls  its  vital 
principle.  Unseen  herself,  working  like  nature 
in  secret,  she  regulates  its  pulsations,  and  sends 
forth  from  its  heart,  in  pure  and  temperate  flow, 
the  life-giving  current.  It  is  hers  to  warm  into 
life  the  earliest  germs  of  thought  and  feeling  in 
the  infant  mind,  to  watch  the  first  dawning  of 
light  upon  the  awakening  soul,  to  aid  the  first 
faint  struggles  of  the  clay-encumbered  spirit  to 
grasp  the  beautiful  realities  which  here  and  there 
pi'esent  themselves  amid  the  glittering  falsities  of 
earth,  and  to  guide  its  first  tottering  steps  into 
the  paths  of  peace.  And  who  does  not  feel  how 
her  warm  affections  and  quick  irrepressible  sym- 
pathies fit  her  for  this  labour  of  love  ?  As  the 
young  immortal  advances  in  his  career,  he  comes 
tc  need  a  severer  discipline,  and  man,  with  his 
unconceding  reason,  and  stern  resolve,  becomes 
his  teacher.  Yet  think  not  that  woman's  work  is 
done  when  the  child  has  passed  into  the  youth, 
and  the  youth  into  the  man.  Still,  as  disease 
lays  his  hand  heavily  upon  the  strong  frame,  and 
sorrow  wrings  the  proud  heart  of  man,  she,  "the 
help-meet,"  if  faithful  to  her  allotted  work,  is  at 
his  side,  teaching  him  to  bend  to  the  storms  of 
life,  that  he  may  not  be  broken  by  them ;  humbly 
stooping  herself,  that  she  may  remove  from  his 
path  every  "stone  of  stumbling,"  and  gently  lead- 
ing him  onward  and  upward  to  a  Divine  Consoler, 
with  whose  blessed  ministerings  the  necessities  of 
a  more  timid  spirit,  and  a  feebler  i^hysical  organi- 
zation, have  made  her  familiar. 

THE    mother's    power. 

Look  at  the  young  immortal  as  it  lies  so  fresh 
and  fair  within  your  arms,  the  purity  of  heaven 
on  its  brow,  and  nothing  of  earth  within  its  heart 
but  the  love  with  which  it  leaps  to  the  sound  of 
the  mother-voice  and  the  tender  smile  of  the 
mother-ej'es ;  in  that  little  being,  scarce  yet  con- 
scious of  existence,  are  enfolded  powers  to  bless 
or  to  curse,  extended  as  the  universe,  enduring  as 
eternity.  The  hand  which  now  clings  so  feebly, 
yet  so  tenaciously,  to  your  own,  may  uphold  or 
overthrow  an  empire  —  the  voice,  whose  weak  cry 
scarce  wins  the  attention  of  any  but  a  mother's 
eai",  may  one  day  stir  a  nation's  heart,  and  give 
the  first  impulse  to  actions  which  will  hasten  or 
retard  for  ages  the  world's  millennial  glories. 
And  will  you,  nay,  dare  you,  strive  to  compress 
these  powers  to  the  dimensions  of  a  drawing-room, 
and  to  present  its  paltry  triumishs  as  the  highest 
reward  of  their  exercises  ? 

THE    daughter's    DESTINY. 

The  daughter  whose  bounding  step  and  joyous 
prattle  make  the  music  of  your  home  —  shall  she 
walk  through  the  world's  dark  and  troubled  ways, 
an  angel  of  charity,  blessing  and  blessed,  warm- 
ing into  life  by  her  cordial  sympathies,  all  those 


pure,  unselfish  affections,  by  which  we  know  our- 
selves allied  to  heaven,  but  which  fade,  and  too 
often  die  in  the  atmosphere  of  earth? — shall  "her 
path  be  as  that  of  the  just,  shining  more  and  more 
unto  the  perfect  day,"  and  shall  she  pass  at  length 
gently,  serenely,  with  peace  in  her  soul,  from  her 
earthly  home  to  that  fairer  home  above,  of  which 
she  has  made  it  no  unworthy  tj'pe  ? — or,  shall  she 
be  the  belle  of  one,  two,  or  it  may  be,  three  sea- 
sons, nurturing  in  herself  and  others  the  baleful 
passions  of  envy  and  hate,  of  impurity  and  pride  ? 
***** 
And  has  woman  at  the  South  nothing  to  do  in 
promoting  this  "consummation  most  devoutly  to 
be  wished  ?"  It  must  be  mainly  her  work.  Let 
her  place  it  before  her  as  an  object  of  her  life. 
Let  her  improve  every  gift  and  cultivate  everj 
gi'ace,  that  the  increased  influence  thus  obtained 
may  aid  in  its  accomplishment.  Let  her  light  so 
shine,  that  it  may  enlighten  all  who  come  within 
her  sphere.  Let  her  be  a  teacher  of  the  ignorant. 
a  guide  to  the  straying  of  her  own  household. 
Let  her  make  it  a  law  of  the  social  life  in  which 
she  rules,  that  nothing  so  surely  degrades  a  man 
as  idleness,  and  the  vices  to  which  it  almost  inevi- 
tably leads.  Thus  will  she  proclaim  the  dignity 
and  worth  of  labour,  and  she  will  find  her  reward 
in  the  new  impress  made  on  the  yet  ductile  minds 
of  her  children.  She  has  seen  them  hitherto  toe 
often  go  forth,  like  bright  and  wandering  stars, 
into  a  life  containing  for  them  no  definite  object. 
In  this  vast  void,  she  has  seen  them  too  often 
driven  hither  and  thither  by  their  own  reckless 
impulses ;  and  her  heart  has  been  wrung,  and  her 
imploring  cry  has  arisen  to  Heaven  for  God's 
restraining  grace,  as  they  have  seemed  about  to 
rush  into  the  unfathomable  realm  of  night.  With 
almost  Spartan  heroism  she  has  offered  her  "  Te 
Deums,"  as  again  and  again  the  sound  has  come 
up  to  her  from  the  battle-field  of  life,  "Mother! 
all  is  lost,  but  honour!"  But  labour  will  tame 
these  wild  impulses  —  will  give  to  life  a  decided 
aim ;  and,  as  the  strong  hand,  loosed  from  the 
bonds  of  prejudice,  obeys  the  command  of  the 
stout  heart,  her  "pseans"  will  be  sounded,  not  for 
defeat  nobly  sustained,  but  for  victory  won.  We 
have  placed  before  her,  her  work  and  her  reward. 

MITCHELL,  MARIA, 
Is  the  daughter  of  William  and  Lydia  C.  Mit- 
chell, descendants  of  the  earlier  settlers  of  Nan- 
tucket Island,  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts,  and 
members  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  or  Quakers. 
Mrs.  Mitchell  descended  from  the  same  stock  with 
Dr.  Franklin,  whose  mother  was  from  this  island : 
and  it  is  quite  remarkable,  that  throughout  this 
family  lineage  are  to  be  traced  some  of  those 
traits  of  character  which,  in  full  measure,  marked 
the  character  and  history  of  that  distinguislied 
philosopher.  The  mother  of  Miss  Mitchell  was 
much  distinguished,  in  her  youth,  for  her  fondness 
for  books. 

Of  these  parents  Miss  Maria  was  the  third  child, 
born  August  1,  1818.  At  a  very  early  age  she 
busied  herself  in  writing  tales  for  her  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  other  juvenile  friends,  printing 

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them  with  her  pen,  and  binding  them  in  the  form 
of  books.  Some  of  these  little  productions  were 
very  ingenious,  and  would  have  done  honour  to 
maturer  years. 

From  her  mother  and  an  excellent  preceptress 
she  received  the  first  rudiments  of  her  education, 
and  at  the  age  of  eleven  entered  her  father's 
school,  alternately  as  student  and  assistant  teacher. 
To  the  study  and  practice  of  astronomy  her  father 
was  a  devotee.  AVhenever  the  duties  of  life  per- 
mitted, the  whole  man  was  engrossed  with  the 
pursuit.  Without  instruments  at  that  period,  or 
the  means  of  procuring  any,  he  contemplated  the 
heavens  as  a  shepherd,  watching  the  motions  of 
the  firmament,  and  investigating  its  laws  by  his 
own  resources.  It  is  said  that  his  love  of  the 
study  originated  in  observing,  in  very  early  life, 
the  phenomenon  of  the  harvest  moon,  and  in  at- 
tempting to  search  out  the  cause  before  he  knew 
that  it  had  been  done  by  others.  Later  in  life  he 
became  possessed  of  instruments,  and  engaged  in 
practical  operations ;  and  Miss  Maria,  who  had 
already  distinguished  herself  in  mathematical 
learning,  was  employed  as  assistant  in  the  obser- 
vatory. 

The  onerous  duties  of  a  mere  assistant  in  an 
establishment  of  this  kind  are  scarcely  calculated 
to  attach  one  to  the  employment,  yet  Miss  Mitchell 
was  enamoured  of  the  prospect  of  observing  by 
herself,  and  commenced  her  career  by  obtaining 
altitudes  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  for  the  determi- 
nation of  the  local  time.  The  instrument  thus 
used  was  the  sextant,  one  of  the  most  difficult  of 
the  observatory.  Mastering  this,  she  engaged  in 
the  study  of  the  science ;  and  familiarizing  herself 
with  all  the  instruments,  she  became  skilful  in 
their  use. 

From  this  period  she  pursued  with  zeal  the 
study  of  the  firmament,  devoting  much  time  to  the 
examination  of  nebulne,  and  sweeping  for  comets, 
often  exposing  herself  to  the  elements  in  the  most 
inclement  seasons.  Nothing  can  exceed  her  dili- 
gence and  industry  —  not  in  the  departments  of 
science  merely,  but  in  the  domestic  relations  of 
life.  Her  good  sense  never  suffers  her  to  neglect 
the  latter  in  the  prosecution  of  the  former.  It  is 
related  of  her,  that  while  very  young  she  was  in 
the  habit  of  carrying  constantly  in  her  pocket  bits 
of  linen  cloth,  to  wrap  up  the  fingers  of  her 
brothers  when  wounded,  —  and  to  this  day  she  is 
the  doctress  of  the  family. 

On  the  1st  of  October,  1847,  she  discovered  a 
telescopic  comet,  for  which  she  obtained  the  gold 
medal  of  the  king  of  Denmark,  an  interesting  ac- 
count of  which  has  been  written  by  Hon.  Edward 
Everett,  late  President  of  Harvard  University. 

Miss  Mitchell  calculated  the  elements  of  this 
comet,  and  communicated  a  memoir  on  the  subject 
to  the  Smithsonian  Institute.  She  has  been  for 
some  time  engaged  with  her  father  in  making  the 
necessary  astronomical  observations  for  the  men- 
suration of  an  arc  of  the  meridian  between  Nan- 
tucket and  Portland,  in  the  employment  of  Dr. 
Bache,  for  the  coast  survey.  At  the  invitation  of 
the  superintendent,  she  also  made  some  observations 


at  the  northern  extremity  of  this  arc.  She  is  also 
engaged  in  the  computations  of  the  new  Nantucket 
Almanac,  authorized  by  the  government  of  the 
United  States,  and  under  the  superintendence  of 
Lieutenant  Davis.  Amidst  all  these  employments, 
she  finds  time  to  read  many  of  the  French  and 
German  mathematical  writers,  and  to  keep  up 
with  the  literature  of  the  day.  She  has  been 
elected  a  member  of  the  American  Academy  of 
Arts  and  Sciences,  the  only  lady  having  that 
honour,  and  subsequently,  on  the  nomination  of 
Professor  Agassis,  a  member  of  the  American 
Association  for  the  Promotion  of  Science. 

To  know  the  distinguished  honour  reflected  on 
our  covmtry  woman,  we  must  know  her  competitors. 
Miss  Mitchell  made  her  discovery  of  the  planet  on 
the  1st  of  October,  1847. 

On  the  3d  of  October,  the  same  comet  was  seen 
at  half-past  seven,  P.  M.,  at  Rome,  by  Father  de 
Vico,  and  information  of  the  fact  was  immediately 
communicated  by  him  to  Professor  Schumacher, 
at  Altona.  On  the  7th  of  October,  at  twenty 
minutes  past  nine,  P.  M.,  it  was  observed  by  Mr. 
W.  R.  Dawes,  at  Camden  Lodge,  Cranbrook,  Kent, 
in  England,  and  on  the  11th  it  was  seen  by  Ma- 
dame Riimker,  the  wife  of  the  Director  of  the 
Obseivatory  at  Hamburg.  Mr.  Schumacher,  in 
announcing  this  last  discovery,  observes:  —  "Ma- 
dame Riimker  has  for  several  years  been  on  the 
look-out  for  comets,  and  her  persevering  industry 
seemed  at  last  about  to  be  rewarded,  when  a  letter 
was  received  from  Father  de  Vico,  addressed  to 
the  editor  of  the  Astronomische  Nachrichten,  from 
which  it  appeared  that  the  same  comet  had  been 
observed  by  him  on  the  3d  instant,  at  Rome." 

MITFORD,  MARY  RUSSELL, 
Was  born  on  the  16th  of  December,  1786,  at 
Abresford,  in  Hampshire,  England.  Her  father 
was  of  an  old  Northumberland  family,  one  of  the 
Mitfords  of  Mitford  Castle ;  her  mother  the  only 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Russell  of  Ash,  in  Hamp- 
shire, and  she  was  their  only  child.  AVhen  still  a 
young  gii-1,  about  the  year  1806,  Miss  Mitford 
published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  and 
two  volumes  of  narrative  poetry  after  the  manner 
of  Scott,  "Christina  the  Maid  of  the  South  Seas," 
(founded  upon  the  story  of  the  mutineers  of  the 
Bounty,  afterwards  taken  by  Lord  Byron;)  and 
"Blanche,  a  Spanish  Story."  These  books  sold 
well  and  obtained  a  fair  share  of  popularity,  and 
some  of  them  were  reprinted  in  America.  How- 
ever, Miss  Mitford  herself  was  not  satisfied  with 
them,  and  for  several  of  the  following  years  de- 
voted herself  to  reading  instead  of  writing  ;  indeed 
it  is  doubtful  whether  she  would  ever  have  written 
again  had  not  she,  with  her  parents,  been  reduced 
from  the  high  affluence  to  which  they  were  born 
to  comparative  poverty.  Filial  affection  induced 
her  to  resume  the  pen  she  had  so  long  thrown 
aside,  and  accordingly  she  wrote  the  series  of 
papers  which  afterwards  formed  the  first  volume 
of  "  Our  Village,  Sketches  of  Rural  Character  and 
Scenery,"  about  1820.  But  so  little  was  the  pe- 
culiar and  original  excellence  of  her  descriptions 

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understood  at  first,  that,  after  being  rejected  by 
the  more  important  publications,  they  at  hist  saw 
the  light  in  the  English  "  Lady's  Magazine."  The 
public  were  not  long  in  discovering  the  beauties 
of  a  style  so  fresh  yet  so  finished,  and  in  appre- 
ciating the  delicate  humour  and  the  simple  pathos 
of  these  tales  ;  and  the  result  was,  that  the  popu- 
larity of  these  sketches  outgrew  that  of  the  works 
of  a  loftier  order  from  the  same  pen ;  and  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  cluster  of  cottages  around 
Three-Mile-Cross,  near  Reading,  in  Berkshire,  (in 
one  of  which  the  authoress  herself  resides,)  is  as 
well  known  as  the  streets  and  lanes  around  the 
reader's  own  home.  Four  other  volumes  of  sketches 
were  afterwards  added;  the  fifth,  and  last,  in  1832. 
Extending  her  observation  from  the  country  village 
to  the  market-town,  Miss  Mitford  published  another 
interesting  volume  of  descriptions,  entitled  "  Bel- 
ford  Regis."  She  edited  three  volumes,  called 
"Stories  of  American  Life  by  American  Writers." 
She  also  published  a  volume  of  "  Country  Stories ;" 
a  volume  of  "  Dramatic  Scenes  ;"  an  opera  called 
"Sadak  and  Kalasrade,"  and  four  tragedies,  the 
first  entitled  "Julian,"  which  was  represented  at 
the  great  London  Theatre  in  1823,  Mr.  RLacready 
playing  Julian.  Her  next  was  "  Foscari ;"  then 
"Rienzi"  and  "  Charles  the  First;"  all  were  suc- 
cessful. "  Rienzi,"  in  particular,  long  continued 
a  favourite.  She  also  edited  four  volumes  of 
"  Finden's  Tableaux,"  and  is  now,  after  eight 
years'  cessation  of  writing,  engaged  on  a  series 
of  papers  called  "  Readings  of  Poetry,  Old  and 
New,"  which  will  probably  form  two  or  three 
volumes,  and  will  soon  be  published. 

Although  her  tragedies  show  great  intellectual 
powers,  and  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  j'et  it  is  by 
her  sketches  of  English  life  that  she  has  obtained 
the  greatest  share  of  her  popularity,  and  it  is  on 
them  that  her  fame  will  chiefly  depend.  In  these 
descriptions  Mary  Mitford  is  unrivalled.  She  has 
a  manner,  natural  to  her,  no  doubt,  but  inimitable 
and  indescribable,  which  sheds  interest  around  the 
most  homely  subjects  and  coarsest  characters. 
Who  ever  threw  by  a  sketch  of  hers  half  read  ? 
No  one  who  admired  a  spring  daisy  —  or  that  most 
fragrant  blossom,  the  wall-flower,  which  beautifies 
every  object,  however  rough,  rude  or  ruinous, 
around  which  it  wreathes.  And,  though  she  does 
not  ti-ace  the  motives  of  conduct  very  deeply,  or 
attempt  to  teach  principles  of  moral  duty,  yet 
tliere  is  much  in  her  spriglitly  and  warm  sketches 
of  simple  nature  which  draws  the  heart  to  love  the 
Author  of  all  this  beauty ;  and  much  in  her  kind 
and  contented  philosophy  to  promote  love  and 
good  feelings.  She  is  a  philanthropist,  for  she 
joys  in  the  happiness  of  others — a  patriot,  for  she 
draws  the  people  to  feel  the  beauties  and  blessings 
which  surround  the  most  lowly  lot  in  that  "land 
of  proud  names  and  high  heroic  deeds." 

"  As  a  proof  that  we  love  her,  tee  love  her  dog,^' 
says  an  American  writer.  "Walter  Scott's  stately 
Maida  is  not  more  an  historical  character  than 
her  springing  spaniel,  or  Italian  greyhound.  If 
she  began  by  being  prosaic  in  poetry,  she  has  re- 
deemed herself  by  being  most  poetic  in  pastoral 
prose." 


In  1833  Miss  Mitford's  name  was  added  to  the 
pension  list,  a  well-earned  tribute  to  one  whose 
genius  has  been  devoted  to  the  honour  and  em- 
bellishment of  her  country. 

From  "  Our  Village." 
WHITSUN-EVE MY    GAKDEN. 

The  pride  of  my  heart  and  the  delight  of  my 
eyes  is  my  garden.  Our  house,  which  is  in  di- 
mensions very  much  like  a  bird-cage,  and  might, 
with  almost  equal  convenience,  be  laid  on  a  shelf, 
or  hung  up  in  a  tree,  would  be  utterly  unbearable 
in  warm  weather,  were  it  not  that  we  have  a  re- 
treat out  of  doors, — and  a  very  pleasant  retreat  it 
is.  To  make  my  readers  fully  comprehend  it,  I 
must  describe  our  whole  territories. 

Fancy  a  small  plot  of  ground,  with  a  pretty  low 
irregular  cottage  at  one  end ;  a  large  granary, 
divided  from  the  dwelling  by  a  little  court  running 
along  one  side ;  and  a  long  thatched  shed  open 
towards  the  garden,  and  supported  by  wooden 
pillars  on  the  other.  The  bottom  is  bounded, 
half  by  an  old  wall,  and  half  by  an  old  paling, 
over  which  we  see  a  pretty  distance  of  woody 
hills.  The  house,  granary,  wall,  and  paling,  are 
covered  with  vines,  cherry-trees,  roses,  honey- 
suckles, and  jessamines,  with  great  clusters  of 
tall  hollyhocks  running  up  between  them ;  a  large 
elder  overhanging  the  little  gate,  and  a  magnifi- 
cent bay-tree,  such  a  tree  as  shall  scarcely  be 
matched  in  these  parts,  breaking  with  its  beautiful 
conical  foi-m  the  horizontal  lines  of  the  buildings. 
This  is  my  garden  ;  and  the  long  pillared  shed, 
the  sort  of  rustic  arcade  which  runs  along  one 
side,  parted  from  the  flower-beds  by  a  row  of  rich 
geraniums,  is  our  out-of-door  drawing-room. 

I  know  nothing  so  pleasant  as  to  sit  there  on  a 
summer  afternoon,  with  the  western  sun  flickering 
through  the  gi-eat  elder-tree,  and  lighting  up  our 
gay  parterres,  where  flowers  and  flowering  shrubs 
are  set  as  thick  as  grass  in  a  field,  a  wilderness 
of  blossom,  interwoven,  intertwined,  wreathy, 
garlandy,  profuse  beyond  all  profusion,  where  we 
may  guess  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  mould, 
but  never  see  it.  I  know  nothing  so  pleasant  as 
to  sit  in  the  shade  of  that  dark  bower,  with  the 
eye  resting  on  that  bright  piece  of  colour,  lighted 
so  gloriously  by  the  evening  sun,  now  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  little  birds  as  they  fly  rapidly  in 
and  out  of  their  nests — for  there  are  always  two  or 
three  birds'-nests  in  the  thick  tapestry  of  cherry- 
trees,  honeysuckles,  and  China-roses,  which  cover 
our  walls  —  now  tracing  the  gay  gambols  of  the 
common  butterflies  as  they  sport  around  the 
dahlias  ;  now  watching  that  rarer  moth,  which  the 
country  people,  fertile  in  pretty  names,  call  the 
bee-bird ;  *  that  bird-like  insect,  which  flutters  in 
the  hottest  days  over  the  sweetest  flowers,  insert- 
ing its  long  proboscis  into  the  small  tube  of  the 
jessamine,  and  hovering  over  the  scarlet  blossoms 
of  the  geranium,  whose  bright  colour  seems  re- 
flected on  its  own  feathery  breast ;  that  insect 
which  seems  so  thoroughly  a  creature  of  the  air, 
never  at  rest;  always,  even  when  feeding,  self- 


Sphynx  ligiistri,  privet  hawk-moth. 


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poised,  and  self-supported,  and  whose  wings,  in 
their  ceaseless  motion,  have  a  sound  so  deep,  so 
full,  so  lulling,  so  musical.  Nothing  so  pleasant 
as  to  sit  amid  that  mixture  of  the  flower  and  the 
leaf,  watching  the  bee-bird !  Nothing  so  pretty- 
to  look  at  as  my  garden !  It  is  quite  a  pictui'e ; 
only  unluckily  it  resembles  a  picture  in  more  qua- 
lities than  one,  —  it  is  fit  for  nothing  but  to  look 
at.  One  might  as  well  think  of  walking  in  a  bit 
of  framed  canvass.  There  are  walks,  to  be  sure — 
tiny  paths  of  smooth  gravel,  by  courtesy  called 
such  —  but  they  are  so  overhung  by  roses  and 
lilies,  and  such'  gay  encroachers  —  so  overrun  by 
convolvulus,  and  heart's-ease,  and  mignionette, 
and  other  sweet  stragglers,  that,  except  to  edge 
through  them  occasionally,  for  the  purposes  of 
planting,  or  weeding,  or  watering,  there  might  as 
well  be  no  paths  at  all.  Nobody  thinks  of  walking 
in  my  garden.  Even  INIay  glides  along  with  a 
delicate  and  trackless  step,  like  a  swan  through 
the  water ;  and  we,  its  two-footed  denizens,  are 
fain  to  treat  it  as  if  it  were  really  a  saloon,  and 
go  out  for  a  walk  towards  sun-set,  just  as  if  we 
had  not  been  sitting  in  the  open  air  all  day. 

What  a  contrast  from  the  quiet  garden  the  lively 
street !  Saturday  night  is  always  a  time  of  stir 
and  bustle  in  our  Village,  and  this  is  Whitsun- 
Eve,  the  pleasantest  Saturday  of  all  the  year, 
when  London  journeymen  and  servant  lads  and 
lasses  snatch  a  short  holiday  to  visit  their  families. 
A  short  and  precious  holiday,  the  happiest  and 
liveliest  of  any ;  for  even  the  gambols  and  merry- 
makings of  Christmas  offer  but  a  poor  enjoyment, 
compared  with  the  rural  diversions,  the  Mayings, 
revels,  and  cricket-matches  of  Whitsuntide. 

CHARACTEES. 

This  village  of  ours  is  swarming  to-night  like  a 
hive  of  bees,  and  all  the  church-bells  round  are 
pouring  out  their  merriest  peals,  as  if  to  call  them 
together.  I  must  try  to  give  some  notion  of  the 
various  figures. 

First  there  is  a  group  suited  to  Teniers,  a  cluster 
of  out-of-door  customers  of  the  Rose,  old  benchers 
of  the  inn,  who  sit  round  a  table  smoking  and 
drinking  in  high  solemnity  to  the  sound  of  Timo- 
thy's fiddle.  Next,  a  mass  of  eager  boys,  the 
combatants  of  IMonday,  who  are  surrounding  the 
shoemaker's  shop,  where  an  invisible  hole  in  their 
ball  is  mended  by  Master  Keep  himself,  under 
the  joint  superintendence  of  Ben  Kirby  and  Tom 
Coper.  Ben  showing  much  verbal  respect  and 
outward  deference  for  his  umpire's  judgment  and 
experience,  but  managing  to  get  the  ball  done  his 
own  way,  after  all ;  whilst  outside  the  shop,  the 
rest  of  the  eleven,  the  less-trusted  commons,  are 
shouting  and  bawling  round  Joel  Brent,  who  is 
twisting  the  waxed  twine  round  the  handles  of  the 
bats — the  poor  bats,  which  please  nobody — which 
the  taller  youths  are  despising  as  too  little  and 
too  light,  and  the  smaller  are  abusing  as  too 
heavy  and  too  large.  Happy  critics  I  winning 
their  match  can  hardly  be  a  greater  delight — even 
if  to  win  it,  they  be  doomed !  Farther  down  the 
street  is  the  pretty  black-eyed  girl,  Sally  Wheeler, 
come  home  for  a  holiday  from  B ,  escorted  by 


a  tall  footman  in  a  dashing  livery,  whom  she  is 
trying  to  curtsey  ofl"  before  her  deaf  grandmother 
sees  him.     I  wonder  whether  she  will  succeed. 

MRS.    HTCAS    AND    HER    DAUGHTERS. 

Mrs.  Lucas,  still  lovely  and  elegant,  though 
somewhat  faded  and  care-worn,  was  walking  pen- 
sively up  and  down  the  grass-path  of  the  i^retty 
flower-court :  her  eldest  daughter,  a  rosy,  bright 
brunette,  with  her  dai'k  hair  floating  in  all  direc- 
tions, was  darting  about  like  a  bird :  now  tying 
up  the  pinks,  now  watering  the  geraniums ;  now 
collecting  the  fallen  rose-leaves  into  the  straw 
bonnet,  which  dangled  from  her  arm ;  and  now 
feeding  a  brood  of  bantams  from  a  little  barley 
measure,  which  that  sagacious  and  active  colony 
seemed  to  recognise  as  if  by  instinct,  coming,  long 
before  she  called  them,  at  their  swiftest  pace,  be- 
tween a  run  and  a  fly,  to  await,  with  their  usual 
noisy  and  bustling  patience,  the  showers  of  grain 
which  she  flung  to  them  across  the  paling.  It 
was  a  beautiful  picture  of  youth,  and  health,  and 
happiness ;  and  her  clear,  gay  voice,  and  brilliant 
smile,  accorded  well  with  her  shape  and  motion, 
as  light  as  a  buttei-fly,  and  as  wild  as  the  wind. 
A  beautiful  picture  was  that  rosy  lass  of  fifteen, 
in  her  unconscious  loveliness,  and  I  might  have 
continued  gazing  upon  her  longer,  had  I  not  been 
attracted  by  an  object  no  less  charming,  although 
in  a  very  different  way. 

It  was  a  slight  elegant  girl,  apparently  about  a 
year  younger  than  the  pretty  romp  of  the  flower- 
garden,  not  unlike  her  in  form  and  feature,  but 
totally  distinct  in  colouring  and  expression. 

She  sate  in  the  old  porch,  wreathed  with  jessa- 
mine and  honeysuckle,  with  the  western  sun  float- 
ing round  her  like  a  glory,  and  displaying  the 
singular  beauty  of  her  chestnut  hair,  brown,  with 
a  golden  light,  and  the  exceeding  delicacy  of  her 
'  smooth  and  finely-grained  complexion,  so  pale, 
and  yet  so  healthful.  Her  whole  face  and  foi'm 
had  a  bending  and  statue-like  grace,  increased  by 
the  adjustment  of  her  splendid  hair,  which  was 
parted  on  her  white  forehead,  and  gathered  up 
I  behind  in  a  large  knot,  a  natural  coronet.  Her 
eye-brows  and  long  eye-lashes  were  a  few  shades 
darker  than  her  hair,  and  singularly  rich  and 
beautiful.  She  was  plaiting  straw,  rapidly  and 
skilfully,  and  bent  over  her  work  with  a  mild  and 
placid  attention,  a  sedate  pensiveness  that  did  not 
belong  to  her  age,  and  which  contrasted  strangely 
and  sadly  with  the  gaiety  of  her  laughing  and 
brilliant  sister,  who  at  this  moment  darted  up  to 
her  with  a  handful  of  pinks  and  some  groundsel. 
Jessy  received  them  with  a  smile :  such  a  smile ! 
spoke  a  few  words,  in  a  sweet,  sighing  voice  ;  put 
the  flowers  in  her  bosom,  and  the  groundsel  in 
the  cage  of  a  linnet  that  hung  near  her ;  and  then 
resumed  her  seat  and  her  work,  imitating,  better 
than  I  have  ever  heard  them  imitated,  the  various 
notes  of  the  nightingale,  who  was  singing  in  the 
opposite  hedge,  whilst  I,  ashamed  of  loitering 
longer,  passed  on. 

The  next  time  I  saw  her,  my  interest  in  this 
lovely  creature  was  increased  tenfold,  for  I  then 
knew  that  Jessy  was  blind. 

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Prom  "  Rienzi." 


HOME    AND    LOVE. 


Rie.  Claudia  — nay,  start  not !    Thou  art  sad  to  day  : 
r  found  thee  sitting  idly,  'midst  thy  maids  — 
A  pretty,  laughing,  restless  band,  who  plied 
Q.uick  tongue  and  nimble  finger.    Mute,  and  pale 
As  marble,  those  unseeing  eyes  were  fixed 
On  vacant  air;  and  that  fair  hrow  was  bent 
As  sternly,  as  if  the  rude  stranger,  Thmight, 
Age-giving,  mirthdestoying,  pitiless  Thought, 
Had  knocked  at  thy  young  giddy  brain. 

C/a.  Nay,  father, 
Mock  not  thine  own  poor  Claudia. 

Rie.  Claudia  used 
To  bear  a  merry  heart  with  that  clear  voice. 
Prattling  ;  and  that  light  busy  foot,  astir 
In  her  small  housewifery,  the  blithest  bee 
That  ever  wrought  in  hive. 

Cla.  Oh!  mine  old  home! 

Rie.  What  ails  thee,  lady-bird? 

Cla.  Mine  own  dear  home  ! 
Father,  I  love  not  this  new  state;  these  halls. 
Where  comfort  dies  in  vastness  ;  these  trim  maids. 
Whose  service  wearies  me.     Oh!  mine  old  home! 
My  quiet,  pleasant  chamber,  with  the  myrtle 
Woven  round  the  casement ;  and  the  cedar  by. 
Shading  the  sun  ;  my  garden  overgrown 
With  flowers  and  herbs,  thick-set  as  grass  in  fields ; 
My  pretty  snow-white  doves  ;  my  kindest  nurse  ; 
And  old  Camillo.  — Oh!  mine  own  dear  home! 

Rie.  Why,  simple  child,  thou  hast  thine  old  fond  nurse. 
And  good  Camillo,  and  shall  have  thy  doves. 
Thy  myrtles,  flowers,  and  cedars  ;  a  whole  province 
Laid  in  a  garden  an'  thou  wilt.     My  Claudia, 
Hast  thou  not  learnt  thy  power?     Ask  orient  gems, 
Diamonds,  and  sapphires,  in  rich  caskets,  wrought 
By  cunning  goldsmiths;  sigh  for  rarest  birds. 
Of  farthest  Itid,  like  winged  flowers  to  flit 
Around  thy  stately  bower;  and,  at  thy  wish. 
The  precious  toys  shall  wait  thee.     Old  Camillo  ! 
Thou  slialt  have  nobler  servants,  —  emperors,  kings. 
Electors,  princes!     Not  a  bachelor 
In  Christendom  but  would  right  proudly  kneel 
To  my  fair  daughter. 

Cla.  Oh!  mine  own  dear  home! 

Rie.  Wilt  have  a  list  to  choose  from  ?     Listen,  sweet ' 
If  the  tall  cedar,  and  the  branchy  myrtle. 
And  the  white  doves,  were  tell-tales,  I  would  ask  them 
Whose  was  the  shadow  on  the  sunny  wall  ? 
And  if,  at  eventide,  they  heard  not  oft 
A  tuneful  mandoline,  and  then  a  voice. 
Clear  in  its  manly  depth,  v\liose  tide  of  song 
O'erwhelmed  the  quivering  instrument;  and  then 
A  world  of  whispers,  mi.\ed  with  low  response, 
Sweet,  short,  and  broken  as  divided  strains 
Of  nightingales. 

Cla.  Oh,  father!  father!  [Runs  to  him,  and  falls  upon  his 
neck.\ 

Rie.  Well  ! 
Dost  thou  love  him,  Claudia? 

Cla.  Father ! 

Rie    Dost  thou  love 
Young  Angelo  ?     Ves ?    Saidst  thou  yes?    That  heart  — 
That  throbbing  heart  of  thine,  keeps  such  a  coil, 
I  cannot  hear  thy  words.     He  is  returned 
To  Rome  ;  he  left  thee  on  mine  errand,  dear  one ! 
And  now  —  is  there  no  casement  myttle-wreathed, 
No  cedar  in  our  courts,  to  shade  to-night 
The  lover's  song? 

Cla.  Oh,  father  !  father  ! 

Rie.  Now, 
Back  to  thy  maidens,  with  a  lightened  heart. 
Mine  own  beloved  child.     Thou  shalt  be  first 
In  Rome,  as  thou  art  fairest  ;  never  princess 
Brought  to  the  proud  Colonna  such  a  dower 
As  thou.     Young  Angelo  hath  chosen  his  mate 
From  out  an  eagle's  nest. 

Cla.  Alas!  alas! 
I  tremble  at  the  height.     Whene'er  I  think 
Of  the  hot  barons,  of  the  fickle  people. 
And  the  inconstancy  of  power,  I  tremble 
For  thee,  dear  father. 


Rie.  Tremble !  let  them  tremble. 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia,  whom  they  scorned. 
Endured,  protected.  — Sweet,  go  dream  of  love; 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia. 


V\>V,. 


MORGAN,  SYDNEY, 

Whose  maiden  name  ■was  Sydney  Owenson,  •was 
born  in  Dublin,  about  1783.  Her  father  was  a 
respectable  actor  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Dublin, 
and  gave  his  daughter  the  best  advantages  of 
education  he  could  command.  He  was  a  man  of 
decided  talents,  a  favourite  in  the  society  of  the 
city,  and  author  of  some  popular  Irish  songs. 
His  daughter,  Sydney,  inherited  his  predilection 
for  national  music  and  song.  Very  early  in  life, 
when  she  was  a  mere  child,  she  published  a  small 
volume  of  poetical  effusions;  and  soon  after,  "  The 
Lay  of  the  Irish  Harp,"  and  a  selection  of  twelve 
Irish  melodies,  set  to  music.  One  of  these  is  the 
well-known  song  of  "  Kate  Kearney ;"  probably  this 
pojnilar  lyric  will  outlive  all  the  other  writings  of 
this  authoress.  Her  next  work  was  a  novel,  "St. 
Clair,  or  the  Heiress  of  Desmond,"  published  when 
she  was  about  sixteen.  It  was  soon  followed  by 
"The  Novice  of  St.  Dominick;"  and  then  her 
most  successful  work,  "The  Wild  Irish  Girl," 
which  appeared  in  the  winter  of  1801. 

The  book  had  a  prodigious  sale.  Within  the 
first  two  j'ears,  seven  editions  were  published  in 
Great  Britain,  besides  two  or  three  in  America. 
It  gained  for  Miss  Owenson  a  celebrity  which  very 
few  writers,  of  either  sex,  have  won  at  so  early 
an  age.  It  gained  her  the  love  and  blessings  of 
the  Irish  people,  of  course ;  and  a  far  more  diffi- 
cult achievement,  it  won  her  a  high  reputation  in 
England.  Some  of  the  best  and  brightest  charac- 
ters among  the  proud  nobility  became  her  friends 
and  patrons. 

What  were  the  peculiar  mei-its  of  the  work 
which  won  this  popularity  ?  As  a  novel,  it  cer- 
tainly cannot  be  rated  very  high.  The  plot  shows 
little  inventive  talent,  and  was,  moreover,  liable 
to  some  objection  on  the  score  of  moral  tendency. 

We  allude  to  the  plan  of  making  the  Earl  of  M 

and  his  son  both  in  love  with  the  same  lady.  The 
denouement  is  very  awkwardly  managed,  and  we 

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think  most  readers  must  have  been  disgusted,  if 
not  shocked,  by  the  scene  where  the  unconscious 
rivals,  father  and  son,  meet  in  the  old  chapel. 
There  is  vei-y  little  development  of  character  at- 
tempted, each  person  introduced  being  expressly 
designed,  as  is  at  once  seen,  to  act  a  particular 
part,  which  is  set  down  in  the  play. 

Nor  is  the  merit  of  the  work  in  its  style,  which 
is  both  high-flown  and  puerile.  The  exaggerated 
sentiment,  so  often  poured  out  by  the  fervid,  but 
uncultivated  wi'iter,  appears  more  nonsensical 
from  the  pompous  phraseology  in  which  it  is  so 
often  expressed.  AVe  wonder  how  such  great 
words  could  have  been  brought  together  to  ex- 
press such  small  meanings.  This  is  particularly 
the  case  with  the  descriptive  portions  of  the  work. 
In  short,  the  author,  possessing  naturally  the 
wildest  and  warmest  phase  of  Irish  temperament, 
had  her  head  filled  and  nearly  turned  by  what 
she  calls  "the  witching  sorcery"  of  Rousseau; 
and  as  her  taste  had  been  very  little  cultivated  by 
judicious  reading,  or  her  judgment  improved  by 
obsei'vation,  it  is  not  strange  that  she  mistook 
hyperbole  for  elegance,  and  fancied  that  soft,  mel- 
lifluous words  would  convey  ideas  of  superhuman 
beauty.  The  following  description  of  her  heroine, 
Glorvina,  is  a  fair  specimen  of  this  tawdry  style. 
"  Her  form  was  so  almost  impalpably  delicate, 
that  as  it  floated  on  the  gaze,  it  seemed  like  the 
incarnation  of  some  pure  ethereal  spirit,  which  a 
sigh  too  roughly  breathed,  might  dissolve  into  its 
kindred  air ;  yet  to  this  sylphide  elegance  of 
spheral  beauty  was  united  all  that  symmetrical 
contour  which  constitutes  the  luxury  of  human 
loveliness.  This  scarcely  '  mortal  mixture  of 
earth's  mould,'  was  vested  in  a  robe  of  vestal 
white,  wliich  was  enfolded  beneath  the  bosom 
with  a  narrow  girdle  embossed  with  precious 
stones."  Query,  how  did  the  lady  look  ?  Can 
the  reader  form  any  clear  notion  ? 

Such  is  the  prevailing  style  of  the  book,  tliough 
occasionally,  when  giving  utterance  to  some  strong 
deep  feeling,  which  usually  finds  its  appropriate 
language,  the  author  is  truly  eloquent.  How 
could  a  novel  so  written,  gain  such  popularity  ? 
Because  it  had  a  high  aim,  a  holy  purpose.  It 
owed  its  success  entirely  to  the  simple  earnest- 
ness with  which  Miss  Owenson  defended  her 
country.  It  is  all  Ii-ish.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
thought  of  self,  nothing  but  patriotism  was  in  her 
soul,  and  this  feeling  redeemed  the  faults  of  in- 
flated style,  French  sentimentalism,  false  reason- 
ing, and  all  the  extravagances  of  her  j'outhful 
fancy.  Ireland  was  her  inspiration  and  her 
theme.  Its  history,  language,  antiquities,  tradi- 
tions, and  wrongs,  these  she  had  studied  as  a 
zealot  does  his  creed,  and  with  a  fervour  only  in- 
ferior in  sacredness  to  that  of  religion,  she  jjoured 
her  whole  heart  and  mind  forth  in  the  cause  of 
her  own  native  land. 

After  such  remarkable  success,  it  was  a  matter 
of  course  that  Miss  Owenson  should  continue  her 
literary  career.  "Patriotic  Sketches,"  "Ida," 
and  "  The  Missionary,"  followed  each  other  in 
quick  succession.  Her  next  work  was  "O'Don- 
nell;"  then  "Florence  Macarthy,  an  Irish  Tale," 


was  published  in  1818.  Previously  to  this  Miss 
Owenson  became  Lady  Morgan,  by  marrying  Sir 
Charles  Morgan,  M.  D.,  a  gentleman  of  consider- 
able talents,  —  as  his  own  work,  "  Sketches  of  the 
Philosophy  of  Life  and  Morals,"  shows.  The 
marriage  seemed  to  give  new  energy  and  a  wider 
scope  to  the  genius  of  Lady  Morgan ;  the  tastes 
of  the  husband  and  wife  were,  evidently,  in  sym- 
pathy. They  went  abroad,  and  "France"  and 
"Italy,"  two  clever  specimens  of  Lady  Morgan's 
powers  of  observation  and  description,  were  the 
result.  These  works  are  lively  and  entertaining. 
Lord  Byron  has  borne  testimony  to  the  fidelity 
and  excellence  of  "Italy:"  if  the  authoress  had 
been  less  solicitous  of  making  a  sensation,  her 
book  would  have  been  more  perfect,  yet  now  it  is 
among  the  best  of  its  kind. 

"The  O'Briens  and  the  O'Flahertys,"  a  novel 
intended  to  portray  national  manners,  appeared 
in  1827;  "The  Book  of  the  Boudoir"  in  1829. 
Among  her  other  works  are,  "  The  Princess,"  a 
story  founded  on  the  Revolution  in  Belgium, 
"  Dramatic  Scenes  from  Real  Life,"  "  The  Life 
and  Times  of  Salvator  Rosa,"  and  "Woman  and 
her  Master,"  published  in  London,  1840.  Two 
volumes  of  this  work  were  then  issued :  the 
authoress,  suff'ering  under  that  painful  aflSiction, 
a  weakness  of  eyesight,  was  unable  to  complete 
her  plan,  and  it  has  never  been  finished.  It  is  a 
philosophical  history  of  woman  down  to  the  fall 
of  the  Roman  Empire, — a  woi-k  on  which  Lady 
jMorgan  evidently  laboured  with  great  zeal.  It 
should  be  carefully  read  by  all  who  wish  to  gain 
a  compendious  knowledge  of  woman's  history,  and 
a  graphic  sketch  of  her  influence  in  the  early 
ages.  Many  new  and  valuable  truths  are  promul- 
gated ;  and  though  some  of  the  opinions  are  un- 
sound, because  unscriptural,  yet  the  earnest  wish 
to  benefit  her  sex,  and  improve  society,  has  gifted 
the  writer  with  great  power  in  setting  forth  much 
that  is  true,  and  of  the  utmost  importance.  We 
hope  she  will  have  strength  and  energy,  and  a 
prolongation  of  life,  to  complete  the  work. 

In  estimating  the  merits  of  this  indefatigable 
writer,  we  will  give  the  opinions  of  British  critics, 
only  observing  that,  to  us,  the  greatest  blemish  in 
her  books  in  an  under-current,  more  or  less  strong, 
running  through  many  of  them,  bearing  the  phi- 
losophical opinions,  or  sayings  rather,  of  the 
French  sentimental  school  of  infidels.  We  do  not 
think  Lady  Morgan  an  unbeliever ;  but  she  gives 
occasion  for  censure  by  expressions,  occasionally, 
that  favour  free-thinkers.  If  she  had  but  served 
God,  in  her  writings,  with  the  same  enthusiastic 
zeal  she  serves  her  country,  what  a  glorious  wo- 
man she  would  have  been  ! 

Mr.  Chambers,  in  his  Cycloptedia  of  English 
Literature,  says : — 

"  Lady  Morgan  has,  duinng  the  last  thirty  or 
forty  years,  written  in  various  departments  of  lite- 
rature—  in  poetry,  the  drama,  novels,  biography, 
ethics,  politics,  and  books  of  travels.  Whether 
she  has  written  any  one  book  that  will  become  a 
standard  portion  of  our  literature,  is  doubtful,  but 
we  are  indebted  to  her  pen  for  a  number  of  clever, 
lively  national  sketches  and  anecdotes.     She  has 

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fought  her  way  to  distinction,  self-educated,  in  the 
midst  of  raillery,  sarcasm,  and  vituperation,  pro- 
voked on  the  one  hand  by  her  careless  and  bold 
avowal  of  liberal  opinions  on  questions  of  polities 
and  the  '  minor  morals '  of  life,  and  on  the  other  by 
her  ill-concealed  worship  of  the  fashions  and  fol- 
lies of  the  great,  which  has  led  her  democratic 
friends  to  pronounce  the  pretty  severe  opinion, 
that  '  there  is  not  a  pernicious  vanity  or  affecta- 
tion belonging  to  tuft-hunting  or  modlshness,  which 
she  does  not  labour  to  confirm  and  strengthen  by 
precept,  sentiment,  and  her  own  goodly  example.'* 
If  Lady  Morgan  has  not  always  taste,  she  has 
talent ;  if  she  has  not  always  delicacy,  she  speaks 
boldly  and  freely  ;  if  she  has  got  into  the  society 
of  the  great  (the  reputation  of  her  writings,  like 
those  of  Swift,  '  doing  the  oflBce  of  a  blue  ribbon 
or  of  a  coach-and-six'),  she  has  told  us  all  she 
knows  about  them.  She  has  been  as  liberal  of 
satire  and  sarcasm  as  of  adulation.  She  has  a 
masculine  disregard  of  common  opinion  or  censure, 
and  a  temperament,  as  she  herself  states,  '  as 
cheery  and  genial  as  ever  went  to  that  strange 
medley  of  pathos  and  humour  —  the  Irish  cha- 
racter.' " 

From  "The  Book  of  the  Boudoir." 
MT    FIRST    BOUT   IN    LONDON. 

A  few  days  after  my  arrival  in  London,  and 
while  my  little  book  ("  Wild  Irish  Girl,")  was 
running  rapidly   through   successive   editions,    I 

was  presented  to  the  countess  dowager  of  C k, 

and  invited  to  a  rout  at  her  fantastic  and  pretty 
mansion  in  New  Burlington  Street.  Oh,  how  her 
Irish  historical  name  tingled  on  my  ears,  and 
seized  on  my  imagination ;  as  that  of  her  great 
ancestor,  "  the  father  of  chemistry,  and  uncle  to 
lord  Cork,"  did  on  the  mind  of  my  old  friend, 
professor  Higgens.  I  was  freshly  launched  from 
the  bogs  of  the  barony  of  Tireragh,  in  the  pro- 
vince of  Connaught,  and  had  dropped  at  once  into 
the  very  sanctuary  of  English  io7i,  without  time 
to  go  through  the  necessary  course  of  training  in 
manners  or  milinery,  for  such  an  awful  transition: 
so,  with  no  chaperon  but  my  incipient  notoriety, 
and  actually  no  toilet  but  the  frock  and  the  flower 
in  which,  not  many  days  before,  I  had  danced  a 
jig,  on  an  earthen  floor,  with  an  O'Rourke,  prince 
of  Brefney,  in  the  county  of  Leitrim,  I  stepped 
into  my  job-carriage  at  the  hour  of  ten,  and,  "  all 
alone  by  myself"  —  as  the  Irish  song  says  — 

"To  Eden  took  my  solitary  way." 

What  added  to  my  fears,  and  doubts,  and  hopes, 
and  embarrassments,  was  a  note  from  my  noble 
hostess,  received  at  the  moment  of  departure, 
which  ran  thus :  — 

"  Every  body  has  been  invited  expressly  to  meet 
the  Wild  Irish  Girl :  so  she  must  bring  her  Irish 
harp.  M.  C.  0." 

I  arrived  at  New  Burlington  Street  without  my 
Irish  harp,  and  with  a  beating  heart;  and  I  heard 
the  high-sounding  titles  of  princes  and  ambassadors, 
and  dukes  and  duchesses,  announced,  long  before 

*  Westminster  Review,  October,  1829. 


my  own  poor  plebeian  Hibernian  name  puzzled  the 
porter,  and  was  bandied  from  footman  to  footman, 
as  all  names  are  bandied,  which  are  not  written 
down  in  the  red-book  of  Fashion,  nor  rendered 
familiar  to  the  lips  of  her  insolent  menials.  How 
I  wished  myself  back  in  Tireragh  with  my  own 
princes,  the  O's  and  Macs ;  and  yet  this  position 
was  among  the  items  of  my  highest  ambition ! 
To  be  sought  after  by  the  great,  not  for  any  acci- 
dental circumstance  of  birth,  rank,  or  fortune,  but 
simply  '^potir  les  beaux  yeux  de  mon  vierite,'"  was  a 
principal  item  in  the  utopia  of  my  youthful  fancy. 
I  endeavoured  to  recall  the  fact  to  mind ;  but  it 
would  not  do :  and  as  I  ascended  the  mai-ble 
stairs,  with  their  gilt  balustrade,  I  was  agitated 
by  emotions  similar  to  those  which  drew  from  my 
countryman,  Maurice  Quill,  his  frank  exclamation 
in  the  heat  of  the  battle  of  Vittoria,  "  Oh,  I  wish 
some  one  of  my  greatest  enemies  was  kicking  me 
down  Dame  street  I" 

Lady  C k  met  me  at  the  door  of  that  suite 

of  apartments  which  opens  with  a  brilliant  bou- 
doir, and  terminates  with  a  sombre  conservatory, 
where  eternal  twilights  fall  upon  fountains  of 
rose-water  which  never  dry,  and  on  beds  of 
flowers  which  never  fade, — where  singing  birds 
are  always  silent,  and  butterflies  are  for  once  at 
rest. 

"What,  no  harp,  Glorvina?"  said  her  ladyship. 

"Oh,  Lady  C !" 

"  Oh,  Lady  Fiddlestick  ! — you  are  a  fool,  child; 
you  don't  know  your  own  interests.  Here,  James, 
William,  Thomas,  send  one  of  the  chairmen  to 
Stanhope  street,  for  Miss  Owenson's  harp. 

Led  on  by  Dr.  Johnson's  celebrated  "little 
Dunce,"  and  Boswell's  "  dicine  3Iaria,"  who  kindly 
and  protectingly  drew  my  arm  through  hers,  I 
was  at  once  merged  into  that  mob  of  elegantes  and 
elegants,  who  alwaj's  prefer  narrow  door-ways  for 
incipient  flirtations,  to  the  clear  stage  and  fair 
play  of  the  centre  of  a  saloon.  As  we  stood 
wedged  on  the  threshold  of  fashion,  my  dazzled 
eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  a  strikingly  sullen- 
looking,  handsome  creature,  whose  boyish  person 
was  distinguished  by  an  air  of  singularity,  which 
seemed  to  vibrate  between  hauteur  and  shyness. 
He  stood  with  his  arms  crossed,  and  alone,  occu- 
pying a  corner  near  the  door ;  and  though  in  the 
brilliant  bustling  crowd,  was  "not  of  it." 

•'How  do.  Lord  Byron?"  said  a  pretty  sprite 
of  fashion,  as  she  glided  her  spirituality  through 
a  space,  which  might  have  proved  too  narrow  for 
one  of  Leslie  Forster's  demi-semi  souls  to  pass 
through. 

Lord  Byron  !  All  '■'■les  braves  Birons'^  of  French 
and  English  chivalry  rushed  to  my  mind,  at  the 
sound  of  the  historical  name !  But  I  was  then 
ignorant,  that  its  young  and  beautiful  inheritor 
was  to  give  it  greater  claims  on  the  admiration 
of  posterity,  than  the  valiant  preux  of  France,  or 
the  loyal  cavaliers  of  England,  had  yet  bestowed 
on  it.  For  fame  travels  slowly  in  our  Barony  of 
Tireragh  ;  and  though  Lord  Byron  had  alreatly 
made  his  first  step  in  that  career  which  ended  in 
the  triumph  of  his  brilliant  and  powerful  genius 
over  all  his  contemporaries,  /  had  got  no  further 

749 


MO 


iMO 


in  the  article  Byron,  than  the  "pciids-toi,  by-are 
Biron,"  of  Henri  Quatre. 

After  a  stand  and  a  stai-e  of  some  seconds,  I 
was  pushed  on  —  and,  on  reaching  the  centre  of 
the  conservatory,  I  found  myself  suddenly  pounced 

upon  a  sort  of  rustic  seat  by  Lady  C k,  whose 

effort  to  detain  me  on  this  very  uneasy  pre- 
eminence, resembled  Lingo's  remonstrance  of 
"keep  your  temper,  great  Rusty-fusty;"  for  I 
too  was  treated  en  princesse  (the  princess  of  Cool- 
avin),  and  denied  the  civilized  privileges  of  sofa 
or  chair,  which  were  not  in  character  with  the 
habits  of  a  "Wild  Irish  Girl."  So  there  I  sat, 
"patience  per  force  with  tritful  choler  meeting,''''  the 
lioness  of  the  night !  exhibited  and  shown  off  like 
"the  beautiful  hyena  that  never  was  tamed,"  of 
Exeter  'Change,  looking  almost  as  wild,  and  feel- 
ing quite  as  savage ! 

***** 
I  shall  never  forget  the  cordiality  with  which, 
upon  this  memorable  occasion,  Lady  C — — k  pre- 
sented me  to  all  that  was  then  most  illustrious  for 
rank  and  talent  in  England ;  even  though  the 
manner  savoured,  perhaps,  something  too  much 
of  the  Duchess  de  la  Ferte's  style  of  protection, 
on  a  similar  occasion,  '■^Allans,  Mademoiselle,  parlez 
— vous  allez  voir  comme  elle  parle  f  for  if  the  man- 
ner was  not  exactly  conformable  to  the  dignity  of 
the  princess  of  Coolavin,  the  motive  rendered  all 
excusable  ;  and  I  felt  with  the  charming  protegee 
of  the  French  duchesse,  that  "so  many  whimsical 
efforts  proceeded  merely  from  a  desire  to  bring 
me  forward." 

Presenting  me  to  each  and  all  of  the  splendid 
crowd,  which  an  idle  curiosity,  easily  excited,  and 
as  soon  satisfied,  had  gathered  round  us,  she  pre- 
faced every  introduction  with  a  little  exordium, 
which  seemed  to  amuse  every  one  but  its  subject. 
"  Lord  Erskine,  this  is  the  '  Wild  Irish  Girl,'  whom 
you  are  so  anxious  to  know.  I  assure  you,  she 
talks  quite  as  well  as  she  writes.  Now,  my  dear, 
do  tell  my  Lord  Erskine  some  of  those  Irish  stories 

you  told  us  the  other  evening  at  Lord  C ville's. 

Fancy  yourself  en  petit  comite,  and  take  off  the  Irish 
brogue.  Mrs.  Abingdon  says  you  would  make 
a  famous  actress,  she  does  indeed !  You  must 
play  the  short-armed  orator  with  her ;  she  will  be 

here  by-and-by.    This  is  the  duchess  of  St.  A ; 

she  has  your  '  Wild  Irish  Girl '  by  heart.     AVhere 

is  Sheridan?     Do,  my  dear  Mr.  T ;   (this  is 

Mr.  T ,  my  dear  —  geniuses  should  know  each 

other)  —  do,   my  dear    jNIr.  T ,  tind   me    Mr. 

Sheridan.  Oh !  here  he  is !  what !  you  know 
each  other  already ;  tant  mieuz.  This  is  Lord 
Carysfort.  ISIr.  Lewis,  do  come  forward ;  that  is 
Monk  Lewis,  my  dear,  of  whom  you  have  heai'd 
so  much  —  but  you  must  not  read  his  works,  they 
are  very  naughty.  But  here  is  one,  whose  works 
I  know  you  have  read.  What,  you  know  him 
too !"  It  was  the  Hon.  William  Spenser,  whose 
"Year  of  Sorrow,"  was  then  drawing  tears  from 
all  the  brightest  eyes  in  England,  while  his  wit 
and  his  pleasantry  cheered  every  circle  he  distin- 
guished by  his  presence. 

Lewis,  who  stood  staring  at  me  through  his  eye- 
glass, backed  out  at  this  exhibition,  and  disap- 


peared. "Here  are  two  ladies,"  continued  her 
ladyship,  "  whose  wish  to  know  you  is  very  flat- 
tei'ing,  for  they  are  wits  themselves,  Vesprit  de 

Mortemar,   true    N 's.      You    don't    know   the 

value  of  this  introduction.  You  know  Mr.  Gell, 
so  I  need  not  present  you,  he  calls  you  the  Irish 
Corinne.  Your  friend  Mr.  Moore  will  be  here 
by-and-by.  I  have  collected  'all  the  talents'  for 
you.  Do  see,  somebody,  if  Mr.  Kemble  and  Mrs. 
Siddons  are  come  yet ;  and  find  me  Lady  Hamil- 
ton. Now  pray  tell  us  the  scene  at  the  Irish 
baronet's  in  the  rebellion,  that  you  told  to  the 
ladies  of  Llangollen;  and  then  give  us  your  blue 
stocking  dinner  at  Sir  Richard  Phillips's ;  and 
describe  us  the  Irish  priests.  Here  is  your  coun- 
tryman.  Lord   L k,    he   will   be   your   bottle 

holder." 

Lord  L k   volunteered   his   services.      The 

circle  now  began  to  widen — wits,  warriors,  peers, 
ministers  of  state.  The  harp  was  brought  for- 
ward, and  I  attempted  to  play ;  but  my  howl  was 
funereal ;  I  was  ready  to  cry  in  character,  but  en- 
deavoured to  laugh,  and  to  cover  out  my  real 
timidity  by  an  affected  ease,  which  was  both  awk- 
ward and  impolitic.  The  best  coquetry  of  the 
young  and  inexperienced  is  a  frank  exhibition  of 
its  own  unsophisticated  feelings  —  but  this  is  a 
secret  learned  too  late. 

GOOD    MOTHERS. 

That  which  the  woman  is,  the  mother  will  be ; 
and  her  personal  qualities  will  direct  and  govern 
her  maternal  instinct,  as  her  taste  will  influence 
her  appetite.  If  she  be  prejudiced  and  ignorant, 
the  good  mother  will  mismanage  her  children ;  and 
if  she  be  violent  in  temper  and  vehement  in  opin- 
ion, the  good  mother  will  be  petulant  and  unjust 
towards  them :  if  she  be  inconsistent  and  capri- 
cious, she  will  alternate  between  fits  of  severity 
and  bursts  of  indulgence,  equally  fatal :  if  she  be 
vain,  and  coquettish,  and  selfish,  she  may  be  fond 
of  her  children  through  her  pride,  but  she  will 
always  be  ready  to  sacrifice  their  enjoyments,  and 
even  their  interests,  to  the  trium^shs  of  her  own 
vanity,  or  the  gratification  of  her  egotism. 

The  perfection  of  motherhood  lies,  therefore,  in 
the  harmonious  blending  of  a  happy  instinct,  with 
those  qualities  which  make  the  good  member  of 
general  society — with  good  sense  and  information 
with  subdued  or  regulated  passions,  and  that  ab- 
negation which  lays  every  selfish  consideration  at 
the  feet  of  duty.  To  make  a  good  mother,  it  is 
not  suflScient  to  seek  the  happiness  of  the  child, 
but  to  seek  it  with  foresight  and  effect.  Her 
actions  must  be  regulated  by  long-sighted  views, 
and  steadily  and  perseveringly  directed  to  that 
health  of  the  body  and  of  the  mind,  which  can 
alone  enable  the  objects  of  her  solicitude  to  meet 
the  shocks  and  rubs  of  life  with  firmness,  and  to 
maintain  that  independence,  in  practice  and  prin- 
ciple, which  sets  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune  at  de- 
fiance, fitting  its  possessor  to  fill  the  various 
stations,  whether  of  wealth  or  poverty,  of  honour 
or  obscurity,  to  which  chance  may  conduct  him. 

This  is  my  idea  of  the  duties  of  maternity,  and 

750 


MO 


MO 


of  the  perfection  of  that  most  perfect  creature  — 
a  good  mother.  I  know  it  is  not  everybody's  idea, 
and  that  there  is  another  beau  ideal  of  maternity 
which  is  much  more  prevalent. 

There  is  the  good  mother,  that  spends  half  her 
life  iu  hugging,  flattering,  and  stuffing  her  child, 
till,  like  the  little  Dalia-lama  of  Thibet,  he  thinks 
he  has  come  into  the  world  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  be  adored  like  a  god,  and  crammed  like  a 
capon.  This  is  the  good  mother,  who,  in  her 
fondness,  is  seen  watching  anxiously,  after  a  long 
late  dinner,  for  the  entrance  of  the  little  victim 
which  she  has  dressed  up  for  sacrifice,  and  whose 
vigils  are  prolonged  beyond  its  natural  strength, 
that  it  may  partake  of  the  poisonous  luxm-ies  in 
the  last  service  of  the  feast  of  ceremony,  till  the 
fever  of  over-excitement  mounts  to  its  cheek, 
sparkles  in  the  eye,  and  gives  incoherency  to  its 
voluble  nonsense  ;  an  excitement  to  be  followed 
not  by  the  deep  and  dreamless  sleep  of  infancy, 
but  by  the  restless  slumbers  and  fearful  visions 
of  indigestion.  Alas  for  the  mother  and  for  the 
child !  and  alas  for  the  guests  called  upon  for 
their  quota  of  admiration  upon  such  melancholy 
occasions,  —  such  terrible  exhibitions  of  human 
vanity  and  human  weakness,  counteracting  the 
finest  instincts  of  human  nature  ! 

From  "  Woman  and  her  Master." 
WOMEN    IN    ASI.\. 

It  is  an  awful  and  heart-rending  act  to  raise  the 
dark  curtain  which  hangs  before  "the  sanctuary 
of  women"  throughout  the  great  continent  of 
Asia,  and  to  penetrate  the  domestic  holds  of  those 
vain-gloiious  nations  which  arrogate  to  themselves 
the  precedence  in  creation,  and  date  their  power 
and  their  policy  from  eras  anterior  to  the  written 
records  of  more  civilized  communities.  In  these 
states,  on  whose  condition  the  passage  of  some 
thousands  of  j-ears  has  imposed  no  change,  and 
in  which  the  sulFerings  of  one  half  the  species 
iiave  awakened  no  sympathy,  may  be  discovered 
the  most  graphic  illustrations  of  the  tyranny  of 
man,  and  of  the  degradation  of  woman.  There 
the  sexes,  in  their  mutual  relations,  are  still  where 
the  earliest  necessities  of  the  species  first  placed 
them ;  perpetuating,  by  their  false  position,  the 
barbarous  rudiments  of  primeval  society.  The  sin 
of  polygamy,  still  unredeemed  in  the  East,  dries 
up  the  fountains  of  human  sensibility,  and  crushes 
every  better  impulse  of  feeling,  —  annihilating 
even  the  hope  of  political  liberty,  and  leaving  the 
wisest  legislative  reformer,  at  best,  but  a  happy 
accident,  if  not  an  anomaly  and  a  discord. 

In  the  Zenana  of  the  modern  Hindoo,  woman  is 
still  reared  the  slave  of  the  most  frightful  super- 
stition,—  the  victim  of  the  most  selfish  institutes 
which  man  has  yet  devised.  Frail,  her  infidelity 
to  her  lord  is  punished  by  a  living  burial ;  faithful, 
lier  constancy  is  rewarded  by  a  place  on  his  funeral 
pyre ;  her  life  and  death,  alike  a  violence  to  na- 
ture, an  outrage  to  society,  and  a  mortifying  evi- 
dence of  the  incapacity  of  some  races  for  improve- 
ment and  reform. 


WOMKN    IN    CHINA. 

But  thei'e  is  a  pompous  and  a  pedantic  laud, 
which  boasts  supremacy  in  wisdom  and  in  science 
from  an  epoch  anterior  to  all  human  record,  save 
its  own — China,  the  land  of  many  letters,  of  many 
lanterns,  and  of  few  ideas.  Peopled  by  the  long- 
eared,  elliptic -eyed,  flat -nosed,  olive -coloured, 
]Mongolian  race,  it  ofl'ers  a  population  singularly 
deficient  in  intellectual  physiognomy ;  though,  to 
its  absurd  ugliness,  the  women  of  the  higher 
classes  occasionally  off^er  striking  exceptions. 

In  China,  polygamy  prevails  virtually,  if  not  by 
name ;  and  the  sovereign,  self-imprisoned  in  his 
golden-roofed  palace,  with  his  one  empress,  six 
queens,  and  three  hundred  (or,  if  he  please,  three 
thousand)  concubines,  reflects,  on  the  great  scale, 
the  domestic  establishment  of  those  among  his 
subjects  whose  wealth  may  permit  the  irrational 
indulgence  of  their  passion  or  their  pride.  The 
female  slave,  who,  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  infe- 
rior slaves,  is  dignified  with  the  name  of  superior, 
(adequate  to  that  of  wife,)  who  has  been  pur- 
chased with  gold,  may  be  returned,  if  on  trial  not 
approved,  is  not  deemed  worthy  to  eat  at  her 
mastei''s  table.  Crippled  from  her  cradle,  morally 
and  physically,  ignorant  of  any  one  of  the  many 
thousand  letters  of  her  husband's  alphabet,  re- 
ferred to  the  futile  amusements  of  infancy  for  all 
resource  against  utter  tedium,  to  dress  and  to 
smoke  are  her  highest  pleasures ;  and  to  totter  on 
the  flat  roof  of  her  golden  cage,  her  sole  privilege. 
She,  too,  feeble  and  imbecile  as  she  is,  is  outraged 
in  the  only  feeling  that  nature  may  have  rescued 
from  the  wreck  of  man's  oppression;  for  the  Chi- 
nese wife,  like  the  odalisque  of  Turkey,  yields  up 
her  offspring  a  sacrifice  to  the  murderous  policy 
of  her  master. 

If  such  is  the  destiny  of  the  lady  of  the  celestial 
empire,  the  woman  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes 
submits  to  a  yet  severer  fate.  She  it  is  who  feeds 
and  rears  the  silk-worm,  with  an  attention  to  de- 
tails of  which  the  female  organization  is  so  pre- 
eminently capable ;  she  reels  the  produce,  and 
works  and  weaves  the  silk.  It  is  the  woman,  too, 
who  cultivates  the  most  tender  tea-plants,  and 
whose  delicate  fingers  are  alone  fitted  to  roll  the 
finer  tea-leaf.  Having  thus  furnished  her  quota 
to  the  common  means  of  national  wealth,  she  also 
works  that  exquisite  gold  and  silver  filagree,  and 
prepares  those  gorgeous  adornments,  in  which  im- 
perial vanity  delights  to  adorn  the  ponderous  and 
puerile  divine-righted  ruler  of  the  celestial  empire. 

Descending  yet  lower  in  the  social  chain,  the 
female  peasant  of  China  presents  a  still  more  ex- 
traordinary example  of  plodding  industry.  Ex- 
posed to  the  inclemency  of  the  seasons,  with  the 
infant  tied  to  her  back,  which  she  may  have  res- 
cued from  the  wild  beast,  or  from  the  devouring 
wave,  she  ploughs,  sows,  reaps,  and  performs  the 
thousand  oflfices  of  toil  and  drudgery  attached  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  from  which  she  derives 
so  little  benefit  and  enjoyment.  Denied,  too,  all 
moral  rights,,  she  incurs,  nevertheless,  a  fatal 
responsibility   for   iier  husband's    delinquencies ; 


MO 


MO 


and  suffers  death  with  him,  as  his  dependent,  for 
crimes  in  which  she  could  have  no  moral  partici- 
pation. The  natural  death  of  her  husband  gives 
her  over  to  the  family,  who,  to  recover  the  money 
expended  in  her  purchase,  may  re-sell  her  to  the 
highest  bidder,  while  her  own  is  very  frequently 
the  work  of  her  own  hand.  Suicide,  it  is  asserted, 
is  of  frequent  occurrence  among  the  Chinese 
females  of  the  lowest  classes ;  and  well  may  they 
seek  death,  to  whom,  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 
life  holds  forth  not  one  solitary  good. 

MOTT,    LUCRETIA, 

Widely  known  for  her  philanthropy,  and  dis- 
tinguished as  a  preacher  among  her  own  sect  of 
"Friends,"  or  "  Quakers,"  is  a  native  of  the  island 
of  Nantucket,  Mass.  Her  parents  were  Thomas 
and  Anna  CoflBn ;  the  latter,  born  Folger,  was  re- 
lated to  Dr.  Franklin.  Lucretia  was  in  childhood 
instructed  to  make  herself  useful  to  her  mother, 
who,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband,  had  the 
charge  of  his  mercantile  affairs.  In  1804,  when 
Lucretia  was  about  eleven  years  old,  her  parents 
removed  to  Boston,  where  she  had  the  advantage 
of  attending  one  of  the  public  schools.  At  the 
age  of  thirteen,  she  was  sent  to  a  "Friends' 
boai-ding-school,"  in  the  State  of  New  York,  where 
she  remained  three  years,  during  the  last  year 
being  employed  as  an  assistant  teacher ;  which 
shows  how  great  her  proficiency  and  faithfulness 
must  have  been.  Her  parents  had,  meantime,  re- 
moved to  Philadelphia ;  there  she  joined  them, 
and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  was  married  to  James 
Mott,  who  also  belonged  to  the  "Society  of 
Friends,"  and  subsequently  entered  into  mercan- 
tile partnership  with  her  father.  Thus  early  was 
Mrs.  Mott  settled  in  life;  and  it  is  but  justice  to 
her  to  state,  that  she  has  been  attentive  to  dis- 
charge well  the  womanly  duties  devolved  on  her — 
has  been  the  mother  of  six  children,  five  of  whom 
are  living,  and  do  credit  to  their  mother's  forming 
care.  She  has  also,  in  the  chances  and  changes 
of  an  American  merchant's  life,  been  called  to  help 
her  husband  in  the  support  of  their  family ;  and 
she  did  it,  as  a  good  wife  does,  willingly,  with  her 
whole  heart.  But  these  duties  did  not  engross  all 
her  time  ;  her  active  mind,  directed  and  developed 
by  the  peculiar  teachings  of  her  sect,  took  a  wider 
range  than  has  yet  been  usual  with  her  sex.  We 
do  not  agree  with  her  in  religious  sentiment ;  nor 
can  we  commend  her  manner  of  teaching  as  an 
example  to  be  followed  by  American  women.  But 
we  do  believe  she  is  conscientiously  sincere  and 
earnest  in  her  endeavours  to  do  good ;  and  there- 
fore we  will  give  extracts  from  a  letter  of  hers, 
embodying  the  views  of  faith  and  duty  which  have 
governed  her  life  : 

"I  always  loved  the  good,  often  in  childhood 
desired  to  do  the  right,  and  prayed  for  strength  to 
overcome  or  regulate  a  naturally  quick  or  hasty 
temper.  The  religion  of  my  education — that  the 
obedience  of  faith  to  manifested  duty  ensured  sal- 
vation—  commended  itself  to  my  understanding 
and  conscience.  The  doctrine  of  human  depravity 
was  not  taught  as  an  essential  of  the  Christian's 
creed.     The  free  agency  of  man  was  inculcated; 


and  any  departure  from  the  right  was  ascribed  to 
wilful  disobedience  of  the  teachings  of  the  light 
withiji  us. 

"  The  numerous  evils  in  the  world  were  traced 
to  this  source.  My  sympathy  was  early  enlisted 
for  the  poor  slave,  by  the  reading-books  in  our 
schools,  depicting  his  wrongs  and  sufferings,  and 
the  pictures  and  representations  by  Thomas  Clark- 
son,  exhibiting  the  slave-ship,  the  middle  passage, 
&c.  The  ministry  of  Elias  Hicks  and  others  on 
this  subject,  as  well  as  their  example  in  refusing 
the  products  of  the  unrequited  bondman's  labour, 
awakened  a  strong  feeling  in  my  heart. 

"  The  unequal  condition  of  woman  with  man 
also  eai'ly  impressed  my  mind.  Learning,  while 
at  school,  that  the  charge  for  the  education  of  girls 
was  the  same  as  that  for  boys,  and  that,  when  they 
became  teachers,  women  received  only  half  as 
much  as  men  for  their  services,  the  injustice  of 
this  distinction  was  so  apparent,  that  I  resolved  to 
claim  for  my  sex  all  that  an  impartial  Creator  had 
bestowed,  which,  by  custom  and  a  perverted  ap- 
plication of  the  Scriptures,  had  been  wrested  from 
woman. 

"At  twenty-five  years  of  age,  surrounded  with 
a  little  family  and  many  cares,  I  still  felt  called  to 
a  more  public  life  of  devotion  to  duty,  and  en- 
gaged in  the  ministry  in  our  Society.  I  received 
every  encouragement  from  those  in  authority, 
until  the  event  of  a  separation  among  us  in  1827, 
when  my  convictions  led  me  to  adhere  to  the  suffi- 
ciency of  the  light  within,  resting  on  "truth  as 
authority,"  rather  than  "taking  authority  for 
truth."  I  searched  the  Scriptures  daily,  and  often 
found  the  text  would  bear  a  wholly  different  con- 
struction from  that  which  was  pressed  upon  our 
acceptance. 

"Being  a  non-conformist  to  the  ordinances  and 
rituals  of  the  professed  Church,  duty  led  me  to 
hold  up  the  insufiBciency  of  all  these,  including 
Sabbath-day  observance,  as  the  proper  test  of  the 
Christian  character,  and  that  only  'he  that  doeth 
righteousness  is  righteous.' 

"  The  practical  life,  then,  being  the  highest  evi- 
dence of  a  sound  faith,  I  have  felt  a  far  greater 
interest  in  the  moral  movements  of  our  age,  than 
in  any  theological  discussion. 

"  I  hailed  the  Temperance  Reform  in  its  begin- 
ning in  Massachusetts,  watched  its  progress  with 
much  interest,  was  delighted  with  the  fidelity  of 
its  advocates,  and  for  more  than  twenty  years  1 
have  practised  total  abstinence  from  all  intoxicat- 
ing drinks. 

"  The  cause  of  Peace  has  had  a  share  of  my 
efforts,  taking  the  ultra  non-resistance  ground  — 
that  a  Christian  cannot  consistently  uphold,  and 
actively  support,  a  government  based  on  the 
sword,  or  whose  ultimate  resort  is  to  the  destroy- 
ing weapon. 

"  The  oppression  of  the  working  classes  by  ex- 
isting monopolies,  and  the  lowness  of  wages,  espe- 
cially of  women,  has  often  engaged  my  attention : 
and  I  have  held  and  attended  meetings  with  thi^^ 
class  of  society,  and  heard  their  appeals  with 
heartfelt  compassion,  and  with  heartfelt  desire  for 
a  radical  change — that  systems  bv  which  the  rich 

752 


MO 


MO 


are  made  richer,  and  the  poor  poorer,  should  find 
no  favour  among  people  professing  to  '  fear  God 
and  hate  covetousness.'  Hence,  the  various  asso- 
ciations and  communities  tending  to  greater  equal- 
ity of  condition — '  a  home  for  all,'  &c. — have  had 
from  me  a  hearty  God  speed." 

In  1840,  the  "World's  Anti-Slavery  Conven- 
tion' was  held  in  London.  Several  of  the  Ame- 
rican delegates  were  women,  among  whom  was 
Lucretia  Mott.  No  doubt  she  was  the  most  able 
of  all  who  were  sent,  and  much  was  expected  from 
her  eloquence ;  but  the  English  abolitionists  had 
not  reformed  their  old  views  of  the  sexes ;  they 
would  not  admit  American  women,  any  more 
than  their  own,  on  the  platform.  This  bi'ought 
what  is  termed  "the  woman  question" — that  is, 
the  inherent  right  of  the  female  to  an  equal  parti- 
cipation with  the  male  sex  in  all  social,  political, 
and  religious  offices — more  into  view. 

Mrs.  Mott  advocates  the  doctrine  of  perfect 
equality  of  rights,  if  not  of  duties.  These  views 
form  the  distinctive  character  in  her  discourses, 
though  it  is  but  just  to  her  to  add  that  her  lan- 
guage is  mild,  and  her  manners  gentle  and  un- 
assuming. As  a  preacher  among  her  own  order 
— the  Hicksite  or  Unitarian  Quakers — she  is  more 
widely  celebrated  than  any  other,  of  either  sex, 
in  the  United  States.  She  has  a  natural  gift  of 
speech  ;  her  sermons  sound  better  than  they  read, 
because  her  persuasive  manner  prevents  the  lis- 
tener from  noticing  the  fallacies  of  her  reason- 
ing, so  easily  detected  in  her  printed  productions. 
These  consist  of  "Speeches"  and  "Sermons," 
published  in  newspapers,  chiefly;  one  "Sermon 
to  Medical  Students"  is  printed  in  pamphlet  form, 
and  so  also  is  her  "Discourse  on  Woman,"  deli- 
vered in  Philadelphia,  December  17th,  1849. 

We  admire  her  talents,  but  must  express  our 
profound  regret  that  an  American  woman  should 
lend  her  influence  to  infidelity !  How  strange  Mrs. 
Mott,  with  her  intelligence  and  sagacity,  does  not 
perceive  that  the  religion  of  the  Bible  is  the  only 
source  of  strength  for  woman,  and  that,  where  its 
requirements  are  most  fully  observed  by  men, 
there  our  sex  rises  highest  in  esteem  and  honour. 

The  observance  of  one  day  in  seven  as  a  sacred 
duty  is  the  exponent  of  revealed  religion,  because 
it  testifies  the  faith  of  men  in  the  Bible,  and  also 
their  submission  to  its  divine  authority.  By  this 
authority,  and  no  other,  moral  virtue  is  placed  in 
the  ascendant.  Woman  rises  only  by  moral  power. 
Abolish  the  Sabbath,  and  one  of  the  main  pillars 
of  her  security  and  influence  would  be  stricken 
down.  Look  over  the  world  where  the  Sabbath  is 
not  hallowed,  and  mark  the  state  of  the  female 
sex — everywhere  defiled,  despised,  degraded! 
Does  "the  light  within"  —  does  human  reason 
teach  the  equality  of  the  sexes,  or  make  the 
stronger  yield  the  way  to  the  weaker?  Look 
again — over  those  nations  professing  Christianity, 
yet  devoting  half  of  the  Lord's  Day  to  the  service 
of  the  world.  Are  not  the  condition  and  powers 
of  the  women  considered  exceedingly  inferior  to 
those  of  men,  wherever  physical  force  rules  the 
people  ?     Neither  civil  nor  religious  freedom  exist 


but  in  the  two  nations  which  most  strictly  observe 
the  Lord's  Day ;  and  the  Protestant  people  of 
Great  Britain  and  America  may  safely  trust  the 
comparison  between  their  condition  and  that  of 
the  anti-Sabbath-keeping  woi'ld  to  show  the  wis- 
dom of  their  course. 

It  is  the  sacred  province  of  woman  to  guard  the 
light  of  Christianity,  and  uphold  the  divine  au- 
thority of  the  Bible  ;  by  these  only  her  position  is 
elevated,  and  her  soul  finds  its  true  sphere  —  that 
of  doing  good.  These  cardinal  truths,  it  seems, 
Mrs.  Mott  has  not  yet  discovered.  In  her  "  Dis- 
course on  AVoman,"  she  says  — 

"Let  woman  then  go  on — not  asking  as  favour, 
but  claiming  as  right,  the  removal  of  all  the  hin- 
drances to  her  elevation  in  the  scale  of  being — let 
her  receive  encouragement  for  the  proper  cultiva- 
tion of  all  her  powers,  so  that  she  may  enter  pro- 
fitably into  the  active  business  of  life;  employing 
her  own  hands  in  ministering  to  her  necessities, 
strengthening  her  physical  being  by  proper  exer- 
cise and  observance  of  the  laws  of  health.  Let 
her  not  be  ambitious  to  display  a  fair  hand,  and 
to  promenade  the  fashionable  streets  of  our  city; 
but  rather,  coveting  earnestly  the  best  gifts,  let 
her  strive  to  occupy  such  walks  in  society  as  will 
befit  her  true  dignity  in  all  the  relations  of  life. 
No  fear  that  she  will  then  transcend  the  proper 
limits  of  female  delicacy.  True  modesty  will  be 
as  fully  preserved  in  acting  out  those  important 
vocations  to  which  she  may  be  called,  as  in  the 
nursery  or  at  the  fireside,  ministering  to  man's 
self-indulgence. 

"  Then,  in  the  marriage  union,  the  independence 
of  the  husband  and  wife  will  be  equal,  their  de- 
pendence mutual,  and  their  obligations  reciprocal." 

It  is  evident  that  Mrs.  Mott  places  the  "  true 
dignity  of  woman"  in  her  ability  to  do  "man's 
work,"  and  to  become  more  and  more  like  him. 
What  a  degrading  idea ;  as  though  the  worth  of 
porcelain  should  be  estimated  by  its  resemblance 
to  iron  !  Does  she  not  perceive  that,  in  estimating 
physical  and  mental  ability  above  moral  excel- 
lence, she  sacrifices  her  own  sex,  who  can  never 
excel  in  those  industrial  pursuits  which  belong  to 
life  in  this  world  ?  Woman  has  the  hope  of  a 
"better  inheritance,  even  a  heavenly,"  in  her 
keeping  ;  to  raise  humanity  towards  the  angelic  is 
her  oifice.  The  most  "important  vocation"  on 
earth  is  that  of  the  mother  in  her  nursery.  The 
true  wife  has  a  ministry  more  holy  at  home  than 
the  pulpit  ever  displayed  ;  for  she,  "  by  her  chaste 
conversation,  coupled  with  fear" — (that  is,  piety, 
with  gentleness  and  humility) — may  convert  and 
save  her  husband  when  the  preacher  fails. 

In  short,  the  theories  of  Mrs.  Mott  would  dis- 
organize society;  but  nature  is  more  potent  than 
her  reasoning.  The  gentle  sex  are  endowed  with 
the  faith  and  hope  which  things  of  this  life  cannot 
satisfy.  Woman's  "  best  gifts"  are  employed  tO' 
promote  goodness  and  happiness  among  those 
whose  minds  take  their  tone  from  her  private 
character.  Measured  by  this  standard,  Mrs.  Mott 
deserves  an  estimation  higher  than  her  public  dis- 
plays of  talent  or  philanthropy  have  ever  won. 


MO 


MO 


MOWATT,    ANNA   CORA, 

Was  born  in  France.  Her  father,  Mr.  Ogden, 
was  a  wealthy  and  highly  respected  citizen  of  New 
York.  On  her  mother's  side,  she  is  descended 
from  Francis  Lewis,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  De- 
claration of  Independence.  Mr.  Ogden  having 
involved  his  fortune  in  the  well-known  Miranda  ex- 
pedition, embarked  in  mercantile  business,  which 
obliged  him  to  remove  to  Bordeaux,  where  he 
resided  several  years.  He  was  the  father  of 
seventeen  children,  of  whom  Mrs.  Mowatt  was  the 
tenth.  These  young  people  possessed  histrionic 
talent  in  a  remarkable  degree,  which  developed 
itself  during  this  residence  in  France.  The  fine 
old  chateau  in  Avhich  they  resided,  a  short  distance 
from  the  town,  possessed,  as  many  of  those  old 
French  houses  do,  a  little  theatre,  and  it  was  here 
that  they  early  began  to  exercise  their  talents. 


When  Anna  was  about  six  years  old,  Mr.  Ogden 
Teturned  to  his  native  land.  The  children,  how- 
■ever,  continued  to  pursue  their  theatrical  amuse- 
ments, and  the  little  Anna  became  remarkable 
for  her  skill  in  reading  aloud.  At  thirteen,  she 
"was  an  insatiable  reader.  Among  other  works, 
she  studied  a  great  number  of  French  plays,  alter- 
ing several  of  Voltaire's  for  private  theatricals,  in 
which  she  took  a  part.  When  scarcely  more 
than  fourteen,  she  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr. 
Mowatt,  a  wealthy  lawyer  of  New  York,  a  visitor 
in  her  father's  family,  who  soon  after  proposed  for 
her.  The  proposal  was  accepted  by  all  parties, 
her  father  stipulating  that  the  marriage  should  be 
•deferred  till  Anna  had  attained  her  seventeenth 
year. 

Meanwhile,  the  youthful  fiancee  continued  her 
studies,  attending  school  as  formerly.  Domestic 
clouds,  however,  soon  began  to  darken,  as  is  pro- 
TCrbially  the  case,  around  this  "  course  of  true 
Jove."  There  was  some  danger  of  the  match 
being  broken  off,  and  to  prevetit  any  further  diffi- 
•cailty,  an  elopement  was  decided  upon.  This  was 
•effected  during  the  bustle  and  confusion  attend- 
ing the  prepai-ations  for  a  play,  which  the  young 
ipeople  were  to  act,  in  honour  of  their  father's 


birth-day.  The  youthful  bride  was  soon  par- 
doned and  received  by  her  affectionate  parents ; 
her  husband's  residence,  a  fine  estate  about  four 
miles  from  New  York,  allowing  her  still,  from  its 
near  neighboui-hood,  to  form  a  part  of  the  family' 
circle.  Here,  surrounded  by  wealth  and  every 
indulgence,  Mrs.  Mowatt  continued  her  studies 
with  untiring  ardour,  devoting  herself  principally 
to  the  study  of  French,  Spanish  and  music,  and 
never  turned  aside  from  these  important  occupa- 
tions by  the  calls  made  upon  her  by  society,  which 
her  social  accomplishments  rendered  her  so  well 
fitted  to  adorn.  During  the  first  two  j'ears  of  her 
married  life  she  published  her  first  works,  two 
volumes  of  poems,  which,  however,  do  not  possess 
more  merit  than  belongs  to  the  ordinary  run  of 
juvenile  productions.  She  occasionally  exercised 
her  skill  in  writing  and  arranging  little  dramatic 
pieces  for  private  performance,  which  amusements 
lent  their  aid  in  embellishing  this  brilliant  period 
of  her  life. 

Mrs.  Mowatt's  health  now  began  to  decline  — 
great  fears  were  entertained  of  consumption  — 
and  a  voyage  to  Europe  was  decided  upon.  Mr. 
Mowatt's  professional  engagements  preventing  his 
leaving  New  York,  she  accompanied  some  mem- 
bers of  her  family  abroad.  She  remained  in 
Bremen  three  months,  when,  being  joined  by  her 
husband,  they  repaired  to  Paris.  Here,  where 
they  had  every  opportunity  of  mingling  in  the 
most  influential  society  of  that  gay  and  intelligent 
capital,  she  found  time  for  study.  She  devoted 
herself  to  the  acquirement  of  the  Italian  language, 
and  wrote  a  play,  in  five  acts,  called  "Gulzare,  or 
the  Persian  Slave,"  which  was  afterwards  pub- 
lished, though  originally  written  for  a  pi-ivate 
circle.  After  an  absence  of  a  year  and  a  half, 
they  returned  to  the  United  States ;  soon  after 
which,  clouds  began  to  darken  over  their  once 
prosperous  career.  In  consequence  of  Mr.  Mow- 
att's residence  abroad,  and  partly  from  an  affec- 
tion of  the  eyes,  he  gave  up  his  profession  of  the 
law,  and  embarked  to  a  considerable  extent  in  com- 
mercial speculations.  Unfortunately,  very  soon 
after,  one  of  those  commercial  crises  occurred 
that  convulse  the  whole  mercantile  world,  and 
ruin,  which  it  was  impossible  to  avert,  was  im- 
pending over  them.  The  weakness  of  his  eyes 
prevented  Mr.  Mowatt  from  returning  to  his  pro- 
fession, and  they  were  without  resource. 

Some  time  before  these  domestic  events  occurred, 
dramatic  readings  had  met  with  great  success  in 
various  cities  of  the  Union.  Mrs.  Mowatt  had 
heard  these  readings,  and  when  their  misfortunes 
fell  upon  them,  the  idea  of  turning  her  own  talents 
to  accoimt  in  the  same  manner  occurred  to  her. 
She  h.ad  many  difficulties  to  contend  with  in  taking 
such  a  step.  The  injustice  of  society,  which  de- 
grades woman  in  the  social  scale,  if  by  her  own 
honourable  exertions  she  endeavours  to  labour  for 
money,  would  operate  against  her,  and  of  course 
influence  her  friends  to  oppose  a  project  which 
must  bring  her  before  the  public  almost  in  the 
character  of  a  dramatic  performer.  The  consent 
of  her  husband  being  obtained  however,  she 
quietly  made  all  the  arrangements  for  her  first 

754 


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NE 


attempt,  wbicli  was  to  take  place  in  Boston,  de- 
laying to  inform  her  father  of  the  step  she  contem- 
plated, till  her  departure  for  that  city.  She  had, 
however,  the  happiness  to  receive  his  full  approval 
before  her  first  appearance.  Her  success  in  Bos- 
ton far  exceeded  her  expectations ;  and  in  Provi- 
dence and  New  York,  where  she  continued  her 
readings,  it  was  confirmed.  Mrs.  Mowatt  suffered 
much  from  the  disapprobation  expressed  by  her 
friends  at  her  having  undertaken  this  public  ca- 
reer, which  was  deemed  by  them  a  degradation — 
a  forfeiture  of  caste.  Her  health  gave  way,  and 
for  two  years  she  was  a  confirmed  invalid. 

About  this  time,  Mr.  Mowatt  became  principal 
partner  in  a  publishing  concern,  and  the  whole 
force  of  Mrs.  Mowatt's  mind  was  turned  to  aid 
him.  Under  the  name  of  Helen  Berkley,  she  wrote 
a  series  of  articles  which  became  very  popular,  and 
were  translated  into  German  and  republished  in 
London.  The  success  of  these  productions  induced 
Mrs.  Mowatt  to  write  in  her  own  name;  and  "she 
was  accused  by  a  wise  critic  of  copying  the  witty 
Helen  Berkley  ! "  Her  desultory  writings  were 
numerous  and  various.  Unfortunately,  the  pub- 
lishing business  in  which  Mr.  Mowatt  was  en- 
gaged proved  unsuccessful,  and  new  trials  came 
upon  them. 

Being  told  that  nothing  would  be  so  productive 
as  dramatic  writings,  Mrs.  Mowatt,  in  1845,  wrote 
her  first  comedy,  called  "  Fashion,"  which  was 
brought  out  with  much  splendour  at  the  Park 
Theatre,  New  York.  Its  success  was  brilliant ; 
and  in  Philadelphia  it  was  performed  with  equal 
eclat.  In  less  than  two  months  after,  she  accepted 
the  offer  of  an  engagement  from  the  manager  of 
the  Park  Theatre,  and  made  her  debut  in  New 
York  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  Her  success  was 
complete,  and  her  vocation  was  decided  upon. 

After  a  series  of  profitable  engagements  in  the 
principal  cities  of  the  Union,  jMr.  and  Mrs.  Mowatt 
embarked  for  England;  and  in  December,  1847, 
she  made  her  first  appearance  before  a  foreign 
audience  in  INIanchester.  Her  success  was  such, 
that  a  London  engagement  at  the  Princess's 
Theatre  followed,  where  she  performed  for  several 
weeks.  A  brilliant  engagement  in  Dublin  was 
soon  after  completed ;  since  which  time,  her  pro- 
fessional career  continued  to  be  successful  in 
England,  till  interrupted  by  the  loss  of  her  hus- 
band, who  died  in  London,  in  February,  1851. 
Mrs.  Mowatt  is  slight  and  graceful  in  form,  with 
a  lovely  countenance  possessing  all  the  principal 
requisites  of  beauty.  In  character  she  is  "brave- 
hearted  in  adversity ;  benevolent,  unselfish,  and 
devoted." 


NEAL,   ALICE   BRADLEY, 

Was  born  in  Hudson,  New  York,  and  was  edu- 
cated chiefly  at  a  seminary  for  young  ladies,  in 
New  Hampshire.  In  1846,  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  Joseph  C.  Neal,  of  Philadelphia,  at  that  time 


editor  of  Neal's  Saturday  Gazette,  a  man  highly 
esteemed  for  his  intellectual  abilities,  and  warmly 
beloved  for  his  personal  qualities.  Being  left  a 
widow  a  few  months  after  her  marriage,  Mrs. 
Neal,  .although  very  young,  was  entrusted  with  the 
editorship  of  her  husband's  paper,  which  she  has 


since  conducted,  in  connection  with  Mr.  Peterson, 
with  remarkable  ability.  The  Saturday  Gazette 
continuing  one  of  the  most  popular  weekly  papers 
of  the  city.  She  is  principally  known,  as  yet,  as  a 
contributor  of  tales  and  poems  to  the  different 
periodicals  of  the  day.  In  1850,  some  of  her 
writings  were  collected  in  one  volume,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Gossips  of  Rivertown ;  with  Sketches 
in  Prose  and  Verse."  Mrs.  Neal  seems  to  have 
been  endowed  by  nature  with  peculiar  abilities 
for  the  sphere  in  which  she  has,  by  Providence, 
been  placed.  She  began  to  write  when  quite  a 
child ;  and  in  all  her  works  she  shows  great 
facility  in  the  use  of  her  pen,  a  keen  appreciation 
of  the  beautiful,  and  an  almost  intuitive  penetra- 
tion into  the  half-concealed  springs  that  actuate 
the  intercourse  of  society.  Yet  it  is  as  a  poetess, 
rather  than  a  prose  writer,  that  she  will  be  chiefly 
admired,  if  we  may  judge  of  the  ripened  fruit  by 
the  fair  blossoms  of  the  early  spring.  The  easy 
and  harmonious  flow  of  her  verses,  and  the  ten- 
derness and  feeling  expressed  in  them,  will  make 
them  always  read  and  admired.  In  that  most  im- 
portant literary  department,  writing  books  which 
children  love  to  read  and  gain  wisdom  from  read- 
ing, ]\Irs.  Neal  excels;  her  two  charming  little 
books,  "Helen  Morton's  Trial"  and  "Pictures 
from  the  Bible,"  are  deservedly  popular. 

FiDii)  '•  Poems." 
THE    bride's    confession. 

A  sudden  tliiiti  passed  through  my  heart. 

Wild  and  intense  —  yet  not  of  pain  — 
1  strove  to  quell  quick,  bounding  throbs, 

And  scanned  the  sentence  o'er  aiiain. 
It  niii;ht  have  been  most  idly  penned 

By  one  whose  thouphls  from  love  were  frer. 
And  yet.  as  if  enlramted,  I  read. 

•• 'I'lioii  art  moil  beautiful  to  me." 

7/y> 


NE 


NE 


Thou  did'st  not  whisper  I  was  dear  — 

There  were  no  gleams  of  tenderness, 
Save  those  my  treniblini;  heart  jroaW  hope 

That  careless  sentence  might  express. 
Dut  while  the  blinding  tears  fell  fast. 

Until  the  words  I  scarce  could  see, 
There  shone,  as  through  a  wreathing  mist, 

"Thou  art  most  beautiful  to  me." 

To  thee !  I  cared  not  for  all  eyes, 

t>o  I  was  beautiful  in  thine; 
A  timid  star,  my  faint,  sad  beams 

V  pon  tluj  path  alone  would  shine. 
Oh,  what  was  praise,  save  from  thy  lips  — 

And  love  should  all  unheeded  be. 
So  I  could  hear  ihy  blessed  voice 

Say  — "Tliou  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And  1  have  heard  those  very  words  — 

Blushing  bene.ith  thine  earnest  gaze  — 
Though  thou,  perchance,  had'st  quite  forgot 

They  had  been  said  in  by-gone  days. 
While  clasped  hand,  and  circling  arm. 

Drew  me  still  nearer  unto  thee. 
Thy  low  voice  breathed  upon  mine  ear, 

"Thou,  love,  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And,  dearest,  though  thine  eyes  alone 

May  see  in  me  a  single  grace. 
I  care  not,  so  thou  e'er  can'st  find 

A  hidden  sweetness  in  my  face. 
And  if,  as  years  and  cares  steal  on. 

Even  that  lingering  light  must  flee. 
What  matter!  if  from  thee  I  hear, 

"Thou  art  still  beautiful  to  niel" 


OLD    LETTERS. 

Through  her  tears  she  gazed  upon  them, 

Records  of  that  brief,  bright  dream  ! 
And  she  clasped  them  closer  —  closer  — 

For  a  message  they  would  seem 
Coming  from  the  lips  now  silent  — 

Coming  from  a  hand  now  cold. 
And  she  felt  the  same  emotion 

They  had  thrilled  her  with  of  old  : 

Blended  with  a  holy  grieving  — 

Blended  with  a  throbbing  pain  — 
For  she  knew  the  hand  had  penned  them 

Might  not  clasp  her  own  again. 
And  she  felt  the  desolation 

That  had  fallen  on  her  heart ; 
Bitter  memories  thronged  around  her. 

Bitter  murmurs  would  upstart. 

She  had  waited  for  their  coming, 

She  had  kissed  them  o'er  and  o'er  — 
And  they  were  so  fondly  treasured 

For  the  words  of  love  they  bore, 
Words  that  whispered  in  the  silence. 

She  had  listened  till  his  tone 
Seemed  to  linger  in  the  echo, 

"  Darling,  thou  art  all  mine  own  !" 

Faster  still  the  tears  came  falling 

Through  her  white  and  wasted  hands. 
Where  the  marriage  ring  —  the  willow's  — 

Linked  their  slender  golden  bands. 
Sobs  half  stifled  still  were  struggling 

Through  her  pale  and  parted  lips; 
t)h,  her  beauty  with  life's  brightness 

Suffered  a  most  drear  eclipse! 

Slowly  folding,  how  she  lingered 

O'er  the  words  his  hands  had  traccil  ' 
Though  the  plashing  drops  had  fallfii. 

And  the  faint  lines  half  c  ffaceil. 
"Gone  for  ever  —  oh, /or  rvfr!" 

Murmur'd  she,  with  wailing  cry  — 
Ah,  too  true,  for  through  the  silenie 

^'ame  no  voice  to  give  repl\ . 


It  is  passed.    The  sob  is  stifled  — 

Uuivering  lips  are  wreathed  with  smilts. 
Mocking  with  their  strange  deceiving. 

Watchful  love  she  thus  beguiles  — 
With  the  thought  that  o'er  her  spirit 

Sorrow's  shadow  scarce  is  thrown  ; 
For  those  letters  have  a  message 

To  her  heart,  and  hers  alone. 


THE    DAY    OF    EEST. 

'  When  will  the  Sabbath  be  gone,  that  we  may  set  forth  wheiii 
Amos  viii.  5. 

What !  give  one  day,  from  dawn  to  eve. 

To  worship  and  to  prayer! 
Lay  down  all  plans  of  worldly  gain. 

All  worldly  hope  and  care  ? 
Thy  creed  is  strait  as  Pharisee  — 

Our  years  too  quickly  fly  — 
For,  saith  the  wise  man,  "eat  and  drink. 

To-morrow  ye  may  die." 

So  Pleasure  turns  with  mocking  smile. 

And  Thrift  goes  hurrying  on, 
While  cold  Formality,  though  mute. 

Wishes  the  hours  were  gone. 
The  earth  a  softer  smile  may  wear. 

The  very  brutes  rejoice. 
And  only  from  the  heart  of  man 

Ascends  no  grateful  voice. 

Why  was  this  day  so  sanctified? 

That  from  thy  faltering  tongue 
A  heartless  prayer  might  struggle  forth. 

Reluctant  praise  be  wrung? 
Oh  mite  !  oh  worm  of  dust  and  deatli ' 

Thine  adulation  dies, 
A  note  scarce  heard  where  ever  rings 

The  p*an  of  the  skies. 

Think  of  the  choral  strains  that  swell 

That  glad  triumphal  song, 
"Glory,  and  misht,  and  majesty 

To  thee  our  God  belong." 
The  stars  are  trembling  in  the  flood 

Of  melody  that  thrills 
Onward  and  upward,  till  all  space 

The  glorious  anthem  fills! 

Nay,  not  for  this  the  seal  was  set 

That  marks  the  day  of  rest  — 
For  thine,  and  not  thy  Maker's  good 

Its  hallowed  hours  were  blest. 
He  knows  thy  murmurs,  ere  it  comes 

To  win  thee  from  thy  care. 
And  marks  how  grudgingly  are  paid 

Thy  tithes  of  praise  and  prayer. 

Oh  restless,  grasping,  sordid  heart  I 

Rather  give  praise  to  Heaven 
That  all  thy  schemes  to  toil  and  reap 

This  day  from  thee  are  riven. 
Thy  pulse  shall  beat  more  free  and  calm 

For  Sabbath  rest  and  peace. 
That  woos  thee  gently  towards  the  homi- 

Where  Sabbaths  never  cease. 

From  Dedication  of  "The  Gossips  of  Rivertown.  '  ic 

TO    THE    MOTHER    OF    JOSEPH    C.    NE.\L. 

As  Ruth,  of  old,  wrought  in  her  kinsman's  h-M  — 
From  the  uneven  stubble  patiently 
Gathering  the  corn  full  hands  had  lavish'd  I'm  i- 
Nor  paused  from  sun,  or  air,  her  brow  to  shield  — 
So  have  I  gleaned,  where  others  boldly  leup: 
Their  sickles  flashing  through  the  ripen'd  gi.iin. 
Their  voices  swelling  in  a  harvest  strain. 
Go  on  before  me  up  the  toilsome  steep 
And  thus  1  bind  my  sheaf  at  eventide 
For  thee,  my  more  than  mother!  and  I  come 
Bearing  my  burden  to  the  quiet  home 
Where  thou  did'st  welcome  me,  a  timid  bti  U' 
Where  now  thy  blessed  presence,  day  by  da> , 
Cheereth  me  onward  in  a  lonely  way. 

751. 


NI 


NI 


NICHOLS,    MARY   SARGEANT   GOVE- 

WiFE  of  T.  L.  Nichols,  M.  D.,  formerly  an  Allo- 
pathic physician  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where 
he  is  now  an  eminent  "Water  Cm-e"  practitionei-, 
with  whom  she  is  in  profession  associated.  Before 
her  marriage  with  Dr.  Nichols,  which  took  place 
in  1848,  she  conducted  with  great  success  a  AVater 
Cure  establishment  in  that  city,  and  was  widely 
known  as  Mrs.  Gove — her  name  by  a  former  mar- 
riage—  the  physician  for  her  own  sex. 


Few,  among  living  women,  deserve  more  respect 
than  Mrs.  Gove-Nichols  ;  she  has,  in  her  own  ex- 
ample, illustrated  the  beneficial  results  of  know- 
ledge to  her  sex,  the  possibility  of  success  under 
the  greatest  difficulties,  and  above  all,  the  import- 
ance that  women,  as  well  as  men,  should  have  an 
aim  in  life, — the  high  and  holy  aim  of  doing  good. 

Mrs.  Gove-Nichols,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Neal,  was  born  in  1810 ;  her  native  place  was 
Goffstown,  State  of  New  Hampshire,  where  her 
early  years  were  passed.  The  advantages  of  edu- 
cation for  girls  were  at  that  time  very  limited, 
and  Mary  Neal  was  not  in  a  favoured  position  to 
secure  even  these.  But  she  had  an  ardent  desire 
to  acquire  knowledge,  and  become  useful ;  and 
I'rovidencc,  as  she  believes,  aided  her  fervent 
wish.  When  a  young  girl,  chance  threw  in  her 
way  a  copy  of  Bell's  Anatomy ;  she  studied  it  in 
secret,  and  received  that  bias  towards  medical 
science  which  decided  her  destiny.  Every  medical 
book  she  could  obtain  she  read,  and  when  these 
were  taken  from  her,  she  turned  her  attention  to 
Frencli  and  Latin,  —  good  preliminary  studies  for 
her  profession,  tliough  she  did  not  then  know  it. 

When  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  she  com- 
menced writing  for  newspapers ;  these  poems, 
stories,  and  essays,  are  only  of  importance  as 
showing  the  activity  of  her  genius,  which  then, 
undeveloped  and  without  an  aim,  was  incessantly 
striving  upward.  Soon  after  her  marriage  with 
.Mr.  Gove,  a  work  fell  in  her  way*  which  gave 
the  true  impulse  to  her  ardent  temperament.    We 

*  Uook  of  Health,  published  at  London,  being  a  sort  (if 
i).-.nestic  Materia  Medica. 


will  give  the  account  in  Mrs.  Gove's  own  words, 
premising  that,  at  about  the  same  time  she  read 
the  works  of  Dr.  John  Mason  Good,  and  her  at- 
tention was  particularly  arrested  by  his  remarks 
on  the  use  of  water ;  and  from  his  writings,  and 
the  Book  of  Health,  which  she  read  during  the 
year  1832,  she  became  convinced  of  the  efficacy 
of  cold  water  in  curing  diseases. 

"  My  warrant  for  this  practice,"  she  says,  "was 
obtained  wholly  from  these  books.  It  was  not  till 
years  afterwards,  that  I  heard  of  Preissnitz  and 
Water  Cure,  as  I  now  practise  it.  From  this  time 
I  was  possessed  with  a  passion  for  anatomical, 
physiological,  and  pathological  study.  I  could 
never  explain  the  reason  of  this  intense  feeling  to 
myself  or  others ;  all  I  know  is,  that  it  took  pos- 
session of  me,  and  mastered  me  wholly ;  it  sup- 
ported me  through  efforts  that  would  otherwise 
have  been  to  me  inconceivable  and  insupportable. 
I  am  naturally  timid  and  bashful ;  few  would  be 
likely  to  believe  this  who  only  see  my  doings  with- 
out being  acquainted  with  me.  But  timid  as  I 
was,  I  sought  assistance  from  scientific  and  pro- 
fessional men.  I  went  through  museums  of  mor- 
bid specimens  that,  but  for  my  passion  for  know- 
ledge, would  have  filled  me  with  horror.  I  looked 
on  dissections  till  I  could  see  a  woman  or  child 
dissected  with  far  more  firmness  than  I  could  now 
look  upon  the  killing  of  an  animal  for  food.  ISly 
industry  and  earnestness  were  commensurate,  not- 
withstanding my  health  was  far  from  being  firm. 
I  had  innumerable  difficulties  to  contend  against. 
When  I  am  dead,  these  may  be  told  for  the  en- 
couragement of  others  —  not  till  then.  When  1 
retired  to  rest  at  night,  I  took  my  books  with  mc: 
the  last  minute  I  could  keep  awake  was  devotcil 
to  study,  and  the  first  light  that  was  sufficient, 
was  improved  in  learning  the  mysteries  of  our 
wonderful  mechanism.  My  intense  desire  to  learn 
seemed  to  make  every  one  willing  to  help  me  who 
had  knowledge  to  impart.  Kindness  from  the 
medical  profession,  and  the  manifestation  of  a 
helpful  disposition  towards  my  undertakings,  were 
every  where  the  rule. 

"After  my  marriage  I  resided  for  several  years 
in  New  Hampshire,  and  then  moved  to  Lynn, 
Mass.,  near  Boston.  Here  I  engaged  in  teaching, 
and  had  many  more  facilities  for  pursuing  my 
studies  than  ever  before. 

"In  1837,  I  commenced  lecturing  in  my  school 
on  anatomy  and  physiology.  I  had  before  this 
given  one  or  two  lectures  before  a  Female  Ly- 
ceum, formed  by  my  pupils  and  some  of  tlieir 
friends.  At  first  I  gave  these  health  lectures,  as 
they  were  termed,  to  the  young  ladies  of  my 
school,  and  their  particular  friends  whom  tlicy 
were  allowed  to  invite,  once  in  two  weeks ;  sub- 
sequently, once  a  week.  In  the  autumn  of  1838, 
I  was  invited  by  a  society  of  ladies  in  Boston  to 
give  a  course  of  lectures  before  them  on  anatomy 
and  physiology.  I  gave  this  course  of  lectures  to 
a  large  class  of  ladies,  and  repeated  it  afterward 
to  a  much  larger  number.  I  lectured  pretty 
constantly  for  several  years  after  this  beginning 
in  Boston.  I  lectured  in  Massachusetts,  Maine, 
New  Hampshire,  Rhode  Island,  New  Vork,  New 

757 


NI 


Nl 


Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  Maryland  and  Ohio,  and 
also  on  the  island  of  Nantucket.  Physicians  •were 
uniformly  obliging  and  friendly  to  me.  I  do  not 
now  recollect  but  one  exception,  and  this  was  a 
'  doctor,'  who  I  believe  honestly  thought  that  know- 
ledge was,  or  would  be  injurious  to  women,  and 
therefore  he  opposed  me  in  my  eiforts  to  teach. 
I  have  forgotten  his  name,  and  I  presume  the 
world  will  do  the  same.  But  I  have  not  forgotten, 
and  never  can  forget,  the  many  who  have  held  out 
the  hand  of  help  to  me,  and  through  me  to  others, 
for  I  have  never  learned  selfishly ;  what  I  have 
gained  for  myself  I  have  gained  for  others. 

"  The  passion  that  has  possessed  me  from  my 
first  reading  on  pathology,  I  consider  providential. 
I  believe  fully,  that  I  have  been  set  apart  from 
my  birth  for  a  peculiar  work.  I  may  be  called 
enthusiastic  and  superstitious  for  this  conviction, 
but  it  is  mine  as  much  as  my  life.  My  ill  health, 
from  earliest  infancy,  the  poverty  and  struggles 
through  which  I  have  passed,  and  the  indomitable 
desire  which  I  have  had  to  obtain  knowledge,  all 
seem  to  me  so  many  providences.  During  the 
time  that  I  studied  alone,  my  enthusiasm  never 
for  one  moment  failed.  Day  and  night,  in  sick- 
ness and  in  health,  the  unquenchable  desire  for 
knowledge  and  use  burned  with  undiminished 
flame.  I  studied  day  and  night,  though  all  the 
time  I  had  to  labour  for  bread, — first  with  my 
needle,  and  later  with  a  school. 

"  It  may  be  said  that  I  was  an  enthusiast,  and 
that  my  enthusiasm  sustained  me.  I  grant  this ; 
but  will  those  who  make  this  assertion  define  the 
word  enthusiasm  ?  To  me  it  means,  as  it  meant 
through  those  many  long  years,  an  unfaltering 
trust  in  God,  and  an  all-pervading  desire  to  be 
useful  to  my  fellow-beings.  If  these  constitute 
religious  enthusiasm,  then  I  am  an  enthusiast." 

We  can  add  little  of  interest  to  this  graphic 
sketch  of  Mrs.  Gove-Nichols,  except  to  give  a 
selection  or  two  from  her  latest  works,  which  will 
show  her  persevering  efiTorts  in  the  profession  she 
has  chosen,  rather  than  her  literary  merits.  Of 
her  remarkable  talents,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
nor  of  her  sincerity.  Whether  she  is  or  is  not 
right,  time  must  determine. 

Besides  these  engrossing  medical  pursuits,  Mrs. 
Gove  found  time  to  continue  her  literary  studies. 
In  1844,  she  commenced  writing  for  the  Demo- 
cratic Ileview ;  she  wrote  the  "  Medical  Elec- 
tive Papers,"  in  the  American  Review,  and  was 
a  contributor  to  Godey's  Lady's  Book.  She 
prepared  her  "  Lectures  to  Ladies  on  Anatomy 
and  Physiology,"  which  work  was  published  by 
the  Harpers  in  1844.  They  also  published,  about 
the  same  time,  Mrs.  Gove's  little  novel,  "Uncle 
John,  or  is  it  too  much  trouble,"  under  the  novime 
dc  plume  of  Mary  Orne,  which  she  assumed  when 
writing  fictitious  tales.  In  this  way  she  sent  forth 
"Agnes  Norris,  or  the  Heroine  of  Domestic  Life," 
and  "The  Two  Loves,  or  Eros  and  Anteros;" 
both  written  in  the  hurry  of  overburdened  life, 
and,  as  might  be  expected,  evincing  that  the  spirit 
was  prompting  to  every  means  of  active  exertion, 
while  the  natural  strength  was  not  sufiicient  for 
all  these  pursuits. 


From  "  Experien.^p  in  Wiiter-Ctiro." 
MEDICAL    PRACTICE. 

It  is  not  my  object  to  attack  any  school  of  me- 
dicine. I  wish  to  give  a  very  brief  history  of  the 
principles  and  practice  of  the  scientific  schools  of 
medicine,  and  also  to  give  some  results  of  my  own 
labours  in  water-cure. 

I  know  that  it  is  considered,  by  some,  presump- 
tion for  a  woman  to  come  before  the  public  as 
a  physician.  It  is  very  unpleasant  to  some  to 
see  long-established  customs  broken,  and  long- 
cherished  prejudices  set  at  nought,  even  when  a 
great  good  is  to  be  achieved.  But  this  is  by  no 
means  the  only  class  of  persons  in  the  community. 

"  Upward  and  onward,"  is  the  governing  thought 
and  the  impelling  motive  of  thousands.  To  these 
I  speak — to  these  I  bring  the  results  of  my  inves- 
tigations and  my  labours.  The  thought  and  the 
deed  commend  themselves  to  such  as  these  with 
no  hindrance  from  respectable  custom  or  grey- 
headed prejudice. 

In  looking  over  the  history  of  medical  science, 
we  find  that  Allopathy  has  great  claims  on  our 
respect.  The  Allopathic  school  has  always  insisted 
on  its  professors  being  educated. 

AVhatever  has  been  known  of  anatomy,  physi- 
ology, and  pathology,  in  the  past,  has  been  taught 
by  the  Allopathic  school ;  and  there  is  no  differ- 
ence between  the  professors  of  Allopathy  and 
Homoeopathy  in  this  respect.  Both  insist  on 
thorough  education.  Both  schools  have  been  la- 
borious in  noting  the  characteristic  symptoms  of 
disease,  and  the  effects  of  what  they  considered 
remedies.  Perhaps  the  Homoeopathic  school  has 
been  most  earnest  and  assiduous  in  this  last  work; 
but  Homoeopathy  being  of  recent  date,  must  rest 
its  claims  to  our  gratitude  more  on  the  zeal  and 
minuteness  of  its  observations  and  discoveries, 
than  on  the  length  of  its  days,  or  the  voluminous- 
ness  of  its  records.  The  members  of  the  Allo- 
pathic profession  have  differed  with  regard  to  the 
primary  cause  of  disease.  Those  of  the  Homoe- 
opathic profession,  I  believe,  have  been  united. 

Amongst  the  Allopathists,  one  portion  have  ad- 
vocated what  was  termed  the  Humoral  Pathology, 
and  another,  the  Nervous  Pathology.  Of  all  the 
nervous  pathologists.  Dr.  Billings  is  clearest.  He 
says,  "all  diseases  have  exhausted  nervous  influ- 
ence for  their  cause."     He  says  further, — 

"  During  health,  the  capillary  arteries  go  on 
with  the  work  of  nutrition  and  secretion,  the 
muscles  are  fed,  the  mucous  surfaces  are  lubri- 
cated just  enough  to  prevent  any  sensation  from 
the  substances  that  pass  along  them  —  the  serous 
surfaces  are  made  sufiiciently  soft  to  slide  upon 
each  other  without  sensation,  and  the  skin  is  kept 
soft  by  an  insensible  vapour.  All  this  time,  there 
is  another  process  going  on,  which  is  the  removal 
of  superfluous  matter  by  the  absorbents." 

After  demonstrating  that  all  these  processes  are 
carried  on  by  the  nervous  energy.  Dr.  Billings 
shows  by  irrefragable  argument,  that  the  loss  of 
this  energy  must  produce  disease. 

Boerhaave  seems,  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life, 
to  have  had  a  glimpse  of  this  doctrine ;  indeed, 

768 


NI 


NI 


he  admitted  the  agency  of  the  nervous  power.  In 
proof  of  this,  we  may  mention  that  in  the  755th 
of  his  aphorisms,  where  he  laj's  down  the  proxi- 
mate cause  of  intermitting  fevers,  he  makes  a 
change  in  the  fourth  edition.  Hitherto  it  had 
stood  —  "  AVhence,  after  an  accurate  examination 
of  the  whole  history,  the  proximate  cause  of  in- 
termittents  is  established  to  be  viscosity  of  the 
arterial  fluid."  To  this  in  the  fourth  edition  is 
added,  "  Perhaps,  also,  the  inertia  of  the  nervous 
fluid  as  well  of  the  cerebrum  as  of  the  cerebellum 
destined  for  the  heart." 

This  theory  of  disease  is  shadowed  in  Cullen. 
According  to  Cullen,  the  system  is  superintended 
and  regulated  by  a  mobile  and  conservative  energy 
seated  in  the  brain,  acting  wisely  but  necessarily 
for  the  good  of  the  whole.  This  energy,  he  con- 
siders to  be  distinct  from  the  soul,  and  acting  not 
only  for  the  preservation,  but  the  recovery  of 
health. 

Faint  tv.iccs  of  this  theory  of  disease  may  be 
found  in  the  Brunonian  system. 

Dai  win  carries  the  idea  farther,  under  the  name 
of  sensorial  fluid.  Broussais  comes  next  to  Brown 
with  his  tlieoi-y  of  "organic  contractility." 

Humoral  Pathology  asserts,  that  morbid  changes 
in  the  blood  are  the  cause  of  disease. 

Homoeopathy  asserts  that  psora  is  the  cause  of 
disease. 

A  little  reflection  shows  that  all  these  state- 
ments are  true,  and  that  it  would  be  an  error  for 
either  school  to  assert  that  the  evil  it  sees  is  only 
the  cause  of  disease. 

It  is  clear,  that  if  all  the  functions  of  the  system 
are  carried  on,  and  the  whole  maintained  in  a 
state  of  health  by  the  nervous  energy,  then  if  this 
nervous  energy  is  wasted  by  any  abuse,  either  by 
too  much  labour,  too  much  thought,  the  domina- 
tion of  passion,  or  by  taking  poisonous  stimulants, 
the  nervous  power,  being  thus  wasted,  cannot 
maintain  the  system  in  health.  The  consequence 
is  disease,  and  the  deposition  of  morbid  matter  in 
the  system,  which  would  have  been  thrown  out  if 
the  nervous  power  had  been  left  to  do  its  work. 

Thus  we  see  that  the  observations  of  nervous 
and  humoral  pathologists  and  homoeopathists  have 
all  been  valuable  and  truthful. 

The  practice  of  both  these  schools  is  understood. 
It  is  to  give  as  remedies  the  most  virulent  poisons 
known  to  us. 

The  extreme  minuteness  of  the  doses  used  by 
homoeopaths,  has  been  a  great  recommendation 
to  those  who  have  seen  the  bad  eftects  of  allopa- 
thic doses,  and  yet  have  not  lost  their  faith  in 
medicine. 

1  have  used  homoeopathic  medicine  with  care 
and  in  entire  good  faith,  upon  myself  and  my 
patients.  The  result  of  my  trials  with  it  has  been 
to  convince  me,  that  though  it  has  been,  and  is,  a 
great  negative  good  to  the  world,  it  has  no  posi- 
tive efficacy.  But  the  hygienic  rules  insisted  on 
by  Homoeopathists  are  worthy  of  all  praise. 

Witli  regard  to  allopathy,  I  must  say  that  I 
studied  it  honestly,  and  because  it  poisons  and 
oppresses  the  human  constitution  with  drugs,  and 
debilitates  it  with  bleeding,  I  consider  it  one  of 


the  greatest  evils  that  now  rests  upon  the  civilized 
world.  But  I  do  not  attach  the  blame  of  this  evil 
to  individual  practitioners  of  the  art.  Monarchy 
and  despotism  are  bad — gigantic  in  their  badness, 
but  kings  and  despots  may  be  good  men. 

These  evils  have  their  origin  with  the  people, 
and  our  only  hope  of  removing  them  is  in  pro- 
moting the  intelligence  of  the  people. 

I  maintain  that  the  cause  of  disease  is  one  — 
the  want  of  nervous  energy.  Numerous  occasions 
spring  from  this  cause.  In  the  fact,  that  diseas- 
ing matter  is  left  in  the  system,  not  only  for  years 
but  for  generations,  is  seen  the  foundation  of  the 
assertion  of  the  homoeopathic  school,  that  j)sora 
is  the  cause  of  all  disease. 

The  great  questions  for  humanity  are.  What  is 
the  cause  of  disease  ?  and  what  remedial  treat- 
ment is  best? 

As  a  water  cure  physician,  I  maintain  that  ner- 
vous energy  is  restored,  and  morbid  matter  cast 
out  of  the  system,  by  means  of  the  proper  appli- 
cation of  water  cure. 

We  see  that  in  case  of  disease,  morbid  matter 
must  be  expelled  from  the  system,  and  by  means 
of  the  nervous  energy.  It  becomes  important, 
then,  to  know  whether  we  shall  add  to  the  evil 
already  in  the  system,  and  to  the  labour  of  the 
alr